Day of the Frackle?

FYI:  FRACKLE: an unnamed monster from The Muppet Show

Eight years ago, on the eve of my 50^th birthday, I was standing in front of a TV screen with tears streaming down my face. I was consumed with joy that, in my lifetime, I was about to see the first black man elected to be President of the USA.

   

It was a sublime moment in history: a massive step for man, an even bigger one for mankind. The racism Barack Obama endured then and has endured since is a disgrace; but he, and his extraordinary wife, Michelle, have come through two incredible terms of office in which so much has been accomplished. There will be many who disagree with aspects of Obama’s policies, but when I decided, on that historic day, to come to America, I can honestly say it is a better place today than it was back then.

   

Although I have spent, and continue to spend time in the UK, it is America that I love with a passion. I am fortunate to be able to split my time between Los Angeles and New York, and, in the latter in particular, I have found extraordinary warmth and friendship in people from all parts of the world. America’s great strength is its lack of history; it’s what lends it a rather lovely innocence. But conversely, its great weakness is its lack of history, because it has few benchmarks that might have proven to be invaluable lessons along the way.

   

Because today, alas, I am one of many who awaits the result of an election that might see the very antithesis of Obama elected. Donald Trump. A man whose racism, misogyny, ignorance, tax evasion and bullying is being celebrated by millions. A man who, by his own admission – proudly - admits to all these things. A man who intimidates the vulnerable, exploits the power of money, cheats on his wives, loudly spouts drivel because he is preaching to the deaf. A man who has all the characteristics of a sociopath. A man who is, quite frankly, not a man.

   

There are many men like him. But there are millions who are not. There are millions of women who, bizarrely, are attracted to the monstrous behaviour Trump displays at every turn. I find it inconceivable that any human being in the civilised world would vote for him; but I find it especially offensive that any self-respecting woman would.

   

More than ever, in the chaos of our modern world, we need to stress, on a daily basis, the qualities that make us human: compassion, love, acceptance of our differences, tolerance, a belief in the need to strive to be better. In essence: goodness.

   

While I do not hold the religious beliefs I once had, I still maintain that Ephesians states that message beautifully and succinctly: “Be kind to one another.” That’s quintessential goodness.

   

Nothing that I write is going to change anyone’s mind about the way they vote today; truthfully, it never was, though I have been doing my bit in the vague hope of making the stubborn blind see. But if this election has taught us anything, it is the lesson about what it means to be a decent human being.

   

I am not saying that Hillary Clinton is squeaky clean (what politician is?) but I have studied her over many years and seen how she has championed the weak in her work as a lawyer; celebrated womankind both publicly and privately (and she has done so much for young girls and education that has conveniently been forgotten); and, whether you think she was wrong or right to stand by her erring man, Bill, she did. It’s called marriage. It’s called loyalty. It’s called staying power.

   

I sit here today, genuinely scared about the outcome of the vote. I am not alone. Saying yes to Trump is casting a vote in the ballot box of stupidity. For what sane person would want to live in a world that has, at its helm, a person who is openly contemptuous of everything we hold dear in society? It boils down to humanity versus inhumanity, and, cliché as it is, my heart feels heavier today than it has ever done.

   

This is no Brexit. Not even close. 

Here’s the thing: “If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.” Adolph Hitler. He also said: “It is not truth that matters, it’s victory.” Sound like anyone you know?

   

Today is either going to turn out to be one of the greatest in American history, or one of its saddest. One can only hope that sanity will triumph.

   

Until that moment, I’m uncorking a bottle of fine wine. 

This could be our last day of freedom. 

I want to remember it.

No Room at the (Marriott) Inn

Apparently, I am still hot enough to be mistaken for a hooker. 

The weird thing is, I have never been mistaken for one in my entire life. 

On November 5^th, I will be 58, so I suppose I should be flattered. The idea that any man might want to sleep with me at 58 is pleasing; the idea that I might be missing out on a commercial venture, though, is slightly distressing.

   

So, I was on a brief trip back to the UK to see my mother and friends. I’ll be spending Christmas by myself in New York this year (post-Brexit, I just can’t afford to travel on key dates) and it will be only the second time since my father died in 1990. Having sold my UK house, where Mum and (in the past ten years) her dog Maddie have spent every Christmas with me, it will be a little odd. 

But I’ll be fine. Who knows: maybe Macy’s will be holding one of their rare 365 days a year sales.

   

But I digress. So, being a fan of the Marriott group and collecting their points, I booked into the Cardiff Marriott, where I have always found the staff to be among the most pleasant of any hotel in which I have ever stayed. On Thursday, having checked in, I went out in my new black, zip up the side trousers, red sandals, and felt thrilled to be back in my home city.

   

I had such a great night, meeting up with friends, and returned to the hotel looking forward also to catching up on jet-lag following my flight from New York.

   

I arrived at the door and was greeted by security. 

“I’m staying here,” I explained, as I attempted entry.

  

“ARE you?” said the burly man, blocking my path.

  

“Yes, I’m already checked in. I’m a guest.”

   

“Are you sure about that?”

   

“Yes, I’m in room 915.”

  

“Are you really ABSOLUTELY sure about that?”

   

“Yes” (slightly hysterical by now).

   

Finally, I was allowed in, following checks that would not have been out of place had I been a terrorist wearing an ISIS issued hoodie.

   

Excuse my language, but this is bloody appalling, Marriott. I know that hotels have “problems” with prostitutes and was told by a member of staff that this has been an issue of late; but to assume that any woman in high heels and out at 2.30am is on the game is upsetting, offensive, sexist, rude, and a ton load of other adjectives I have called you since it happened.

   

So, I’m a hot chick?! Am I not allowed to dress up at 58? Am I not allowed to stay out late? Is it okay now to bully women who don’t fit the “norm”, whatever that is in Wales these days?

   

I spend a lot of time in New York, where, as an older woman, I am treated with nothing other than respect. I can hang out at bars, stay out late, have a laugh with whomever I choose, and nobody bats an eyelid. Men and women can sit by themselves, talk to each other and not be considered social lepers. I can wear tight jeans, short skirts and flaunt my spiky hair without anyone thinking I am a hooker.

   

By the way, I have nothing against hookers. Men and women want sex and both sexes are prepared to pay for it when they want to or need to. Hotels would go out of business were it not for the expensive cocktails hookers ask for from lonely people coming into town. Pretending that it’s a “problem” is hypocritical in the extreme (and I am not referring to any hotel in particular here, but you know who you are).

   

But I am offended. And upset. It’s been distressing and has cast a shadow over my visit. I will never stay at the hotel again; I might even strike Marriott altogether off my list. Because, you see: not only did they mess up on day one, there has been no comeback, despite their knowing what took place. No bottle of wine. No chocolates. No recompense.

   

I’m a really tough cookie; I’ve had to be as a woman in a predominantly male industry; it takes a lot to upset me. However, what I’ve noticed as I get older, there is a bullying that I never experienced as a kid. As a woman in Britain, you are considered on the scrapheap after . . . well, I’d say 35 . . . but certainly after 50 – and, more to the point, as a single woman. And, heck, I’m hurtling towards 60 now. 

Still single. Never been married. Never lived with anyone. No kids. Not gay (not that there is anything wrong with being gay – it’s just always the final question people head towards when confused by my unconventional life, so I just clear it up to save them the stress).

   

There is a sense of people questioning what right I have to be dressed up, staying out late, having a laugh, travelling . . . Like I say, NEVER in New York.

   

I think I might be done with Britain. 

There is so much I love about my home country. 

But, as a 58-year old woman still thoroughly enjoying life, it seems there is very little it loves about me.

  

  

Stop Taking the Piss!

My urine has disappeared. 

Of all the conversations I imagined having in relation to my Green Card application, the discussion regarding the location of my bodily fluids wasn’t up there in the top ten.

   

I’d learnt/learned (according to where you live) the national anthem; I know the names of every American President and the years they served; heck, I’ve even started to learn Spanish, which is the language I hear more than any other. My course, however, is very fond of teaching me how to say “The turtles drink milk”, but that’s the subject for another blog.

   

So, back to my wee. Now, not all my American friends know that the phrase “taking the piss” is quite common in Britain. Basically, it means “Stop messing with me”, “Don’t try to get one over on me thinking that I don’t know what you’re doing”, “Don’t . . . take the piss!”

   

But my piss has, quite literally, been taken. I am in the very lengthy process of applying for a Green Card in the category of “alien of exceptional ability”, which brings with it a National Waiver if I am deemed to be of national benefit to the USA. Clearly, my urine is of truly exceptional ability, as it has gone; or, as they say in Spanish . . . okay, I’m not that advanced yet, but Las tortegas beben leche.

   

When you want to take up permanent residency in the USA, you are required to have a medical – and jabs. I have this week discovered that I don’t have TB but I might be a measles risk. Oh, yes; and let’s not forget the flu. So, I have had a flu jab, an MMR booster, and just needed the pee to make sure I am not carrying any female related sexual infections (fat chance).

   

But when I turned up today to get my results, the devastating news was that my wee has gone walkabout. The clinic has no idea where it has gone. This means that my lawyer now has to change another set of forms because my last date of entry into the USA will be different from the one that’s currently on record.

   

Reader, I cried. I sobbed. “But where has it gone?” I blubbed to the very nice doctor who clearly thought I was certifiably insane and should never get within sniffing distance of a Green Card.

   

The thing is, the sample had been very hard to obtain. I have the tiniest bladder and can normally empty it in a nanosecond, should the occasion require it; but ask me to pee on demand, and everything clenches up (you know who you are, guys . . . but that’s another blog, too). So, I was in the clinic rest room with my little plastic pot, thinking of the Hudson, the Red Sea, running taps, Noah’s Ark, submariner Gordon in Thunderbird 4 . . . and I couldn’t summon up more than a teaspoon of the stuff. 

A man in blue, shaking his head, took the pot away and returned with it saying that they didn’t have enough. He could not have looked sadder had I told him he had three minutes to live. He gave me about two pints of water as encouragement and then, just as I was finishing the last drop, he returned to tell me that they had sufficient urine after all.

   

Happy days – well, apart from having to spend the afternoon in the loo getting rid of all the redundant liquid. But now, horror of horrors, it’s gone, and today, I had to go through the whole process over again.

   

I’d never realised how hard it is to pee into something with a two-inch diameter. “As much as you can” was the instruction given to me, which of course meant that my bladder went into stubborn mode, refusing to play ball. I also got a bit hung up on where the liquid was coming from. I always thought I knew, but two soaking hands, one wet floor and dripping toilet seat later, I’m not so sure now. I delivered them ten drops, at most.

   

Where is my wee? I feel a little violated, knowing that it’s out there and not where it should be. Has it been swapped in a lab with that of some poor sap hoping to get out of a DUI (good luck with that, mate; you so picked the wrong person)? Is it sitting lonely in a UPS store, pondering the body it left behind? Has it been abandoned, dropped, ignored? Have las tortegas opted to drop their milk diet in favour of something a little more salty?

   

I’m just suddenly feeling rather possessive of my little pot; only it and I know what we had to go through to get that far, just to have all our hard work snatched away.

So, whoever you are, closet psycho urine thief, stop taking the piss! Literally.

Matt Bomer Actor Shock - Again!

Now, there is outrage once more, following Mark Ruffalo's decision to cast Bomer as a transgender in his movie, Anything. The horror, the horror! What is the world coming to?

   

Heck, it’s like a man who can’t walk on water being asked to play Jesus. 

If I were writing a film about the Son of God, I would insist that the casting director check out the individual’s credentials for the role. After the walking on water bit was established, I would insist that he fulfil other criteria essential to convince us that he is Jesus. 

Was he born in a stable? Was his mother a virgin? Can he turn water into wine and wine into blood? Can he transform a couple of sardines and a baguette into a feast for 5000? Can he persuade a dozen fishermen to leave their families and go on a road trip? Most important of all, can he rise from the dead? 

Unless the actor’s life completely resonated with the character I had written, he would not get the part.

    

Robert Powell would never have landed the part of Jesus had he not displayed all these qualities at the audition, and the fact that he is still with us is evidence that he really did rise from the dead. Rumours of a Second Coming have, however, been greatly exaggerated.

    

Similarly, Daniel Radcliffe had obviously served a long apprenticeship as a wizard before he landed the role of Harry Potter. How else could he have mastered all those tricks? And if bicycles were not really able to fly, what would be the point of watching ET?

    

The importance of art mimicking life to the letter provides a particularly pertinent point when it comes to casting gay men as straight and vice versa. Could David Hyde Pierce have delivered so convincing and hilarious a performance, lusting after Daphne in Frasier, if he were gay? Of course not. It was clearly something that only a full-blooded heterosexual hunk could have mustered.

    

Would How I Met Your Mother be remotely funny if it contained gay people purporting to be straight, all in the name of entertainment? How ridiculous would that be?  

   

If people start pretending to be people they are not, where does that leave us as a society? It’s like telling someone they have licence to be a chameleon, casting a spell over the lives of others to help them suspend their disbelief. What sort of a world would it be, if everyone went around kicking reality in the teeth?

    

Before long, you would have special schools set up to teach people the art of this deception. People might start paying to go and see it, even. They might start giving out awards for some people doing it better than others.

    

So, Mr Bomer, the first time round, I found it inconceivable that, having returned to New York to continue your work with the Feds, you could have convinced me that you spent your days in a basement, constructing wooden crucifixes on which to fix women with ropes and chains.

    

That is a job for a man with psycho tendencies. Someone who might conjure up the image of a hungry rodent in a woman’s vagina, feasting on her sexual organs to induce a slow death, for example. But you would have to ask Bret Easton Ellis about that.


Now, in this latest turn of events, I am supposed to believe that you are a man who has become a woman?

  

Whatever next! If this deception thing called acting ever takes off – stranger things have happened - I have no doubt you will be able to pull it off brilliantly, just as you would have had you been given the part of Christian Gray, and I will continue to pay good money to see it. 




For the record, Mr Bomer, I think you would make a great Jesus.

You can turn water into wine, can't you?

     

  

    

    

Ribs to Go

My brain has decided to separate itself from the rest of my body; in fact, it may have disappeared altogether. 

A few weeks ago, I posted a picture of an injury to my forehead I sustained when opening a kitchen cupboard. Now look, I know how to open a cupboard; I’ve been doing it for well over five decades. But on this occasion, my brain decided not to tell my head that it had to move out of the way before the door swung open onto it, making a whacking great dent in my skull.

   

Two days ago, I returned to New York from Los Angeles and found the smoke alarm beeping in my apartment. Knowing I had to change the battery, or at least remove it to get a decent night’s sleep, I pulled out the spare office chair from the nearby cupboard and stood on it to reach the alarm – the chair with five wheels and elasticated, totally unbalanceable seat, as opposed to the perfectly solid small stepladder just a few feet away in the kitchen. 

Everything after that was in slow motion. 

First, I felt the wheels deciding to take a lone visit to the bathroom behind me, accompanied by the sound of what seemed like a runaway train. My hands fell from the alarm straight onto the painting below, which I instantly let go of because I didn’t want to damage it. Then, realising that I was in free fall as the last of the chair slipped away, I felt suspended in mid-air for what seemed like several seconds before realising I had to succumb to the inevitable and just drop. It was a bit like Virgil’s entry into Thunderbird Two – but without the Thunderbird.

   

So, I am now sitting here with what I suspect are several cracked ribs, possibly broken, one semi-usable leg with a cut knee, a twisted shoulder and two swollen hands. But at least my Women’s Bits are intact (I think. The jury’s out for the moment).

   

Having planned to return to the UK tomorrow for my summer holiday, I have had to cancel it all and stay resting. I can’t open the refrigerator door without experiencing pain and have been advised that carrying or lifting anything is out of the question until the ribs heal (I’m making an exception for wine glasses, but even they are not plain sailing). 

I wouldn’t be able to transport a make-up bag, let alone a case, to visit the 14 groups of friends and family I had planned to see over the next 10 days; and as for coping with the seven different trains, and goodness knows how many taxis - it would have killed me.

   

In my defence, every time I’ve stood on the wheelie chair in the past, it’s been fine. My brain had forgotten to remind my body, though, that on those other occasions, I had left it in the cupboard where there was a whacking great ridge preventing it from moving a centimetre. But I was tired after a long flight, and the beeping was driving me nuts. Prior to replacing the battery, my first thought had been to go to a local bar to relax with a lovely cool Stella. 

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. But then, as a friend pointed out, I might have gone to the bar, returned the worse for wear, still tried to fix the alarm and broken a lot worse. I have very optimistic mates.

   

I’ve never been an accident-prone person but the emotional and physical stress of selling my UK house has taken its toll. When I was hospitalised with high blood pressure before Christmas, I knew that this was the year things had to change, but I was wiped out packing everything up, selling or chucking stuff; even the incredibly kind friends who helped me nearly had breakdowns dealing with it. 

It’s also actually harder than I thought it would be, not going to bed and waking every morning worrying about debt. Everything, if it’s with you long enough, becomes your friend, and every loss is still a bereavement, albeit one of minuscule importance compared to the very real and traumatic loss of losing a loved one. 

We cling to and come to trust the familiar, even though we know it is bad for us. As I sit alone, nursing my broken ribs, I realise I have not one friend close by in New York who could even go to get me a pint of milk. So I’ve spent a couple of days doing sums again and worrying about money. 

Debt was my best friend for too long and I’ve called on it again in my hour of need.

   

Talking of friendship, a very weird thing happened. Out of the blue, I got a very stroppy text message from someone I had regarded as a very close friend in LA. I had no idea what she was talking about and she was unprepared to talk about it. Upon pushing her, she said that I had ignored her message of Tuesday and now she was very hurt that I had ignored it.

   

I sent her a photo of her messages – and I have every one she has ever sent me. She accused me of deleting it. I genuinely don’t know how to delete and later went to the Apple community forum to find out how.

   

Not all messages get through, and when a phone is in Airplane mode, they often go astray. I have no reason to ignore this person, who is incredibly sweet and kind and I love her company, but I am not the sort of person to deliberately ignore any message or e-mail. And I would certainly not have had the inclination or energy to do so while dealing with Wheeliegate.

   

It’s made me realise how lonely life is, away from the people who know you well, understand you and know you are not a liar. 

Sometimes, people just don’t want the friendship anymore and maybe they have to find spurious loopholes to get them out of it (my friend of 10 years’ standing in Bath once did the same thing). I have no idea. 

But I wish with all my heart at the moment I was going to the UK, where I’d planned to see my friends of 30 years plus.

   

I’ll be thinking of you all this weekend and sending much love as I tuck into my home delivered food. 

I think I might devour ribs doused in Tabasco sauce. 

At the moment, it feels like a suitable punishment for the damned things.

  

   

Dirty Laundry

Scary. Very, very scary. 

That’s the only word that describes it. For the first time in 40 years, I have been in contact with the L word. I am now in bed, contemplating the experience and recovering from the stress. Where is Valium when you need it?

   

Launderette (and yes, I am sticking to the traditional spelling, so if you don’t like it, you can wash off): the establishment I frequented so much as a student in the late Seventies. That made me cry when I didn’t have enough 2p pieces for the dryer, because I had used them all up phoning home from the red telephone box at the end of the street; that lulled me into the false sense of belief that I would meet the love of my life while watching the turntable of my undies; that returned my few clothes to me, shredded like the grated cheese I could never afford in Marks and Spencer when I went in for my one small can of chicken in cream sauce (luxury).

   

So, I am in Paris and, as I am travelling for two weeks, have to find a way to wash my clothes halfway through my trip. Luckily, in the 6^th arrondissement, the launderette is just two doors down from my favourite bar, Semilla, which makes life a lot easier, even though the wash and dry now costs me two glasses of wine at 6 euros apiece (can anyone tell me where the euro sign is on a US Mac?), in addition to the 4 euros for the wash and 2 euros for the double dry.

   

It’s very stressful. There are buttons to press, hash-tag symbols to follow, coins to enter; and then, returning 38 minutes after the 25 minutes the machine tells you it is going to take, seeing that there are another 18 minutes to go.

   

I am stressed because my Issey Miyake Pleats Please collection is in the wash. I don’t want somebody taking it out and putting it in a dryer because it will all be ruined. I once had a cleaner in Bath who, thinking she was doing me a favour, ironed £2000 worth of the Pleats collection. When I arrived home from London, she greeted me with the words: “Those clothes were very creased; I had such a problem with them.” My screams could be heard beyond Swindon.

   

In case you don’t know the Pleats collection, think of ironing an Aero bar: those bubbles are never going to come back.

   

So, I make it back after two glasses to rescue the Pleats and put my stuff into the dryer. Now, though, it’s the same button and hash-tag process all over again, but you can dry only for 10 minutes at a time.

   

Dear God. It’s never like this on EastEnders, where no one, despite earning a ton load of dosh, ever washes their clothes at home. Does anyone even own a washing machine? As far as I can make out, people go into the launderette, listen to Dot pontificating about life and Hey! Presto! Their washing is done (although I have yet to see anyone actually leave with any).

   

This is the first time I have been back in Europe after selling my house, and it feels very odd. Normally, I would have gone straight to Cardiff, thrown my stuff in the washing machine and disappeared to London, Paris or wherever to see friends and family, knowing that I had my secure base.

   

I do not regret for a nanosecond the decision I have made, but I have been very tearful at feeling so rootless. I’ll be fine once I get back to the US, where I love my life and have my things around me and am surrounded my so much love. I am in the UK, too, but there has been a severance that feels more palpable now that I don’t have the security of bricks and mortar around me.

   

I am living out of a suitcase and am desperately homesick – for the US. I miss my sunsets over the Hudson in New York; I want to spend time in my indulgence, my new apartment in Los Angeles. I want to sit at my desk and get down to real work again, after months (and, leading up to it, years) of stress, dissolving my UK existence; I want to start enjoying waking up every morning without having to do four hours of sums, wondering how I am going to make ends meet.

   

So, the dryer has three minutes to go now, and I am thinking about the nature of my old life: washed away, finally, and spinning to who knows where. 

I watch the final 35 second countdown to zero and take out my clothes. I fold them, press the creases as best I can, and return to my hotel to pack them, ready for the final stage of this trip. 

New laundry. New life.