Thursday 13 May 2010
Wednesday 12 May 2010
ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR......I THINK MY WOMB JUST HIT THE FLOOR
There is a woman in the States who has given birth to something like 19 children. I’ve lost count at this point cause she simply keeps hurling them out of her womb like a high powered ball machine. There is so much that mystifies me about this, that I’m not sure where to start. Firstly, I’ve made it to my seventh month of pregnancy by the skin of my complaining teeth. While I’ve said before, I truly love the little guy inside of me; I can’t say I love the process of expanding like two ton a water balloon. And then I think, this woman has done it 19 times! NINETEEN. I’m not even sure the human body is designed for that, in fact, I know its not. What does her stomach look like, is it even attached to her body anymore? Or does the skin just hang down like a skirt that she has to tie around her back or toss over her shoulder like a handbag. Not to mention – and don’t worry I won’t get graphic – but what about the rest of her, the parts we women were born with and want to keep as in tact as possible? Gravity is a mighty enough nemesis, let alone birthing and breastfeeding nineteen children.
Then there is the simple question of why. Why would one want nineteen children? Now don’t even bother telling me she loves children and the miracle of life or its God’s will. Go teach at Sunday school, or heck, hang around a play park. What I want to know is how on earth do you know who is who and what they’re personalities are like when you start reaching the double digits? My Mom has five of us and she can barely keep track of our names and interests. With 19, you’re looking at a summer camp of chaos, hormones, tantrums and overall noise pollution. Not to mention, the mere attention factor. Kids need their parent’s undivided attention, not all the time of course, but some one-on-one time is a necessity for every child. And there is no way this woman is able to take the time to do such bonding when she spends most of her time in labor. Hell, I have friends with one kid who barely have time to shower. And the kicker, she has been quoted as saying she's not done having them. Maybe her real design is to start her own village (actually, she's mastered that one), no no, her own army...maybe she is sitting in - insert U.S. state here as I have no clue - plotting to take over the world. Now that would be an interesting twist on things.
The next question that comes to mind is the most glaring, which is how. How on earth do you in this day and age, have the money and resources to raise 19 kids?? Without kicking off a firestorm – unless one is minted – one is going to have to rely on social services to do such things. And don’t get me wrong, my nickname growing up by my father was his little communist. I’m all about helping out those who have not. But if one turns their womb into a factory assembly line, is the general public supposed to pick up the slack? Now I’ve never looked into the minutiae of how they get by, but I have a feeling that even the three year olds pitch in - 'Rudy, how many times do I have to tell you, add the fabric softener after the wash has already started! You're really not pulling your weight around here!' And of course, I’ve read that there is a reality show about them, but you know me, I cannot bring myself to watch it. So maybe I’m wrong about this, and am being a judgmental cow. It is possible. Maybe they are the most economically efficient family on the planet that has built solar panels on their roof and operate like some high functioning Amish community. If that is the case, they should give the world’s governments a call and teach them a few things about budget balancing.
HOME SWEET HOME
It took me quite awhile to get used to the TV programming in England – never has one felt more American than when they make this switch. It’s a combination of the production value of American shows, the money spent (millions), the graphics, not to mention the content: if there is not a dead body; a hospital; or some reality format, then America wants little to do with it. And of course you get used to this, as well as seeing hosts, reporters and actors that are botoxed within inches of their lives.
Over here, while they import a heck of a lot of American fare, they still have programs that are quintessentially English – at least in my mind. There are the gardening shows, the cooking shows (oh how they love their cooking shows), the nature shows (which are unparalleled), and of course the WWII “we came so close to being German” documentaries which seem to appear on a weekly basis.
My personal favorites are the property shows. And there is an army of them – over here they take their property very seriously. There are shows about houses at auction; houses that are dumps; houses that are amazing; houses that are on the market; people wanting houses, selling houses, renovating houses, you name it, they have it. Each show of course has its own flavor with it’s own host that provides endless amusement – keep in mind, I’m not sure that was the intent, but damn is it entertaining.
On one show, there is a host that is chronically pregnant, I mean constant, and she never seems to want to do her hair or put on any make-up. (You get down with your natural self!) Her roots alone are so distracting that it’s sometime hard to focus on the property advice she is giving. And give it, does she ever. She’s one of those ‘I do not mince my words’ English women that has no compunction about telling wannabe property developers they are complete idiots and are heading towards financial ruin. And of course, like Simon Cowell, she is usually right on the money.
Then there is the uber supercilious, ‘I’m so cultured it hurts’ host of a very posh architectural design show (it's a great show, don't get me wrong). In short, he documents the builds of the incredible houses of the UK/Europe – usually by the uber rich or those with some mysterious access to money – I can never quite work out what some people do on that show to obtain their wealth. He does it of course with one eyebrow raised, a wickedly posh accent and a vernacular of about 2000 adjectives he’s not afraid to use. And of course, he’s tri-lingual and when in Rome he’s the first to demonstrate his linguistic skills. He usually does this to the poor contractor who has been slogging away for four months in the pissing rain and could give a toss that the ceiling has a 'splendiferous rococo sensibility.'
My favorite – purely for its entertainment value, is a show called “60 Minute Make-Over.” What takes place is this…some couple unhappy with their home volunteers it for a makeover by a ‘designer’ (I use that term loosely). The best part, the renovation is to be done in an hour. An hour! I don’t know about you, but I don’t want anyone painting, laying tile, or ripping out my kitchen in a slipshod manner with a 60-minute clock ticking over their heads. There is usually a high energy host that runs around like a chicken with her head cut off screaming how much time they have left (but never helping), as the designer scurries around screaming at the workmen to move faster. The best part is what they do to the homes in question. In short: it usually looks like Disneyland meets Ikea on acid – especially when the designer starts playing artiste or crafts designer in the backyard and makes some sort of mock art, insisting on hanging it on the living room wall. But then again, the owners get all this done for free. So I suppose a piece of framed ribbon ‘art’ hanging in the living room is not so bad. After the renovation is complete, they walk the couple through the house for their reaction. Their reactions are usually priceless – although the English are far too polite to show their true feelings, so you hear a lot of ‘oh it’s just gorgeous.' I never thought of using bright orange on the walls in the living room' (nor did I!). One little boy walked into his new bathroom, looked around and screamed, I HATE IT, PUT IT BACK. Genius....I couldn't agree with him more.
Tuesday 11 May 2010
BLOOD SUCKERS
With the third film installment of Twilight fast approaching, I was trying to explain the allure of the vampire phenomenon the other day - or as I call it, female porn - to a male friend of mine. He was utterly confused as to the mass public’s fascination with it (okay, downright obsession) as many who have not read the books I suppose are. And when I say mass public, I am of course talking about the female population [as I consider us in charge, I deem us the masses. But of course].
Trust me, at first, I didn’t really get it either. When my best friend would clutch onto the books like they were encrusted with diamonds I found it a bit worrying, as she is a very rational, intellectual person who usually has quite evolved tastes when it comes to her literature. But knowing her the way I do, the suspicion was too much to ignore - there had to be something to this. And low and behold, once I got over thinking they were kid’s books, and bought my first one, well, that’s when it all quickly started to make sense.
There is a reason I call these books female porn. For women (and I'm speaking for all of us here, so forgive me), it’s all about imagination, the profound romance of a situation, being swept away – be it a book, film etc – even if it’s highly improbable, like say for instance, the protagonist and love interest is a vampire. I’m willing to overlook just about anything when it comes to being entranced by my fiction. And of course, the character of Edward Cullen – as I tried explaining to my male friend – is the epitome of the perfect man. He’s neat as hell (almost OCD for that matter which makes me tingle with delight!), has his own car (and a nice one at that), doesn’t talk much – and yet totally understands the woman’s mind and can sense when she needs him - is cultured, doesn’t eat (and hence, won’t run up the grocery bills, stare in the fridge saying there is nothing to eat, or spill things on the carpet and try to hide the stains with potted plants), and furthermore, can’t have incessant sex (at inopportune times like let's say when you're trying to wash the dishes) as he’s scared he’ll suck every ounce of blood out of you. So hence, just the right amount of sex, from a mute, neat man that pledges to love us forever. UTOPIA. Plus, the man is easy on the eyes, which is always a plus.
The other part of it is sheer nostalgia for one’s youth – that’s my theory anyway. Most of my friends I consider incredibly smart, cultured individuals - fine, I do have a few friends I gladly look at gossip rags with and eat fish and chips - but that's just a different type of culture and one has to love it. And collectively none of us feel our age. Not that we’re old by any means, (you hear that, we're NOT old!) but it’s that sudden realization that you've reached the number you have, but it just doesn’t feel like it should (damn it, my jeans from high school still fit and I want to go drink a wine cooler). So when something like Twilight comes along, it reminds us that there is a young girl inside all of us wanting to be seduced by some blood-sucking vamp on the grassy knolls of Forks Washington. Hell it beats thinking about how much ironing one has to do.
I remember when I was reading the books, my partner actually started to get a bit threatened. In his defense, I would barely leave the house. In fact, I flat out ignored him - which I thought he'd like as he is always wanting to spend time on his work (you see, you can't win!). The poor man could’ve been on fire, and if I was in mid chapter, forget it, it’s every man for themselves. It got to the point where he contemplated hiding my books – but of course he quickly gave up this idea when he saw the ‘you mess with Edward, you mess with me’ look in my eye. Don’t get me wrong, I am not completely irrational and can still maintain reason – ahem, I can. I am not naming my first child Cullen or any such thing [although it’s kind of a cute name] and I would never hunt down Robert Pattinson so he could sign my chest. At this point I think I would scare him. It is the mere existence of Edward that holds my allure; the creation of a character that has so struck a nerve in the female psyche - whether admitted to or not - that I truly appreciate.
So come June, judge me if you will (I can take it) I will happily skip off – not sure at nine months if I can skip; it may be something more of a fast paced waddle – and see Eclipse to get my fix. Bring on the bloodsuckers!
So come June, judge me if you will (I can take it) I will happily skip off – not sure at nine months if I can skip; it may be something more of a fast paced waddle – and see Eclipse to get my fix. Bring on the bloodsuckers!
Monday 10 May 2010
WHERE IS THE LOVE?
I have been a mistress for years in a very bad relationship. (I knew that would get your attention...Sensationalists!). It wasn’t always bad, in fact in the beginning it was all the things it should be: exciting, romantic, inspiring…and moreover, easy. But in the last few years, things have gone rapidly downhill, and yet, I simply can’t let go.
NO I’m not talking about another man (calm down Mom); my turbulent relationship (pun of course intended) has been with air travel, and admittedly it’s a relationship that needs some major reevaluating.
We started off so good too. From when I was young, I was fortunate enough to travel quite frequently with my family. Airports were this place of utter wonder, the lines were nonexistent, you could take anything you wanted on the plane, keep your clothes on as you skipped through security, and the lounges – oh the lounges! I thought I had died and gone to heaven. We would load up our ‘activity bags’ – we were too young for purses – with every conceivable snack we could see like a pack of wild kleptomaniacs. Once on the plane, the stewardess looked like something out of 1950’s film – their hair coiffed just so, their smiles white and sparkling as they greeted you with a drink and warm nuts. And the best part, they actually seemed to care you were on the plane. Maybe it was because we were young and my demands included a coloring book and refills on my virgin Bloody Mary’s – don’t ask, I started this tradition of drinking virgin Mary’s while flying from when I was small. It should have warned me what was to come in my teenage years!
And then, like any good relationship, over time things started to change. At first it happened very slowly. The lines at the airport became longer and more unruly. I would often find myself showing up hours early like some desperate teenager, just to combat the unavoidable chaos... And the stewardesses, well they were no longer visions of perfection. Over the years they had morphed into polyester wearing anger magnets with power issues that were bound to come your way as soon as the wheels lifted. And the warm nuts? Screw your nuts. Now you were lucky if you got something ingestible at all. ‘And that will be five fifty please!'...'but it's just water?’ And of course then there were the letdowns, the cancellations, and minor delays due to the unforeseen. It’s apparently always 'unforeseen' in the airline business. This should’ve been a clue that we as a couple were no longer in our honeymoon phase.
But I was roped into staying by the sheer perks of travel, i.e. actually getting to your desired location – which is hard to give up when one’s family lives in several different countries. And of course the airports were smart. They beefed up their shopping and food areas to tantalize and fool you into placation. It was like a mirage in the desert that sucked you in to this vortex of pointlessness – ‘do I really need a fifth of vodka and sixteen magazines? Wait, I don’t even drink. Something doesn’t feel right here. Oh screw it, make it two bottles!’
And then 911 occurred. And I don’t need to explain how that affected things. Suddenly my relationship went from bad to worse. I was treated with suspicion and virtually strip-searched every time I walked through security. Merely carrying a tube of Vaseline was reason to call in the rabid dogs! And the excuses, well they came fast and furious. Letdowns became ritualistic – to the point where if I stepped inside the airport my flight was guaranteed to be delayed at least three hours. Where had the love gone, seriously, where went the love!
This last Christmas, it got so bad that I swore we were over. That’s it, finito! I was trying to fly to Italy to see my sister, and due to weather (the wily mother in law in this relationship!) I was stuck in the airport for three days. Mind you I was also three months pregnant, sick as a dog, and quickly turned into a raging lunatic when it came dealing with the airline staff. My only defense, we were collectively being treated like dirt and had formed this lynch mob of sorts that were determined to fight for justice and dignity!...I finally had to fly into another country and take a five-hour train to my destination. So much for justice.
This is when I knew, I was a mistress and this relationship had turned downright abusive. But the fact is, air travel knows I won’t leave him. He knows I’ll stay because getting on those planes is the only way I can see my family, and furthermore the world. And for that I’ll do just about anything. So now I fly equipped, screw him, I’ll take back the power. I wear slip on shoes that I can fling off at security at a moment’s notice, I bring my own food, I buy my appropriately sized liquid at the designated area, and delays, well I have a new lover now – hear THAT airtravel!! – it’s called a laptop. And we can sit for hours entertaining one another. So you see, I may still be a sucker, but I’m a crafty sucker. That’s got to count for something.