Author: sandybarker

Off the Beaten Track in London

sandybarker

I am currently in London, UK.

Well, not the Buckingham Palace-Tower of London-Big Ben-West End-Leicester Square kind of London, but the real London. You know, where the people live. London people. I have been staying with my sister and brother-in-law (and their son, my nephew) in Isleworth, which is just outside of Richmond, which is just outside of central London. It has some quaint houses and pretty parks.

P1000132

P1000135_edited-1

Within walking distance are three ‘high streets’ where small shop-fronts line up, one after the other, in what can only be described as ‘complete randomness’. The funeral parlour is next to the deli is next to the mirror shop is next to the mechanics is next to the beauty parlour, and so forth. I love high street shopping. As most businesses are owned and run by the same person, it makes you feel like part of the community and you often get personalised service.

St Margaret's High Street
St Margaret’s High Street

Many of the roads around here are one lane each way with parking on each side of the road, but they are just a tad narrower than they should be and buses wait patiently at either end of a row of parked cars, taking turns to navigate the gauntlet. Then they ‘rinse and repeat’ a few blocks down the road. A  bus journey from here to Richmond is enough to make you hold your breath, such are the manoeuvres of the practised drivers. The buses are very nice, I would like to add – modern and clean.

P1000134

And speaking of Richmond, it really is one of my favourite places in London, especially the view as you cross the Thames into Richmond. The river is beautiful, and I love the buildings along the waterfront.

P1000142_edited-1P1000140_edited-1

I have, however, not had the nerve – or any inclination – to go into here, which is just down the road:

P1000131

I wonder if somewhere nearby is the ‘Working Girls Club’.  Hmmm.

Diary of Cold Virus by Sandy’s Cold

sandybarker

Day One

Victim has no idea I am here. I *love* this part, lying in wait to emerge at the least convenient time. When I do, victim will be racking her brain to work out if she’d finally succumbed to the cold her boyfriend has been nursing for 2 weeks, or if that baby sneezing into her mouth sealed the deal. Confusing my victim is always a good fun way start to the relationship.

Day Three

Brilliant! Victim is on a plane and is asleep. She went to sleep well, and now I make my move. When victim wakes up from five fitful hours of upright plane sleeping, she will have a sore throat to rival all others. And, to carry on with the whole ‘confusion’ theme, she’ll attribute it to ‘airplane travel’, rather than to me. Hee hee.

Day Four

Victim has arrived in destination and finally admits to all and sundry that she is sick, with a cold. She is blaming the baby, but only I know the truth. She picked me up on that last visit to the gym before she left – the one she made herself go to so she would feel good after her flight. Bwah Hahhahhaahack-cough-splutter. Oh dear.

Day Six

Awesomeness! Victim’s sister is now sick and victim is convinced she brought it with her, even though there really is no possibility of her having infested her sibling. I like to call this ‘Guilt Phase’.  As well as her body feeling like crap, now her soul does too. Oh, and she is missing out on her mum’s birthday. AND, she has had to send the brother-in-law out for more tissues – the ones with Aloe and other soothing properties. She’s a real wuss, this one. Victim sleeps a lot during the day.

P.S. Is that a little tickle I feel in my throat?

Day Seven

Wow, this chick is going mad for the OTC cold meds (that’s over-the-counter medication to the uninitiated). At last count she was popping Vitamin C (Yeah, good luck with that), cold tablets (impotent and expensive – more fool her), throat lozenges (5 minutes of relief + the added benefit of a sugar high for 15) and zinc. Wait, zinc??!? Crap, that stuff actually works. I had better distract her with some more snot and completely fruitless coughing.

Day Eight

Victim’s mother is now sick – and has a 36-hour flight ahead of her. Booyah! Bonus points for me. Victim feels even more guilty – so she should – and is using extra tissues due to eye leakage. Not sure what that is about, but her sister is likewise afflicted. Victim’s 19-month-old nephew has developed a cough. It is very cute, and victim keeps looking at him with a concerned look on her face.

P.S. Throat sore.

Day Nine

Today, victim went outside. Silly girl. Didn’t she know I would save the best symptom until now? Wooziness!! Ah-hah! That’s what you get for dressing up and putting on lipgloss and going out into the world. Don’t you know that you are mine?!!!!

P.S. Nose runny.

Day Ten

Some of my best work yet: victim woke up sounding like Demi Moore after a three-day bender. She *says” she is starting to feel a lot better. BUT, her mother’s Facebook posts about being really sick and her sniffling nephew are putting her back in her place. Her body feels better, but her soul is being destroyed with guilt. I am a genius!!

P.S. Nose still runny – and snot a weird colour.

Day Twelve

Victim went for a vigorous walk today – and did not sleep at all during daylight hours. She is definitely on the mend. Damn you, zinc!! Good news is that her mother is now in the middle of this horror, her sister still feels like crap, and to add a cherry to the top of my crap-sundae, her nephew will not sleep at all tonight – and neither will the three grown-ups, who will get up throughout the night to soothe him.  Note: Victim’s brother-in-law seems to have avoided getting sick at all. Bugger.

P.S. Cough and sneezing and not sleeping well.

Day Fourteen

It has been a good run. My victim is about 95% well – just some residuals to deal with. Pat on the back to me for taking down her mother and nephew. Not sure who to blame for sister, but kudos for excellent timing. Brother-in-law still well (can’t win them all).

P.S. Going to bed. Am sick.

Social Media ≠ Customer Service

sandybarker

 t-mobile__uk_logo_150px

Last Wednesday I flew into Heathrow’s Terminal 5 (the international part) and knowing I would need a SIM card for my US phone, purchased one from a vending machine.

Over the next two days I attempted to use the new SIM card in two different phones.  I even called the T-Mobile helpline. I was told by a very nice-sounding English woman that the wait would be up to 15 minutes and that calls to speak to a human would be charged at 50p per minute. I wondered how they would charge me when I had no credit on my account, as I was still waiting to ‘top up’.

Eventually – and without human help – I worked out how to get the log in I needed to access the payment section of T-Mobile’s UK site. I then discovered that the site would not accept my US credit card. Sigh. Really?? The SIM card I purchased in the international arrivals lounge of Heathrow’s Terminal 5 could not be topped up with a non-UK credit card? Who do they think is buying these?

I was the quintessential (extremely) frustrated customer. I’d had no help from the misleading instructions that came with the SIM card, and upon further investigation I discovered that T-Mobile’s customer service options included the aforementioned expensive phone calls, to write them a letter and send it via snail mail (this is a telecommunications company), or contact them via Twitter or Facebook.

Ah, of course, the Social Media Fairy will fix my frustration and help me to use your sub-par product with the confusing instructions and misleading selling point. For some reason, some companies think that ‘social media’ is all-powerful, like Dr. Who’s trusted sonic screwdriver.

I went to the company’s Facebook page, where dozens – perhaps hundreds – of others had gone before me. It was populated with feedback from other frustrated customers and I could see that even if the company had a large, highly-skilled team of customer service reps servicing just this one Facebook page, they would have difficulty playing ‘whack-a-mole’ to address all the negativity and vitriol. It seems that T-Mobile UK thinks that a mismanaged Facebook page and Twitter feed are adequate replacements for individual, online customer service.

Having recently managed an online customer service team, and in that role regularly partnering with the PR/Marketing/Social Media team, I can attest that although there is some cross over of responsibilities,  the two groups have distinctive roles.  When the product is technical or complex, or the site that customers interact with is convoluted and difficult to navigate, a Facebook post, a tweet, or an FAQ answer can fall short of providing what many customers want, which is service.

Further, I see a growing number of job openings for ‘Social Media Experts’, which is on the whole encouraging, but in many instances is concerning. Yes, social media can be an excellent tool for marketing and for developing a ‘community’ from a group of customers. It is an integral part of modern life, and will continue to be for at least the foreseeable (and likely distant) future.

That said, we must remember that social media is not a static entity. It evolves regularly, as any Facebook user knows (how often do they change the features and functions of this one site?) and as does anyone who had (has?) a MySpace page, a FourSquare account and any of the other dozens of social media tools that are now either defunct, redundant, or just plain uncool.

Understanding how to leverage social media to improve service or to grow a customer-base is an ever-evolving art; the specialists themselves learn daily.  I have collaborated on several social media initiatives to help improve customer service and am very interested to see where this fusion of disciplines can go. However, companies that pare back their customer service provision without really understanding how to integrate social media and without ensuring that their customers will still feel supported, are remiss. T-Mobile UK is just one example.

A love letter to the women of Seattle

sandybarker

To my dear friends,

Simply, I will miss you. I have been here four years and one month, and in that time you have become not only my friends but my sisters, my colleagues, my collaborators, my mentors, my conscience, my champions, my co-conspirators, my comediennes, my artists, my strength, my wisdom, my vision and my mates.

Thank you. Thank you for who you are and what you so generously give of yourself to me and to others. Thank you for inspiring me to be better, kinder, smarter, more focused, more driven, more caring, just more.

You are exceptional. You are clever. You are funny (Oh, how I have laughed). You are thoughtful and strong and generous. You are brave, brilliant and inspirational. You are forever in my heart.

I love you and will miss you greatly. But this is not goodbye. This is, “until next time.”

x

The Last Year

sandybarker

1986: Perth, Australia

My last year of high school was a doozy. I triumphed, I failed, I succumbed to fear, I overcame fear, I surprised myself, I surprised others and I made it through. It was 1/17 of my life – and it was 27 years ago – but I remember it more clearly than many of the years since.

In Years 9 and 10, I suffered the wrath of the bullies.  They seemed to be everywhere I was and I fell prey to the gum in my hair, the pushing and shoving, the nasty comments, and the eggs that landed on my face and body as I walked home from school. I hated the bullies. I hated school because of the bullies. School became a daily battlefield, or rather a minefield I navigated so as to avoid the bullies. I would make strategic trips to the library where I pretended to read for the duration of recess and lunch.

At the end of Year 10, the bullies left – every one of them – and I stayed on to complete my Year 11 and 12 studies. Year 11 felt like letting out my breath after holding it for 2 years – and then it felt like I was punched in the stomach and winded all over again. Year 11 is hard in Australian schools. A’s that came easily only months before had to be earned – hard-earned. Homework and study increased ten-fold – just to stay afloat. And, there were the boys.

My friends and I hung out with the popular, older boys. They had names like Rob and Scott and Jeremy. They were cool, they were good looking and some of them were even nice. They were also a huge distraction from school and from being a normal person. As their faithful followers, we would find ourselves watching hours of basketball – they all played – which is a sport I can barely stomach now. We would hang out and talk shit and hook up with them in rotation. I wish I had the chance to remind my 16-year old self that she is smart, she is talented and she needs to stop watching so much basketball and pursue things that are more worthwhile – like acting and writing.

And then came Year 12, which was a whole different animal.

Fear – Succumbing

In 1986, my parents had somehow found the money to send me on the school’s Ski Trip. I had kicked in most (all?) of my savings, but it was a huge deal that they did that for me. I like to think that I truly appreciated it at the time, but something tells me that I felt entitled. Regardless, I got to go. It was a one-week trip and ridiculously, we spent four of the days on a coach travelling across the Nullarbor – essentially across 2/3 of the continent of Australia. We took two days to get there, then had three days on the snow before we made the return journey. It is worth noting that the next time the school did the trip, they flew.

We were skiing Mt Hotham in Victoria. It was a beautiful place, the sun was shining and I was terrified beyond belief. We did not get skiing instruction as part of the trip, so my instruction came from a patient teacher who was chaperoning the group. I made it onto the ski lift with a reasonable amount of grace, and then spent the next few minutes concentrating on how the hell to get off the ski lift. The teacher was talking me through it, but it really is the sort of thing you have to do to learn how to do it. When it was our turn, I managed okay. It wasn’t a perfect dismount by any measure, but at least they didn’t have to stop the lift.

And then came the actual skiing. On my first run, I fell about 27 times. Actually, it was more like diving into the snow. Any time I would get up speed, I would become terrified and throw myself to the snow in an attempt to stop. My teacher continued to encourage me. I was snow ploughing my bloody little heart out, but skiing and me just did not mix. I did not want to go down that mountain. But I did want to be down the mountain. Why, oh why had he made me go up it in the first place?? Finally, I made it. And somehow he managed to talk me into having another go. Good grief! At the end of my second run, I couldn’t stop properly and skied right into the line for the lifts, knocking down a dozen people. I was humiliated, and despite protestations that I was doing better, I shook off the encouragement and sulked my way back to the lodge, where I curled up with hot chocolate and a book.

The next day, I was told that because my parents had spent a lot of money on the trip, I would have to go back out onto the ski field for at least two more runs. I did as I was told, hating every terrifying moment, and again returned to the lodge and the same book. I stubbornly refused to ski the third and final day. I did not have a miserable time on the ski trip – everything other than the skiing and travelling 2/3 of the way across the continent on a bus – twice – was great. But I let fear win out.

Fear – Triumph

I was afraid. They were holding auditions for the school play – the first one that the school would produce since I had arrived in Year 9 – and I was terrified about auditioning. I shouldn’t have been. While at school in the United States (Years 5 to 9) my favourite subject was Speech and Drama. I had trophies for competing in and winning Speech and Drama tournaments. But my Australian high school didn’t have Drama. It had been years since I had auditioned or performed, and even though the itch inside me was palpable, I stood against the wall of the gym and watched a dozen girls give a mediocre rendition of Nancy from Oliver, one after the other in quick succession. The voice inside my head started screaming at me. Get out there. You can do this. You’re better than all of them. I stayed put.

At the end of lunchtime I made my way over to the director – one of the Science teachers and a seemingly frustrated Thespian. “Excuse me, Miss.” She smiled at me questioningly. “I would like to audition for Nancy. I know I should have put my hand up before, but…” She stopped me. Perhaps she could see how excruciating the request was for me.  “Come back after school. I will meet you here.” I guess she hadn’t seen a Nancy amongst the lunch-time auditioners either.

I showed up the minute after the final siren. It was just the two of us. We read the scene where Bill Sykes threatens Nancy. My stiff acting muscles started to feel supple as I unfolded into the role; she was both strong and fragile. When we finished the scene, I looked over at the teacher and she was beaming at me. “Can you sing?” she asked. “I guess so.”  Did singing in the church choir count, I wondered. “Sing me something.” My mind went blank, and then a line popped into my head. “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…” I sang the first verse of “Favourite Things” and stopped. I looked at her expectantly. She smiled. “I think you’ll make a wonderful Nancy,” she said. Tears sprung to my eyes and I ran over to hug her. Then I ran all the way home so I could tell my family.

I am told that I was a good Nancy; I certainly loved playing her.

In 1986 I also had a bout of Glandular Fever (a.k.a. Mono). The doctor told me I would be in bed for three months. I knew that I didn’t have that kind of time to lay around doing nothing more than convalescing – I was in Year 12! Hello??!! – so I was well and back at school within three weeks.

That was also the year that I moved four times. My sister and I moved from my dad and step-mum’s house to live with our mum. However, the first rental property didn’t work out for us as planned, so we lived in one house, had to move, but didn’t have a new place yet, so lived with my aunt and uncle for a while, and then found a more permanent rental. After all that it was decided that I would go back to living with my dad and step-mum, and that my sister would stay with my mum. That was a lot of packing and unpacking.

Overall, Year 12 was a refreshing change from everything that had gone before. Despite the challenges with my living situation and my health, I hit my stride in my classes, the popular, older boys were gone (along with the distraction), and the year group formed a tight-knit unit. We collaborated, we took full advantage of our own common room, we bonded over crappy teachers – and good ones – and we supported each other through an intense year of study and all the other things that you take on in Year 12. I am proud to say that I am still friends with people I was friends with in Year 12.  (I am also proud to say that I am still friends with one of the girls who didn’t like me so much in Years 9 and 10. I ‘converted’ her, but that is another story…)

When I look back on seventeen-year-old Sandy, I am mostly impressed by her. She was resilient, she worked hard, she was a good friend and a good student. She discovered new talents (she came first in Accounting), dusted off a beloved one, and honoured her writing talent by coming second in English.

She could have been a more understanding and loving daughter and sister, but she was just seventeen and she didn’t know that then. She does well with that now, though.

 

 

2012 in review

sandybarker

The WordPress.com stats helpers prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,800 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 5 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

I dreamed a dream…

sandybarker

LesMiserables

To say that I was looking forward to seeing Les Miserable in the cinema is an understatement.  An excitable theater geek, I knew that I would be blown away by Tom Hooper’s screen  adaptation of this much-beloved musical, particularly with Hugh Jackman at the helm of the impressive cast.

Alas, I was not blown away.  I did experience moments of (excruciating) empathy, but I was not transported somewhere magical, as I had hoped and anticipated.

This is a dis-jointed film. Yes, there are moments of brilliance – such as Anne Hathaway’s extraordinary rendition of ‘I Dreamed a Dream” – but in between those moments the narrative and the energy of the film lag. While the play moves seamlessly between scenes, the film is a clash of styles and locations – some of which are hyper-realistic and others like a theater set.

Disappointingly, Hooper’s overuse of close ups begins in scene one and continues for the next three hours. Yes, these characters are experiencing the worst of what people could possibly endure. But extreme closeups detach them from the horror; the context gets lost and so does the emotional impact. When Marius sings “Empty Chairs and Empty Tables” – arguably Eddie Redmayne’s most impactful moment – we lose the sense that he is all alone in an empty room, because the camera is focused so tightly on his face.

Even the death of Gavroche loses impact because of photographic choices. What is so poignant about this moment is that he is a little boy. If the frame is too tight, we lose sight of how small he is in relation to that massive barricade.  And the rousing rowdiness of “Master of the House” is lost to a series of close-ups and quick edits. Only the final scene comes close to capturing what is so brilliant about the ensemble work in Les Miserable – they finally get to be an ensemble.

It may seem that I would have preferred to see something more like a filming of the stage version. No. However, I did expect that the medium of film would have been used to elevate the material more effectively.

The cast was also a mish-mash of talents and singing abilities. Hugh Jackman brings something to Valjean I have never seen, with the inner demons doing battle in his eyes. And while I still maintain that close up is over-used in this film, Cohen (the D.O.P.) and Hooper capture Jackman’s beautifully-honed performance thoroughly. In contrast, Russel Crowe’s performance is weak and self-conscious. He swallows his words when he sings and his eyes are vacant. Some might argue that this is an acting choice, but one of his character’s defining moment’s, “Stars”, is bland and a throw-away performance.

Stand-outs, not surprisingly, included actors who come from the stage, Samantha Barks as Eponine and Aaron Tveit as Enjolras, as well as the plucky Daniel Huttlestone as Gavroche. Tveit, in particular, lends a weight to Enjolras that makes us believe his contemporaries would follow him into battle – and he has a divine singing voice.  Redmayne and Seyfried, as the star-crossed lovers, shine most when they are not singing, “A Heart Full of Love” – Redmayne in “Empty Chairs and Empty Tables” where his heartbreak at the loss of his friends is wholly believable, and Seyfried at the death of her father, Valjean.

Lastly, Anne Hathaway is sublime. I started teaching Drama in 1994 and since, I have sought out examples of actors connecting thoughts to their words. Her rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” – a song I have heard dozens, if not hundreds of times – is a perfect example of excellence. It made me hear the song for the first time. Yes, I think that the scene was shot too closely. But that is not her fault.

On the whole I enjoyed seeing this film, but I expected to be breathless, speechless, and a weepy mess by the end. Alas, I was not.

New Year’s Absolutions 2013

sandybarker

Two years ago, I wrote a post exonerating myself from the resolutions I would typically expect myself to make at the start of a new year. For some reason I skipped this step at the start of this 2012, but as we approach 2013, I revisit the idea of absolving myself of things that are fruitless or frustrating pursuits.

I hereby absolve myself of the following:

  1. Watching anything that has a hobbit in it. When the first trilogy came out, I was dating an awful man and I pathetically pretended to like the films to please him. Now I am with a wonderful man who doesn’t expect me to like everything he does.  Hobbits just bug me. They’re so, well, hobbity.
  2. Hoarding (just in case). As we are about to move internationally, we must pare back to the essentials. For a start, some things are cheaper to replace than to ship overseas. Plus, Australian Customs will charge you $150 to clean or destroy a $15 chopping board, so I am becoming less attached to things. We will be giving away a lot of things that I love – like our beautiful coffee tree – but when all is said and done, they are just things. Most important is that we are moving as a family (2 adults, 1 cat).
  3. Having a spotless home. I need to hold myself to this one. Our home is typically neat, tidy and fairly clean. There are times, however, when I need to be less fastidious and more focused on more important pursuits, like writing, visiting with friends, taking care of my health, keeping in contact with loved ones overseas, being helpful, and being a loving partner.
  4. Being (overly) prepared. I plan ahead. I make lists and I plan. I need to plan ahead, or if someone else is making the plan, at least to know what the plan is. Yes, being prepared can be essential, but sometimes it drives me to distraction (and sleeplessness – see my last post). I want to find an equilibrium.  Somewhere between attending to dozens of details so our cat can immigrate to Australia (a process tailored for the detail-oriented) and choosing the type of bed we will buy in three months for our new guest room, is a happy medium.
  5. Being Superwoman. No matter how hard I try – and I try very hard – I cannot do everything. I have no magic lasso, no invisible plane, and no golden cuffs to deflect the bullets. I must ask for help, I must give myself a break, and I must say ‘no’ more often. (I think #3 and #4 go hand-in-hand with this one.)

Just re-tracing my 2011 absolutions, I am thinking of buying a bike when we get to Melbourne. It is relatively flat, with lots of bike trails, and reasonably dry weather when compared with Seattle. Also, I not only finished Chapter 7, I have finished up to Chapter 16 and am still going strong. I no longer absolve myself finishing my book. In fact, it is the number two goal I have for 2013, right after ‘move the family to Melbourne and get settled’.

There’s no place like home

sandybarker

Somewhere in Australia is an HR specialist who has gone on holiday for two weeks. I don’t know this person. In fact, I have never spoken to her, but her holiday is keeping me up at night. You see, she is the person who is responsible for submitting Ben’s work visa application so we can move as a family to Australia. And, she told us the Friday before Christmas that she would do that when she ‘got back from holidays’ on January 7th.

I don’t begrudge this stranger her holidays, but I am pretty sure she doesn’t understand that the delay – holding off until then, rather than ensuring she got it done before she went away – means that we cannot book our flights to Australia, we can’t book the 30-days quarantine for our cat, because we don’t want the 30 days to be up before we can arrive in Australia, and we can’t finalise the date to put our stuff on a ship, because we want to limit the time we spend out of our naked apartment and in a hotel.

To move a family of two adults and one cat from Seattle to Melbourne is quite a feat, and at the moment there are so many unknowns that I run through all the permutations of possible outcomes in my head at 3 am when I wish I was sleeping.  The worries are compounded when I add job hunting overseas, an expiring U.S. visa, international banking and investments, Australian Customs rules and recommendations, house-hunting in a new city, and saying good bye to loved ones in Seattle.

I would love to borrow Dorothy’s ruby slippers for a moment. As someone straddling two homes, I just want to tap my feet together three times and wake up in my (new) home in Melbourne in three months’ time. I know, I know: don’t wish my life away…

 

 

Why I love watching HGTV (and why I don’t blame you if you don’t)

sandybarker

PB

Love-It-or-List-It-David-and-Hillary

 

 

 

 

Earlier this year, I visited an old friend in LA – not that she is old – she is my age and we are certainly not old – we have just known each other for a long time.  She loves HGTV and she had it on in the background throughout much of the time I was there – pretty much whenever we weren’t at Target (but that’s another blog post). Over the three-day weekend I discovered Property Brothers, I discovered House Hunters (including the international variety) and I discovered Love it, or List it. When I returned to Seattle after only a short time away, I surely baffled Ben who had always known me as a Food Network junkie. Sure, I still watched Chopped from the DVR, but any moment I needed to chillax for a spell, I tuned to HGTV instead.

So, what’s the appeal for me?

One: Makeovers!

As Oprah knows, makeovers make television gold. Take someone who has let themself go – or who never really had themself in hand in the first place – and hand them over to the experts for a coat of spit and polish. Voila! Fascinating, heart-warming, inspiring television. HGTV is like that but for homes. I cannot believe what can be accomplished by a television personality and their crew of 40 people in 5 weeks with a budget of $50000! Incredible, beautiful makeovers of previously uninhabitable properties. Amazing! And all edited together in an easily digested package for my viewing pleasure. If I am on a time budget, I will skip the actual making over, and just cringe in horror at the ‘before’ and then exclaim delight in the ‘after’. It is the extremeness of the contrast that tickles me.

Two: Assholes intrigue me

I always wonder what it must be like to be an asshole and then go on TV and show the world how much of an asshole you are. I don’t know why these people intrigue me so much, but perhaps in some odd way I vicariously live through their public assholery. Assholes on HGTV include 20-somethings who stand in cavernous en suite bathrooms with two sinks, enough storage for all their asshole products, a spa bath and a separate shower and say things like, “This isn’t very big, I definitely need a bathroom bigger than this.”

Or, the people who insist that if the house doesn’t have crown molding then they can’t possibly be expected to live there. I hadn’t even heard of crown molding until I started watching HGTV regularly – and I would hazard a guess that the assholes hadn’t either. Assholes also include young-ish people who see a perfectly good kitchen – one less than a decade old – and sigh in disappointment because it doesn’t have a commercial stove or granite counter tops. My uncle has a commercial stove, which he finally got when he was about 55, because he wanted to invest in his culinary pursuits – and it is something he uses every day (he is an awesome amateur chef, by the way).

Three: I learn stuff

I like seeing how people in other parts of the country – and other parts of the world – live. HGTV provides anthropological tutelage; one could even say that they are providing a valuable community service.

Also, I get so many ideas from HGTV. I am not talking about DIY projects. I hate DIY as much as I hate gardening. I am talking about tips on how to style your home. I take pride in having a nicely put-together home and I learn new stuff all the time on HGTV. #1 tip for having a beautiful home? Put your sh*t away. There’s a difference between your stuff – which can be displayed stylishly to make your place feel like a home – and your sh*t. No one wants to see your sh*t – not even your spouse, so put it away.

Sidebar: My dad taught me this one: he and my step-mum each have a drawer where they can put their miscellaneous sh*t. Ben and I have adopted this tip and it works really well for keeping clutter (i.e. each others’ sh*t) out of sight. Items that go in the drawer may include sunglasses, opened mail, unopened mail, coupons, spare keys, an address book, post-its, lip balm, a pocket knife, a silly plastic toy that I won from an arcade game, and so on. Feel free to steal this idea. HGTV should steal this idea. But I digress…

Four: It’s harmless (and often mindless) fun

Our move across the world takes up a considerable amount of brain power. We are dealing with logistics and paperwork and job hunting and price comparisons, so a little bit of mindless entertainment is good these days. Ben has ‘The Big Bang Theory’. I have HGTV.

Disclaimer: Yes I know that a lot of it is faked, or rather,  ‘reconstructed’ for television

I know that the couples featured on House Hunters are not really house-hunting – they have already chosen their property and are simply recreating the search for a television audience. I tend to skip the loosely-scripted discussions and skip right to the tours of the three properties. The show gives a great overview of the lifestyle in that location. Again, anthropological = interesting.

I am also sure that Drew (or Jonathon – I don’t know which one is which) on Property Brothers doesn’t really broker a sale as quickly or easily as he seems to on television. I don’t care. The rest of their show is cool.

So, judge me or don’t; it is my (not-so) guilty pleasure.