From a Corner of a Foreign Field...

Spitting out the Cyanide

2012-01-27T12:01:00.000-08:00

“That’s not what Imean at all,” she said laying a hand flat on her friend’s blouse near enoughher heart that she could feel its beat beneath her fingertips. “Write what’s in here because you must,because it pleases you, but never because you want someone else to like whatyou’ve said.”

This quote is from the richly-wrought The Distant Hours, by Kate Morton. I had never heard of Morton before, but having spent most waking hours embroiledand en-brained in the company of her heroine this week, she is a writer I hope toknow more and more.

Kate Morton

I could write about the novel, how it enchanted me by itsidiosyncratic characters, diseased by duty and honour, each chomping on her ownlittle cyanide capsule of emotional repression; how the aging castle is as muchof a character as the women in the novel; how it is set during WW II, a periodof time I seem to find compelling in its romantic barbarism; how again thetwisted altruism of twins has engrossed me (see my blog on her Fearful Symmetry and The Thirteenth Tale http://www.eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2011/11/its-all-gone-dark-mother.html); how fire utterlyconsumes as in Jane Eyre, and Rebecca and BigamE; and how Morton’s style has delightfully drowned my thoughtswith each uniquely everyday image. But Iwon’t. It is a novel I urge you to read.

There are people far more educated than I to tell you aboutthe imagery and the nuances. I want totell you not what Morton said or how she said it, but how she made mefeel. Because lately, as you may haveguessed by my unusual uncommunicativeness, I have lost heart with many things,mostly writing and therefore life.

I have learned recently, as never before, that I am judgednot by what I do or how I write, but that people are just people and sometimesthey enjoy kicking me to the ground. AndI take that very personally. If people aregoing to criticize me for things I didn’t say or do or write, what the fuck isthe point in working hard and giving my all when their fiction trumps mytruth anyway? Or so I thought. And so, shell-shocked Self decided to shutdown; that it was a far safer thing not to write; that it was far more sensibleto scuttle oneself, to swallow the cyanide, to forget that I could be made tofeel worthless; and maybe the flack would subside. It has. But I haven’t written for a month.

And I’m not a happy bunny.

Defibrillators. STAT. Or rather… Kate Morton’s, The Distant Hours.

Through happenstance, Morton’s heroines aren’t allowed theopportunity to fulfill their hearts' desires; in post-war years it was the farsafer thing to become a typist or sit sheltered away in the castle tower,unwritten stories and histories slowly turning each silent soul quite mad. I suppose I saw myself in these sadoctogenarians whose dreams had lain dead for fifty years; in Meredith, who as apensioner had blocked out the memory of her girlhood ambitions and hadsleep-walked through her intervening beige years. And I realized that I had written blogs anddeleted blogs because I had so wanted “someoneelse to like what you’ve said,” what Isaid. And I sabotaged myself. I deletedmyself.

I may not write literary fiction, I may not weave words withsilken sibilants, similes and throat-lumping imagery; I may not spend yearsresearching microfiche in Kew Public Records Office; I may not get to interviewObama or Gaga or Bloody Barbara Walters, but I write from the heart. And I am sorry if that isn’t a school ofwriting that some recognise. I am sorryif that alienates people I love. But ifyou loved me—fuck it, even if you merely liked me—if you saw my happiness andit made your heart swell, then you would tell me to write; to type until theflesh of my fingertips frayed, and then to carry on clicking keys until mybones were nubs. I am a writer. It is what I do. Whether published or not, it is words thatpump through my pulverized pulmonary, they surf the platelets and circulate mysoul, they clog my brain and breathe colour to my world.

So thank you Kate Morton for making writing-from-the-heart okayfor me again. Thank you for making Meredith,Juniper and Saffy characters with dreams so smothered and futures so melancholy,I can’t own them for myself. So I’mwhipping off the shroud of wordlessness, climbing from the wreck of my Andersonshelter and hopefully, one day, I will knit enough words to fill the missinglayer:

“The hunger wasn’treally homesickness at all. He’d usedthe term lazily, perhaps even hopefully, to describe the feeling, the awarenessthat something fundamental had been lost. It wasn’t a place that he was missing, though; the reality was far worsethan that. Tom was missing a layer ofhimself.

He knew where he’dleft it. He’d felt it happen on thatfield near the Escault Canal, when he’d turned and met the eyes of the othersoldier, the German fellow with his gun pointed straight at Tom’s back. He’d felt panic, a hot liquid surge, and thenhis load had lightened. A layer ofhimself, the part that felt and feared, had peeled away like a piece of tobaccopaper in his father’s tin and fluttered to the ground, been left discarded onthe battlefield. The other part, theremaining kernel called Tom had put his head down and run, thinking nothing,feeling nothing, aware only of the rasping breaths, his own in his ears.”

Acceptance? Tell THAT to Inigo Montoya!

2011-12-27T12:27:00.000-08:00

I am not religious. I think we have covered that, right? But I hear this Serenity prayer a lot:

"God, grant me theserenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference."

Acceptance. It stares up at me from the engraved stonepaperweight upon the desk from which I type. It is not my desk, but the live-in, non-lesbian gal-pal, "Monica’s." She’s very zen and gets a lot of satisfactionfrom life-affirming mottos. I, donot. I rather want to take that paper weight and lob it into Lake Scranton.
Why should we accept things we can’tchange?
Why should we give up?

Inigo Montoya never accepted that he would fail to find the six-fingered man who killed his father. The odds were against him, but he never stopped trying, and is, for that reason, one of my most beloved film characters. Let's have a gratuitous clip!

I don’t think it’s sereneto be a quitter and throw in the towel. I mean, most writers didn’t accept the fact that the majority of agentsrejected them; most inventors don’t just throw their prototype away; so how dowe know what to strive to save, and what we should watch tornado down theU-bend?

There are several times inmy life where I have given up. I’m notsaying I’m proud of them, I'm not. I am also pretty sure there are more examples thanthese, but these are the ones that race to the finish line first:

1) Sports Day 400 m sprint.

2) Relationship #2 #10 #14

Now, I was never all that athletic. Sure, I’d cheer—being vocal was never aproblem—but actually moving my body with the speed, strength and skill that mybrain had so purely conceived, was never my forte.

School Sports Day and Swimming Sports Day were, therefore, always a wee bit of a trial. Okay, so wegot an afternoon off class, but Sod’s Law was that it was always a class Ienjoyed, and would much rather have been doing, than Humiliation 1-0-1. Butthere it came around again, Sports Day. *Grrr! Gnash teeth*. And there wasI, in scratchy, synthetic green athletics pants and second-hand air-tex,proving once again to all my class mates that I was, in fact, the only 15 year old who was soflat-chested she was practically concave. (Oh, the cache of having boobs then would have made life so mucheasier!) I digress.

Seriously, these were mean-ugly uniforms thatwere, frankly, emotionally scarring. Girls aged 11 to 18 should not be made to wear ugly green grannypants. Full-stop. I mean, really? What is the pube-skimming point? Oh, because an inch more fabric that mightmake the less-than-hot pants more luke-warm shorts, and would cut down onaerodynamism? Please. They were ugly, they were scratchy, they werewrong. Never do this to your children, Parents. Never do this to the World, Fashion People.

I was lucky to go to this girls school, because it was far more than my parents could really afford. Most of my items of uniform were from my 5ft 8 neighbour--I was struggling to make 5ft at the time--so I always looked somewhat comical. I even had my brother’s old hand-me-down Dunlop Green Flash trainers. Nike Air they were not. I can still picture their chewing gum white canvas uppers, the thick white rubber sole, the linguine-like laces, the tattoos of my brothers initials, covered over with my own in black marker. Far from ghetto, it just looked like I couldn't spell my own name, so not only was I gawky, unfashionable and sport-spastic, but apparently I also suffered from severe dyslexia.

Ah! Probably the cheapest shoe you can buy for your first child, then give to your second, stained and tangy. Ta, Mum!

It is one thing sporting such a look, paired with uncoordinated inability, but it’s quiteanother proving your spasticality in front of the entire school and their parents, siblings and family friends, most hoistingcamcorders just to make sure that your complete humiliation is captured forevermore.

And so it was that my teacher decided, in theabsence of anyone else volunteering, that I--Ennie-Oh-14-minute-mile--should take on the reigning countyathletics runner in the 400m. If I hadthe bolshy nerve my friends had, I would have nonchalantly proffered themonthly excuse they seemed—poor wretches—to be tormented by EVERY WEEK—Jesus, Imust have been in the most menstrual class known to man—but I didn’t. She had picked me and so, call to arms, Imust do my class duty.
*Sound thebugles!*

When the fateful day arrived, I actually imagined I mightwin—amazing the tricks your psyche can play on you! I envisaged that whiteticker tape snapping as I ran through it, the cheers, the sound of Chariots of Fire ringing in my ears, the trophy and maybe even the school record! Where I imagined I had conjured thissudden ability is beyond me, but I could see it on the backs of my eyelids, andI could smell victory in the fresh cut grass and the cloying stench of thelatest highly perfumed deodorant my friends deemed it “cool” to be using. (Something begining with a 'K' that smelled of toilet cleaner and Christmas trees.)

I took my marks, as directed, in the innerlane. My opponent, templed her fingersto the ground, haunches skywards, focused for the pistol. Oh, thought I, we are doing this properOlympian-stylee--what a hoot--and I took some seconds to arrange self in what I suppose Iwould now refer to as, downward dog. Iprobably spent far too much time getting comfy and not summoning my runningmuscles, because the expected “bang!” of the starter’s pistol caught me quiteunaware. What? Fuck! Ah! Where? Oh shit, she’s running! Goooooo legs, go! Andas the Nike Air of my opponent ripped into the turf and away, my Dunlop Greenflash squeaked retardedly into action.

I wish I could give you a good account ofmyself. That, as I had envisioned, I hadsuddenly become possessed by Flo Jo; that the banana I had secretly wolfed down,because Linford Christie had a campaign on the telly about banana-gy, had firedmy muscles with its potassium and magnesium goodness. Alas, I can only report this: I was crap.

For the first lap I tried. I beat my non-running limbs like littlewhisks; I thumped my arms as if I were having a sparring match with theInvisible Man; she only got further and further away.

I remember the cheers from my class. Oxymoronic encouragement—we were quite thesnide achievers—“Come on Smell-eanor!” “Run,Boobless! Run!” Their enthusiasm onlymade me want to cry. I gritted my teeth andpounded hard, but my legs were burning, the lactic acid gnawing at everysinew.

I turned into the home straight and she was there,flying into the white ticker tape, feeling it snap against her impressivechest. The cheers were for her. The applause, for her. The trophy that would be engraved, for her.

And I stopped running.

I gave up.

I believe—although this bit is a tad foggy—I pretendedI’d pulled a muscle. I yelped, limped,felt somewhere on my leg and stumbled off the track, without ever crossing thefinish line.

That was seventeen years ago, and something that hasnever sat comfortably with me. I acceptedthat I was beaten and I just gave up!

Did I ever stand a hope of winning? Hell No! I was crap! I think I've made this clear. But I wish I hadcarried on, even though there was not a darn thing I could do to change theoutcome. Especially, since for me, thispathetic ending reeked of dishonor. Shit, I don't think it was even a very convincing injury performance!

I am not saying that one incident taught me a lifelesson, but I tasted the bitterness of giving up, and I didn’t like it.

Life has thrown a few sHituations since, mainlyrelationship-orientated ones, where I have shrugged my shoulders and let go,even though every fibre of my being has yelled “Come back!” Mum had schooled me in the merits ofretaining one’s dignity over actually exposing Self to hurt and saying what youreally feel. I thought this “acceptance”the classier thing to do. Acceptance and denial that it was ever of any importance or worth anyway. But, you know what? That's bullshit. The classier thing, surely, is not to pretend, but to fight for what you really want, or at least tell someone how you feel, rather than pretending.

I was never going to win that race, but I should have trotted on and taken a bow,proud of my true-blue-crap-at-sport-Brit heritage.

If you are staring at defeat, what have you got tolose? Pride isn’t so important when you’vebeen unemployed for six months; when you feel a lump or see a mole that wasn’tthere yesterday; when you are watching the love of your life slip away.

Would you remain stiff and inert, paralyzed bypride; would you put up your dukes, but pretend to pull a muscle and limp outto lick your wounds when the going got too tough; or, if this is it, really andtruly, what the fuck! Wouldn’t you run? Fuck the pretence, blow the stiff-lip,but with thighs burning and arms boxing, looking like a fool, wouldn't you at least bloodywell give it a try?

So, I suppose what I am saying is, who is to saythat a situation is hopeless or impossible? If you don’t fight to change it, you’ll never know. And even if it is irredeemable, wouldn’t yourather be the person who can say, “I gave it my all,” rather than, “Oh, I justhalf-arsed it, saw I couldn’t win, so gave up”?

Whether fighting to win for fun, for sport, for work, for survival, forlove, don’t be a Half-Arse. Royally fuckit up with both cheeks exposed, because that will give real serenity. You can rest your little over-thinking brain, because, props to you Lovey, you gave it your best!

I love this scene from Love Actually. Andrew Lincoln's character has fallen in love with his best friend's fiance. He is tortured. Whilst he would not act dishonourably to his friend, for his own sanity and serenity, he has to tell the fiance he loves her, "without hope or agenda" and once he has, finally, told her then, then, he can let go.

Like Lincoln's character, only when I know I have done or saideverything I can; when I have swallowed the lump of fear amassing in my throat--cunningly lodged to smother what I really want to say; when I have ignored the attack in my colon; spoken through the shallow snatches of breath and the yelling in my head that MAYDAY! MAYDAY! THIS COULD HURT! BRACE YOURSELF! INCOMING!; only then, when I have stripped Self of every defence mechanism I've hidden behind, can I be serene. So I haverewritten the serenity prayer. Blasphemous, probably, but …

Grant me the courage to fight for what I want,
Never to accept mediocre, half-arsedness,
(Even when others tell me I should give up and limpoff)
But to give my all and know that opening Self tovulnerability and loss,
Takes more courage than hiding behind any protectivefaçade.
Oh, yeah, and grant me wisdom too. That's never a bad thing.

Everyone's a Little Bit Schadenfreude... la la

2011-12-18T10:17:00.000-08:00

This ~~Christmas~~ Holiday, I sent a message to the Mothership. "Please advise all that I will not really be doing Christmas this year. I don't want to be embarrassed should folks from Blighty want to send me something, so please ask them not to. Thanks, Mummita. Love me."

It's not that I am a Scrooge--although I am wearing legwarmers and gloves right now. No, please don't buy me a Snuggie--I'd just don't want stuff that I will then have to accommodate in the Brooklyn Shoebox and--Heaven Forfend--dust! I'd rather hibernate, write, read, listen to Adele, with a cannister of chocolate and a vat of wine. (With a bendy straw.) This is far from an alternative Christmas; in fact, I am holding the very bastion of British Christmas dear: misery and chocolate.

Let me explain my choices:
Adele has the wisdom beyond her 23 years. She writes lyricsthat gut me like a freshly caught jail island salmon. Shit, she is one heartsick chick. My non-lesbian, live-in galpal, let's call her *Monica,* has commented, after having to listen to the same agonized tune play from my computer over and over,
“Adele seriously needs to have a successful relationship. Or lashings of good, hot sex.” But, I disagree. Sorry, Adele. If I wanted to listen to Mariah Carey's Jingle-fucking-Bells, I would. I want misery, goddammit! Pure, unadulterated, gouge my eyes out with a rusty trowel, pain. So Adele’s angelic voice, bemoaning her stressed and collapsing pulmonary, will be the soundtrackto my Christmas. Her unhappiness isquite the comfort. Why is that? I am no sadist. I don’t want others suffering, and yet my ownpuffy-faced, pre-Christmas-Mis is loving her great Cockney choral complaining. I’m not even German, but I’m reveling inSchadenfreude, right now.

"What's that? Some kind of Nazi word?"
Well, click on and listen for the full explanation:

Maybe it is because the holidays are coming, and Adele remindsme of home: of being apart from Mum and Dad and Oliver, as they three sit atthe table made for eight, pulling crackers, wearing paper crowns, talking aboutthe gravy and the roasties not being as good as last year’s organic offeringfrom Sainsburys; of settling down for the turkey coma to set in whilst watchingthe EastEnders Christmas special, in which someone will undoubtedly die, eating a glass bauble--yes, it happens; or in a house fire, because Ethel fell asleep after her annual sherry, her lit cigarette smouldering up the synthetic, brown 1968 sofa; or because there was a particularly heated argument in which Alfie discovered Kat was sleeping with Matt, Martin, Pete, Phil, Rickeeeeey and Uncle Tom Cobbly, and now half the Square is dead, dead, dead and floating in the Thames. Ah yes! I could write the script! Downton Abbey, it ain't.

If 2011 has left you hemorrhaging from the eyeswith disappointment, it is such a comfort to see, hear and sing about othersless fortunate. Tidings of comfort andjoy? Fuck that! We Brits like a dollop of misery to make usfeel better about our own shit-uations, then we pass around the Quality Streettin full of chocolate jewels, and allow the chocolate opiate to dull oursenses.

Oh, you think I’m joking? No, really. Chocolate. It is a traditionalpart of a British Christmas: teasing kidlets with the mouthful of chocolatebehind their advent calendar door, and then, WHOA, WHEY HEY! It’s the 25^th Choc-fest! While Americans sit back and watch the marathon brain-melt of American Football, munching Christmas cookies and chugging the eggnog, we Brits watch a marathon of low-income misery-drama and have a high ol’ time on chocolate. As we age, we also add wine which aids chocolate consumption. (No, am not being so cultured as to say wepair our vino with dark chocolate to bring out certain notes. We just drink beyond our dietary inhibitions andstuff our faces. It is Christmas, after all.)

Chocolate actually releases certain neurotransmitters, whichsignal between neurons. Impulses shuttlealong our neurons to illicit movement or sensation, so the more particular neurotransmitterswe have, greatly impacts on our mood. I’llspare you the science, but basically chocolate-produced-neurotransmitters cancross the synapse from one neuron to another, and trigger the receptors tofire off different responses in other neurons. It’s Chocolate Domino Rally.

You’ve probably heard of three of the main happyneurotransmitters: endorphins, which reduce pain and stress; serotonins, whichare anti-depressants; and phenylethylamine, or “chocolate amphetamine,” whichcauses changes in blood pressure, can quicken your heart rate and thusly, illicitsthat heart-pumping feeling of being in love.

Tryptophan, an essential amino acid we ingest, is apre-cursor of serotonin, and guess what is tryptophan-rich? Uh huh, turkey! So really Christmas Choc-Fest and Turkey-Gorgingis just one big Serotonin Orgy.

Really, with all this going for it, chocolate should be amajor food group. Does Anthony Bourdainknow this? He’s all about the meat. The more “unctuous” the better, but he used to beabout the drugs. If only he knew that chocolatewas a legal drug. But then, his storywould be much different and not half as scandalous or entertaining.

So, if you should see me over the next week, without my family,not wearing a paper crown, or telling a crappy joke and lighting my Wolverineeyebrows on fire when flambeing the Christmas pud; but instead, bundled somewherein New York or Pennsylvania, wailing Adele, watching miserable TV, and eatingvast amounts of chocolate, know that I am merely celebrating in a very Britishway. And if this rather alien description paints a sad picture to you, then maybe I am giving you the gift of Schadenfreude this Christmas,
"we provide a vital service
to society, You and me,
Schadenfreude, making the World a better place to be!"

God Save the Queen. And Chocolate. And Wine.

"Yes, we know we are alive when it hurts." Don Lafferty.

*Please note, the Monica of my blogette does not smoke or play with cigars. Or Politicans. She just likes the name.

Times flies. Are you having fun?

2011-12-13T22:03:00.000-08:00

I remember a book I read summers and summers ago. Actually, rememberis a bit of a stretch, because I don’t, but ingrained indeliably through the fog of time is a particular quote. It has stuck with me for over a decade. I found it so profound I stopped reading,reached from my bunk in a caravan somewhere in a field in Southwold, where Iwas performing that summer, grabbed my purple inked pen and wrote it down onthe front page of my turquoise leather-bound diary (I have always had apenchant for turquoise, and leather, and luxurious stationery.)

Organic pathways. This contains ethanol. How do I not remember it?

I’m glad I did write it down, for otherwise, it would belost, swirling within the dark coils of the forgotten, along with organicpathways, how to ask for help to change a tyre en francais, and how todisassemble a SA80 rifle; things that only a French-accented hypnotist with a bigpocket watch could help me access now.

My eyes snapped magnetically to the quote like an iron filing. I suppose I liked it so much, because I am, at the core, a romantic, and long, run-on sentences bursting and crumpling like a souffléof desperate emotion, just GET me. Theystab me in the heart and twist the knife like a Calabrese, they churn my intestines as if through a meatgrinder, they suck the air from my alveoli and leave me breathless. They strike me like a bowling ball, straightand true, and leave me scattered.

Par example mes petits lapins, in Dirty Dancing, when Baby confides to Johnny,in a helpless, heart-pouring way, “Me? I’m scared of everything! I’m scared of who I saw, what I did, who Iam. But most of all, I am scared ofwalking out of this room and never feeling my whole life, the way I feel when Iam with you.” Surely, surely, one of THEmost stomach-flipping lines in modern cinema. (And I could type it without even looking it up.) (Should I admit to that?)

Here is the clip, in it's I-recorded-this-on-my-camcorder-in-the-basement-of-my-parent's-home-where-I-never-leave-and-I-wear-a-snuggie glory. Apologies for the quality of this, the better ones were all protected, this one wasn't. And it shows. But, pah! At least those of you who read that quote and wondered what I was gibbering on about, will now know.

Now, don’t get your hopes up. This is not a line of such erupting emotion,but as quotes go, it is one that resonates with me as strongly now as it didover a decade ago in a caravan in Southwold.

“Time. I’m so scaredof time. That suddenly the portion in frontof me will be smaller than the one behind me.”

I am terrified of wasting time. I type this blog after over five hourswaiting for my flight in Fort Lauderdale airport courtesy of Jet Blue—oh, I had the Jet Bluesalright—so it’s on my mind. You know Idon’t like my time to be wasted. And, ifyou don’t know how much this offends me, I refer you to TIME WANKERS: I'm Waitinggggggg! I suppose time is even more of a kick in thearse as I am paralysed, like actually deer-in-the-headlights-frozen that, at32, the majority of my eggs have been cooked. Poached? Scrambled? Fried? Fertilized?So, you know, I am just a lil' bit ancy pantsy about time.

My zen friends tell me to live in the moment. Ah. Sweet. That’s just peachy. Sure, I’ll go with the flow! Look Ma, this is me, going-with-the-flow, nohands, unplanned, I’m just letting it be.

Phooey. If I don’thave a plan with a deadline, however am I ever going to have something to aimfor, something to achieve?

I had goals this year. I sincerely thought that two years since signing my retainer, this wouldbe the year. The magic P. year. (And no, I don’t mean pregnancy, I mean thebook baby, the book baby!) But here weare. It’s December. How the fuck did that happen? Was I sleep-living through the last elevenmonths? Did aliens kidnap me, probe me(we are talking Aliens here, and I have just watched Paul) and did theselittle green men steal my time from me? (And my eggs?)

Why is it that we all say, “OH! December! The years go fasterevery year!” No they fucking don’t. I’m a scientist, and I know I have the same365 days to use or waste as everyone else, but yet, IT’S DECEMBER, HOW. CAN.THIS. BE? (No, am not forgetting LeapYears. Don’t be pedantic.)

Ennie-ana Jones, bringing it back.

It’s not just me, right? Tell me that I am not the only one who has been alien-ated by thespace-time continuum? Why is it thatthe sands of time are running out before my eyes? It can’t be that I’m busier than ever,because retirees who mark their days by seasons of what shows are on, say it: “Oh,the year’s just flown by!” Where? Where has it flown? I want to go to there and rescue itback. I’ll throw my Indiana Jones haton, my new trusty brown leather riding boots, my rope and my rifle (which I’lltry to remember how to assemble) and I’ll rescue it all back! I’ll lasso it and bring it home, along withmy thyroid, my cocker spaniel, my grandparents, the man I love so much I can hardly breathe. All the things I have lost and so desperately want back.

Just give me the address.

Or failing that, answer me this: why does timefly faster? How can I slow it down? Not death, obviously. That’s not all that appealing right now,thanks. But why does my life flash before my eyes? How do I live "in the moment," when so much is swirling around like a tornado and slurping down the friggin' pipe like a thirsty, deprived Catholic on spring break?
And why are tears so, so salty? I want it back. I want it all back.

POACHED? SCRAMBLED? FRIED? FERTILIZED?

2011-11-23T20:57:00.001-08:00

This maybe a huge, great Thelma-and-Louise-off-a-cliff-leaphere, but I think best-selling women’s fiction author, Jane Green and I arekindred spirits. We are British ex-patsliving in the north east of America--she in chic Westport, Connecticut,where I nannied for a brief orbit of the sun; me in Brooklyn and Pennsylvania.We’ve both spent considerable time in New York, we are/we have been married to Americansand we like the ritual of cooking: rich stews, fragrant casseroles, warm, farmy, comfort fodder! Theone great fat fly in the ointment is that she mothers arks full ofchildren. She even cooks for them all. Whereas I… I’m gestating novels and not muchelse.

I suppose I have been thinking about this a lot lately as,not only have two girlfriends given birth in the last week, and six that I know about in the last year, but I am listeningto Jane Green’s Babyville. It’s a wee bit dated with pop-culture commentary,the heroines don’t text or tweet or FB at all, they drink lattes like theydon’t contain 200+ calories, but the overall story supersedes theseflinch-worthy retro references, because to me, it is about early thirties Britishfemales discovering the best of NYC food, cock and the unignorable tock of theirbiological clock.

In Babyville wemeet Sam—happily up the duff; Maeve—ruthlessly career-focused and unhappily upthe duff; Julia—desperate to be up the duff, and as mad as a rather madeye-rolling-cow circa 1998 rural England; and Bella the urban Manhattanitewho—thus far—is plagued with neither dictatorial ovaries nor a pregnancy plotline.

I must confess, Julia, at first, was not a character I couldreally sympathize with. With a fabulouscareer in TV production, and not exactly the most enviable relationship, whywould she go so bat-shit-crazy that she would drop £200 at Boots Pharmacy (at atime) on pregnancy testing kits? That’sjust not rational. That’s bonkers! Think of the nice pair of tan-topped blackleather riding boots she could buy with that? The dress at Karen Millen? Theflight to Paris and back! This,methought, is just the sort of lunatic that gives sane thirty-somethings a badname, and makes men sigh and use the condescending phrase “women’s issues.”

Julia is, undoubtedly, held captive by her raging hormonesand obsession to conceive, and her whack-job behaviour—picture her in a white sheetmake-shift toga and penis-carved candles—loses her the sympathy of her partner,her colleagues and even, just a smidgen, her friends.

I have far, far more empathy with sharp-suited andpointy-toed Maeve. She has drive,ambition and no time to think of anyone but herself, least of all a baby.

And then it happens. The unthinkable. After a fewtequilas, there she is, in an unlit alley way, consoling Julia’s nowex-non-baby-daddy, a sympathetic snog, a grope and bing bang, bang, bang, boom,it’s an unwanted embryo. Within weeksthis well-put-together woman becomes the victim of her hormones, a screamingharridan, a chocolate fiend. (I realisedat this point in the story that I really miss English chocolate, particularlyPicnic, Lion Bar and Double Decker. FYI,Christmas Gift Purchasers.)

So I started thinking about the cliché: do women really havea biological clock? What if some runreally slowly, or some women don’t hear theirs because they are focused on somethingelse and then, Brrrrinnnnnnnnnggggg it rings, but the time they hear it, it hasbeen whacked to snooze so many times that now opportunity has passed and it’stoo late, and heck, sorry sister, you were too busy la la-ing your own song…what then? What?

The Duggar Tribe. 19 children and counting...
Seriously, her uterus must be the size of China.

A woman’s biological clock, so I understand, is triggered bythe presence of certain hormones. Somewomen obviously have more than others. I’m thinking Ma Duggar and the Octo-mom are the Jose Canseco of the femaleegg world. Is this age specific? Frame specific? Diet-specific? Is it something that is influenced by thosearound you: all close friends spawning, and causing contagious‘something-in-the-water’ breeding? Is itaffected by circadian rhythms? The lunarphase? The day light perceived and timedby magical receptors in our retinas, sending hormones surging and knickersa-plunging? Or, is it something that isfired off into the stratosphere if you meet the right person?

Unlike men, women do have limited fertility. Men have little age-related decline infertility since they have stem cells that can produce semen all day long. Yeah, thanks! That’s one in the eye from Oh Great Creator/ Evolution/ Other. Instead we are born with 2 million eggs andwe never produce anymore, they just… DIE. Like lemmings. Every month. There’s some dying right now… “AHHHHHhhhhhh!” I can hear them. 30 to be precise. 30 a day. 1000 a month. 13,000 eggs ayear. Only 400 eggs get to ovulation inour lifetime, which means, by the time we hit 40ish, the larder is eggless,yolkless.

That’s one sad little breakfast muffin with no eggs, justsausage. (Make mine a soppressata withprovolone, grazie!)

Is it any wonder women in their 30’s can becomehob-knob-crackers-woof-and-trail-mix-nuts crazy? Of course not, they have organs committinghari-kari everyday! How would you feel?

And now we are living to an older age, and climbing thecareer ladder, more couples/singles are putting off spawning, but Egads! Bymid-thirties 25% of women are infertile. That's 1 in 4. 1 in fucking 4! Did I mention lots of my friends have kiddos? *Gulp* As we age the number of eggs and the quality of eggs go down. Infertility is an epidemic. More western world people are visitingdoctors for infertility issues, not heart disease or diabetes. In.fer.tility.

Shit. Maybe Julia wasnot so nutzoid, after all. Maybe it isjust fear that sends our biological clocks a-buzzing. The urgent, unignorable wake up call thatsignals, “HOLY CRAP, we’re dying here. Would you just throw us a bone, you selfish, work-obsessed bitch?”

Maybe the cliché biological clock is merely awareness. As we age, we become aware of our limitedavailability to produce the perfect 2.4 pigeon-pair family. And maybe the conception of thislife-altering nugget of knowledge, fused with other factors is what primes thealarm.

I know it’s changed for me. I know now that three meals a day are better than the one I felt sovirtuous about eating. I know that theless-than-one-hundred-pounds I weighed five years ago would have housed a wombabout as welcoming as Wyoming. I knownow, that just because so-and-so has a brat who does not understand “no,” whoconstantly has a runny nose and sticky fingers—which he generously wipes onme—does not necessarily mean that all children (namely, mine) will be badlybehaved; I understand that nurturing and educating a little bundle of cells canbe the most miraculous gift one could give and receive. A bundle I hope to teach compassion, to have passions, integrity and honour; to know French, some Italian, spellings, Capitals, Kings and Queens, inorganic chemistry, horse-riding, swimming; how to make creme brulee and risotto; and to say "lovely, smashing and super!"

Sure, awareness has me staring into the face of the alarmclock, like it is 4.29am and I wish I could sleep a little longer, but Ican’t. I close my eyes, but theanticipation holds me prisoner. One cannever lose consciousness in such circumstances.

But there is a catalyst: a magical, mystical overriding elementthat speeds up time and suddenly it is 6am and the little tinny alarm istolling like the bells in Notre Dame. “The Bells, Esmeralda, the bells!”

And that, Dear Reader, finally, after years of falling for Non-Compatibles—whoseLevis I shouldn’t touch, let alone their chromosomes—is knowing myself better:being more able to identify those I might be compatible with and whose genes Imight like to comingle.

I’m writing this because I’ve found the 180 degree change inme interesting. I’m not speaking forwomankind, just myself. I understandthere are many factors at work determining our instinct to follow ourbiological imperative. I am sure thoseladies so desperate to mother that they go to sperm banks and sign up for theircarefully selected semen, feel their biological clock a-tocking just asstrongly as if they had just met the Love-of-their-Life. But I've needed the latter.

Will I be racing to Babys R Us and signing up for a registry? Absolutely not. (Sorry Mum.) But maybe I’m paying more attention now. Maybe there is more reason to? Or maybe I am just some character in a JaneGreen novel, who learns that there are some instincts that trump even workethic.

Maeve: He has become,other than Viv, my most favourite person in the whole world, and I can’t thinkof a better person to be raising my child with. I love the idea that my child will be half mine, and half his. To be honest, I can’t think of a better combination. Other than Steve McQueen, of course.

“I don’t think I’veever felt so comfortable with a person, other than my family. You know, you’re my best friend.” --I’m not sure quite what has come over me,because spontaneous outbursts of affection are really not my style, but I don’tthink I ever really knew how important it was to have someone before. And I don’t mean another half. I just mean someone to share things with,someone like a best friend, or a brother, someone like him. JaneGreen, Babyville

It's all gone dark, Mother.

2011-11-12T07:07:00.001-08:00

It’s rather curious that I write contemporary women’sfiction. I have been pondering this a lot lately, sincethe novels that have influenced me most this year have all been much, MUCHdarker. I wonder if this is an agething, and now that I am wading into my thirties all things get just thatsmidgen more serious; or maybe it is a trend in the market, that I am, by chance,following; or maybe it is that I have hit a sink-hole in my life, and byreading about characters whom I would not change shoes with, even if they were Swarovskicrystal-encrusted Christian Louboutin’s, makes me feel better.

Let’s examine the evidence:

It was in 2009/2010 that the then local indie bookstoremanager, and great chum, Andrea, recommended Diane Setterfield’s The ThirteenthTale. Weird title, thought I. Doesn’t exactly look riveting. But Andrea’s wise, doe-eyes lit up when shedescribed it to me: “It’s the best book I have read all year.” Now, I don’t get to read as much as I wouldlike, so if I am going to commit to a 300+ page novel and invest my time in it,dang right I’m going with Andrea’s recommendation.

So I bought it. Iwish I had bought more books at Anthology. I wish all Scrantonites had. Thenmaybe the urban loft with red brick walls would still be filled with books, and theperpetual cough of the coffee machine and milk frother spluttering musicallydownstairs, rather than echoing with emptiness. But I digress.

The book lay by my bedside. Many times I crawled under the covers and managed a page before myroller blind eyelids would give up the fight. So there it remained, within an arm's reach, to be buried alive by the incomingdetritus of my life.

It wasn’t until this year, February 2011, I remembered Ieven had it. I had traveled to Ind-jawith Indra, and there, at our hostess’s beautiful accommodations in Kerala, lay The Thirteenth Tale, well-thumbed with the spine almost calcified withuse. I was finishing a Jodi Picoult, Mumhad insisted I read and I thought would be easy aeroplane material, so Indra sensed the latent possibilities of the book andgot her mitts on it first. She opened the cover and disappeared into its pages for days.

I popcorned through the rest of my novel, but every fewpages I couldn’t resist peeking to my right to monitor the ever-more rapt-gazeof my friend beside me. I finished myPicoult, but I didn’t start another. I knew that I had to wait until Indra hadfinished so, finally, I could delve into the lauded literary fiction for myself.

And into the rabbit hole I fell, and was sucked under into thebeautifully charted, appallingly hideous world of Vida Winter. Thefirst person narrative is not from Vida, however, but a bookshop owner’sdaughter, Margaret, selected by Vida to write her biography. The unbelievably believable tale of inbred identical twinsborn to the sister and brother of a country estate just begins the twisted sagathat is to infect, fester, and bloom like gangrene.

I turned the pages rapidly, eyes-filled and repelled withthese unnatural visions, yet bulging hungrily for more. Yes, Iwas in India. Yes, the tea gardens, thetiger preserve, the chaotic squeeze of the city were fascinating, but all Iwanted was to sit on the veranda overlooking the mountains, and think aboutwhat kind of Crazy would possibly cut through flesh and carve initials on hisown living bone? Gruesome, huh? And I’m the type of person who can’t even watchthe ear-cutting scene in Reservoir Dogs!

The trend continued with Audrey Niffenneger’s Her Fearful Symmetry. This book didn’t seem to reach the acclaimof her previous novel, The Time Traveller’sWife, but I was spellbound, enraptured, indivisible from each thick creamhardback page. This is a haunting taleof identical twins (yes, twins, again. “Curiouserand curiouser,” said Alice), who, following their aunt’s untimely death, travelto Highgate, London, to receive her estate. Robert downstairs, the deceased’s fiancé, looks after the youngerversions of his much-missed Love.

It is a beautifully-written and conceived story. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but I neverthought I was ‘into’ ghost stories. Theidea of gaggles of invisible dead people watching me as I shower, as Iexercise, as I eat peanut butter from the jar in front of Facebook at 1am? No thank you. But this is Blithe Spirit-post-anesthetic-trippy-woo-eye-opening-conscious-altering! Yup, that’s an adjective.

Lastly, the voice of Susie Salmon, “as in the fish,” is theone that is currently haunting me. Okay,so I am just a tad late to the party with Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones, but GAH! Holy gollywonkers! Alice Seboldis the Queen of Dark. Not in aself-conscious, overly grandiose way. She does not spill the guts in a gratuitous style. Her frank writingdelivered by Susie's forever-fourteen year old voice has me gripping the steering wheel--the knuckles andvalleys of my clenched fists tight and bone white, even at 30 mph. Yes, I am listening to this one. My ears have sucked up eight CDs in twodays. I have three left in which I hopeSusie Salmon’s killer will be found and her family patched together, but knowingSebold, she’s bound to twist the knife right in my cochlea.

This descent in darkness has me unraveling, deconstructingmy writing and plotting novels I know cannot end happily ever after. Is it age? Is it just a trend? No. I think it is just the effect of greatwriting, and how it influences a receptive mind. So buckle up, Dear Readers, I think it’s going to get pretty gritty.

IRON TEETH

Both Orpheus and Eurydice

She runs, but must look back.

Her limbs flounder incapable,

As she trips over the track.

Whack!

Her face strikes the railing,

But its marble doesn’t crack,

The skin itself submits

To this cold and rusty rack.

A colourless cheek hugs the iron

Impressed upon her skin,

As the desperation drains out

So does the fight to win.

In an iron grate,

She waits, numbed for

Her fatal Fate.

She hears it.

The slow, soporific chug

And rocking vibration,

A lullaby in her iron cradle.

The hooded executioner,

With rotating steely blades,

Approaches, head down, charging,

To Him she must obey.

Her eyes close, catatonic.

All is noise – pneumatic, mechanic

Movement up and down,

Pistons driving the motion,

Towards her sacrificial devolution.

Round and round,

Louder and Louder,

Closer, closer, closer….

The metal screech that curdles,

Brakes applied, but it still hurtles

Towards murder, it is certain.

Her eyes flash wide and frozen,

As she looks into its face

She gasps at the sheer waste,

Why didn’t she just race

Towards him keeping wits about?

Why did she have to look back?

But the blades lick the track,

And it’s too late to stop ‘em,

She’s nods at her fate--

It’s the countdown conundrum.

Out of time, she is sliced and swallowed whole,

And the armoured train just surges on.

I'm WAITINGGGGGGGGGGG!

2011-10-07T10:40:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, someone, somewhere wasted my time. My valuable time. I'm not saying it was any more valuable than yours--well, to me it was--but it was my Sunday time. Time that I could have remained atbrunch with mes amigas. Not only did Icut short this pleasant Sabbath rendez-vous, but I held back; declining themimosa, bloody Mary, and bellini, because I am professional and wanted to be on time for my appointment.

Instead, Igulped down gulletsful of inextravagant, bitter coffee. I listened with half an ear, checking myphone for the time, letting the conversation fog my hearing, as Brain rehearsedthe lines I would have to recall later. I barely participated in the fast-paced chat, the camaraderie of fourfriends starved of each others’ company. I gasped monosyllables between mouthfuls of omelet and small pauses forbreath. I nodded like a dashboard dolly,and retreated tortoise-like into my work-world.

The feta, red pepper and spinach omelet hardly hit the sidesand was devoured at record, unsavoured, speed. I kissed cheeks, left money and ricocheted out of the door. I drove through the rain, unpacked the heftycases from the car, tottered up the stairs to the front door, rang the doorbelland…

No one was there.

I had left messages confirming the appointment, had stood onthe pavement a week before, shaking the woman’s hand, agreeing, with beamingsmiles, the date, the time, the specifics. And yet, she was not there. Mycell phone held no garbled excuses. Shesimply had not shown up.

Days later and the bile still bubbles. I’mpissed. I’m really pissed. I’m as pissed as a cow left standing in acramped stall, knee-deep in shit, unable to walk away because its udder iscaught in the milker. It’s not that ithurts exactly, it’s just feckin’ annoying and DISRESPECTFUL.

Dad—he Who Shall Not Be Named, because the internet is E-villeand, he’s not paranoid, but everyone is out to get him, and me, and anyinformation I volunteer on the web will surely lead to my being raped andmurdered and my thin and frail body torn limb from limb, (probably left byrailway tracks)—has a military background. (Please E-ville internet, don't prove him right.) He plans withmilitary precision. He is always early,never late, and, according to Dad, if you are on time, then you are late.

So Dad instilled this Dickensian credo into my head from avery early age, and I learned that if I was late, I better be bleeding fromsome unstaunchable wound, preferably, my eyes or femoral artery. It’s just the way it goes.

But times change. Iused to be five minutes early. Always. Now? Not so much. In fact, as I have aged, so has my timing. It could even be described as a little on thevintage side, BUT here’s the difference: we have mobile phones now, so if, when, I know I am goingto be late, I phone and I apologise, and I tell the waiting party when I willarrive. I feel that this is a commoncourtesy.

Hello! Yes, running late. I seem to have lost my trousers.

Sure, would it better practice to stick to Dad’s rule? Absolutely! But, I’m not Dad, and I am inconveniently side-tracked as often as BritishRail. So hurrah for the modern cellulardevice! I should have “I’mon my way. Be with you in 5 mins,” saved to my favourites!

Crikey, we even have email, text, pager, twitter, FB…blah,blah, etc., etc., THERE IS NO NEED TOLEAVE SOMEONE DANGLING. Honestly, itdoesn’t even matter if you fib and tell me your alarm didn’t go off, or youcouldn’t find your car keys, or you forgot you had a dental appointment. I don’tcare! Just text me!

Be creative! Tell me you were too busy frolicking in bedwith Ryan Gosling, who just so happened to knock on your door last night for acup of milky Ovaltine, and held you captive ever since. Message me that you were single-handedly damminga river and saving a drowning beaver! Leaveme a voicemail that the Ellen Show just called and they are flying you out toCalifornia to appear in a contest because you possess the cartoonishly horrifying 'skill' of opening metal cans with your teeth. I’d just be happy to know that you respect meenough to make up a great lie so I am not left waiting.

When someone doesn’t text/call/send up smoke signals, theyare clearly not thinking of you and believe their shit is more important thanyours.

I have a special name for this type of person who thinks theworld revolves around them, and is too rude to take a second out of their busyschedules to text/call you and tell you that they are not coming/ will be late…a WANKER.

Yes, a Wanker. There’s some regular Anglo-Saxon for you.

After a spoiled Sunday Brunch, sans mimosa, I got thinkingabout all the many and varied ways my time had been wasted and I had been leftwaiting, and how crappy, unwanted and unvalued this had made me feel.

Time Wankers, when you don’t show up, when you don’t call tosay you are running late, do you realise you have an impact? Do you understand the ramifications of yourinactions? I’m not being over the top, you have an effect. As I turned from the unopeneddoor on Sunday, heaving my heavy bags down the perilous apartment stairs, as Ischlepped the cases back in the boot of the car and drove down the road, afrustrated tear breached my defences. Ididn’t crash, but I could have.

I know, not everyone who is late deserves the TW title. There are different degrees of Time Wankerage. I’ve narrowed it down to these basic categories:

Serial-and-thus-Expected-TW-Offenders

Sub-genre: Blatant-Serial-and-thus-Expected-TW-Offenders

Random-You-are-taking-the-Piss-TW-Offenders

And then, the Major-League-Bastard-Face-Slow-Death-Son-Of-A-Bitch-TW-Offenders.

I know quite a few Serial-and-thus-Expected-TW’s. It’s annoying, but you learn pretty quicklyto antipicate their lateness. I have even made it rewarding and placed bets on their tardy timekeeping. They will blow in, 15minutes late, gasping for breath, “having a bad hair day,” or complaining aboutthe traffic. Really, it amounts to badplanning. Serial TW, you should have gotup 15 minutes earlier, or you should have not taken that last phone call justas you were leaving.

I probably—alas—I definitely,fall into this category, so I’m not being a sanctimonious dickshit. However, I do text/call ahead, so no one isdangling. I like to believe this savesme from complete, irredeemable Time Wankerage.

Maybe, I'm the virtuous version. I know, I try to pack too much in, and there’smy downfall. However, there are BlatantSerial TW’s. For example: people whosay, “Honey, we’ll go after the game. There’s only 10 minutes left of thequarter.”

Listen, Chump, you are blatantly lying! 10 minutes in any sport, especially AmericanFootball, is NEVER 10 minutes. You arejust leaving your poor partner dangling because you want to sit your idle arse on the sofa, andyou don’t want to shop. You are probablysecretly hoping for overtime, aren’t you? You have your fingers crossed--hidden down your trousers--that she will sigh, shrug,shoulder her handbag and go without you. Youmay be in touch, giving constant commentary on the state of the game and theminutes and seconds left, but if you know 10 minutes really means a wholefeckin’ hour, please respect her time. Shecould be doing something interesting. Likelicking the windows.

You-Are-Taking-The-Piss-TW-Offender

Funnily enough, ma amiga told a tale at brunch, thatillustrates this type of oblivious disrespect, wonderfully. Picture the scene: a lush, green animal-rescue havennestled between creek and hillside somewhere in the wilds of northeast PA. The farm is home to ma amiga and hermenagerie of animals she has saved from perilous fates. Let’s not mince words: death. She has saved them from death, often nasty,painful, slow, neglectful death. Sohere she is, this one-woman band, grateful for volunteers and donations for hernon-profit.

Out of the blue she was contacted by someone, somewhere, whowanted to come and see the animals. The someone, somewhere, it turned out was traveling quite a distance tovisit, so ma amiga kindly offered her the guest bedroom. She’s a nice lass, ma amiga.

The guest bed was made up, dinner was prepared, wine wasbought--the nearest State Liquor Store being over an hour away--and other guestswere invited to welcome this visitor. Allwas ready and waiting. Waiting being theinoperative word. Ma amiga, grewred-faced for her guest, as the minutes ticked by, accompanied by the sounds ofhungry stomachs gargling. An hourpassed. Another hour passed. At what hour the visitor telephoned, I don’trecall--I was gulping coffee and omelet as the story flowed—but she did call,several times, to say “I’m coming, be there soon.” Fine, fair enough. If it were true. But IT WASN’T!

The night drew in, the heavens opened, the fire was lit, thedinner got burned, the dinner got cold, the dinner was eaten, and FIVE HOURSafter the appointed time, the visitor walked in. No apology. No seeming embarrassment, just an 11pm energy and hunger to demolisheverything in sight, including a whole bottle of wine.

To add her already alarming Time Wankerage, the visitortried her best to completely shanghai ma amiga and make her complicit in her TWshenanigans. In the morning, the laggardwould not get out of bed, in spite of the fact that the whole point of her retarded trip was to visit the animals! Ma amiga hadspecifically told the visitor that she needed to leave to get to herappointment on time, but Visitor’s inert and then slow-moving oblivion, made maamiga’s well-planned morning, a trying one. That’s TW 1-0-1.

Major-League-Bastard-Face-Slow-Death-Son-Of-A-Bitch-Time-Wankerage-Offenders.

Wow, that’s quite some title you have to earn there. Whatdo you expect? We are out of the Minors here. This is full-frontal effrontery. Someone who disrespects you to yourface. Who smiles and says they will besomewhere or do something without any intention of it ever being so.

I hear of many ofthese TW's in the workplace. Bonusesdangled and held ransom. The end prizeheld captive by an inefficient, nonchalant party, happy to just let you hopfrom foot to foot like a constipated pigeon.

MLBFSDSOBTW is not reserved for bosses and obstructiveco-workers, but it can rear its retarded head in relationships too: to thefriend who has been dating her chap for ten years and he STILL won’t commit… he’sa Wanker; to ma amiga who has had to serve papers twice, because he STILL won’tsign… he’s a Wanker; to the girl, struck dumb with disappointment, waiting forsomething to change, but he never notices… youare the Wanker, because you have to make the change, or say or do something!

It is an over-used expression nowadays, but the phrase, “He’sjust not that into you,” can fit most TW scenarios. Whether dating or not, when you enter into arelationship with someone, be it business, friendship, marriage, there arerules of engagement. These are unstated,but generally the rule is that, if you want to retain the services/good feeling/sexual favours in said relationship, then you treat the person with respect. You don’t leave them dangling, penis orpencil in hand. If you are late, or busy,or aren’t interested, TELL THEM. Thentime can be spent more productively working/socializing/shagging someone else.

I’m probably being just a smidgen hypocritical here. Have I left people dangling? Err… Jeremy Paxman “Yesssss,” but, my timemanagement, or lack thereof, is never meant maliciously. And funnily enough, it is often those I caremost about who see the Ennie McLatekins, because I know/I hope that they know, Iam doing my headless poultry thing, trying to catch rain with my fingerssplayed, whilst juggling ten feral, rabid cats.

Mum and Dad, when you phone me and I bark down the phone, “I’MVERY BUSY,” I am sorry. Please don’ttake it personally, it’s just … I am trying so very hard to get things done, tomeet deadlines and people, to be on time and not let anyone down, to not be aTime Wanker, that I end up being Barky the Bitch. I’m really trying to do what you taught meand be respectful of everyone else.

We are all busy. Iunderstand that. But next time you know thatsomeone, somewhere is waiting for you, be kind and tell them straight. Don’t be a Time Wanker. Daddy wouldn’t like it.

MEG RYAN, YOU BEEN LYIN'! In which I discuss the Performing Seal School of Orgasms

2011-09-28T05:06:00.000-07:00

I have always been fascinated by the “Yes, Yes, Yes!” scene in When Harry Met Sally. You know the one I mean: the 80’s tousled, curly-haired, non-plastically-puckered duckie, Meg Ryan, claims that women can fake an orgasm and no man would ever know; where she, in the middle of the restaurant, throws her head back and exclaims wails of delight for the delectation of Katz’s diner.

It’s a fun scene. But, you know what, it’s a lie. A big, fat, cream-cheese-slathered, lox-layered, pumpernickel bagel of a lie, that sets up man and womankind for disappointment. Man, since he expects his cohorts to warble arias of ecstasy; and we ladies, because we see Ryan’s over-zealous display and wonder… “Are we missing something?”

So, it’s time to eat bagel! I want to break it down and to discuss why it’s hard for me to swallow. (No, it’s not because I picked pumpernickel.) And chaps, since this dating punditry is supposed to be educational, please sharpen your pencil and take note.

Women can orgasm without a murmur. FACT. The electrical impulses catapulting across neurones can make us watery-eyed and breathless, perhaps even groan, but most highly-satisfied women don’t NEED to howl and/ or give a running commentary.

Of course, if you look down (or up!) to see your mate gazing out of the window, or perhaps at the TV behind your head, or—Heaven forfend—texting, then chances are, they are not really giving you their all. But, generally, if you pay attention and listen to them breathing, you’ll know.

So, when a stranger –obviously straight out of Charm School—asked me,

“Hey Cutie,”—yes ‘Cutie!’ The Dicktard alert already started to clang—“are you a moaner or a screamer?” I realized that the When Harry Met Sally or WHMS fallacy had, indeed, been far-reaching. I also realized that any stranger who would open with such a question was quite, quite deserving of my derision, my filthiest glare, my lean in and my, “You can be assured that you will never know, Dicktard.” (I held my glass of wine close; it really was far too good to waste on him.)

So, in search of the truth, and eager to right the wrongs of the relationshipworld, I conducted sophisticated and scientifically insignificant research! Namely, I polled my girlfriends! It was quite the Pandora's Box.

I selected at random, a panel of ten 30-42 year old professionals, some in committed relationships, some dating, some committed to the asylum. I asked the following:

1) When having an orgasm—A REAL orgasm—do you: stonewall/breath loudly/ murmur appreciatively/exclaim at the important bits/exclaim throughout/wail like a Banshee? Honey and lemon for you, m’lady!

2) On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being Martha Mute and 10 being Wailing Wendy, and you can’t pick 5, how loud do you think you are?

3) When a chap asks for verbal instructions—I know, typical! The one time you don’t want a guy to ask for directions!—do you: enjoy giving full colourful commentary as to when, where, how and how much, using expletives, adjectives and maybe even an ode to his Trouser Truncheon?; or, do you cringe, inwardly die a bit, and proceed with the Marcel Marceau guide; or, do you flame with embarrassment, swallow your tongue, eye-bulge in manner of a rutting deer caught misguidedly following lunar inclination to the median of I-81, because he should be able to tell what you like; like he should your coffee (strong, but milky), or what type of pasta you like, (angel hair, regardless of the sauce) and engagement rings, (cushion cut emerald, F.Y.I).

I put the survey to the panel, worried about asking friends such personal questions, and then I waited. And waited. And waited. It seems ladies, unsurprising, don’t holler out about their personal mating habits. Other than the fact, “yes, I’m getting fucked. Quite regularly as it happens,” we don’t really discuss the nitty gritty. “You are? That’s wonderful! Is it good? Are you happy?” is really about as far as we go, in spite of what Sex And The City would have you believe. But some brave ladies did come forward and results were recorded.

Oh please bludgeon me.

Okay, so a bit of laundry here. I am not a performing seal. I was, once, for a children’s theatre company. It was generally humiliating and demeaning. I wore a seal costume, a pink tutu and bounced balls off my head, whilst “arfing” and clapping my fins together.

This is what I think of when women do the WHMS Performing Seal School of Orgasms. And I think that this is what men have come to expect: a raise-the-roof, volley of superlatives, squeals, shrieks and general displays of delirium, but what say the panel...

The consensus was that there was no consensus! In fact, in spite of giving multiple choice answers, the women who polled wrote their own! Which just goes to show what complex creatures we are. Some are quiet, the lowest vocal score being 3, and some are vocal, the top score being a 9 out of 10 on the audio cues; but, the amplitude can be subject and situation specific. For instance, if the kiddos are tucked in bed it’s going to be more of Marcel Marceau kind of evening; a tent in the woods surrounded by festival goers, likewise; a well-insulated chalet in the Alps, with roaring fireplaces, fur rugs and cheese fondue avec l'homme dans les reves, it’s safe for wild abandon.

Often it comes down to comfort level. The greater the comfort, the louder the display. (And by comfort, I mean trust, familiarity and connection. Okay, the Southern kind can come into it too!) However, even the shyer Lesser Vocalists stated their quietness was not dissatisfaction. Au contraire, it was a sign of them concentrating, clenching their muscles, trembling, surfing waves of delight. “When I am close, I can’t actually say a thing, my brain isn’t in that place, I just have to remember to keep breathing.”

Getting some tips. Yes, I know, it's a sea lion. Same difference.

Being a Biologist-actress-writer, I need to understand the wailing seals more clearly. My brain wanders to the evolutionary significance; the actress ponders, “What’s my motivation here?” Are the squeals a manifestation of frustrated teenage cheerleading pyramid dreams? Are they genuinely the sounds that bubble from the pit of one’s pleasure-making factories to aid reproduction in some way? Is it all a show to encourage the mate, so the whole process will be quickly dispatched in time for tea and a cookie and the results of Dancing With The Stars? OR, is it just an attention-grabbing advertisement to inform anyone with hearing that yes, you are having sex, that, bully-for-you, someone finds you desirable. Is there some sexual selection advantage garnered by advertising desirability? I suppose so, but then surely that would make virgins undesirable and that’s clearly a crock-of-shit.

I’ve only had my own experiences, and my Hollywood brainwashing to compare before, but from the Panel's feedback--and they had a lot to say on the subject, ironically--in bed, full sentences and coherent words are a ph-allacy; loud gasps, breathing and random, incoherent words, that’s the sweet spot.

Do animals have orgasms? Dolphin, Bonobos and Homo Sapiens have sex recreationally. I don’t mean in parks—although, wait, they do have sex in parks, well, not dolphins, unless you count Sea World—but I mean for fun, not necessarily for procreation. I wonder, does Flipper make those weirdy little clicks as she comes?

I remember visiting the Animal Kingdom at Disney when I was about 14. I watched amazed to see two giant turtles getting jiggy with it and them being so vocal in the process. The groans went on for ages and climaxed to quite the crescendo of turtle tantra. At that age, the concept of sex was fascinating to me—I’d seen Dirty Dancing and Top Gun; I was quite, quite in love with the England Rugby team and certain that I would, someday, meet and marry my hero, the 6ft 6 Gargantuan, Tim Rodber. (Erm, I did meet him, in fact, but the whole marriage proposal thing flew off the table I believe when, giddy with excitement and chardonnay, I vomited over my shoes and his somewhere in Fulham.)

I went to a girls’ school—a school sans boys!—so rainy breaks would often be spent, wide-eyed as we read passages from Jilly Cooper’s Riders or Polo, smuggled in from someone’s mum’s bookshelf. We salivated over the Bastardly "Rupert Campbell Black" and hoped, someday, we would meet our own RCB and then this new magical world would be revealed to us: one that would set off fireworks, rocket launchers, that would blast us into the sensation stratosphere. I had high hopes that future me would actually be desirable, that I might—oh please, dear God make it so—fill a bra, and that I would be fabulous at this strange, sweaty, tangle of limbs.

And I hoped that when this new adult pleasuredome opened to me, that it would be with someone who knew what they were doing. Maybe this is my true blue repressed Brit bit rearing its prudish head, but “No thank you! I don’t not want to tell you what to do, and I most certainly do not want to ‘talk dirty to you.’” It’s scary and exposing, and quite frankly, the idea of conjuring amusing adjectives and analogies is my idea of awkward and embarrassing.

But, as the Panel pointed out, I should make a distinction between “giving helpful instruction—otherwise you could be waiting around all day and really that helps no one,” and “making a porno.” It seems the Panel encourage instruction-- if the poor guy is too dumb to pick up on your breathing/gasping/writhing cues—but it should be done after the fun and games. Perhaps during pillow talk.

Am imagining a little post performance review here, like giving acting notes, “Well, George, I love that thing you did with your tongue, but just as I was starting to really get into the groove, you kept changing it up. Not cool, George, not cool. This only leaves both of us frustrated. If you really want me to be Mrs Clooney, I definitely need more tongue and patience.” Helpful advice, surely saving time and effort.

A panelist, let’s call her “Rodericka,” answered that she finds men who ask for instructions during sex “EXTREMELY ANNOYING! Unless,” she added, “he has had an epic fail and then you have to do something to rescue the situation and raise his spirits. But ONLY in emergencies. When absolutely necessary.”

“Now, as for ‘dirty talk’ if he wants to express his appreciation, then that can be nice. As long as it is well worded.” No pressure, guys. Another fabulous female wrote “sex should be dirty, but it doesn’t have to be theatrical and certainly not pornographic. I'm also not willing to coo and purr and name things that already have names.” I couldn’t agree more. Cringeville.

Most of my girlfriends know the words to “Talk Dirty To Me” and can sing the song with gusto after a shotski or two, but really, when it comes down to it, the majority say, "please don’t." A simple whispered “I love you,” is all most need to seal the deal.

So, you might be thinking, “wow, the Brit’s are really stiff” (or not, as the case may be,) but when confronted with Drunky McCharming’s question it really annoyed me that a) he deigned to ask me and b) that he was assuming I would act in a certain way. My little scientific survey proved, if not statistically, that women do react differently, and, just to complicate matters, we react differently with the same person in a different situation, at different times of the month. We don’t all toss our heads back and cry, “Yes, YES, YES!” But you never know when we might howl at the moon.

"Holla we want pre-nup!" In which my goat has been goaded, not gilded!

2011-09-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

My goat has been got this week: royally stalked, speared, shanked and stewed. And, as I marinate in feelings of female frustration—echoes of “that’s just not fair!” and “fucking cheek!” whirling through the coils of grey matter—no solution seems to satisfy.

So, what is it that has so skewered my usually sunny disposition? That has kebabed my thoughts, stabbing through the center of everything and therefore making E. v. unproductive?

Well, yes, it’s men—no surprise there then—but it is women too, People. People and perceptions, specifically in terms of the subset of the male species: the wealthy male. Homo Dicktardus Millionairus.

Oh grief! Is she going to yammer on about how Prince William really should have given her a chance again? No. I am not. Good for you, Kate. Changing your major to study William’s course at St. Andrew’s University had NOTHING to do with you wanting to date him. The thought never crossed my mind! However, now that my goat has been slaughtered, I might as well share the feast. So this is my take on… Gold Digging. Cue music, Kanye.

I type as an Equal Opportunities Dater. Scratch that, there are some criteria: teeth, hair (preferable), charisma, passions, kindness, integrity—there are those base non-negotiables—but other than that, blankety blank sums in the checking account, and off-shore accounts in Grand Cayman, Monte Carlo and other tax haven, have never made it to the list.

I am an independent, hard-working woman filled with passion, ambition, and dedication. I have goals and I will achieve them and succeed by my own merit. I had rather assumed—Fool, fool, that I am!—that my efforts and endeavours rather speak for me.

So, Dearest Reader, imagine my horror—Quelle Horreur!—when one’s integrity was called into question and I was asked—not in quite these terms, but near enough—“Are you a Gold-digger?”

I was pole-axed, nay, lampooned, speechless, witless, stunned senseless. After I scraped my jaw from the floor, I considered how One could possibly defend against such an unpalatable charge. Surely, protestations of sincerity only sound… insincere? But what else can one say?

"But, but... I didn't ask the ex-Beloved for a bean! Not a cent! Not a share of our home, nor a dip in the pool."--And it has been a bligh warm summer not to ask for a returnee dip!

Perhaps I need to provide references, methought: “Ermmm, well here’s my dating resume and three previous dates' telephone numbers who would be happy to provide recommendations of honourable conduct. Oh, and while we are at it, here’s my credit report and current bank statements.” Really? RAHHHHHLLY?

It’s perplexing on a number of counts because a) why would that thought even cross someone’s mind when dating me? b) because I feel helpless and I HATE feeling helpless. c) Surely, a manly man, wealthy or not, should be assured enough of his talents to know that it doesn't matter what he is packing in his pocket? But mostly, d) how to prove what one is not?

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s review. Kanye West did a great job defining your classic "Gold digger," but I’m a biologist and love a meaty classification.

Common attributes of a GOLD DIGGER: Homo Parasitus

· Shies away from work

· Takes the easiest path

· Has an Action Man (G.I. Joe) eye/head swivel, checking out all others in the room

· Never offers to pay for dinner/ offers to pay and then—oh Heavens!—finds that purse/wallet is AWOL

· Is more impressed with glitzy gifts than heartfelt ones

· Would rather dine at the nameless, faceless, minimalist urban chic restaurant and order a leaf of bibb lettuce, or anything with truffle oil, for their date to pay extortionate sums for, than the cozy little Italian on the corner, with the plastic red and white check tablecloth, the carafe with candle, dripping wax down the sides, and cheap dishes of unfashionable deliciousness.

A Real FishWife of NJ. Such class. Such style.

NB: GD’s are usually—always—thought of as being women. Yet, I know many men who would belly-flop into the above description. Isn’t it odd that you rarely hear the term bandied around about men? You hear "Gold Digger" and you immediately think of some plastic, gilded Real Housewife of New Jersey. Why is that?

I suppose it is because women can get pregnant and men can’t—when I last checked—so the classic GD scenario hooking your "Baby Daddy"—dear Lord, that sounds ridiculous even typing it—is more difficult to accomplish if you are the chap. But then again, I don’t have a great deal of sympathy here. If you are a man of means and you are sleeping with an Unknown Quantity, why in Hades would you risk it? WHY?

Congrats Charlene! He's a Dad! Again. Surprise!

I feel I need to have this heart to heart with Prince Albert of Monaco. How many paternity cases have proceeded or are pending? Crikey, Man! You rule the Principality, your wedding reportedly cost $65 MILLION (so you obviously have crock-shit-loads of cash), and there you are wanging away, spreading your wild ones without a bye or leave. I don’t care about your proclivities or preferences, your sperm trail seems to be just darn right careless. Albie, meet Mr. Condom. Mr. Condom, meet Prince Penis. It’s hardly rocket science, Al. (And don’t tell me you’re allergic to latex either, because Buddy, I don’t believe you.) "I won't cry for you, Albert-weiner, the truth is you never sheathed it..."

We, as women, don’t do ourselves any favours in crushing this stereotype, either. Hollywood plays to it. Think of the ghastly reality TV offerings from the Hef’s Playboy Mansion show to my latest horrific TV discovery… Millionaire Matchmaker, on Bravo.

OH. GOOD. LORD. I can’t blame a chap from trying to protect his assets with women like these around! Mind you, listening to some of these men, arrogant enough to enter themselves for a show like this, methinks they deserve every fake that fawns their way. Check out the fist-pump (in the video below) when the blonde model learns her date, Max Marcus Von Oliver EdWeird Blah Blah Blah is a Prince. Priceless.

I can understand why well-heeled types go for pre-nups –as much as the Romantic Me screams “NOOOOO!” You know what, a marriage is a contract. If a contract ends, surely it is easier if there are certain terms in place? There is, however, no such arrangement for dating, so how does one protect/defend oneself? Maybe if such a hideous cold contract were in place it would answer those detractors who assume the only reason a younger and relatively attractive woman would date an older chap would be money?

Oh yes, I am sure Anna Nicole Smith really did love her octogenarian billionaire, but forget her…oops you already did. (Distasteful? Sorry. I just didn’t buy it for a moment.) Oh shit? Does that mean I’m a hypocrite, because I assume ANS had her geriatric’s billions firmly in her sights? Gah, I suppose it does. But that was a pretty steep age gap.

Look at Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise, Catherine Zeta-Spartacus-Douglas-Jones and Michael Douglas, there is a wee ol’ generation jump there. The actresses, whilst successful, were in no way the secured celebrities they are now, but did that make them Fortune Hunters? The tabloids implied it, and what could they say to defend their honour? Nothing. However, they have graciously stood by their older men, won Oscars, spawned, run marathons. Time has told.

Is that all I can do? I suppose so. I shall keep my own conscience, and continue to take the most challenging path. I will look people in the eye and give my whole attention, no matter who else in the room. I will always treasure the hardback Catch 22 inscribed, ‘To my Beautiful En,’ far more than all the Coach purses in the world. Café Rinaldi will always be my favourite. I hold my head and debit card up.

But maybe we should think about NOT promoting such stereotypes in the future. I am not typing this as a bra-burning hoorah or a sycophantic commercial, but maybe a bit of a call to arms that men and women, regardless of status or bank account, should be self-reliant. That women should not promote themselves as being these ridiculous televised fortune hunters. Grow up, get a job, do it yourself. You are not, and never will be, a Disney Princess. And Millionaires, be you male or female, get a pre-nup, get a good attorney, and go with your gut. And if you meet her on a show called Millionaire Matchmaker, chances are, Bud, she’s not really there for your dashing charisma.

Sexual Seconds! Please Sir, is it wise to have more?

2011-09-06T16:47:00.000-07:00

So, this week has been all about moving. Compiling 32 years of life into cardboard boxes, bags and any random receptacles to shift the shit I can’t bear to part with (and taxes). Let’s not forget the taxes. Gadzooks, do I really need to take up valuable space in my 12x15 with boxes full of statements, spreadsheets and receipts? Seriously? It is area I could free up to learn circus tricks, yoga or contortionism.

But this blog isn’t about the physical and emotional trauma that was EGJ Moves to Brooklyn. Because you know what? Moving is hard. You have to part with things you love. You have to grow up, kiss teddy goodbye, and dispense with all those love letters and photographs you have held on to with the vague premature nostalgia of being able to tell your grandchildren that, “Yes, once Grandma was young. She was relatively pretty and some boys liked her.” You have to be ruthless.

But you probably know this already. You have had your own moving trauma and you sure as Scooby Doo snacks don’t need a vicarious dose through me.

So, I’m not writing about moving, but rather moving on. I was caught reading a tweet whilst innocently noshing on a tuna sandwich. It read:

Don’t meet your girlfriend’s exes, it’s their shoes you are filling. And by shoes, I mean vagina.(@Luke Romyn)

It was fortunate, indeed, that my fellow diner was familiar with the vagaries of the Heimlich manoeuvre, but after I had cleaned my computer screen, I thought more about this.

How can you not eventually see on Facebook or hear on the grapevine, or—egads!—meet in public, your exes? What is the right protocol? What is the wrong? And what is the God-awful-Larry-David-type behaviour that will make everyone in your general vicinity cringe with embarrassment and forbid you ever to go out again in any locale that might harbor an ex?

If you are a nice person—and I hope you are—you will consider your ex’s feelings in this. But it’s bloody difficult to look out for someone else as well as care for yourself. We are, as humans, ultimately selfish. The survival-of-the-fittest instinct precludes any altruistic sacrifice, so it is unlikely that we choose a life of enforced celibacy to save the feelings of our exes; but how can we still date in a small gene pool and not stab the sensibilities of those separated from us? What limits and rules should we apply? Where does it start, dear Reader? Where does it stop? When can you date and not feel guilty?

Oscar Night at Amici, with hosts Mark Masetti & Michaela Moore

Let’s take the example of my beloved adopted home town of Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania. It’s a small town. In my 7 years in the environs, I have met many people. Every first Friday, the art walk in Scranton brings out the same warm-hearted arts supporters; every Wednesday a great crowd toe-tap to the jazz night at Amici; on warm summer nights, friendly faces congregate under the pagoda at State St. There is always a guaranteed sighting of someone you know. It’s like friggin’ Cheers. Only there is not one bar, there are many.

You’d be hard pushed to find more than one degree of separation in fair ol’ Scrant. It’s comforting in that way. Unless you have exes, because then it is a little too close for comfort.

I read somewhere that, when on a date, you should never go somewhere you really like, because if it doesn’t work out, now Unworkoutable knows YOUR place, and imagine you go there and now he/she is cozied up at the bar chatting with your friendly bartender, arms/tongue around someone else! Not good, dear Reader, not good.

I confess, once I went on a date with a certain Scrantonite and after dins we went to one of my favourite places. I perched at the bar, engrossed in the tennis playing on the screen above. I ordered a glass of my usual and Date order his. It was about ten minutes before I turned to my left and realized sitting RIGHT BESIDE me was—Oh Gawd, shoot me!—a chap I had dated briefly and become good friends with. There was no ill-will, but I felt terrible, because I genuinely cared for the non-date to my left—much more than the one to my right. I glowed puce and drank quickly. The tennis was, I believe, riveting. Date vs Gwyn-Jones: 40-Love.

But let’s not get into my dirty laundry. Let’s return instead to our beloved couple, Daisy and Armando, as introduced by Michael J. Coene in his response to Manopoly and other Bastardly Dicktards: http://www.eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/

It’s been months, maybe even years, and Daisy and Armando have reached the point of no return. They finally face their silent disappointment and resignation; or maybe they engage in vocal, vitriolic warfare; either way, their relationship ebbs or explodes and they are left, two halves. Splittsville.

No longer ‘Daisy and Armando’, but ‘Just Daisy’ and ‘Just Armando’. Singledom has branded them a new title. And whilst they will wear it for a while and spurn talk of ever yinging their yang ever again; whilst Daisy takes a vow of celibacy/ice-cream/commitment to learn a language or maybe ballroom dancing; and while Armando goes out with his boys, peacocking it up at the Hardware Bar, letting the semi-clad Barely Legals straddle him in the dentist chair and swallowing the Jack Daniels poured lasciviously down his gullet, making his Adam’s apple bob eagerly; the chances are that, at some stage—maybe not at the Hardware or at Blue Ribbon Ice Cream Parlour—these two love-lorn halves will find other shapes to fit with.

And that is when the holy shit splatter can really start pelting. The Oh My God, Run for Cover, Nuclear Flying Fecal Fallout that is going to take Daisy down, and Armando, and all of their friends, and their new halves and the friends of their new halves.

This is more than a case of Sharks versus Jets, more than a Soprano fracas. This is where loyalities are tested, solidified or whacked… ‘You’re dead to me.’

So, what is Daisy or Armando to do?

Lady G celibate? Nunsense! She's virgin' on the ridiculous!

We’ve already taken the celibacy option off the table. This is the age of Lady Gaga and the Kardashians, after all.

Daisy and Armando cannot deny their genetic predisposition to couple. But what is the best way to be kind without being cruel? How can they stay friends if they have been lovers? Lord, sounds like a terrible Michael Bolton song, don’t it, eh?

You see, I’m interested, I genuinely am, because I always try to be kind and stay friendly with ex-partner/boyfriends and was quite proud that I boast a healthy wodge of Christmas cards each year from chaps with whom I have, at some stage, exchanged saliva. It is rather pleasing to think that, in spite of not working out, I can, at least still exchange something with them.

It didn’t occur to me before now, that, perhaps, being friends was the very worst thing one could do. When Daisy sees Armando enjoying the chaps-wearing and sequin-bra-ed Tiffany gyrating over his crotch, aiming another shot of amber nectar down his throat, how can she just laugh it off and be happy for him? That was her crotch to gyrate over. She may not be jealous, but odds are a silent fist hits her right between the solar plexus.

And what of Armando? When he looks surreptitiously in Daisy’s direction and sees a likely suitor swoosh in to the bar stool next to her, engage her in witty banter and offer her a drink; when he watches as she accepts, lowers her head demurely and plays with her hair; he is conflicted.

Daisy and Armando are over, after all. Haven’t they agreed to be friends? ‘Heck! What does it matter if we happen to see each other out and about! It’s a small town. Forget about it!’

But it does matter, you see. Daisy cannot forget the little looks and smiles he used to throw at her and now she can see him flicking at others. She cannot bear to watch him laugh at some random woman’s unfunny joke and casually slip his arm around her, a silent admission of his new ownership.

Armando looks up from his table, where he is trying to fake a smile and appear as if he is concentrating on this groupie—what’s her name again? Melanie? Melissa? –and he sees Daisy. It’s over, he knows it, but seeing this dude sidle up to her in his indigo jeans and button down shirt, and that Daisy--who never liked engaging with strangers anyway—suddenly seems rapt in his presence, is torture.

They know they are not supposed to be together, that it didn’t work out, but they have shared so much with each other, it sucks the air from Daisy's lungs to see Armando with another her, standing in the spot where she used to be. No one likes to be replaced. Not at work, or in sport, and definitely not in relationships.

But let’s add another glug of scenario sambuca to make the shituation really flambé! What happens when Indigo Jeans knows Armando, or when Tiffany, Melanie or Melissa is acquainted with Daisy? GAH! I’ll tell you what happens… emotional holocaust.

When a good friend was matched with my former chap on an internet site, I almost shaved my head. Freud would have lots to say I am sure. I was just so desperate to protest in some way, but I was powerless. What could I say? Nothing. He was not mine anymore, and any vocal protestation would have shown me up, not him. It was so horrid to imagine him with anyone but me. It still is.

In Clarks Summit, the chances of dating someone none of your friends/acquaintances have ever dated is slim to none. Seriously, good luck with that. I’m not paranoid, but everyone knows everyone. They know where my car is parked, they know how long it’s parked for, and they know exactly where I was and how many cookies I ate while my vehicle was stationary. Think you can keep any Summit hook up on the QT? Think again, my friend.

So, what is fair? What are the rules for sexual second helpings? Is it okay to ask for more? Without it, in a small town, one might starve! I mean think about it, does Daisy have to deny any suitor who knows Armando? Is Armando forever forbidden the fruits of Daisy’s friends? Is that practical? It’s logical certainly, but here’s the thing: passion is not logical. The heart is the most illogical and non-negotiable organ and we’d be fools not to consult it once in a while.

I suppose, therefore, there is no easy way to move on and be good friends. That must be why so many halves have to cut the ties and be done, never to speak, nor exchange Crimble cards again; but, forgive me, Readers, I can’t give up that easily. I have cherished these people and I still want to be friends. I want them in my life and I want to know that they are okay—perhaps not who they are knobbing or how hard, or how blissfully happy they are without me—I do want them to pine for a decent amount of time—but then they can be happy. (Preferable when I am deliriously happy too.)

And, hopefully, friendship, true friendship—when two people care about each other, without sexual bullshit fucking it all up—will win the day. Sure, meeting each others exes is never going to be a hoorah fest of mutual appreciation--you are standing in vagina-shoes--but if you value your friendship at all, you should be able to wish them well.

Daisy will know that she will always occupy a little space in Armando’s heart, as he will in hers. And as both pursue other passions, they may forget the aching and become desensitized to the thump that hits them in the guts every time their eyes meet, but their lips can’t. Maybe.

Moving and moving on. It’s brutal. It rips out your innards and wraps them around your neck like an Isadora Duncan scarf. But, just speed through it, ignore the choking, and, when you can breathe again and sleep again, and not be conscious of the space beside you, it is quite liberating. You got here. The wind is blowing through your hair. You survived, and today is a new adventure.

MANOPOLY and other Bastardly Dicktard Games

2011-08-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

After & before.

In 2005, a memoir entitled The Game caused quite the sensation. The author, Neil Strauss, an Average Fucking Chump (AFC), details how he evolves into a self-confident, smooth-talking, lusty lothario, or Pick Up Artist (PUA), peacocking and practising game on womankind.

So, I'm a little behind the times--six or so years to be precise--but why in Jesus Christmas would I want to read boys' book about picking up girls? Good question. Because, dear Reader, it was recommended by a good friend, with whom I share other literary likies, and this thirsty mind thought that, at the very least, it would give me a little insight into the boggling black hole of the male psyche.

Little did I realise that I was, with a crack of the spine, a crease of the cover, a turn of the page, opening a literary Pandora's Box.

Forget the stiltonesque, ‘Do you come here oftens,’ Strauss’s game, which he preached via online forums and taught at workshops for the seduction community, was far more evolved. From hand-writing analysis and magic tricks, to evolution phase shift (a Neanderthal tug and bite sequence that precedes a kiss) to dual induction massage (oily moves to orchestrate a threesome), he used these sophisticated strategies to collect more numbers than the IRS during tax season.

Whatever the game plan, Strauss always demonstrated value, knowledge and power. Hence this self-described, ‘skinny Elmer Fudd’ scored hide. On the Sunset Strip it was open season and Strauss, or ‘Style,’ as he called his arrogant alter-ego, was bringing a bazooka. Like shooting ducks in a barrel, he was getting fucked like Colin Farrell.

As a single female reading this book, every fibre of me wanted to hate it—like a series of The Bachelor—awful and demeaning, cheap and pitiable, and yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I loathed the daily disposal of nameless vaginas, but I was fascinated by their willing sacrifice.

So, sure, most women can look beyond the short, balding cartoon, and if I had just read Strauss’ words, I would have imagined a PUA with a voice like molten chocolate, and an contagious energy that made women leap into bed like jumping beans. But I listened to his voice. Now, I don’t wish to come across as a complete bee-atch, but he sounded like a weak, hesitant, undersized 12 year old. Probably with knobbly knees and peach-fuzz. I just didn't get it. I would never be seduced by Style.

He seemed the complete antithesis to Ryan Gosling’s PUA character, Jacob, in Crazy, Stupid, Love. Jacob lavished attention upon the ~~victim~~, target and made her feel special; Style, however, would ignore, focus on others and ‘neg’ her (give her a negative compliment such as, ‘You have lipstick on your teeth’ or, ‘Haven’t I seen you wear that dress before?’). His inattention would make her feel vulnerable and would make him seem mysterious. Once hooked, Style would take her to a new location--isolating her from her friends--whether in the bathroom stalls or his place, and there he would whip out his trusty Trojan. (Which, can I just say, Strauss, great, you had lots of sex—yay for you—you ‘acted responsibly,’ ermm, well, kind of—you did at least keep the Strip safe from many Elmer Fudd looking spawn—but seriously Dude, you'd leave used ones lying around? Really? G.A.G.)

As Strauss reached new, epic heights of douchebaggery, rattling off the names of women he'd 'played,' my thoughts, in order of appearance, were these:

Wow. He’s good.

Tricky Little Bastard.

What a wanker!

Ew! Seriously?

How disrespectful.

How low.

How… douchey!

No one would ever play me like that! I’m unplayable! I have defenses like a fucking fort, with a moat, filled with flesh-stripping piranha, trained to chomp to the bone and suck on the marrow of any Bastardly Dicktard, as if their sorry cock carcass were slow-braised and osso bucoed. I have look out posts at each turret. I have laser sights trained to pick off unsolicited, unwarranted, opportunistic pick up movement, ready to blow from the castle ramparts, sending Bastardly gizzards into next Tuesday’s Tripe Special. I have vats of boiling pitch, ready to pour from on high and denature every fucking protein from the tips of Dicktard’s hair follicles to the chalky white of his toenails. And that’s just me. My girlfriends, like the longbowmen of Gwent, stand at my shoulder, flaming arrows ready, an impenetrable cock block. Behold! Am a veritable Boudicca, (with a manicure, underwire and nice shoes).

And, as empowerment throbbed through every vein and I smugly congratulated Self for being far too aware to fall prey to such knicker-swindling, I remembered the last Dicktard.

Oh.

My smile reeled in. My hot air hissed out of my lungs like some sad, pink, birthday balloon found withering behind the sofa.

Those stories of foreign travel; the invitations to exotic climes; those business disappearances, which made him seem so important, so in demand, so exciting; the engrossing mind-fucking word games; the guru-like analysis to make me feel as if he really ‘knew’ me; the touches here and there, just north of inappropriate, but whose hasty removal would suddenly, inexplicably, leave me hungry for more. And ravenous, I had become.

Then the sudden tug from the rug under my BCBG heels and...

All the Strauss styling I had thought I was immune to had been used upon... me! I had been played, like Human Manopoly, circling the track, rolling the dice, enjoying the hotels, the ritzy avenues and then--shit balls of fire--I had pulled the Chance card and was sent directly to jail, forbidden to pass go or collect 200 pounds.

Up until now, I had thought it was just sheer bad luck, a case of unfortunate timing. I made up plausible excuses for Bastardly Dicktard. But now I knew. Now, it was clear. I had been sucked in and I hadn’t even realised.

And now, consigned to the oubliette, I have digested this renewed disappointment. I have taken some time to ruminate on Game Play, the different approaches of Strauss’s Style, Gosling’s Jacob and Bastardly Dicktard, and have isolated the uniting trait all three have in common. What is it that makes women forget themselves, and apparently, their knickers?

No, not alcohol--although that does, of course, help--but the attribute the PUAs and B.Dtards have, is power. It’s why women have fallen for Trump, Clinton and David Fucking Mellor. (Yes, Brits, I still remember, it fascinated me that a man that unattractive could have an affair with the de Sancha woman. I was only about 10, but that’s how well the scandal burned into my memory.) Ew, ew, ew.

And yet… powerful women: do they have men frothing at the mouth, eager to pack a weekend bag, rent a car and drive off east for a weekend sojourn in the Hamptons? Nein danke.

I know a shit tonne of self-assured, beautiful, independent, go-getting, powerful women and yet… *mass generalization alert* from their stories of disappointing dates and game play atrocities, men do not find powerful women as attractive as women find powerful men. In fact, damsels in distress seem fair more alluring to men. Maybe they are just easier to please, like women who don’t read. http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/2/

So maybe, I just need to act like Paris Hilton: get myself into trouble (check), say asinine things (can do!), pout (I'll work on it), shrink to a far cuter 5ft 1 (I'm screwed), be adorable (more screwed), and think that Belgium is a small state in Russia. (Has Damien Samways invented that mind eraser yet?)

Maybe I’ll use a pair of rusty pliers to extract all my teeth, sans anaesthetic, and I will make Halloween necklaces for the neighbourhood children.

Or maybe, I’ll just wait for someone grown up. Someone I can call or message without worrying if it is 'my turn' or not; someone whom I can ask out somewhere without fear that I might be surrendering my power. (So, okay, no woman actually wants to ask a chap out. But wouldn’t it be nice to have the emotional freedom to be able to?)

In last week’s blogette, Crazy, Stupid, Oh Dear God just TELL her, http://www.eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/ I wrote how men should MAN UP! After reading The Game, I realize women need to do this too. Not necessarily become a braless Boudicca, or shave our heads and visit the island of Lesbos, but POWER UP to withstand game play. Know the rules so that the game can identified and called what it is—a crock of fetid, reptilian shit.

I don’t wish to sound like an embittered bovine, am quite the happy-go-lucky gal. I like men. C'est vrai, mes amies! I like games, I do. I think there are times games can be utterly necessary: like Twister at a university house party. This innocent game of human pretzeling has been the icebreaker for many a nervous whipper snapper. And, it’s okay, because everyone knows the rules. A casual grope is expected. It’s a downright travesty if, after various mysterious green cocktails, left hand red doesn’t accidently-on-purpose glide against right hand boob.

It’s the rules. Fair play. But playing The Game? Being shifty, tricky and caring more about a score than the person? Well, enjoy the kudos. You are officially a Dicktard.

So what say you? Have you taken a turn on the manopoly board, and been left holding your lead, mini-tophat in hand? Have innocent games of Twister gone wrong? I won't judge you. (Other readers might, but I won't. Promise.)

Crazy, Stupid...Oh dear God, just TELL her!

2011-08-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

Each time I watch the trailer for Crazy, Stupid, Love I am, by the time Steve Carell turns to the beautiful Julianne Moore and whispers in cracking voice, “I should have fought for you,” a thickly-lidded, glistening-red-eyed trout.

So, maybe this line resonates with me for mucky reasons I won’t go into, but set against the crescendo of Muse’s pleading "I just wanted to hold you in my arms…" as Carell looks longingly at the wife he lost and didn’t fight for, it creases me. Creases me, I tells ya! (The movie did not have this soundtrack playing in the actual film, so I was able to retain some emotional restraint. Good job too, as I never have a hankie when I need one.)

“I should have fought for you.”

Do men fight anymore? Do they go for what they want? I’m not talking about another slice of pizza, or Stoli when they could have Grey Goose. I’m talking about putting in the effort, real effort to earn, retain, and nurture love. Or is a relationship more of a convenience item nowadays, a microwave ready meal, satisfying for five minutes, but then thrown away and out with the rubbish she goes? Is marriage such a ‘convenience’ that men shrug their collective shoulders and wait for something easier to come along? Someone you don’t actually have to engage in conversation, but who you can contentedly live along side, passionlessly, without conflict, but for leaving the goopey ice-cream scoop out on the kitchen side, sticking to the surface in its pool of congealed cream.

When does this relation erosion happen? When do you stop really caring about the minutia of your loved ones’ day. When do we stop asking questions? When does it get boring? And why do we allow it to happen?

Oh Lordy, has Eleanor been Chardonnay-blogging again? Nope, am in complete control of my faculties—just not my tears, apparently.

But back to the flick… the movie begins with a realistic enough premise: endearing 40-something Cal Weaver (Carell) is told by his teary, not unkind wife, Emily (Moore), she thinks they ought to get a divorce. And that she slept with another man. As she steers the Volvo and their relationship, she asks him, “When did you stop trying?” GAH! Gouge out my eyes!

Without much fuss, but rolling from their moving vehicle, he accepts it, moves out, and so begins the *jazz hands* comedy section of the movie. Enter tailored, trimmed, and groomed Ryan Gosling, or as I shall now refer to him, Ryan Oggling. Oh I oogled alright. It was hard not to. The movie makers milked that particular feature of the film. (Enjoy the gratuitous semi-clad photo.)

He is a Pick Up Artist, or, as I am learning from the fascinating, if not rather horrifying The Game by Neil Strauss, a ‘PUA.’ He has his routines: buy drink for The Mark, don’t reveal personal information, and make her talk about herself; interestingly, very different tactics from the ‘Neg’ (negative compliment), general neglect and alpha dominance employed by Style, Mystery and the PUA’s in The Game, but we’ll talk of that another time.

Jacob (Oogling) takes Cal under his wing, tailoring him without mercy. The clothes are a great disguise, as a well-put together Cal learns the tricks of the Pricks and tries to forget his wife of over 20 years. But it’s not that easy (Scarlett). Jacob encourages him to move on, to schmooze women, and fuck ‘em to oblivion. And like a Lemming, he goes along with it.

We all know someone who has been broken by divorce. Some of us know the couples, some of us pick sides—ouch—and some of us just want to smash the couple’s heads together. It’s hard to watch our friends flounder. It’s hard to feel ourselves fade as the unsaid slowly poisons us. In Cal we see this accepting, fading dolt and he is relatable, he is human and we love him and want him to find happiness (hopefully with Emily.)

But, what isn’t relatable is the onesidedness. We see very little of Emily Weaver’s internal struggle, bar a short phone call she makes just to hear Cal’s voice, her son commenting that he heard her crying and her confession of going to see Twilight on her own. We can, at least, feel for her about that. Without those brief nods to conscience, she would appear a hard-nosed slut. That is certainly how the children’s sweet babysitter sees her.

But I’d like this to be apology for Emily, because what the male screenwriter or perhaps brutal editor misses is her deep conflict, her certain doubts, her regrets and her emotional crippledom. She cannot tell him that she loves him, that she misses him and wishes he would fucking buck up his ideas and take her on a date and make her feel desired again. He alone has to come to that realization and risk it. Because if she takes his sweet goblin little face in her hands and tells him herself, then nothing would have really changed—she would just have been forcing it. And it’s back to the everyday complacent couplet. He has to be the one who not only admits that he should have fought for her, but he has to actually do it.

Really, Emily is pole-axed by her own courage, hopeful and yet hopeless by the way she has just sabotaged her cozy family vignette. Yet, from the movie, I didn’t pick up on much of that. I just know that that is how she would have felt.

No wonder she dresses like Daphne from Scooby Doo. She needs to scour for clues to find any grain of character justification.

Sound like diatribe? Well maybe it’s hit a nerve. Maybe I am mad (in the American sense, not the English—shit, who am I kidding, maybe both), but I finished reading David Nicholls One Day this week, I’m reading The Game, I watched C.S.L. and there’s a theme. Yes, reader. It’s people being too casual, too convenient, and not saying what they really mean. People not taking risks. Sure, if we always said what we meant, where would the mystery be? Wouldn’t we hurt people? Goodbye to the thrill of the chase! Yeah, piffle. You want mystery, read some Grisham—there are enough of them out there to keep you well suspended. If you are truly meant to be with someone, if you do really care for someone, oh dear God, man up (or woman up, as appropriate) and tell them! If they don’t feel the same at least you can get on with life, move to Brooklyn, and torture yourself thinking of the effort you should have made and how you will rectify this in the future. Because, *spoiler alert* like Emma Morley (One Day), you might be speeding into the arms of your beloved after 20 years of not saying what we readers have been waiting for, for 300 pages, and a wreckless lorry driver might slam into you and send you flying through the air as if you are playing a game of quidditch.

So there. That’s my non-chardonnayed take away. Don’t be casual. Be truthful, be honourable, be noble, be kind.

Take risks.

Fight for it.

BigamE. Evie's bite of the apple

2011-08-02T12:35:00.000-07:00

And so it is.

I have finally lent the dulcet tones (or not, you decide) to the first chapter of BigamE. My, I give so much credit to those actors who record audio books! I won't blather on, Evie will speak for herself.

BigamE isn't one of those Joe Dever books where you get to decide what the heroine does next, but I would be interested to know what you think she *should* do.

Who votes for the Lorena Bobbit or Catherine Becker plan of attack?

Wordsmithery! Helping geeks get laid since...

2011-07-21T06:58:00.000-07:00

Me demonstrating the 'What the fuck? Where is she from?' expression

People strain to hear my voice. Not because I am quiet—Lordy no!—and not, largely, because they are deaf or constipated; but, when out and about, ordering a cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches (white, no crusts), I see brows crumple like deflated accordions. The fold of frown makes the eyes smaller, shrewder, but more sparkly, powered by the cogs behind them spinning wildly, frantic to discern: is she English? Irish? Maybe Australian? Those are the top three—although I have also been South African and, oddly, German. Ja ja.

I find this Pygmalion pigeon-holing quite fun. It makes the world a smaller place because I know that, on the heels of explaining from whence I hail, they will know someone who lived there or perhaps visited. (Maybe a hundred years ago.)

Sometimes I like to fuck with people and tell them I am Welsh. (This is only half true. Although I can hold a tune and I do like rugby, which surely makes me more three-quarters.) Welsh? This often draws blank stares, but since the fame of Sir Anthony Hopkins (now American) and Catherine Zeta Spartacus Douglas Jones (occasional American, with conveniently waivering Welsh accent), the Taffs are better known.

I cannot claim to have the Welshy Valley drawl—the rolling ‘r’ and the phlegmy double ‘l’—unless surrounded by the contagious sound and/or drunk. In real life, my...'dulcets' couldn’t really get more Hermione Granger Home Counties.

However, what seems to intrigue more than the way I pronunciate, are the words I choose to annunciate: a self-indulgent compendium of polysyllabic words woven together intricately, splaying in many different directions as if I were a verbacious spider—with mild ADD—casting out my web of words. I do like words. I love the raised eyebrows a string of Britishisms elicits. I’m a ham. I know. I shamelessly drop my 'vitamins'--emphasis on the 'vit'--with an unapologetic cheeky smile.

How we express ourselves is important on an evolutionary level too. According to Baba Brinkman’s The Rap Guide to Evolution, currently playing off-Broadway at the Soho Playhouse (you should go, it is phenomenal), whilst word choice does not prevent us from being mauled to death by an angry predator, the more slick-tongued of us can use linguistic skill to charm a mate into consenting. Ergo, language effects sexual selection! I know! Think about that the next time you lamely type ‘lol.’

So I started thinking of some of my favourite words. Not every day words like 'lovely' or 'bloody' or 'arse'--the Close Personals will tell you I use them more often than Brittney says 'me,' but words that I savour saying; words I feel a little audacious thrill as their vibrations blow through my lips; words that reverberate through my inner ear, titillating the spiral-shaped cochlea with every ripple of sound that crosses the cilia-haired membrane.

Some of my favourite words are delightful, not by sensation, but by reaction or association. So this is the abridged, and by no means complete, list of words and phrases that I knowingly trill the living Brit out of:

Numpty

Bastardly

Plonker

Piffle

Chin-wag

Dawdle

Drip (“Don’t be such a drip!”)

Gargantuan

Meander

Aluminium

Milksop

Sort the wheat from the chaff

Discombobulated

See you anon

Behemoth

Viscous

The cut of his jib

Cheek to jowl

Queue

What would Freud say? Well, don’t judge me on the words’ meaning; say them out loud and enjoy the sounds. Aren’t they fun to say?

Doesn’t 'gargantuan' stretch your lips as if you have a runny nose and no tissue? Doesn’t the ‘p’ of ‘numpty’ pop nicely? Don’t you love the sibilant ‘s’ of ‘viscous,’ (I also love lascivious, mischievous and luscious, so maybe I have a thing for the ‘s’s.) I do most enjoy saying them with a lisp. But this can often get messy, so if trying this out whilst on a date—why wouldn’t you dazzle your dinner partner with your speech impediment showcase?—be warned: it can get messy. You might want to check your teeth for stray lettuce or other debris before you unceremonious spray it in your date's face. *dating tips from Eleanor* OOH, there’s a blog to behold!

So there you go! Do Brits hold sole rights to this random collection? Not a jot! This is no private collection! Get the tip of your tongue, your teeth and your lips around these suckers and unleash them loudly the next time you are in Price Chopper. I guarantee you some furrowed brows. (NB: this may be because they are concerned as to your mental health, but just ride it out.)

In fact, let’s do this shit! When you next shop on a Saturday morning and slalom your uncooperative trolley through the crowd, running the wheels into as many backs of heels as possible, mowing down indecisive geriatrics in the soup aisle, or crying toddlers who have just been told 'no' and are so red-faced and snot-slicked that they don’t see you coming, do try the following:

“Lordy, Moses! Hells Bells! Is that the queue for the sliced luncheon meats?”

So are we on? Will there be an upsurge in plummy-toned people confusing the little cotton socks off the Deli Counter man? Oh goody!

Here’s a little battle of words, from the indomitable Canadian rapper Baba Brinkman and true blue Brit Professor Elemental wrapping their native accents around the intricacies of the mother tongue. Guess which camp I'm in? Ah, it's elementary, dear Blogger.

Redefining Chick lit the Jennifer Weiner Way

2011-07-14T07:18:00.000-07:00

Last month, bestselling author, screenwriter for ABC Family’s new hit show State of Georgia and influential tweeter, Jennifer Weiner, celebrated the 10 year anniversary since her break through novel Good In Bed.

It was the first Weiner I read and it left a marked impression on me. Mainly, that a so-called "chick lit" novel could have a darker side. No, am not getting all Vader on you, Cannie did not unleash her light sabre and castrate the bastardly ex-boyfriend for writing about her in his newspaper article "Loving a Larger Woman." Instead, she lets his opinion define her happiness and is plunged into a spiral of sadness and self-doubt. And you thought chick lit was all about Christian Louboutin’s, calories and credit card bills. Oh you!

Chick lit,--ahem—I mean, "contemporary women’s fiction" *insert winning Colgate smile here* can be substantial. It can be meaty. The literary lamb shank over a risotto Milanese, that is so rich and satisfying you can’t eat anything else for a week. The genre, or menu if you will, is so wide, it can also be light and pappy. There’s a place for both, I guess, but I have a hearty appetite.

Jennifer Weiner, Jane Green and Emily Giffin are three of the top selling writers in this genre and, believe me, none of them focus on fluffy light fare. They write stories that are all meat: satisfying, juicy, tender; sometimes, they give me heartburn and chronic indigestion, but I’m there with their endearing heroines, enduring infidelity, infamy, cancer, chronic depression, etc...

Sounds a laugh a minute, I know, but really, these characters react to these shit-uations in a way that leaves you cheering for more. I have just finished reading Giffin's Heart of the Matter and it creased me, CREASED ME, that I could empathize with both the wife and the mistress; that both couldn't 'win.' It's a testament to Giffin's writing that she took a black and white--ehem--affair like cheating and made it so grey, so human, so compelling, so ... relatable.

That's me with Emily in the photograph. Uh huh, yeah. She's the beautiful blonde. I'm the one looking expensively cheap.

Jennifer Weiner’s new novel, Then Came You—which I am itching to read— was inspired by an article she had read in the New York Times, about an affluent woman paying an educated, yet less wealthy, woman to be her surrogate. Jen wrote in a recent email to her readers, “I wanted to look at how larger questions of financial inequities inform the process of having a baby by surrogate – how it’s always women of means hiring less-well-off women to perform a physical task; how it is, at its core, a transactional relationship that sometimes morphs into a friendly or even familial one. I’m interested in questions of how people treat each other, and how money, and guilt over having it, or resentment over not having more, comes into play.” Meaty! Nom nom.

So why am I telling you all this? Stick with me! Well, to mark the occasion of Good In Bed’s anniversary Jen launched a competition. The challenge: in more than 125 words, but no more than 175, write about the most memorable thing that has occurred to you in the last ten years.

Ten years is about eight photo albums for me, ACTUAL albums, like scrapbooks, not digitally stored, but albums with photo corners and page protectors—I know, ain’t it wild?; then there are the photos stored on my computer and the random ones available for the Facebook Nation. Am not boasting that I am some photo hog or sad scrapbooking fiend, merely that there are a darn rootin’ tootin’ megatonne of memories. Think about it, TEN YEARS, TEN FRIGGIN’ YEARS! Roll photo montage and Beatles accompaniment: “There are places I remember…”

So I thought long and hard about what, through the cabernet clouded fog, I remembered most. “Rhett! Rhett! But what’ll I say? What’ll I do? What’s to become of me?” Agh. No. Hang about, here we go: my memories, not Scarlett’s. What did I remember most? Was it my happiest memory?

No. But the microfiche that was notable, crammed with infinitesimal detail, is the memory when time slowed; when every second, of every minute, of every hour burned my consciousness. There were no idle thoughts. No internal discussion about what I might cobble together from the refrigerator for the evening’s repast, no casual flick through the memorized TV schedule to plan my night’s viewing. It was hours of unadulterated awareness; waiting for the cocked trigger to fire, terrified that I might have ruined it all and I’d shot Self in the foot, or face, or heart.

This was my most memorable moment:

I was ushered into the Embassy-approved Physician, leeched of blood and was left, hanging. This was the day I had prepared for with the focus of an Olympian and the anticipation of a newly-lingeried third date; the last cause and impediment that would separate me from the burly American who had confessed—rather inconveniently, since I was ravenously disposing of a molten chocolate bomb and happened to be spoon-licking at the time—“I don’t want to wake up another morning without you here.”

I waited. For hours. Would-be Emigrants came, bled and went, yet I was... 'quarantined?' I flicked through the mental roladex of sexual indiscretion. Of course! The night England had actually won a sporting event and I celebrated drunkenly with some touring rugby player between my thighs!

The Embassy would banish me.

Oh God!

I’d never be with the man who accepted me without medical, signed affidavit or detailed exposition of why I loved him.

I thought my heart would burst through my chest.

“Miss Gwyn-Jones? You’re all clear.”

Confusion, relief, joy, Visa.

Keeping to 175 words was harder than you’d think. I hope, in spite of the brevity, the subject matter was not too gristly for you. If so, tough. It’s my meat.

What’s your most memorable …er…memory from the last ten years? Go on, I've aired my laundry--and it was found to be impeccable clean--so I'd love to read about yours. Or, if you have any flavoursome chick-lit to recommend, please do!

Gluttony, Bon Amie and Renewed Appetites

2011-06-01T09:50:00.000-07:00

I like to think I’m a bit of a foodie. Not that you would know it from the contents of my refrigerator—it has been referred to as:

“the abyss,” Mother;

“worse than a frat house fridge,” hungry friends who should have eaten before they descended;

“concentration camp canteen,” Anon.

I dispute that though. I always, always, have a healthy stock of salad dressings, Branston pickle and week-old milk. My pantry is adorned with my favourite unused tea towel. Oh yes, it’s classy décor at Chez Eleanor. The pristine white cotton emblazon with vermillion lettering reads: “I had a really nice dream last night about Daniel Craig.” Mmm. Let’s think about that for a moment……

Okay, yes. Whilst that maybe the most exciting thing about the pantry, I do have some rather interesting relics from the cooking days: aged balsamic vinegar, par example, vanilla beans pods from my trip to India, Birds custard powder brought by Mother mule, when I claimed homesickness and that Americans having ice-cream with rhubarb crumble was just wrong, wrong, wrong!

The lack of actual real food is just for waist and waste preservation. I am a glutton. A food whore. A gourmand just busting to have a tastetastic party and suck the marrow with Anthony Bourdain.

Look at my book shelves. Scans those spines, Baby! Those cracked ones, with little white flecks. That’s not advanced calcification; those books have been thumbed, bent backwards and thrown down on every kitchen surface imaginable.

I have lusted and drooled over the pages of Nigella’s eggplant involtini, her chicken soup and kneidlach, her chocolate fudge cake; I have salivated and swallowed at the thought of Jamie Oliver’s spatchcock chicken, warm bread salad of crispy pancetta, parmesan and poached egg, his many and varied lip-smacking “pukka” pastas; of Sophie Dahl’s whimsy, of Delia Smith’s practicality, of Claire MacDonald’s seasonality… the rapturous menu goes on.

Time was once when this food rapture would keep me up at night. The cogs would turn through the roladex of culinary clippings; I would torture and tantalize myself by Taste Imagining. (I blame Roald Dahl and Willy Wonka for this, by the way.)

And then I supposed I starved my brain. I piled my books in boxes. I threw the clippings away and made it focus on important things like Theatricks and BigamE and financial independence. I suppose I rather forgot how much I loved stirring a creamy bacon and brie risotto with my silicon spatula, folding the arborio rice in from the sides and round and round my satin blue paella pan. I disremembered how I used to delight in caramelizing the brown sugar on the top of the velveteen crème brulee. I fooled myself with Jedi mind tricks: “Special K is nutritious and delicious. It has real strawberries in it! Oh, 9g of sugar, that’s not bad, surely?”

But this weekend, I got hungry again. Ravenous. My taste buds woke up, rasped against my hard palette and railed for more.

It was Memorial Day weekend and I came face to face with myself—well, a younger, prettier, leggier, blonder version—who spent the weekend pouring over food magazines, clipping articles, Googling menus, trawling the non-farmers market market for the freshest ingredients. She was a thing of beauty to watch as she chopped her heirloom tomatoes, whisked together a dash of lemon juice with a glug of extra virgin olive oil, a grind of freshly-milled black pepper and a crack of sel de fleur.

“Try this! Try this!” she flapped with joy, proffering a hunk of fresh bread, be-daubed and glistening with her newest epicurean delight, $20 fig jam. Her enthusiasm was infectious, her ideas were nothing short of inspired, and she brought a smile to my face and a pang to my stomach as I remembered what fun I used to have “creating.”

My favourite repast was her casually thrown together lunch of treasures from the afore-mentioned non-farmers market market: fresh, pillowy-soft baguette sandwiching thick slabs of mozzarella, ribbons of delicate prosciutto, finished with a drizzle of fig preserve; heirloom, grape and cherry tomatoes in yellows, purples, green and red, mingling like jewels beside giant milky pearls of mozzarella and emerald green basil, swimming in the lemony olive oil elixir complimented with crisp, grilled bread for dipping. She had thought of everything.

The platters and bowls gleamed with fresh goodness; the air hummed with lemon and basil and it brought a table of hungry professionals, some known to each other—none known to me—together. By the end of our "Gourmorial" weekend, I hope they considered this wide-eyed and tongue-tied outsider a friend. Food does that, doesn't it? It is the gastromic glue that binds us.

Today, I trudged down to the dark, forgotten basement. I wiped the dust from the boxes and found the heaviest one. With all the joy of a kidlet at Christmas, I rendered off the packing tape and gasped at the contents, clasping each shiny cover to my chest as if I were reuniting with an old friend. I fondly stroked the cracked spines and restored my gastro-porn to its pride of place on the bookshelves. Yes, look at them now! Back where they belong. (Roll 1983 Joe Cocker. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpYxZ-1PnlA&feature=related Pour yourself a glass of cabernet, bite down on a wedge of apricot stilton and enjoy!)

Cheers to gluttony, bon amie and renewed appetites.

Bourdain, I’m coming to the party.

The Three Amigas ...PART DOS

2011-03-29T21:36:00.000-07:00

We were dumb-founded. Had our Spanglish been misunderstood? No, ‘Google Translate’ had clearly stated that the vet would return with our poor mangled dog in two hours, and yet he was not here.

Conversation was heavy that night, stilted. I could hear my own laughter, hollow and guilty as—ever the clown—I tried to raise spirits and ‘reframe’. But not even my bad jokes and Speedy Gonzales impression could dispel the worst case scenarios unfolding in my head. Indra’s wide-eyed enthusiasm and usual ebullient appreciation of the sky, the ocean, the avocado was dulled. Corine was similarly pensive, looking through her view-finder for some distraction, something less disconcerting to focus on.

This was the night we had planned to see the famed Cliff Divers of Acapulco—the only ‘touristy’ activity on our itinerary. This display of local daring-do was supposed to be amazing. We ate sans appetite, overlooking the magnificent cliffs, watching the waves smack thunderously below. The Divers, like bronzed geckos, scaled the rocks in their Speedos, bare-footed and without ropes. At the perilous peak they acknowledged the cheers from the crowd, prayed to the shrine and waited for the waves to reach adequate dive-depth.

With arms raised, springing from toe-tips, they launched themselves from the craggy rock face into the hungry wave beneath. It was an impressive feat of brave insanity and the crowd applauded. We nodded and conservatively clapped our hands together, commenting, “their poor mothers”. It was an interesting exhibition. I watched the reverence (and tips) given to these gutsy men, risking their lives to dive head first into the elements.

As the Cliff-divers finished their show and the retro stage show with sequins, g-strings and lip-synch began, I took comfort in the fact that we too had bravely dived into the unknown. Mi amigas, Indra and Corine were not looking for applause, approval or financial gain, but to help a little suffering soul. I looked out to sea, casting positive thoughts that our efforts and hopes would not crash amongst the rocks.

Next morning the concierge telephoned on our behalf and we waited, on pins, to hear news of the dog. After several unanswered attempts to reach the ‘vet’, the Concierge reported back to us that the dog had indeed two broken back legs and the vet would need more money to do the surgery.

Indra had a plan. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t leave the dog to this questionable ‘vet’, but instead we would take her to another one. She set me the task of looking up local veterinary clinics. Finally! A purpose! Something I could do to contribute to the effort! I went a-Googling and mapquesting the local clinics. I narrowed it down to three, but one stated ‘English spoken’. Bingo (was his name-o)!

Indra phoned the clinic, explained our story and secured the last appointment of the day at 4.30pm. Now, it was up to us. We hailed a cab and I sat in the front, guiding our driver through the back streets to the store. Corine and Indra sat silently mustering their Spanglish and their strength. We anticipated angry scenes. I knew it would be good to have a local ally, so I chatted to the driver non-stop, in the hopes he would be chivalrous if called upon. His name, he told me was Napoleon, or ‘Napo’.

What a gentleman he was! Without a peso passing my palm, he happily agreed to wait and help us on our mission. So, with getaway vehicle idling outside, we enter the dark cave of the pet store.

Our crippled dog was lying in a cage on the ground, looking as thin and pathetic as she did 24 hours earlier.

Indra bent down to her. The dog’s eyes brightened and her tail wagged.

“It’s okay, little girl. I’m here.” Indra righted herself and strode towards the ‘vet’.

A restaurant promoter, who had tried to lure us into his establishment several nights before, asked us what star signs we were. A cliché tactic, but we played along, letting his words gush passed us with more than a pinch of salty air. When he got to Indra, he nodded rapidly stating, “Leo, yes. You are small but mighty.”

I thought of that then and took such pride in the power my ‘mighty’ amiga exuded. Without a crossed word, she calmly explained that she would be taking the dog to another vet, an English-speaking vet. The ‘vet’ tried to protest, he asked for extra money, he claimed that the cost of x-rays and driving the dog to the vet where the x-ray machine was, had already exceeded the amount we had given him yesterday. With quiet assurance, she thanked him for his efforts. She told him that, as she ran an animal sanctuary where contact with the Vet is frequent, she knew the real cost of things. He did not even attempt to pursue his argument.

Indra gathered the dog in her arms and we left the dark store to resurface into the sunshine, a grinning Napo eager to open the car doors and shuttle us to the new vet.

I read the directions and directed Napo and our precious cargo to the place where Clinica de San Franciso was supposed to be. ‘Supposed’ being the key word. Where the bloody hell was it? I had written the address down correctly, I know I had. I could feel myself start to sweat. This was the one thing, the one thing, I was entrusted to do and—oh please, no—I had screwed it up.

Napo wound down the window and spoke to a local. The Clinica, it seemed, had moved to an area 20 minutes away. Ugh! Why hadn’t the internet updated? Why? No time for sweaty recriminations now. We checked the time. We were already late for the 4.30pm appointment! It was Friday, would the vet stay and wait for us, or would he lock to door and head home for an evening of leisure?

We couldn’t think of that! We had to make it there! With gears grinding, Napo turned the VDub and we sped off, weaving through the traffic, our heads whipping back and forth, desperately searching for street signs and then house numbers.

“There it is!” I exclaimed, delighted to see the official-looking, clean, white building. But as my heart leapt, so did it plummet. There were no cars, no open doors, no signs of activity. We were over 40 minutes late for our appointment. Chances of finding another qualified vet on a Friday night? Hmmmm…

We knocked on the door and looked anxiously at each other for reassurance. Had we dived into this situation only to meet a dead end?

After a few moments the door was opened, and there stood the white-coated, wide-smiling man welcoming us inside with open arms. I wanted to high five and cheer, can-can and kiss the good doctor! (I didn’t of course. I am English.)

Indra led the way, through the waiting room to the well-lit examination room. She showed Dr. Eusebio Gomez Duque the x-rays and discussed a course of action. He immediately put us at our ease. As he felt over the dog’s emaciated frame, his brow crumpled; his concern and compassion were obvious.

We explained her story, or as much as we knew, and he listened intently, nodding and stroking his capable hands over the dog.

“And what is her name?” He asked.

“Senorita Marisol Esperanza de Acapulco.” Indra replied, smiling at the name we had created for her. A long name for a small dog, but so fitting: Miss Sea and Sun, Hope of Acapulco.

The required surgery, four months of therapy, injections and spaying would cost a small fortune, but Marisol was suffering and Indra would do what had to be done to make that change.

As we strolled from the Clinic back to the main Costera, heels, heads and hearts were lighter. We were excited to see the difference that food, water, a bath, and injections would bring our little Marisol and to see her gain strength before surgery. As we exchanged observations of all the ways Dr. Duque’s clinic was so far removed from the dingy little back street ‘vet’ and how he was eminently more qualified to care for Marisol, Indra stopped dead.

“What is it?”

“Clinica de San Francisco! Oh my goodness.” She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I found this in my purse the other day. I couldn’t think how or why it got in there. This bag is new and was empty when I packed it! I;m positive I didn’t pack this.” She passed the paper to me. “It’s the prayer of Saint Francis. San Francisco, Saint Francis.”

Corine nodded recalling the prayer. Indra smiled. I frowned. The three Amigas: the Catholic, the Spiritual and the Agnostic, shared the prayer of Saint Francis and each found something in it. As my eyes drifted over the first lines, two words jumped out at me: ‘peace’ and ‘love’; I bit my cheek at the strangeness of it all, those were the same words, united by a third on my Indraloka Sanctuary ‘T’ shirt: ‘peace, love, animals.’

EPILOGUE: Indra is in weekly contact with Dr. Duque, monitoring the steady progress of our beloved Marisol. The surgery was a success and now the therapy begins. Of course, Dr. Duque’s care and attention is not free and Indra has been delighted that so many kind-hearted people have read her blog and donated to help with her treatment. A local business Char&Co www.charandcompany.com have donated discounted hair and spa services on April 10^th, when all proceeds will go towards Marisol’s treatment. Tax deductible donations for Marisol’s care can also be made online at www.indraloka.org or by sending a check to Indraloka Animal Sanctuary, PO Box 155, Mehoopany, PA 18629.

WE ARE THE THREE AMIGAS!

2011-03-21T07:42:00.000-07:00

We are an unlikely grouping, that much is certain, and around the pool, restaurants, bar and beach a convoluted explanation follows when asked the perennial question, “So, how do you three know each other.”

It didn’t really occur to us before that this triumvirate would appear unusual, but here we are: one blonde American, of Polish and Italian heritage, a Catholic and a carnivore, a somewhat bohemian style, layered in lace and adorned with genuine gemstones; one brunette hippy, an American of Dutch/Indian origins, Spiritual with Hindu leanings, a vegan, sometimes happiest barefoot in cut-offs and sometimes in cocktail dresses with 4 inch heels; and then there is me, one red-headed British American omnivore, with religious apathy, most often suited, heeled and feathered.

Imagine then this Pennsylvanian-based posse, more different than alike, walking along the beach promenade in Acapulco, Mexico. We had indulged in a long, lazy lunch and, with stomachs happily digesting the great daubs of daily avocado, we agreed a leisurely sail to Isla la Roqueta to lie in the sun, would round the afternoon off perfectly! Our well-fed, warm-skinned, sandy-footed, self-indulgent bubble burst abruptly, however, pierced by loud howls of pain.

The cries were so pitiful, we could hear them over the sound of the Costera’s six lanes of traffic—not traffic moving in a smooth and soft, modern Germanic or Japanese way. The traffic on the Costera roared with the rattle of thirty year old VDub engines; armoured jeeps, fully-loaded with machine-gun toting Federales ; buses decorated as if for Mardi Gras and playing party belters as if they were celebrating it too .

There, wailing from the bushes, crawling, almost army commando style, her two front paws heaving along the spread-eagled hind legs, was the most sorrowful broken pup I have ever seen.

Most people would have probably tutted pitifully, moved two steps towards her, thought better of the fleas, mites, potential rabies, and turned their heels, hearts, and heads sharply.

“Well, there are so many street dogs, aren’t there, Martin! It’s a shame! But, ah well! Can’t save them all. Oh! Ice-cream!”

But mi amiga, Indra, isn’t like most people.

She bent down to the mangled mutt, hushing and cooing soothing greetings as one would to a frightened child. “It’s okay. There, there. It’s okay little girl. I’m here.”

She ran her practiced hands over the emaciated frame, the grooves between each jutting rib fitting her fingers perfectly. The hollow of the starving creature, from ribcage to hip, was like the nipped waist of a violin, the pinched skin forming such severe arcs. Indra’s fingers felt further, around the painful peaks of the dog’s hind-quarters, gliding gently over limbs that pointed at unnatural angles. Indra’s nimble hands could ‘see’ the dog’s every tick, every sore, every jack-knifed bone.

The dog had had puppies. How recently I couldn’t tell, but from her thin frame the only skin that hung loose was that from her nipples. As she howled and Indra cooed, Corine and I searched the bushes for her babies. Fruitlessly. They were not there. I wondered if she was howling for her pups or from the pain.

A local lady with broad, glistening face and pink lipstick approached us, and in our Spanglish we learned that indeed there were two pups, both gone now she thought. We swept the area to double check, but disappointingly satisfied that no babies hiding, we hailed a taxi and appealed to the driver to help us. Thankfully, he agreed to speed us to the nearest veterinarian. It was such a relief to know that she’d get help and be safe. Or so we thought.

As I hustled into the dim store, hell-bent on our mission, my heart plummeted. This was a Veterinary Clinic? The closet-sized shop was lined with cages. Wire cages, maybe a foot across, two foot deep and two foot high—I’ve never been good with judging lengths, but suffice it to say, cages that were too bloody small for their occupants. I watched the German shepherd and the boxer, unable to stand, stoop-shuffling to move position. I took in the empty water bowls, the 90 degree heat, the pitiful occupants in the sun-lit corner-cages, the smell of shit and the general air of festering, neglect and death. My heart was not light.

The ‘Vet’ and his family clustered behind the counter, shifting their bulk as they jostled to see these loco gringos with a street dog. Eager to get the cradled creature immediate attention, Indra and Corine were all business and took the dog to the examination table. With no Spanish on the resume, I’m afraid I was next to useless. I held the bags and tried to stop my eyes from betraying my disgust and my shock. Everywhere I looked, was another sight to make me gag: the obese six year old, filling his mouth with handfuls of what looked like raw chicken; cardboard boxes, which were not full of dog chews or hamster wheels, but instead very young puppies, baking in the heat, sans mummies and sans water.

Perhaps that’s how they do it in Mexico, I tried to rationalize. I tried to reframe. I knew that Indra had seen these things too, that she would have been repulsed, but she would have prioritized the need for urgent medical attention. And so I watched, thinking the best thing to do was to stand my full height and show support by my presence.

“He wants $1800.” Corine said, reading the Google Translate that glowed from the computer screen. Indra didn’t miss a beat, and, as different as we are, I could sense what she was feeling: tend to the dog now, argue later, so I counted what pesos we had. My internal alarm was wailing—not because I didn’t want to pay for the dog, but because this ‘Vet’ could say anything and, judging by his unsanitary practices, he could, and probably would, stitch us up like patchwork Americana. Corine communicated that we would give some money now for the cost of the x-rays and pain medication, but we would withhold the full amount until the course of treatment had been decided. He rapidly accepted the part payment and reluctantly agreed to wait for his next installment. He promised to take her immediately for the x-rays and asked us to return in a few hours.

We retreated to the beach, breathing fresh air and agonizing over what was said, what was done, and what in the hell type of ‘vet’ was he anyway? This, surely, was a little shop of horrors. But what choice did we have? With the situation and with limited Spanish could we be all that picky?

Two hours could not pass quickly enough. We returned to the store, as agreed. We were eager to see her, to put our minds at rest, to see that the antibiotics, the painkillers, the water, the possible meal might have improved her. But the ‘vet’ was no longer there. And neither was the dog.

Fishy tales in Me-hick-co

2011-03-09T08:39:00.000-08:00

"You're going away again?" He repeated incredulously.
"It's been planned for a while." I cast off in the direction of the cell phone, marooned on the carpet amid the swirling tornado of clothes, travel adaptor, passport, books and Tylenol, its speaker confirming to the caller, that 'yes, this would indeed be the fourth country visited in as many months.'
"But I haven't seen you for ages!"

Ah. It's true. I suppose I have been rather negligent of friends at home, and, I suppose, some would say I have been fairly greedy, but travel! Travel! ADVENTURE!  It's not that I am on some Elizabeth Gilbert type quest, of Eating and Praying and Loving--although there has been a fair quantity of one verb, and it doesn't necessitate devotion to anyone or anything but carbohydrates and avocado; rather more, I have just been 'Being'. That's a verb, right?   And by removing Self from constantly 'doing' at home, and giving Self a week, a month, or maybe four, to just slow down and 'be' has awoken my senses with a citrus punch.

Imprinting actual sights that are not from a book, magazine or TV show, reinforcing them with earfuls of sound, lungfuls of indigenous scents, inhalations of fresher, cleaner ocean-filled air, mouthfuls of flavour, sand and dust and rock beneath my feet--OH! It just makes my fingers tingle, latent with possibilities. And then, speaking to locals, learning what used to be, what was, what is, and the prediction for the future, it's the stuff a burgeoning writer lives for. So Friends, Readers, Countrymen, lend me your Patience.

Yesterday, for example, we spent an indulgent afternoon lounging, books in hand, by the swimming pool.  Surrounded by white colonades and rangey palms, the ocean at a distance and the tempting cool cerulean blue water barely feet from my own, I could hear the city of Acapulco: its birds, its buses, its tropical hum, the familiar agricultural churning of a VW beetle engine. In the midst of this tropical melee, I dozed.

His booming Chicago accent cut through the bird calls and VDub poots and any dreams that could be weaving. I prised open a sleep-absconded eye. He was wading through the water, only his shock of thick white hair, and matching rimmed sunglasses visible, as he found a convenient bay of the pool to rest, directly opposite our sun loungers. Although his mass was underwater, there was no disguising he was hefty.   His much burned, peeled, and burned-again nose was pointed into the sun. I turned the other way, thinking of the trips to the aquarium and the blubbery walruses, grunting, lolling and smelling of fish.

After several sun-soaked, deep breathed hours, it was decided we needed shade and a margarita, so we swam up to the bar unavoidably close to the still-basking walrus. The Chicago boom hailed us as we swam by and polite 'Buenas tardes' were exchanged. Sitting on the blue mosaic tiles of the swim-up bar, I could feel the shift behind me, the gentle movement as the water parted, making way for an unstoppable force.

His name was Walter.

Walter had been coming to Acapulco for over 30 years. He told us tales of the city in its heyday, when Villa Verra was frequented by Liz Taylor, Elvis Presley, Dean Martin; when Marilyn Monroe swam naked in our very pool; before the drug cartels had killed not just its people, but its tourist industry. It was a sad reflection that, 30 years on, we were the only ones in the pool, and, much to Walt's disappointment, even a shot of tequila was not going to make these ladies' clothes fall off. Although he did mention that, time was once, there would be three topless women at the swim-up bar and they would be buying him drinks. I had to wonder if that was before the abundance of gut and gum, but no! Walt, 68, divorced, father of two, was indeed currently dating various strippers.
"But, ya know whad I learned? I dated beautiful women and I treated them good, I held doors, I paid for them and then I decided to date ugly women. Maybe they would treat me better. But ugly women want the same attention you give a beautiful woman. Go figure."  Chivallry was indeed pronounced dead yesterday afternoon.
"You should treat all women like Goddesses!" my traveling companion retorted loudly, but Walt raised up like a rearing Odobenus, hearing only his own barks.
"And you girls, I'm telling you, I see these girls coming here, looking for romance. Don't look for what's not there. Just enjoy the weather. These men, they are like peanut butter, smooth and sticky; they'll have you in bed in a day."

After an hour of Walt's stories, silent SOSs were cast between the three of us. *Retreat! Retreat!* And one after the other my fellow captives made their escape, but there was something faintly sad about this beached, burned, and blubbery man, desperate to hold court and tell us about the good old days, and it pulled me in and held me there; so, whilst sun sank in the sky and the water turned my fingers to flesh-coloured prunes, I stayed.

"My mother left me $10 million when she died," (the exact number of millions did seem to change over the course of the afternoon, sometimes being $1 million, sometimes $10 million, but it seemed rude to interrupt and clarify this point) "I come here, I enjoy the weather, I cook myself a great lobster with pasta and garlic, I have beautiful girlfriends, but you know what makes me happy?"
"What's that, Walter?" I asked, not really knowing what a millionaire in the sunshine, complete with collection of strippers, could possibly long for.
"I wish you'd tell me."
And there it was. I was tempted to refer him to my blog and tell him about 'The Happiness Project' and that he should reframe, or maybe he should just take his own advice and 'not look for something that isn't there,' just enjoy the sunshine. Before I could formulate a response, he crashed on,
"Anyway, I'm not trying to impress you with my wealth. If I was, I woulda put my teeth in."
I couldn't help but laugh, and he laughed too,
"Wel,l Walter that's just about made my day! Can I quote you? I don't need my wealth or my teeth to impress you!"
"Sure!"

And you know, I think for that short afternoon, just listening to his bizarre and somewhat fishy stories, he felt important and that made him happy. For me, just taking the time to listen was horizon-broadening too--strippers, drug cartels, fortunes, oh the drama! A writer dreams of such riches! (It's just usually, they come with teeth.)

Until next time, with jar of peanut butter and spoon in hand, E.

Ind-Ja the Indelible

2011-02-16T15:11:00.000-08:00

And I'm back. Over 40 hours of travel door to door. This includes: driving, waiting, delay, flight, transfer, more delay, flight, fast track through immigration, terminal sprint, boarding bureaucracy--> missed flight, taxi ride to nearby airport, further delay, flight cancellation, final flight, immigration and WOO HOO, dear Reader, I made it from Puttankardu, India to Toronto, Canada.

It is truly ah-mazing to contemplate, the distance, the time travel and the cultural differences: 20 rupees for two cups of teas in Parambikulum (about 40 cents), chatting with the tea shop owner, who showed us hospitality, free baked goodies that we really didn't want but he seemed excited to offer us, along with his full, unblinking attention; $4 for a tea, conveyer belt line and barely a smile at the Starbucks I am typing from now. (Am not making any political statement here, the difference just seems surreal to me.)

India has left an indelible impression on me, that much is true. I am not sure whether I will look at any of the 'hardships' I 'endure' in NEPA in the same light again. Yes, going back to my first blog, this makes that whole reframing thing, really easy. Instead of my catch-all 'it's okay, at least I'm not dead' reframe, I can now interchange this with, 'It's okay, at least I have the opportunity to earn more than 30 rupees a day picking tea/breaking stone at the side of the road, without shoes, before going home to pick vegetables, make the meal and do the laundry--without all the modern conveniences that make our lives easy, or a man who will deign to help me.' Good reframe, huh?

So, I wanted to focus this blog on the impressions that have, with Indian ink, been indelible etched to my cognitive microfiche. These are they:

Our unrestrained driver, Prakash (see last week's blogette) wanted to show Indra and me more of his beautiful homeland. He packed us a traditional Kerala picnic and took us 'up' in his jeep. By Western standards this would be 'off-roading', in India, this is just an 'everyday commute'.

We zig-zagged up the mountains, through the knee-high shrubbery of the lush tea gardens, jostled more than usual by the questionable camber of the dusty, red, rutted 'road'. I use the word loosely. Holy seltbelts and air bags, Batman! The higher we drove the greater the perspective; the individual became the whole, each hill of the tea gardens transforming before my eyes to become a giant emerald, velvet-coated armadillo.

At 7130 feet and higher, in the heart of 'God's Own Country', overlooking the Tata tea gardens, where so many women (and men) had laboured through blistering heat and unrelenting monsoons, we ate our picnic. These verdant armadillos grew as far as my eyes could see. It was not so much a vista as a vasta.

The enormity of the landscape was paralleled by that of it's creatures. One I had particularly keen--scotch that--one I had been bubbling to see, was the Asian Elephant. Why so? Well, probably because I grew up watching Dumbo, had loved every word of Sara Gruen's 'Water for Elephants', but mainly because these creatures show such unflinching loyalty in their matriarchal packs, such sensitivity and honour, that they win my devotion.

Lashmi was the elephant Indra and I were allowed to feed. She was 40 years old, and looked every year of it. (She could definitely have used the MK targeted toning body lotion!)   Her bulk and thick, bristled exterior were softened big her huge milk chocolate brown irises. Her eyes seemed to say so much, shining sadly in silent protest as the Muhoot shouted at her. I'm probably anthropomorphizing, but it's my blogette and it's a great word, so humour me. I should add that the Muhoot did not whip her, I simply did not like his aggressive tone--there was no need! Dude, she's big, she's slow, would you give a pachyderm a break?

Resigned to her role--and her life is certainly so much better than the chained, work elephants, so that is my reframe for her, she gently took the bananas and the somewhat surprising choice of skin-on pineapple from my hands. We were then allowed the hose and instructed, through a complicated game of charades for non-Malayalam-speaking-foreigners, to fill up her trunk. We seemed to be hosing for minutes. Long minutes. We thought she might drown--try charading that to your local, unfriendly Muhoot!  Finally, with trunkful, she knocked it back and necked litres of water in one shot. If you think chugging a yard of ale is impressive, watch the elephant, my friend!

The average female Asian elephant weighs 8,000lbs. One of Lashmi's feet has a greater circumference than my hip measurement. I became rather engrossed by the power of paw. If a horse hoof can break your fragile human metatarsals, what in Hades can a elephant foot do? Compress a foot to fleshy, boney paper? Sorry, a bit grisly, I know, but such is the stream of consciousness on this blogette, baby. Back to the feet. With every carefully-placed footfall, she exerted such power thudding through her leg that the patterns of age criss-crossing her skin, would shift and resettle. You could see the shock absorbed from toe upwards. In put me in mind of stale marshmallows and how they wrinkle when you prod them. Every movement she made was a wonder to me: every sway, curl and snuffle of her trunk caught my breath. Other tourists stood back frightened, squealing as she reached her trunk towards them. How strange, I thought. I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do than show this creature some care: to touch her skin, to whisper soft 'hellos', meet her sorrow-filled eyes; just to let her know that I would do her no harm.  My brief meeting with Lashmi didn't dispell the magic of Disney and her soft caresses will stay with me forever.

The adventure continued as Indra, Herma, Prakash and I sallied forth, up the corkscrew mountain pathways through the ever-continuing tea gardens, marveling at the devastating waterfalls; passing barefoot Pilgrims walking the hot dusty road on their trek to temple. We slowed down to watch a bull elephant munch on some bamboo and laughed at the daredevil monkeys lunging onto the windscreen like little tribal mascots, curious to get a closer look. Prakash dashed along the tree-lined avenues, cars, rickshaws, buses and motorbikes, all competing to overtake the others at the same time, and--oh horror--the opposite lane doing the same. We navigated our way through the unbelievable synochrized-haphazard movement of traffic through the pedestrian-packed streets; and eventually we reached the silence, stillness and awe-inspiring Godliness of Parabikulum Tiger Preserve.

Godliness is not a word I use lightly. Indra and I had brainstormed for quite some while about fitting adjectives, but when I mentioned 'Godly' we both agreed, it fitted perfectly. Those of you who know me well, might chortle at me using it, but really, as I saw the bounty of the world unfold before me, it was a truly 'religious' experience. The scale of it all!

Curious to see the world, had I unwittingly fallen down the rabbit hole, downed the 'drink me' bottle and shrunk to diddy-size? No, I was no smaller; Nature unfettered, uncropped and untopiaried was just bigger. Unbelievably so.

As Indra and I sat cross-legged, high above the canopy of the eucalyptus, the bamboo, the birch, woven together with creepers and vines, watching the sun melt into the leafy horizon, listening to the trees whistle with the wind, I was converted, to Nature.   I held my breath, for what felt like 5 minutes, and then it had gone; the sun had disappeared, the wisps of azure, ivory, rose and lilac sky had merged into a steely grey. But I was humbled, I had the awe-inspiring snapshot fixed, preserved in the Preserve.

The Tiger Preserve is one of many large, protected areas of wilderness, conserved by the tribes of the area. The camp within the preserve is a settlement of tent niches, dormitories, dining pagoda and gift shop (yup, even in India. Disney would be proud!) We were housed in the tent niche--an elegant housing by camping standards--not the leaky canvas offering I was used to after many a mildewed summer holiday spent in Wales. There was a roof, a mattress of sorts, a cold shower, elephant-proof electric fencing... you know, the usual.

Indra and I were early for the trek and, like good girl scout typees, we came prepared and cracked open our books! We sat nestled in the notch of a mighty tree, a cosy gap between it's split trunks, and we feasted on currents reads. Little did I know I had inadvertly sat in a nest of crabby-like fleas who were feasting upon me. Oh that was a joyful discovery--what did I say about humbling? But I digress. As I provided the entree, Indra and I heard schoolgirl giggles in the background.  We exchanged eye-rolls. Was our precious peace about to be disturbed? Did this mean our trek was to be shanghai-ed by a bus-load of noisy teenagers, warning any creatures from miles away that we are approaching? Oh good grief! We diligently kept eyes to pages and hoped the teens would pass.

The giggles did not pass however. They got louder. I reluctantly prised my eyes from the pages of Picoult and--GAH!--we were surrounded. About twenty, wide-eyed, white-teethed school children, encircled our sanctuary. I smile apologetically,
"Oh, hello!"
"Hello!"
"Hello!"
"Hello!" rang out amidst the giggles and whilstling trees.
"What is your good name?"
I kept tight-lipped, "I'm Indra and this is my friend Eleanor." Eyes grew wider.
"Where are you going?"
I should probably point out to those unfamiliar with South India, that this is staple conversatory-fodder, similar to the 'How are you?' of western ways.
We simply told them where we were from and that we were staying for a couple of days, yet, this disclosure did not seem to satisfy them. There they stood, unmoving, unspeaking, just...giggling.
I looked at Indra, awkwardly.
She looked at me, awkwardly.
We looked at the children, awkwardly.
She fashioned her lips into a smile and said sweetly, "Well, nice to met you. Goodbye."
Slowly, they dispersed.

About 5 minutes later, the school tribe returned, again circling our sanctuary.
"Hello again." We said. I was now not only feeling awkward, but the teeniest bit threatened (probably not helped by the fact that now the crabby-fleas were helping themselves to seconds of shank of Eleanor.)
"We have come to take picture." The ringleader said sheepishly, holding up her cell phone camera. "You mind us take picture?"
Indra looked at me, I looked at her. I felt just a tad foolish. How had I felt at all threatened! I was double their age and comfortable in my circa 1998 khakis and 2004 greying and in-need-of-replacement trainers.
I nodded and said that would be okay and readied with my camera-smile. Given the cue, the ringer leader said something and all at once, cameras and cell phones were brandished and held aloft, a series of little flashes fired in my general direction. This went on for minutes, before Indra--who is, she will be the first to admit, not just camera shy, but camera-phobic, said, "Okay, that's enough now, thank you!" The children smiled, rehoused their weaponry and off they giggled.

I sat there amused (this was pre-flea awareness). I had travelled three-quarters of my way around the globe. I had thought that I had avoided the, sometimes patronizing, western arrogance that I had seen in other tourists--you know, the 'Oh Indra! Isn't that just so cute! The little Indians are wearing funny diaper-things. I must get a photo with me with the natives!' But maybe I had been arrogant. I had expected to be a known species, that my whiteness would have gone before me (rightly or wrongly). Little had I realized that I was far more strange to the locals and school children visiting Parabikulum than they were to me. I was the circus attraction, on a par with the bearded lady or the vertically-challenged spectacles of Victorian days, I was... the White Woman with Blue Eyes!

As the Godly, breath-taking, vast, elemental, humbling landscape is held fast on the photo-plates of my memory, my blue eyes, red hair and peppering of freckles is, for now at least, fixed in the memory of 20 cell phones somewhere in South India.

As I recall my experiences of India, I suppose my lesson is this: to look at everything with fresh, wide-eyed wonder, you enjoy it more and look better in cell phone photos; just because it's a Tiger Preserve, don't actually expect to see a tiger; and, look down before you sit down.

Until next week!

Ind-ja The Incongruous, Part 1

2011-02-06T05:58:00.000-08:00

It is day 4 of my visit to Ind-ja and I feel I have been away for a long time already—partly because I have seen so much; because much has been happening with work and the unscratchable itch is difficult to ignore; but mainly because I am truly a world away from northeast PA. Three quarters of a world, to be precise.

I helped at the local orphanage yesterday and showed the girls on a map where I had boarded the giant jet, where I had connected in Dubai and finally landed in Kochi, before driving to Puttankadu—go ahead, Ladies and Gents, reach for your Philips Atlas, last thumbed in geography class circa 1995, and you will see it’s a bloody long way—it took 28 hours door to door. I think I was more impressed by the distance than the girls were. That’s all preamble to say that I shouldn’t be surprised by the differences of geography, of culture, of ethics, and yet I am.

My traveling companion, Indra, pointed out that, as humans, we always look to identify things and label them: ‘Oh, so a pierogi is really the Polish version of an Italian ravoli’; ‘his new girlfriend looks so much like his ex-wife’; ‘this Chateau du Crap reminds me of weasel piss,’ and so on. And perhaps my head is spinning because there is so much here I cannot classify, and as soon as I think I have found a nice convenient category for such and such or whatever, I observe something so surprisingly juxtaposed, something so incongruous, that my inner Taxonomist is filing for divorce.

Puttankadu is a beautiful rural mountain village in the state of Kerala, South India, 20 km from the nearest city Munnar—see, see my need to geographically classify it for you? The view from my fairy-light lit veranda is asthma-inducing it’s so breath-taking. (Here's a picture on the website for you: http://www.munnarcarpediemcottage.com/contact.asp ) The valley is carpeted with majestic palms, banyans, silver birches so tall they must be hundreds of years old, and there is barely a blot on the landscape, barring the surprising electricity pylons. Take a jostling drive (more of that later) into the village and there is a lot happening under and between this canopy of green. The red dusty roads that defy straight lines, even paving, or gentle gradients, weave through the trees, breaking up this verdant paradise. 'God's own country' according to the tourist billboards.

Most houses are improvised shacks, camouflaged and nestled along the roadside, so the pepto-bismol pink, cornflower blue, aqua and tangarine residences that lurk around the hairpin bends; brilliantly vibrant temples decorated with painted murals that look more like strange childrens’ playgrounds than places of worship, pop out of the dense green with a loud architectural ‘BOO!’

When I drive at break neck speed over the hills and down the valleys of NEPA, Mum tends to burst into song, namely, hymns: ‘Lord, Jesus Christ ….’ She not religious, you understand, merely communing with higher powers before I fly off the road. Well, if she were the passenger driving the roads to Munnar, she would appreciate that my driving is, in fact, like driving Miss Daisy, T. A. M. E. Wow, do they do break-neck here! I’m super impressed. The way Prakash, our driver, whips around downhill corners, changes gear, beeps the horn, squeezes passed the oncoming bus with less than an inch to spare, has a cell phone conversation and doesn’t fly off the hairpin bend into the onion dome of the pepto bismol temple, is a marvel. But, he is by no means unique. The Indian drivers are speed racers of this red and twisty pot-holed circuit. Seriously, you think Monaco is a perilous track, try South India. Unlike Monaco, the road traffic accident rate is surprising low, so I am told. The roads are narrow, clearly, clearly, meant for just one vehicle, yet Prakash and his fellow racers seem to find extra road where there is none. Factor into this, dear Blog Readers, that at this point of ‘Oh My God, I’m Gonna Die,’ motorbikes, motorized rickshaws and pedestrians--often with big bundles, appear and seem completely unphased that the growling hunk of metal is centimeters from collision. This is normal, everyday Indian life. Now for the incongruous bit, the cell phones! Indra and I have to laugh--perhaps hysteria--that Prakash and Herma chatter happily on their phones, without the slightest worry, as we both breathe in and brace for impact. We pass these scenes of great natural beauty and guilty-inducing poverty, and there we fly by, plugged into the latest technology.

The trees and bushes, on closer inspection, are a well-stocked pantry of goodies, supplying cocoa, tea, coffee, cardamom, peppercorns, bananas, coconuts, jack fruit and more besides. Imagine having that at the bottom of your garden! Emeril would be hyperventilating by now. What struck me as odd, and rather sad, about this bounty, is the lack of interest in keeping it clean. Maybe this is because the country is so huge, it is not thought a problem, I don’t know, I’m just typing out loud.

We stopped for tea by the side of the road at a scenic point on the road to Munnar. The spot was bustling with honeymooners (identified by fading henna), sightseers (with cameras) and locals (with nonchalance), all sipping on their little paper cups of spiced, sweet chai.

The view of the valley was spectacular, definitely worth stopping for, the stretch and another cup of tea were a civilized bonus. Seeing my wonder, Herma, my host, told me to look directly down from the wall of this look out spot. You got it! A landslide of paper cups. The rubbish bin beside the tea shack? Practically empty.

Oh no! I don’t want to be all pious and judgemental. I am looking from Western eyes, of course. I grew up with ‘Keep Great Britain Tidy’ campaigns and the like, where recycling is now enforced on pain of fines; I live in America where recycling is encouraged and trash dumping an offense, so that’s my norm.

My host is changing things around Kerala. She is a one-woman force to be reckoned with, fearlessly challenging the unquestioned and unchampioned here. She sees the rubbish, the oblivious dumping and she wants to change it. I think she will. She has already set up a trust with her own money, and with donations, to fund girls from the village and from the orphanage through higher education. $80 a month will put a girl through university and it gives them the chance of having a career, as opposed to the life most women have here, that of harsh servitude.

Herma took Indra and me to the orphanage yesterday. I was expecting ‘Annie’ with saris, but hopefully a kind Miss Hannigan caring for the girls. To my surprise, these girls were completely unsupervised, the older girls, and by older I mean 14 or 15 year olds, look after the younger ones. They go to school, but their time thereafter they are left alone. Herma visits often to break up the day for them, to educate them, to help them with their English, and it is obvious the girls love these visits.

They greeted me with shouts of “Andy! Andy!” They must mean 'Indy' for Indra, thought I.

“I’m Eleanor.” I said. “Indra is over there.”

“Andy, Andy! Where is your family?”

“My mother and my father live in England, but I am Eleanor, Indra is over there.”

“Andy, Andy! Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“My brother lives in England too. Indra has brothers and a sister, she is over there.”

“Andy, Andy! But who you live with?”

“I live on my own.”

The air was sucked out of the room, inky pupils grew wide.

“Andy! Poor Andy!” And the girls scattered.

“I don’t get it.” I told Indra later and repeated to her the entire conversation. Indra chuckled.

“No, it’s Aunty. They call everyone Aunty out of respect. And no woman would live on her own here. They must think something is really wrong with you!”

Ha! ‘Twas ever thus.

I did have a lovely time at the orphanage, the girls milled around, asking questions, touching my hair and I showed them photographs, commented on their dresses and, gulp, I sang. I know, for shame, who do I think I am, Maria Von Trapp? But they asked me to and how do you say no to a gaggle of excited children? I couldn’t. Trouble was, what in Hades do you sing to a group of impressionable girls? And, what do I know the words to? Since I deemed neither Biffy Clyro nor Kings of Leon overly appropriate, I sang ‘I Am Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ from ‘The Sound of Music’. I thought they would like it, it’s a sweet song after all, but the response was, after wide eye rolling, “Andy, don’t you know any Michael Jackson?”

Hee hee. Oh!

Before leaving, one of the older girls, Jessel, said to me, “You know, you look like Malayalam actress.”

I suppose we all need to classify something new.

To be Continued…

Are you happy now?

2011-01-26T20:04:00.000-08:00

And so it is... the big day! The launch of my website. This really needs to be a momentous blog entry, 'don't it Guv'nor?' Well, it will be a HAPPY one, at least.

So, drum roll...fanfare...standby Barry Manilow and let fly with your double dream jazz hands. We are live in 3-2-1. Cue content!

I've been doing a lot of 'reframing' recently. No, I don't mean discovering my inner Martha Stewart and crafting with decoupage, mounts and the like, but reframing my thoughts: viewing a potentially negative situation and choosing to focus on the positives. I know--cringe--it sounds incredibly 'Polyanna'-esque and if you are vomiting in your throat right now, or even just a dry heave, I don't blame you. You see, that's what I thought, until I tried it. Oh yes, I was once, quite, quite miserable.

Now, this 'reframing' mullarky is by no means a novel thought, the internet is full of self-titled 'Life Coaches' harping on about 'reframing thoughts and the law of attraction', even the American Heart Association promotes it as a coping mechanism to de-stress. However, I wasn't spurred on to behave in this happy vein by crashing into it on the superhighway--though I did use it when I crashed on the actual highway (see below), but I stole it directly from author Gretchen Rubin. Her book, #1 New York Times bestseller 'The Happiness Project', suggests reframing, as well as other strategies, to help fulfill one's happiness quota.

Gretch did oodles of research (I scanned her references. Long. Impressive. It would have taken me several years to read the list of research tomes, let alone take on the year long project AND write the book). Shamelessly, I have done no such analysis, but instead, I am offering Self up to the Happiness Gods and I'm Jekylling it!

So what, pray, have I discovered thus far? Is positively reframing a free form of valium? Am I slathering at the mouth with all the saccharine cheer? Do I still want to scream when friends' children wipe their snot on my dry-clean only suede trousers?

Actually, focusing on the good things, and making time in my day to do the things I enjoy, (and often deny myself), is making me happier than I have been in a long time.

I am not going to bore you with the laundry list of converted negatives, but--what's that? Oh, you want to read what I could possibly have to feel peeved about! Well, okay, just so you have a mental picture, this example is fairly recently ingrained in my memory. Imagine: life happens, snow falls, ice freezes, car tires lose traction, careens across the interstate and Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt and I'm the mother of a hideously expensive car accident! Oh deep joy!

Old Self would have cried, perhaps thrown herself on the State Trooper and cried some more. Then she would have felt utterly miserable and, whilst suffering the cold for five hours without even a biscuit at Stew's Auto Body Shop, waiting an eternity for the rental car to appear, she would probably have phoned everyone in her Contacts, wailing and bemoaning her lot. 'No body knows the troubles I seen...'

New Self did not. New Self reframed. (Yes, am feeling v. smug and grown up about this.) New Self coped ON HER OWN.
Okay, maybe I did phone a couple of people and I had a nice chat with the Onstar lady, but I did not cry. Well, not until my mum phoned, but that's different. To everyone else I held it together as I thought, 'It's okay, I'm not dead.'

This is a brilliant 'reframer' because it really does work for everyone in whatever situation!
'Oh lordy, that dang price of gas has gorn up ag-geen. But, no matter Alma-Jean 'cause at least I'm not dead!'
See! So pop that one in your Reframing Armory because anyone can use it!
(Except, perhaps, Joan Rivers. Don't be fooled, someone in Hollywood is just a really talented ventriloquist.)

Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project suggests various other strategies and I won't go on ad nauseam, but these are the ones I have implemented thus far:
1) Decluttering. Check.
Actually, I hired an assistant for my other J.O.B. and she de-cluttered, but now, I see surfaces, Sweetie, SURFACES! And yes, this has brought me untold joy. You have to understand that pre-Operation Declutter, there was a paper landslide covering my desk, dining table, coffee table, bedside table; in fact, it had spread to the outerreaches, chair seats and even *gasp* the floor. Quite frankly I am just thrilled to have somewhere to sit.
2) Sing in the morning. Check.
This has never been a problem for me. (Only for my neighbours). And, Ms. Rubin, I have gone one better, because not only do I sing, but I also dance at the same time, arabesquing across my kitchen, and double dream hands-ing in the shops.
3) Exercising/being good to yourself. Check.
I am giving Self the gift of doing this everyday, because my little time on the treadmill makes me happy. Miserable Me would have not allowed Self a work out if time were pressed. New Happy Me insists upon it. Now, although this is being good to Self, I do want to point out the potential pitfalls (or, as I like to call them, 'shitfalls') of working out.
You could say that I am Happiness-Greedy, but I like to think I'm just a multi-tasker, because I go for double-happy: running on the treadmill whilst watching the talk show 'Ellen'. Do you know how hard it is to run at top speed when you are doubled over laughing; when the dancing-Christmas-white-jumpsuited 'Elfis Presley' skips on set and falls over and you can't do anything but convulse, gripping on to the handrails and hoping to all that is holy that the machine slows down before you fall off.
Well, it ain't easy and if you happen to laugh too hard it can result in grazed knees/a chipped tooth/broken nose. (I only sustained one of the three, but I was lucky--see! Behold the reframing!)

I do have more resolutions to implement, as per Rubin's book, I need to write Eleanor's Manifesto and I want to complete my list of commandments. The Happiness Project is a fully functioning website, with tools to track your progress, words of encouragement and using it brings a certain accountability by just typing goals down and putting it out there. Do visit: http://www.happiness-project.com/

I'll let you know how it goes, but for now there seem to be no adverse effects from being positive. No Mr. Hyde's have surfaced, foaming at the mouth, raging through the streets of Clarks Summit. With surfaces to recolonize, time to write, to read, to sing, to leap in the kitchen, to run whilst laughing, I am feeling pretty happy. Screw the car, the price of gas, the grazed knees and the lack of Oscar nomination, it's okay I'm not dead.