I'm Dreaming of a Wet Christmas

Let’s get this clear at the start. I love dogs. 

I really, really, really love dogs. I love their big soppy eyes, their ridiculous wagging tails, and their unconditional love and affection that becomes even more unconditional the more you feed them.

   

But what I can’t stand about dogs is their inability to distinguish between grass (toilet) and cream carpet (not a toilet).

   

My mother and her Bichon Frisé, Maddie, came for Christmas, and it was wonderful to see them both after my having spent months away. Maddie has been very ill recently, and after fears for her health she has returned to her usual bouncy self. She wet herself with the usual excitement when she saw me (I wish I had the same effect on men), then raced around the living room, once again delighted to be in the home where she knows she gets a gravy dinner if she goes outside to empty her bladder.

   

Because of her recent illness, doggy gravy dinners were off the menu this year, and it was doubtless this change in routine that confused her, resulting in two puddles on my bedroom carpet, one on my dining room carpet, and a monster of a river in the hallway that I slipped on, sending me flying and injuring my hip.

   

That wasn’t the only injury I sustained. On Christmas Eve, after being let into the garden for her last ablution before bedtime, she decided to go walkabout – or, rather, hideabout. She gets very upset every time she sees a squirrel running across my wall, and the non-stop barking serves only to entertain said squirrel, who runs up and down in the knowledge that Maddie cannot climb walls.

   

But on Christmas Eve, Maddie decided to try another route and found a part of the garden that might gain her access to her new playmate. It took me half an hour to find her hidden amongst a clump of bushes where holly and nettles and all manner of wood and mud had somehow congregated to make a climbable mound.

   

Coaxing her out of there was the difficult part. I finally managed it by calling “Treat”, which she knows to be a reward in the form of a biscuit. When she emerged in the small clearing  and excitedly sniffed at my hand, she knew she had been tricked not treated, and was straight back into the forest. I returned to the house to get a real treat (a piece of ham) and a large umbrella to battle my way into the woods.

   

“Treat! Treat!” I called. No way. She had been caught on that ruse once and wasn’t going to be fooled again. As I beat about the bushes with the giant golf umbrella, I fell off the mound and injured my already bad back and started to bleed after being attacked by a holly bush.

   

“She’s back, she’s back!” called Mum from the house. Well, good for her, I mumbled, pulling branches from my ears.

   

Back on the sofa, she did everything a dog can do to try to apologise, but I ignored her. For all of five minutes. Then she blinked those big brown eyes with such pitiful love, I melted yet again.

   

Until the alien. You remember the scene? The one in which a gross creature leaps out from someone’s stomach? That was Maddie, except the alien emerged from her mouth.

   

I am not great with human vomit, but doggie vomit isn’t too bad. I had already cleaned up a yellow, frothy one from the cream carpet (how she loves that carpet) a couple of days earlier and, as she hasn’t been well, my only concern was for her health. But after her safari, she returned to project a veritable snake of a thing that bore no resemblance to anything I have ever seen come out of any mouth. Ever. And I know a lot about horrible things in mouths. You’ll just have to trust me on that one.

  

“No, don’t eat it!” yelled Mum, when Maddie started sniffing at her installation.

   

I made Mum clean it up. I really couldn’t. Turkey, gravy and grass. Solidified. I am heaving just thinking about it.

   

They both went home yesterday and I am resting my injured hip and back. I’m already missing them. The house is strangely quiet without the echo of my voice shouting “No, Maddie, NOOOOOOOO!” The squirrel looks a little bit lost without its companion. The installation is an empty space, as if the work of art that once stood there has been moved to another gallery.

   

Weeing and vomiting dogs are, I suspect, like childbirth. It’s hell when you’re going through it, but the long term benefits far outweigh the bad. Maddie is, at the end of the day, the cutest dog on the planet. 

And certainly a worthy successor to Alien: Resurrection.

  

   

For the Love of Snow

It’s happening again! 

Outside my window, even as I write. With my desk side-on to the window (I have a feng shui obsession about not having my back to the door), I was suddenly aware of the flurry of their presence once more. Snowflakes.

   

It is just under two weeks since they were here last, when I woke on Thanksgiving morning in New York City and took in what has always been to me a wondrous sight: the world as we know it, coming to an end temporarily, as the movie of white moves in, emptying the grey and darkness of reality.

   

That is why I have always loved snow. As a kid, I loved the arbitrariness of snowfall: going to bed at night, my head packed with the images and emotions of the day, and then, waking, to the white of transformation. Everything gone. The clean slate. Everything new. The opportunity to start again.

   

My greatest heartbreak was if I was ill when snow fell. My mother would never risk my catching cold, and however much I said I was feeling fine, there was always that damned thermometer being stuck in my mouth, telling a different story. So I would watch from my bedroom window, sadly observing the other kids playing on the street and, yes, weeping about the cruelty of nature that had deprived me from one of life’s greatest pleasures.

   

I was, and remain, mystified, when people say that no single snowflake is the same as any other. Okay, but come on: a lot of them have to be pretty damned similar, don’t they? I’m all for the sentimentality of beauty, but let’s not over-egg the pudding or, in this case, over-ice the (snow) cake.

   

The inherent sadness of snow is that it doesn’t last, but then nothing does (except death, but that’s another morbid story altogether). No sooner do you wake to perfect, still white, than the first footprints appear – the human trek through nature that immediately puts a stain on the landscape. 

Then there’s the thaw – the knowledge that nothing remains the same, and that the passing of everything is inevitable. 

Then there’s the mess as the solidity of ice turns to brown mush, and the horror of what lies beneath shows through again. 

Before you know it, you’re back to reality, just as if it never went away – which, of course, it didn’t; but, for a brief time, we basked in the white of perfection.

   

It’s what makes snow the perfect metaphor for life, and it’s why I love it. So many flakes, so little time. Some are rushing, some are falling slowly, others are coming up to my window as if hoping for refuge; but, in the end, they’ll be gone. Whoosh! Life is short. It evaporates before you know it.

   

When I was seven, I went to ballet school, and, at for the end of term concert, the 32 strong company was to do a snowflake routine. I was so excited. Being a snowflake meant donning a tutu in addition to our pink satin pumps. Unfortunately, after a term, my pink satin pumps had taken on the appearance of a couple of pigs’ tongues after a heavy day’s hogging at a dirty trough, and I saw my snowflake dream evaporate like . . . well, snow. 

Of the 32 girls in the company, 26 were to play snowflakes; the remaining six were cast as fishermen. The snowflakes were to wear their white tutus and tights, and trail their arms delicately through the frosty air. They had to tread gently on tip-toe and raise their eyes heavenward in the hope of joining forces with their snowflake cousins. The fishermen were to chuck nets and wear brown gingham.

   

I was a fisherman. There wasn’t even a discussion about it, and no amount of reassurance regarding the exclusivity of the fisherman’s role could convince me that being a snowflake wasn’t the better deal. My brown shorts were a generous fit and provided plenty of space for my flesh to work up a healthy sweat on the impending march. The gingham top had an elastic waist and elastic puffed sleeves, which pinched my skin. My rod was a piece of bamboo with a pocket of green net on the end. And my feet boasted a hideous pair of brown sandals that could have passed for calipers. 

I have no recollection of my fellow anglers, but guess that our combined body weights equalled that of the rest of the company put together. I can still, however, recall the perfect features, bodies and buns, of every girl in a tutu. It’s not true when they say that no two snowflakes are alike; I recall 26 of the damned things, indistinguishable from one another.

   

Our routine – or “dance”, as they rather generously called it - was a kind of march that had all the grace of an out of control political rally. The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, it wasn’t; a dance, it wasn’t. The whole thing had clearly been concocted to make use of six plump seven year olds, who didn’t have what it took to be snowflakes. And we knew it. Our performance lasted all of a minute; the snowflakes were on stage for what felt like three winters. 

It was small comfort that I walked away with a costume I would be able to wear all summer (as my mother excitedly told me, in one of her many “value for money” speeches), while the snowflakes knew that a tutu would look very silly on the beach; this was humiliation, and I wanted to die.

   

So yes, when I see snow, I am excited. I see all of life flash before me, including my own: the one I could have had as a snowflake. But still. Maybe life hasn’t been all bad as a fisherman. There are always plenty more fish in the sea. 

Just as there are snowflakes in the sky.

Coast to Coast - A Guide to LA and NYC

My bi-coastal life has seen me spend most of the past few months in New York City rather than Los Angeles. Unusually, apparently, it was an uncharacteristically non-humid summer in NYC, followed by a mild and dry autumn. There has been just one day so far on which I felt the need to wrap up very warm. I am assured this will soon change and that nothing short of sitting in a hot bath for two months will keep me warm during the harsh East Coast winters.

  

I am better in the cold than the heat. When I departed LA in July, the humidity was unbearable and I was glad to escape. Last week, I was back there, and it was still too hot for me. I suspect this will not be the case when I return in January.

  

It’s not only my body that has to adapt to the changes in circumstances. Each time I swop cities, my diet, emotions, mindset, spirit and behaviour transform, along with my temperature. Should anyone be considering an East/West existence, you would do well to heed the following in order to prepare yourself fully for what lies ahead.

ROAD SAFETY

NEW YORKERS

Pedestrian crossings are there only to show pretty lights – white and red. White means you can cross to the other side; so does red. If anyone ahead of you does not understand this basic principle, it is acceptable to shout “Hey! Move it, people!” and shove them into oncoming traffic in order to save yourself three valuable seconds.

ANGELENOS

Don’t even think of getting to the other side of the road until you have made at least three phone-calls, while forgetting that you are required to push the button on the crossing to bring up the pretty lights. And specially don’t think of crossing on red. This is considered an act of civil disobedience and will get you an on the spot fine, or instant incarceration from a vigilant policeman who has seen too much NYPD Los Angeles on the telly.

DIET

NEW YORKERS

If it stands still long enough, chuck it in your gob or, preferably, straight down your throat, bypassing tongue and teeth. The idea is to gain at least seven pounds from the moment you start eating to when you call for the check. Always keep at the forefront of your mind that there could be a pizza famine at any moment.

ANGELENOS

Never under-estimate a leaf. There is a lot you can do with it. Lift it to your mouth and put it down again. Slalom it around your plate as if it is engaged in the annual Lettuce Grand Prix. Chew on it 20 times in order to create enough saliva that acts as a filling beverage to accompany your meal. All of this will give you the impression that you are gorging to your heart’s content. Should you feel too full after swallowing said leaf, you can rush to the rest room to put your fingers down your throat.

SERVICE

NEW YORKERS

Contrary to popular belief, New Yorkers are not rude; they are just very direct. Expect to be chased down the street with a very sharp fork if you don’t leave a tip, and expect to be greeted like a long lost relative on your next visit if you leave a large one. Make sure you tip according to normal prices when paying Happy Hour prices – this will elevate you to the kissing greeting amongst staff.

ANGELENOS

Everyone’s a failed actor. Finding a waiter who is doing it for the love of the job will take as long as it did Steven Spielberg to win his first Oscar (a long time, since you ask). Expect to be asked for ID everywhere, even if you look 103. Never expect to be remembered – unless you are in the Boulevard Bar of the Beverly Wilshire, where they not only remember you, they remember what you like to drink two years after your last visit.

DRINKING

NEW YORKERS

Timing is everything. From two hour Happy Hours to all day Happy Hours, plus 4am closing time, expect never to find anyone 100% sober, unless they are in AA. “Will you do a shot with me?” is a familiar phrase delivered with such an air of melancholy, it seems rude to refuse. If you are a regular and tip well, expect to enjoy a complimentary drink. Sales people for new drinks are also forever promoting their wares in bars, which means you need never have single vision again, should you so choose.

ANGELENOS

Expect to go on safari to find a decent Happy Hour and never, ever expect a free drink, unless you are a hooker hanging out at a hotel bar. If you are, by the way, the technique appears to go along the lines of: you arrive at the bar at 5pm, drink tap water for anything between one minute and three hours, and then, when a potential client turns up, decide that nothing short of six $25 cocktails is going to quench your thirst.

SEX

NEW YORKERS

There isn’t any. But maybe that’s just me.

ANGELENOS

There isn’t any. But maybe that’s just me.

  

     

  

     

Judge Alex Ferrer - Beats Any Macy's Sale

Readers of my blogs, Twitter and Facebook pages will be under no illusions regarding my enthusiasm for Judge Alex Ferrer. 

I became a fan of his TV show when I moved to the US and have subsequently admired and (let’s not deny it) adored him in ways I have expressed more explicitly (as, indeed, have many other women; I’m not alone).

   

But now I’m going to be serious. When Judge Alex was (absurdly) dropped from our TV schedules, the best we could hope for was his turning up as a legal commentator on various networks, which he does with considerable regularity. He is, without doubt, the best. He brings, to every discussion, not hysteria or emotion, but the facts and how they relate to the law: this is the information and, based on this information, this is how it relates to the law. You may not like the law, you may not like the result, but this is how it is. FACT.

   

This is why I believe that the podcast Judge Alex has just launched (and there are so many more benefits) is something to which every person, woman, man or child, should subscribe (and no, I am not being paid to promote it. FACT). 

In New York this week, I have seen disruption on the streets following the decision not to indict Darren Wilson, following the fatal shooting of Michael Brown. Next came the decision not to indict officer Daniel Pantaleo following the death of Eric Garner. 

In no way do I wish to underestimate the tragic loss of human life, but on the streets of New York last night, people inadvertently caught up in different protests arrived in my local bar saying: “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saying – ‘Don’t shoot’ or ‘I can’t breathe’.” I stress again: I, nor anybody else, was making light of these men’s deaths, but the disturbances have highlighted aspects of the law and the judicial system, not to mention fundamentals in our society that, I believe, the cool head of Judge Alex addresses in his podcasts.

   

I am not an American citizen, but I have lived here for some time, and, I believe, the same problems exist in both our countries, the US and the UK (I cannot speak for others), when we are reliant upon the media for our information. Despite our knowing that the media – and, in particular, social media – is a totally unreliable source when it comes to facts, by nature we accept it because that is how we have been conditioned. It’s the “No smoke without fire” mentality. 

It’s the reason why I would make a dreadful juror. I’m not proud of this. But I really would. It is my mindset that if you are in court in the first place, you must have done something wrong. I would make a great – and I mean really, really great - prosecuting lawyer; but juror, no.

   

That’s why I believe Judge Alex’s podcasts to be important. They address the facts as they relate to the law, and I have already learned more in his first four than I suspect most people learn in law school in years (in fact, I already feel confident enough to try my first case. And, since you ask: No, I don’t think they’re all guilty now. It’s way, way, more complicated than that). The Ferguson podcasts are particularly interesting and take the sting out of the current incendiary situation by addressing the questions relating to the powers of a District Attorney and a Grand Jury.

   

I was incredibly upset to see the abuse – and, in my opinion, veiled threats – heaped upon Judge Alex following his appearance on Fox TV, where he did nothing other than do what he does brilliantly: state the facts AS THEY RELATE TO THE LAW (and I really cannot keep stressing this enough). I won’t repeat the abuse, although I suspect it upset me a great deal more than it did him, and I am sure he has had to deal with a lot worse.

   

But do we not owe it to ourselves, and our education system, to teach young people rational thought and the fundamentals of ethics? When we are growing up, we are told what is right from wrong from our so-called superiors, but that can be very subjective. Although I no longer would call myself a Christian, as a philosophy I think it’s still a pretty good one: BE NICE TO PEOPLE!

   

There are, however, many preponderances built into people’s individual philosophies, and that is why I believe that educating people to think should be a priority in education.

   

I say “to think”, because to say “educate them according to the law” throws up all sorts of problems – I would not, for example, advocate educating anyone, particularly women, in relation to Sharia law (which I will not even begin to address here).

   

Judge Alex Ferrer knows his law inside out, backwards, sideways – he really has a phenomenal legal brain. But what these podcasts do is encourage people to exercise rational thought: to think before you speak; think before you act; think before you judge. 

They should be a compulsory element of every school syllabus and, at $4.99 a month, you will learn more than you will from the hysteria of the media. 

And, I repeat: I really AM NOT being paid for this!

Connectpal.com/judgealex 

http://alexferrer.com/blog/?p=524 

Getting By - With A Little Help From My Friends

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. 

Never has Dickens’s opening to A Tale of Two Cities seemed so apt as it has for me during the past week. Writing about how I blew a fortune and face losing the house I worked so hard for, I felt exposed and vulnerable seeing the piece in print. 

On Thursday, I went into meltdown, took the batteries out of my cell phone, unplugged my landline and took myself off Twitter and Facebook. I e-mailed a friend making reference to throwing myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. Have no fear: I am way too much of a coward to do anything like that and, in any case, didn’t have the money for the subway to get me there. Instead, I went to bed and hysterically cried myself to sleep mid-afternoon, emptying my body of even more tears I found it hard to believe were still there.

   

But now to the best of times, because that is undoubtedly what the past days have brought me. If ever I needed a wake-up call as to the nature of true friendship, this past week was it. I had expected derisory comments, a lack of sympathy, schadenfreude by the bucketload; I had, after all, been very stupid in throwing money around in an effort to alleviate loneliness and buy happiness. I won’t pretend that my spending hadn’t brought me pleasure, not to mention pleasure to the people on whom I lavished gifts, but I had been reckless with money. 

I don’t resent spending one penny, by the way, on the true friends (and they know who they are) who benefited from my one-time good fortune; they repaid, and continue to repay me, in ways that money can’t buy, and I would not hesitate to spend on them again, if – no, when - my fortunes turn around.

   

The overwhelming compassion I have been shown has restored my faith in human nature. Generally, I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, anyway, and I believe that the majority of people do not set out to do a bad job in life. No matter what our circumstances, most of us share pretty much the same emotions – love, grief, happiness, sadness, jealousy: our bodies, minds and souls are, at grass roots level, the same. I won’t go into what leads some from the basic human blueprint into the paths of criminal activity, but I believe at any one time we are carrying a complex body of emotions that we all, in our varying ways, are only trying to make sense of. 

We just want to get by. Anything else is a bonus.

   

Longstanding friends were the first to reach out, including my oldest friend from my schooldays, who has not been without her own troubles in recent years. Offers of places to go to have a break were overwhelming – Scotland, Yorkshire, Ireland – as well as offers of food and drink (tea, wine, coffee), not only from friends, but people who know me only from Facebook and Twitter.

   

Carolyn Hitt, the brilliant, award-winning journalist on the Western Mail, wrote about me in her column. I did not think I had more tears to shed, but they plopped onto my keyboard non-stop as I read. Witty, poignant, sensitive, understanding – it was an extraordinary column about the nature of loneliness that the piece I wrote appears to have brought to light. Because, at the end of the day, what she absolutely got was that I wasn’t writing about money, but about an emptiness in the emotional coffers that no amount of cash can fill.

   

The line that struck me most in her piece was this:  “When you live alone you may always have people to do something with but you don’t have people to do nothing with.” And that’s it, in a nutshell. When I fantasise about having a partner in my life, it’s not parties and nights out that I think about; it’s lying on the sofa, hearing someone’s key in the lock, kissing them hello and hearing about their day, or, in reverse, me coming in and their hearing about mine. The joy of the nothingness.

   

Not that I think that having a partner is the answer to everything. I would rather feel lonely by myself than lonely in an unhappy marriage from which there is no escape. I am happy in my own company and I work alone. But, as you get older and see your friends clock up decades of togetherness, it gets harder – especially for women, for whom going out socialising alone is still not as acceptable or easy as it is for men in the same situation.

   

I have been humbled by the outpouring of understanding both from friends and strangers since the piece appeared. I have tried to respond to everyone, to whom I will remain eternally grateful. I finally got out of bed, set about putting the finishing touches to my book, and have written 12 pages of my screenplay. 

I’m back on the horse, albeit at a slow trot.

   

StereoPomics - My Music Hell

The troupe of scaffolders that follow me around the world with their chisels have now been outside my window for five months. The construction on which they are working goes up by two floors per week, which sounds bearable, until you realise that there might be another 100 to go. Claims that it is going to be the tallest apartment block in New York do nothing to alleviate my stress. Add to this the car horns, fire engine sirens and cruise ship foghorns on a daily basis, and the Hell’s Kitchen area in which I live becomes more hellish by the day.

   

None of the above, however, compares to the hell within my apartment block, where, shortly after I moved in, a couple with a Pomeranian arrived next door. My area is predominantly gay, which is great, as I feel very safe, and the guys everywhere are so friendly. Most of the couples have dogs and, interestingly, very small dogs, on whom they lavish affection I have rarely seen them bestow upon each other.

   

So, the two guys who moved in next door are the very proud owners of Mr Winston, a black Pomeranian who does not like being left alone. I know this, because every time the owners go out, Mr Winston scratches at the door and barks and barks and barks. It can be half an hour, an hour, or, on Saturday night, 90 minutes. It was probably longer on top of that, as I had to go out when I could no longer stand it, but later discovered that the guys had returned an hour after I left.

   

I have been around small dogs all my life – two poodles, a Chihuahua and a Bichon Frisé. I love them. But all four together could not make the noise that Mr Winston does. I have complained to the management on several occasions, but they seem powerless to do anything about it, despite having asked the residents to get a dog-sitter; I have even offered to look after Mr Winston myself, with no luck.

   

And now, “What fresh hell is this?” as Dorothy Parker said. In the apartment opposite Mr Winston, another couple have arrived, with their bundle of joy – another Pomeranian. Worse, another Pomeranian who also doesn’t like being left alone, and so, when all the owners are out at the same time, the dogs bark to each other across the hallway from their respective prisons. My fresh hell is the StereoPomics.

   

This week, I finally flipped and requested that the management move me to another apartment. At first, they wanted to charge me, saying that they would be left with an empty apartment, but after I pointed out I would be moving to another and that they were in breach of my lease in my being unable to enjoy my apartment in peace, they relented, and I will be moving up six floors, where I will be closer to the scaffolders but further away from the music of the StereoPomics.

   

I never thought I would get to know so much about US real estate law. Having successfully sued a landlady in Los Angeles for partial non-refund of my deposit when I left, I have had to start over with New York law. Every state has different laws relating to every aspect of American life, so while in LA I would be allowed to buy medicinal marijuana (not for myself, but to feed to noisy dogs in the form of cookies), in NY, where marijuana is illegal, I am reduced to shouting “Shut the f**k up!” in my corridor.

   

I have always had sensitive ears, and I recently went for hearing tests where I was told that I have the hearing of a dog. So, for all I know, Mr Winston, his new lover and I are all on the same frequency and they are barking to each other and saying: “When will that damned woman stop talking to herself?”

   

Having lived in big cities all my life, I am used to traffic noise, and I have pretty much become immune to the sirens and horns in NY. But there are certain frequencies that still resonate badly on my nerves. I was having lunch with a friend recently at an outdoor restaurant on 9^th Avenue (a very noisy place) and I heard a woman talking loudly into her cell-phone as she crossed the road. 

“Why do people have to talk so loudly?” I said. My friend was incredulous that I was sitting outdoors, amid traffic, sirens and all manner of other noise, yet tuned into one human voice. There are just certain pitches that are louder than others.

   

Anyway, I am moving apartments over the next few days and have checked out the dog situation on my new floor – just one, and not a Pomeranian. There is a very nice Japanese couple next door and, as far as I know, the Japanese are a quiet race. Apart from their love of karaoke, of course. That certainly won’t bother me, as I’ll be straight in there, hogging the microphone. 

Maybe I’ll sing How Much is that Doggie in the Window? Very, very loudly, through the air con unit that will resonate six floors down. 

Let’s see how you like that, Mr Winston.