Wednesday 8 December 2010

KICK 'EM WHERE IT HURTS

Apparently female bodyguards are now in demand in jolly old England. Actually here they are referred to as Close Protection Officers. I guess the term ‘bodyguard’ is too uncouthly descriptive. David Cameron – the Prime Minister for those of you that live in caves – and Kate Middleton – Prince Will’s gal – have both recently hired female CPOs. The thought is that female officers are more apt to blend in and be low profile in their efforts than say a 300 pound walking building that often accompanies Britney Spears and the like.

Here is where they have me a bit confused. If I see David Cameron walking down the street, I’m going to bet the house that he has a heavy-duty security detail with him..above him, hell, IN him if they could figure that one out. Why they are attempting to make his detail low profile when the Prime Minister is anything BUT low profile seems to defeat the purpose. If it were me, and I were the Prime Minister, I’d want the biggest human Humvees I could find, just so that the world knew who they were messing with; yeah bitches, they’re with me, just try and take me down!

I suppose having women in these positions could prove to be quite effective. I’m thinking they should only hire women in mid cycle – a cliché I realize, but one for a reason, hormones are a very powerful thing. If someone cuts in front of me in line at the grocery store mid cycle, I’m taking their ass down town. And don’t you know I could (tell ‘em honey). I remember as a child my father showed me the designated ‘areas’ to go for if a man ever attacked me - the nuts and the eyes; of course he said this with Tarantino-esque vehemence, ‘you kick them in the cojones baby with everything that you’ve got, you hear me?!’ I once practiced on some poor guy at school just to see what the fuss was all about. The staggering tortured look on his face told me this was only to be used in extreme emergencies. [Sorry Brandon!]

And of course the clandestine nature of a female CPO could indeed be even more effective than a man purely due to the surprise factor. Imagine some high heeled, heavily made up, unsuspecting debutante trailing a public figure. Everyone assumes she is arm candy, or a cousin thrice removed (they’re always cousins, aren’t they?) and then suddenly someone makes a wrong move, and WHAMMO, her Louboutin makes direct contact with the suspect’s eye socket then ends up sticking out of his forehead like in some Wes Craven movie. And you thought these shoes just looked smoking hot! Take that suckas!

That said, there are also women out there who, well, how do I say this kindly, are just as effective at protecting men cause they look like men. There are a few on my exercise DVD in fact – it took me a few weeks to actually work out that they were women, I've simply never seen women do military pushups like that (I certainly CAN'T). You know the types, over six feet tall, Madonna arms, thighs the size of tree trunks. Even their voices are low and menacing; so when they tell me to do an extra set of sit-ups, trust me, I listen. Give these women a gun, and I’m thinking David Cameron has nothing at all to worry about.

Tuesday 7 December 2010

GUPPY LOVE

There are a group of hotels on the East coast that have a Guppy Love program. I know you’re seriously trying to figure out what that is. In short, you can choose whether or not you want to share your room with a bowl of goldfish (you are secretly let down at the answer, aren’t you?) The thought is that most people leave their beloved pets behind and are looking for that little piece of home right there in their hotel room. I sure hope they’re not expecting the guests to clean the bowl, cause that part of home I assume most do not miss in the slightest. Psychologists have also long stated that watching fish swim in a bowl has a calming affect on the person doing the watching. Either that, or it puts you to sleep from sheer boredom. Which bodes well as you are in a hotel with a large bed that you don’t have to make in the morning. God do I love hotel living.

Another hotel in California has a Labrador on staff that welcomes guests and goes on hikes with them, if you so desire. He will also eat your shoes, and pee in your suitcase if you ask really nicely. I kid I kid. This new trend of hotel pets is catching on across the country where several hotels have actually found themselves with waiting lists for those wanting to walk the resident dog around town. Seriously? You’re on vacation, isn’t that what you go on vacation for, so you don’t have to walk the dog and pick up after something? Call me crazy, but when I’m on holiday, my goal is to resemble someone with a frontal lobotomy. Just put me somewhere comfortable with an umbrella drink and leave me to it.

My old office had a dog. Actually it was my dog that wasn’t potty trained yet, so her work sojourn only lasted a few weeks. Too many surprises behind potted plants for the boss’s liking. But while it lasted, I must admit, it did make the office kind of cozy and of course provided a nice excuse to not do one's work. She would mosey from office to office, lie under people’s desks, or her favorite thing, fall asleep right smack in front of the entrance door so that people would have to step over her. I loved that she didn’t overly accommodate anyone.

I suppose pets do have a calming positive affect on people and often make people nicer and more friendly, which in today's world goes a long way. Unless of course one is highly allergic to animals or has OCD and then one is looking at one big downer of a holiday. It’s probably best that those types steer clear of any hotels where Buddy the lab is going to be jumping on your lap and licking the side of your face.

LONGER OR BETTER?

[I thought I’d continue with the aging (yes, Brits, I know I'm missing the letter e. handle it) theme this week. Seems apropos as I currently feel 100 years old]

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t read an article about scientists trying to pervert the ageing process. Okay, so it is certainly not worded in such a negative way. On the contrary, it is usually heralded as a fantastic breakthrough in which they’ve made some poor unsuspecting mouse regenerate his liver four times over, or live until he was 50 in mouse years. Poor mice, they really pulled the short straw, didn't they?

The thing is I am not sure I would want to live longer. I suppose it would depend on if I could suspend the aging process at a certain age. Living forever at 35 would pretty damn amazing. Although, I’m afraid our scientific community has given up on stopping time, seems a bit above their pay grade. So basically we are facing the possibility – I’m thinking not in my lifetime, but perhaps in the King’s - of extending our lives by a significant amount. By how much is definitely unclear at this point. But I’m thinking that living an additional forty years will mean I’m just hideously old and I will probably have to spend thirty of those forty years carrying my stomach in a bag. I know, not pretty in the slightest. Once I reach a certain age, unless they can dramatically improve the quality of my life, I am certain I will just want a comfortable sofa to sit on, a bowl of ice cream and a pillow to fall face forward into, so that I can check out in style.

So in short, I’ve decided that I don’t want to live longer, just better. It seems like the wise and logical choice (oh, and if someone could arrange this, I'd be eternally grateful). I bet if you asked most people if they could live to about fifty, but be millionaires, they would choose that over being impoverished and living until 120 years old. Cause then you’re just old and poor. Not a good combination. You see how black and white I am. No shades of gray in this game.

Our obsession with living longer just seems a bit greedy really - not surprising for the human race. Not to mention against the natural grain. One lifetime is not enough, we want double the time on earth to screw things up and fall out with our family members. Oh god, think of the double dose of drama most people could carry out!

Don’t get me wrong, I want to live as long as possible, in a natural way. But perverting the natural scheme of things just sounds like a bad science fiction film, and an environmental nightmare. Think of all those extra bodies wandering around…old bodies needing medical attention! The ironic thing is, I think if we spent more time trying to live better and enjoy our lives more, then the notion of living longer would not be such a fixation. Seriously, how many people do you know that truly enjoy their lives to the utmost? The ones that take stock of everything they have every single day and eat that ice cream sundae despite the calories, while they phone their mother and tell her that they love her cause it might just be the last chance they do. I certainly don’t. I do my best, but I think if I spent too much time thinking this could be my last day I wouldn’t leave the house.

Then again, an ice cream sundae for breakfast may just start my day off with a nice big sugar infused how the hell are ya?! Screw it, life is short, there is a pint of ice cream in the freezer with my name on it...and mom, I love you.

Sunday 5 December 2010

SNAP, CRACKLE, POP

Do you ever feel your age, more than just the usual, ‘oh my god how did my ass get three inches lower since last week?’ I’m talking about that moment where suddenly you realize that you are of another generation and there is so much about the new one that you just don’t understand. You find yourself saying things like, “well, when I was young;” or “I will never do such and such, I’m just old school that way;” or “I just don’t get it?” Suddenly the music seems so much louder than it used to be, the ‘youths’ seem unusually boorish, and you find yourself in the corner of a café drinking your four dollar coffee wondering when did the world get so damn expensive, and why are these teenagers leaving the house without their pants on? [As far as I’m concerned, the tights with just a T-shirt trend just looks like they didn’t finish getting dressed].

I have these moments a lot, especially lately, and the problem is, on the inside, I feel young. I can remember high school like it was yesterday. In fact, I’m often tempted to whip out my old mini skirt, bust out a few moves to my old Duran Duran album, and go sneak a cigarette. But sadly if I did, I would probably cough up a lung and pull my back out in mid dance. But the mini-skirt still fits, so there! That must mean something. Sadly however, on the outside, I’m the lady with the baby, I’m the woman those very teens refer to as Mam; I am officially middle aged and I have no clue – nor do I want to – who Justin Bieber is. Oh GOD, when did this happen?

For the most part I try to ignore the whole ageing thing. It’s just a number, so they tell me. But it’s not always easy, especially when one is forced to fill in forms and they ask you to check that little evil box that contains your age group. And you keep thinking please let me stay in this middle box, cause that next one looks so scary. Or when you find yourself eavesdropping on the tights & T-shirts population. The other day in fact, I was at the store and I was forced to listen to the pre-pubescents behind the counter deconstruct X Factor. Who was going to win it, who ‘rocked it,’ who ‘totally sucked.’ I of course, never having watched it, but knowing I knew more than the both of them, wanted to tell them I would bet my life that they all sucked and no one rocked it. I may be older, but I know a few things.

Saying all this, there are many things about my age that I do like…I’m no longer worried about half the things I used to worry about. If people don’t like me, oh well, the door is over there; my face is my face, my body is my body, and Giselle’s legs are never going to magically appear below my torso. Besides, how annoying would it be to shave those things? I don’t have that much time in a given day. Not to mention, I feel secure that I am right where I am supposed to be; gone are the days when I feel trapped in a tornado of emotion, indecision and hormones…okay fine, once a month, I may have a mini tornado, but let’s just say that it doesn’t rip the roof off the house. Saying this, as my back creaks and my knees pop every time I bend to pick up the King, I am slightly envious that he is able to put both his feet into his mouth with no problem. Lucky sod.

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