Thursday 20 May 2010

LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE

According to a recent study done in England, men lie more often and women lie better. Apparently, men lie about 3 times a day and the most common lie is to do with how much they’ve had to drink. The funniest part about this is that when one is sober in the face of someone who has been drinking, watching them lie about it as the fumes seep from their skin like a deadly vapor, is truly amusing. “Really, you haven’t been drinking? So the fact that you smell like an old stale beer keg is simply a new cologne you’re trying out?”

Women apparently lie twice a day on average – how they worked this is out is beyond me as couldn't the test subjects be, I don't know...lying?! – and it’s most often to do with our feelings when asked how we are? Apparently, the ‘I’m fine,’ response has been exposed (was any man still buying this??). In my house I circumvented the whole thing altogether; I figured I’d save us both the time and never say I was fine if I wasn’t. Plus you can tell I’m clearly not fine as apparently I make all sorts of facial expressions that are a dead giveaway: the locked jaw, the stern pinched narrowed eye ‘I’m going to scream in about two seconds look,’ you know the one ladies. I also have a ton of Lebanese blood running through me, which makes me anything but the docile type.

My partner, thank goodness is the worst liar in the world. He simply cannot do it. His eyes get all wide and dumbstruck and his lips start curling into a smile before he can even utter a word, which usually escapes in a nervous stammer. Trust me, I applaud this quality in him. Plus we’ve figured out that in our house we apparently have a ghost that does most things neither of us wants to cop to. Hence, no lying; the ghost did it – and this is clearly one busy ghost (um, ghost, if you think about touching my laptop after eating a big greasy pizza, please wash your hands first!)

The other result that was uncovered by this survey was that women lie better. Well I could’ve told you that. In my opinion I think we do most things better, but that’s for another time. I think it scares my partner how good I am at lying – and before anyone starts to thinking I’m this horrible untruthful person, I personally try to avoid lying at all costs unless completely necessary – (i.e. when my partner asks me if he’s lost weight, I of course always answer yes. It’s just the nice thing to do). I think our lying aptitude has something to do with the amount of empathy we women have – don’t you love how I’m trying to spin this into a positive! As we can step into anyone’s shoes and truly feel how they’re feeling, it seems to be pretty easy for us to tell a really good story that in our imagination has all sorts of merit. Then again, maybe we’re just better at it cause we’re smarter and know how to work a situation to our advantage. There is that argument. But this same study says we feel more guilt about lying than men, so we’re not so bad after all.

Men apparently can toss out a lie and feel pretty much nothing. Obviously it depends on the man, as we’ve seen so many times in the press. Some can throw out an egregious lie and kiss their children hello all in the same breath. Shame on you! And others thankfully have morals and a conscience, and don’t make lying a full time profession. I suggest sticking with those types. Then again, how is one to know? Apparently my ass does not look fat in anything I wear and I always look beautiful in the morning. My partner is obviously better at this lying stuff than I give him credit for.

TO SLEEP OR NOT TO SLEEP

I suffer from insomnia. (I can almost hear the collective groans of commiseration from those of you that suffer from it as well). It’s not all the time, but I get bouts of it that can sometimes last for weeks. And well, currently being the size of a small boat doesn’t help matters either. It’s one of those things that I used to hear people discuss, and moan about (like acid reflux, back pain, migraines etc) and I’d think, ‘oh come on, it can’t be that bad, if you’re tired enough you’ll sleep, count some sheep, have some warm milk’….I have since eaten my words four hundred times over – and who in the hell ever thought that counting sheep was a good remedy? I’m exhausted, and feel like my brain is melting, and one is suggesting I hallucinate the appearance of sheep on my ceiling?

I have of course tried everything – barring hardcore pills which of course is ironic as they are probably the things that knock you into next week. The plain fact is, I’m not a pill girl and never will be. I’m one of those annoying people that if I take a pill, I put all my energy towards fighting the pill’s effect and end up feeling the reverse. Yes, us control freaks have serious issues with surrender. But there’s of course plenty else out there to sucker you in, in hopes of a good night sleep. I used to douse my pillow and bed sheets in so much lavender oil my eyes would water. If you don’t like the smell of lavender it’s a bit of a problem, but it does kind of work - either that or the amount I used was toxic and was actually poisoning me into a coma (I say who cares, a coma is sleep). Then there were the hot baths, hot drinks, yoga moves at 2 a.m., reading, reorganizing my closet, or simply laying there and staring at one spot incessantly until my eyes drooped, telling myself that the state of the world depended on me being utterly still. I have to be honest the state of the world in my hands never fared very well.

Now, without heading into the graphic territory, there is one thing that usually does the trick, but it kind of depends on another person to help you out (then again). I think you know where I’m going with this…but sex is a good panacea for those sleepless nights. However, and how do I say this politely, it has to be of course the kind where you complete 'the mission' if you know what I mean. Otherwise you may as well pack up and go home.

The bitch of insomnia is it affects everything you do. In order to actually get up in the morning and feel like that you can do anything, one has had to have gone to sleep in the first place. A no-brainer, right??? And it can’t be very easy on those around you. My partner – a very patient, understanding man (I'd be patient and kind if I slept too, I promise!) – gets that ‘look’ when he knows I’ve had a bout of sleepless nights. It’s that look that says, ‘I love you, but I want to run away to some far off place and forget I ever met you.’ I am not a pleasure cruise without sleep, I’m big enough to admit it. In fact, I start to despise those that do sleep – sorry nothing personal - with their rested little effervescent faces bouncing around the planet. The worst is when you are explaining to someone what insomnia is and they just can’t wrap their refreshed little brains around it. “You mean, you just don’t sleep, nothing, not at all? God that must be the worst. The moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out cold.” Gee, thanks, cause that is exactly what I want to hear. Do you tell fat people you just can’t keep weight on? Seriously, not helpful!

I had one boss that used to get heavily involved in my insomnia. As he so politely put it, “you’re a pill Anka, when you don’t sleep I suffer.” So during one of my serious bouts he’d ask me every morning when I came in, if I slept? From the looks of me, it was obvious I didn’t – I’m NOT one of those women who look fine with no sleep. My face looks like something a truck backed over, I get huge bags under my eyes that you could carry your wallet in, and my olive skin turns this attractive shade of green. It’s a good look. Anyway, my boss would put up with me for a few hours as I forgot things, barked at him (we had a funny relationship where oddly he became more scared of me than I of him) get all weepy when the stapler stopped working, until finally he’d throw his pen down and bark, “GO HOME, and don’t come back until you’ve slept.” At least he was understanding.

.....I'm sorry, where was I?? I think I just nodded off.

Wednesday 19 May 2010

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

I am not a phone person, never really have been. I’m sure over the years this has infuriated many people in my life, especially with the advent of cell phones. I think I found landlines hard enough to deal with, but there was that added luxury that you could not rip them out of the wall and take them places (although many have tried). With the advent of cell phones for most it meant freedom. For me, it meant prison; their mere existence meant that I no longer had a choice in the matter. Now I was operating under the pressure that when people called me, their phone call must be answered, cause a) they know - or assume - the phone is with you, and b) if you don’t answer it, they figure you are avoiding them. This of course does not take into consideration all the valid times you really cannot answer the phone (and mom, I swear, I really am in the shower when you call me!). I have been caught many a time by people calling me, without me knowing they are nearby only to have me decline the call. It’s not personal I swear, but I do have my reasons.

Firstly, I grew up with a father who was obsessed with the phone. He was always on it, and if he wasn’t, he was about to be. And of course in the 80’s when the cell phones came onto the scene and weighed about 10 pounds, he’d drag that thing around like a dog and use it as much as humanly possible. It came on trips, to the dinner table, outside, inside, hell, he’d shower with it if he could. Now in his defense, it was for his business, and one could make the argument that it was a necessity. But to a child, it was this needless appendage that was attached to my father’s head, and I knew there and then that I didn’t want have a relationship with any such device.

Don’t get me wrong, in my teenage years I did my fair share of needless rambling to my girlfriends (on landlines people. Yes I'm that old), and even now, a call from one of my sisters can last a lifetime, but even then I get shouted at by various family members and friends for never answering my phone. They utter the universal logic: ‘but you have a cell phone?!’ As if this explains everything. It does: I’m stubborn, I hate it, let's move on. One of my sisters calls twice, sometimes three times in a row, cause she’s smart like that. She knows, that eventually I’ll figure out where I put the damn phone and answer it.

In a way I think cell phones have bastardized communication – I know I’m in the minority on this one as most think it’s the greatest, most unifying invention since the wheel. But for me, it’s taken a good thing and beaten it within an inch of its life. Now people use it when they don’t even have to, ‘hey, I just called to you know…say hi.’ Great, fabulous, you’ve done that. Can we get on with our lives now. Or while driving (my favorite), cause you know, manning a 2 ton killing machine isn’t responsibility enough, let’s throw a phone into the mix and see what happens to your driving skills. And of course kids use it - or shall I say overuse it - like it's some sort of toy - does it disturb only me that they make toy cell phones for three year olds? Soon enough there will be cell phones for dogs that operate in dog frequency so they can chat to their mates about important stuff like fleas and how to keep their coats healthy. Seriously, nothing would surprise me.

Trust me, I’m guilty of needlessly using it sometimes and I’m not proud of it. There are many times when I call my partner just out of boredom (I'm always early everywhere and have time to kill). Or of course when I’m lost - like he's some sort of human map. Cause you know, it's an 'emergency' and then I can see my way clear to use it.

Then there is the utter breakdown of privacy and decorum; those that think it is appropriate to use this annoying little device anywhere. At a romantic meal – but of course, a perfect time for a phone call. In the middle of sex – ‘oh honey could you wait a sec, that’s my cell phone’ (I’d kill my partner if he even tried this). And those who just flat out don’t care what those around them think – they talk on trains, buses, elevators…and not only do they talk, they scream, laugh, cry, even fight to the death with their partner, so that the entire public knows their business. Seriously, if I wanted to hear that drama I’d stay home and watch Jerry Springer. Get a hold of yourselves people! The worst are those that are on their cell phone as they’re out walking, but you don’t know this cause they have on those little headsets, and as they approach you they’re talking, staring right at you. Then you have that moment where you think you’re either being rude by not responding to this strange person, or you’re contemplating how mentally ill they really are and where the nearest escape route is.

And now of course these little space invaders are getting more invasive by the day, cause that's the joy of technology! They’re smaller, fancier, shinier…they play music, schedule your life, take photos, hell, soon they’ll be cleaning your house and cooking your meals. Although, at that point I would gladly surrender especially if they would put the duvet cover on the duvet and dust the blinds. I'm not totally against progress.

Tuesday 18 May 2010

JEKYLL, IS THAT YOU?

“Villagers thought he was gentle and kind until he hacked to death seven children.” That was how the man that recently went into a children’s school in China and committed mass murder was perceived. Sorry for the abrupt awakening, but isn’t this always the way. More proof that it is very difficult to truly know anyone. I’m sure Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents thought they knew him too. Boy was that a surprise, "we just thought he had a really big appetite and liked varied foods." You always read in the news, after the crime that those that new the criminal would've never guessed, "gosh, he was so kind, always helping me with my shopping bags." Well yeah, and when I’m smiling like a cherub, batting my eyelashes I seem like an angel too (my partner will gladly tell you I have a lot more in my emotional arsenal). The frightening part is that with some people you just don’t know.

My theory: people show you want they want to show you. Some are obviously better at this than others. In fact some are downright eerie in their ability to control what the public sees and what is truly deep inside, the whole Jekyll and Hyde syndrome. They spend a lifetime crafting a life on show deemed as normal or acceptable, hell even gracious and kind to the point where they are saving kittens in trees, only to go home, let their hair down and hack up the neighbor and his cat into a hundred different pieces. Sorry, I’m running dark today.

And of course on the flipside of this, there are those - thank god - who seem incapable of hiding what is inside of them– in today’s day and age I see this as a good thing. Let’s celebrate the bleeding hearts, or the emotionally monotone, gosh darn it, the rageaholics should be given a big fat hug and kiss. At least they’re putting it out there and not letting it fester. I’m telling you, we’re a lot safer with those that put it all on show. It is ironic however, that in society we treat this as a negative i.e. as if it connotes shallowness, ‘you know him, what you see is what you get.’ Well, I’d prefer that then, ‘holy hell I didn’t know THAT was in there!’ Deep is not necessarily a good thing people, in some cases deep is a big fat wooden chest of ugly!

The irony is that we’ve built and continue to support a whole industry around people who show one face to the world, and hide another one away at home. It’s called SHOW business. The whole point is for people to slip in and out of characters and leave their true selves at the door. And we applaud this mercurial transformation – maybe we should start arresting some of these people?! Maybe Brad Pitt is so confused as to who he really is, he is steps away from a shopping mall armed with a sawed off shot gun? Okay, highly unlikely, but his kid collecting wife is definitely suspicious.

Saying all this, I must admit, there is something quite liberating about reinvention, about being whomever you want to be at any given time; especially as society loves to put people in little boxes and keep them there. The rebel in me has of course always thought, well screw that! In high school I used to dress a different way almost every day. Some days I’d wear hippy flowered skirts, other days a metal concert T-shirt and ripped jeans, other days, the demure cardigan set. Some may have thought I had multiple personality disorder, hell maybe I did, but I just remember it as a girl not wanting to be pigeonholed to anyone way of being or thinking. If on a Monday I felt one way then darn it, I was going to follow it (I suppose, a typical fickle teenager me thinks.)

I’d like to think that for most of us, what is on show is real – the other option is just too terrifying – and what we hold back is a small percentage – those unattractive qualities or fleeting dark thoughts that are simply better kept to ourselves (or shared with a best friend who can handle such darkness – I’m talkin’ to you SC!). I mean, we don’t want to scare the neighbors with those lovely moments of irrational neurotic rage – ladies you know the ones. Then again, maybe I’m just a big fat cynic, and I think everyone has the capacity to go places even they don’t know about. We are steps removed from animals after all. Hell look at our history, some historical figures did things that make my hair stand on end, and I bet their parents were just as shocked ("but our little Adolph was so good with crayons?!") I suppose I’ll have to blame my paranoia on my preoccupation with Crime TV – the news definitely does NOT help matters either. After you watch so many Datelines about couples trying to off one another in the most spectacularly convoluted ways you start to wonder if you should be sleeping in the closet with a baseball bat…..

Honey, if I haven’t told you lately, I really love you!

Sunday 16 May 2010

CHOO CHOO

I love trains. In fact, I’m on one right now (okay, so I was) as I’m typing this. [Note to East Coast train's CEO – could you make the tray tables a little bigger? It’s impossible to type on this thing!] There is something altogether romantic and anachronistic (in the best way) about train travel. In the States, we have them in some fashion, but jumping on the Amtrak doesn’t feel quite the same. In England and Europe, train stations are like corner shops and it is one of the best, and fastest ways to see the country in all its glory – or not - depending on where you’re headed. It’s also a great way to get a feel for the people, which of course can be a negative and a positive.

There are the working stiffs who do their daily commute with a stoic look of ‘god I hate this’ on their faces; the mother of two traveling on her own with her kids, of course with the same look; the inevitable group of lads going off to a football match or a stag weekend – usually carrying a case of beer and thirty ton bag of crisps. Right now I have a pack of ladettes in front of me on the way to a hen weekend armed with balloons, high heels and enough self-tanner to paint the train. And then of course there are the travelers/tourists who are usually sizing up the train and how it falls short from the train system back home.

Many years ago, my sister and I did the backpacking thing. Every day we’d wake up and point on a map to a different city in Europe. Then we’d hit the train station, pray we tackled the language barrier enough to get us to the right place, and off we’d go. Barring a few miscalculations and getting thrown off one train (for insufficient something – the man spoke Czech, it was never going to work) it usually worked out okay. There were the instances where we had to sleep in the hallway using our packs as pillows, the shared cabins with usually the strangest individuals on earth, or the couple nearby that was determined to get into the train equivalent of the mile high club. (What is the equivalent?? Has no one coined an expression for shagging on a train? I feel so let down).

Finding a seat on the train can sometimes be an exercise in Darwinian survival. I am forever an aisle girl – I like quick escapes - and I will bodycheck just about anyone to get the last remaining one (okay, I try to exclude the elderly, but sometimes, a girl’s needs surpasses her better judgment). I also usually pick a seat in the quiet car. Although I have quickly realized that how I define quiet and how others define it are entirely different (My partner and I often come up against this beast of interpretation). Currently there is a two-year old, three seats away from me that has not yet grasped the concept. Damn him and his young rebellious constitution. When I am a Mother I see it as my duty not to torture those in the quiet car with my kids. In fact, I shall lobby the train industry for a car labeled – “the noisiest, most headache inducing car on earth, only the brave should enter.” It’s a long title, but I think it is only fair to warn my other passengers. I pride myself on being considerate.

Then there is the sheer challenge of trying to pee on a train. Sorry, I’m quite direct as you’ve gathered. Firstly, the bathrooms scare the germophobic skin right off me; in fact, I have been known to hold it for hours just to escape having to enter this vortex of filth. Sadly, these days this is not possible, as I have to go every fifteen minutes. But once armed with enough antibacterial gel and wipes to kill several rampant viruses, it is then down to the task of trying to hold oneself in the right position so that one does not touch anything, yet still makes the bowl while the train is bouncing around like a turbulent rocket ship. I’m telling you, this takes serious skill.

By far the best thing about the train, aside from the speed, is that you don’t have to go through security to get on one. And these days that is a blessing to be fully appreciated. You can just waltz right on with your bag armed with pretty much anything - hell I could be packing a ginsu knife set and a live goat and I doubt anyone would stop me - without getting yelled at by some pissy stewardess telling me my bag’s too big, and after a few hours, be in a different country. Why can’t everything be this easy?

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