A few years ago I read a break-through book by Mireille Guliano, who purported that French women (typically) do not get fat, because – and this is especially true for Parisian women – they walk everywhere, and eat small portions of all foods. They do not subscribe to the notion that there are ‘good’ and ‘bad’ foods, and as they do not deprive themselves of a small taste of any food they like, they do not binge. And, they do not get fat.
I would like to offer forth an additional chapter to the book.
Chapter One: Take Up Smoking
I just spent a week in Paris – with the flu. I was particularly sensitive to cigarette smoke, being that my lungs were already on fire and I had great difficulty breathing. Cigarette smoke is pervasive in Paris.
The law must dictate only that one must be ‘al fresco’ to smoke. This can mean smoking in a doorway, a conservatory, a porch, a doorstep, a veranda and a patio are all acceptable. And this of course means that the affixed indoor venue fills with smoke.
Many, if not most, of the offenders I saw were women. Thin French women. ‘Nough said.
As I start writing this, Gwen Stefani is demanding to know ‘what I am waiting for’. Perhaps her bleats from the radio are rhetorical, but I can’t help asking myself the same thing. What am I waiting for? Anything in particular, or is it all good, right now? Good bloody question, Gwen!
In a few days I turn 43. Let’s say, all else going well, I live to enjoy 85 (I plan to live longer, and to be a spectacular octogenarian, but I am picking a good number to aim for). If 85 is my magic number, then I am now more than half way through my life.
There are many reason to be happy about 43. Firstly, I don’t feel it. I know, lucky me, but I don’t. I just feel like a much smarter, less-likely-to-take-any-crap, more financially-savvy version of my 28 year old self. Those are all other reasons to be happy about 43.
In my 20s I thought I knew it all, and in my 30s I realized that I didn’t. The first few years of my 40s has been about realizing that it’s okay that I don’t know it all.
This means I am less inclined to labor a point ’til my love ones want to stab me in the eye with a cheese knife (the one with the sharp little fork on the end).
It also means I can rely on others to know the stuff that I just don’t care to know about – like how to set up the router and how to make martini. It also makes me very grateful when someone else takes on these things that I don’t care to know about.
And, when Ben corrects my pronunciation of a word I have been saying wrong since I learned it from a book 20 years ago, I can just shrug and say, “Huh, how about that. All these years. Thanks, babe.”
The best thing about being 43, though, is that I laugh at myself a lot more than I ever did at 28, or 38 for that matter. I think at this rate I will find myself completely hilarious by the time I am 60, and bloody hysterical at 80. At 85, I will be that funny, laughing lady who still rides her motorcycle. Note to self: learn to ride a motorcycle.
But seriously…
As the lovely wishes of ‘happy birthday’ start to arrive – in person, online, on the phone and in the mail, I feel very blessed to have a beautiful person to share my life and laughter with, a wonderful family, and friends who have become family over the years.
I have a somewhat minor frustration that comes up on a daily basis. Packaging.
I realised the other day when I was unsuccessfully trying to open a cheese stick, that US manufacturers do not seem to discriminate between things that can poison us if ingested, and actual food.
Trying to extricate the highly delicious and somewhat nutritious cheese stick from its extremely excessive packaging (a tough plastic bag that won’t open without scissors, and a shrunk-wrapped plastic ‘easy-to-peel’ tomb) resulted in so much contortion, a coworker thought I was trying on a girdle.
My eye cream comes in an even more ridiculous array of packaging: inside a jar, inside a plastic shell, inside a box, inside shrunk-wrapped plastic. By the time I get the eye-cream out of its packaging, I have three more frown lines on which to put it.
My favorite example of excess packaging is anything that comes in a plastic bottle. From vitamins to ketchup, I must first contend with the shrunk-wrapped hard plastic seal that surrounds the lid. It has perforations so that I can do this easily, but for some reason (perhaps because they suck), these perforations do nothing. I have to get out the scissors.
At this point I can twist off the lid, but underneath the lid will be a foil covering stuck so tightly to the neck of the bottle, I have to dig under its edge with a fingernail. Even the ones with the handy pull tab cannot be pulled off. I invariably resort again to the scissors, which I wield with an agitated stabbing motion. I have missed a few times and stabbed myself, but this only provides another reason for expletives to pour from my mouth.
Once the foil lid is removed, I can usually access what is inside the bottle. If it is vitamins, I have one more gauntlet task: a wad of uncooperative cotton wool. Imagine the clown car at the circus. Pulling the wad of cotton wool out of a 5cm vitamin bottle is like watching the clowns get out of the car in a never-ending stream.
When I can finally reach the vitamins, I check the ‘use by’ date to ensure that they haven’t expired while I was trying to open the bottle.
All of this may seem exaggerated, and as I tend towards the hyperbole, you will be forgiven for thinking so. However, long-suffering boyfriend can attest that these exact enactments are real.
This brings me (the very long way) to our giant clean out a few weeks back.
Our home is spacious for a one bedroom apartment, but it does have its spatial limitations and we were not optimizing the space that we do have.
It did not look like this
but it felt like it did.
I felt tightly bound by too much stuff, too much clutter, too much useless junk, too much excess packaging. I was starting to feel claustrophobic in my own home. I was freaking out.
I mentioned in passing to Ben that we should have a big clean out. He looked a little less than enthused. I tried talking it up.
‘Yeah, it’ll be great. We’ll go through the whole house and open everything up, pull everything out and then throw away what we don’t need. Then we can organize all the cupboards and drawers!’ The Virgo that rose in my Taurean chart when I was born was rising to the challenge. The Scorpio I live with was not.
I tried a different tack. ‘I hate my closet! I hate it. I hate that I can’t find anything and everything falls all over me and I hate it!’ This tantrum went on for another 45 seconds until strong arms went around me, and I calmed down. I looked up at the owner of the arms (Ben). ‘I want to clean out our place and make it feel like home again.’
He responded in the only way a man can when he is faced with big hazel puppy dog eyes, ‘Okay, Babe’.
And that is how it came to pass that one Saturday we opened every cupboard, drawer and box in our apartment. We pulled out everything and only put back what we wanted and needed. The crap was thrown out, recycled, donated and given away. (It is only crap to those who don’t want it). I bought tubs and baskets to organize all our stuff.
We took a trip to the tip and visited Goodwill. We filled 8 bags for the garbage and recycling. It took 6 hours, including the time to thoroughly clean our apartment.
We stripped bare and reconstructed our home, ridding our selves of all the excess packaging. At the end of a long day, we sat sipping a much-deserved glass of wine and admired our handiwork.
Devoid of clutter, our apartment felt like home again I no longer felt suffocated.
I still have my daily battle with actual excess packaging, but I am slowly becoming more skilled with my scissors.
I am sure my dislike of Woody Allen stems from my mother. She can’t stand him, and I have clear childhood memories of her saying so. “Yuk, he’s so icky,” she’d say, screwing up her face. As a child that stuff gets in there and it sticks. I grew up hating Woody Allen.
In my 20s I discovered the Manhattan Murder Mystery, which I loved. Perhaps because it is Allen’s homage to the Thin Man Films of the 30s with William Powell and Myrna Loy – and as a university film student, I had chewed through those voraciously in a matter of weeks.
Bullets Over Broadway delighted me, and I fell more in love with Dianne Wiest (an ‘affair’ that started with Footloose) who was bold and sexy. “Don’t speak,” she’d cry with that throaty voice, as she seduced John Cusack. Delicious.
Mighty Aphrodite converted me completely; the Greek Drama intrusions appealed to the thespian in me, and Mira Sorvino is brilliantly vague as Linda. At the impressionable age of 26 I had to admit that, “Yes, he is a little icky, but Woody Allen is a creative genius”.
These films were guilty pleasures, and I usually watched alone. I didn’t know how to tell my mother that I had been converted to the ways of Woody. Her echoing words remain, however, and to this day I prefer his films in which he does not appear.
Sadly, I hit a Woody wall in 1996. I went with much anticipation to Everyone Says I Love You. It sucked. Enough said. I returned with hope to De-constructing Harry, which was pretty good, and Melinda and Melinda, which I enjoyed. Some years down the track we arrive at Match Point.
I know I may be alone, but I must confess I did not like Match Point. By the end I didn’t care about any of the characters, particularly the protagonist, and hoped they would all die/get caught. I thought it should have been called What’s the Point?
I left Woody for a while, skipping Scoop and Cassandra’s Dream to return to the fold with Vicky Cristina Barcelona.
I LOVE THIS FILM. I would be so bold as to say that it is in my Top Ten. VCB is passionate, hilarious, dark, heart-breaking, sexy, and poses many pertinent questions about life and love – questions that we must all ponder at some point.
When Penelope Cruz won the Oscar for her portrayal of Maria Elena, a crazed and impassioned woman, I jumped up and down in my living room, and I cried. She was outstanding in this role, and she credits Woody Allen for showing her that she could be this dark and intense.
More recently I was introduced to a quirky wonder of the Romantic Comedy canon. “Have you seen Annie Hall?” asked my film-loving man. “Um, no.” I made a scrunched up face reminiscent of my mother’s. “Oh my God, we have to watch Annie Hall!”
I cannot imagine why I was so reticent. I knew I liked – no, loved – Woody films, so why didn’t I want to see this one, his masterpiece? And then I realized it is because he is the romantic lead in Annie Hall, and he is, well, icky.
I told Ben I would give it 20 minutes, so we started watching on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
Brilliant. Hilarious. Moving. Brilliant.
If you can watch the scene where he goes over to her apartment to kill the spider(s) in the bathroom – “Honey, there’s a spider the size of a Buick in your bathroom!” – and not laugh, you must be dead.
–Clumsy, non-existent segue–
As Ben and I lay in bed this morning, talking about how much we didn’t want to get up, and I spied THIS on the ceiling:
Deadly Bedroom Spider
I then sent my man to do what men must do: kill the spider.
“Do you want to use my stool,” I offered. (I have a little step stool for the kitchen, so I can reach the flour cannister and the good wine.)
“You want me to kill the spider with your stool?” Was he crazy? Then my stool would have spider guts on it!
“No! I want you to stand on my stool and squish it with a tissue, like a real man!”
And so he did.
My hero
I realize that we’re not quite Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. But watching Ben save me from certain death with a tissue took me back to Woody doing the same for Diane (only he used a tennis racket). Just thinking about that scene makes me laugh.
In Australia (and England, and a few other countries steeped in the Imperialist love of hot tea), any bad situation can be helped, if not fixed, by a nice, hot ‘cuppa’. In fact, it is a common response when a friend bemoans their dilemma to say,”I’ll put the kettle on.” Things start to look up when there is a big mug of tea in your hand.
The term ‘cuppa’ comes from the lazy way we antipodeans say ‘cup of tea’. We say ‘cuppa tea’, and because we shorten as much of our language as possible, over the years it has become ‘cuppa’. I have known since childhood that hot tea is a cure-all, but it was only last year when I learned why tea is such a therapeutic beverage. I knew all about the antioxidants (I don’t live under a rock), but the ‘at ease’ feeling that tea elicits is due to an amino acid called L-Theanine. Tetley tea launched an advertising campaign in 2008 highlighting L-theanine, and on their site have this to say:
Tetley is a natural source of theanine
Since ancient times it has been said that drinking tea brings relaxation. Scientists are now studying the effects of theanine and it is believed that although theanine creates a feeling of relaxation, it doesn’t shut down the brain. So it allows you to be relaxed yet alert at the same time.
Relaxed, yet alert. And isn’t that how you want to feel when your life is in crisis? I should say that I am drinking tea as I write this, and even though I am not in crisis, I do feel relaxed and alert.
I got to thinking about tea a couple of days ago when Ben and I went to a favorite coffee shop close to home (yes, I appreciate the irony). As we walked to the coffee shop in the rain, we passed by two homeless men sitting under an awning, each bundled up against the cold and the wet. I barely glanced at them, but as we stood in line to order our ‘cuppa mud’ (as the sign in Caffe Ladro says), I couldn’t get the men out of my head. I was about to enjoy sitting in the warmth with my best friend drinking a hot cuppa, and they weren’t.
I ordered 2 extra coffees and a couple of giant cookies, and put together a little tray for each of them. I left the coffee shop, and walked quickly through the rain to where they were. “Here,” I said handing them the coffee, “this is for you.” The surprise and then gratitude on their faces broke my heart a little. I walked back to the coffee shop, brushing tears away. As I sat drinking my coffee, my thoughts kept returning to the homeless men.
When I moved here three months ago I was hyper aware of the indigent population, but it soon became ‘normal’ to walk past and not look directly at a homeless person. It bothers me when I do that, though. Every time.
When I go to the supermarket, there is almost always a homeless person standing outside selling Real Change, which is a newspaper dedicated to social change. It sells for $1, and not too long after moving here, I started avoiding the sellers and walking straight past them into the store. For the sake of $1. I’ve stopped doing that. When I go to the store now, I carry the $1 in my pocket, walk up and say ‘hello’, and look the person in the eye. It is a brief exchange, and they are always thankful, but it is mostly selfish on my my part.
You see, I am still job hunting, while I work part-time for my mother. Money is tight at the moment, and I dip into savings more than I would care to, but I am more fortunate than most. I have a beautiful home, I have a bright future and I have love in my life. I can also afford a cuppa at my local coffee shop, so I can certainly spare a dollar once in a while. Those small exchanges I have through the week with people far less fortunate than me remind me to keep my head out of my bottom, and stay positive.
And when the knock-backs sometimes get too much for me, I put the kettle on and sit down with a nice, hot cuppa. It helps, really it does.
I am not a good traveler. There it is: the truth. In my head I could win the Amazing Race. In reality, the first time we (my imaginary race partner and I) missed a plane I would shed hot, frustrated tears and settle into a pissy mood that would last the whole episode.
Last Sunday I missed my flight to Vegas.
It was not my fault, but a comedy of errors performed by United Airlines. We spent two hours on the tarmac before takeoff from Seattle en route to San Francisco. Then in SF, where at least a third of the plane was connecting to other flights, they told us the wrong gate for the Vegas flight. It was 75 (right next door to the gate where we landed), not 79 (on the other side of the terminal – and a long run with hand luggage).
By the time I realized the airline’s error, I had missed the Vegas flight. When I was informed that I could squeeze onto the next flight, which was in four hours, I was less than delighted. Four hours when you’re flying from Seattle to Vegas is longer than a direct flight takes. Irony tastes even more bitter when you’re faced with airport food rather than a meal cooked by your mother.
I asked for a meal voucher to make up for being inconvenienced. “I wish I could help you, but our airline stopped issuing meal vouchers for delayed passengers last year. Sorry.” I believed that he was sorry, and then I did what any sane and reasonable adult person would do. I cursed under my breath, and then I cried hot, frustrated tears.
As I walked away from the service counter, I wondered how in the hell I was going to fill four hours in stupid, boring , horrible San Francisco airport (to be fair, I would have thought that about any airport under the circumstances). I continued to curse to no one in particular, because cursing is my pressure valve. There are times when it is the only way for me to regain my equilibrium. I may have looked like a crazy woman wandering the airport muttering to myself with an angry look on my face, but it was not long until the cursing did its job and I felt better.
I fixed my face, bought some more magazines, and braved the airport food court for dinner.
That killed a whole hour.
Skipping ahead to the return flight: different airline, on time, seated in an exit row. Feeling good about getting home to Seattle. Two new magazines to read. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be turning off the cabin lights for take off and the duration of the flight. However, if you would like to continue reading, there is a light above your head.” No reading light. Broken.
The man next to me noticed my small predicament, and said he would turn his light on so I could see. He did, and then promptly broke it while trying to angle it towards me. “Oops,” he said as the light went out. “I suppose they don’t move.” It was a sweet gesture. I stopped the flight attendant and asked if they had a flashlight I could borrow. “Sorry, no.” I suppose they need those to be fully charged and working in case there is an emergency more pressing than my broken reading light.
I soon realized, however, that if I leaned all the way forward, resting my head on the seat in front of me, and angled the page towards the aisle, I could make out about a third of the text. It grew tiresome.
We landed early (Hooray). We waited forty minutes for our luggage (Boo!). And as I stood there at 10pm alongside a baggage carousel that remained stagnant, and looked around at other annoyed passengers, I started to question the whole, ‘I am a traveler’ thing.
This brings me back to my opening: I am not a good traveler. Actually, it is just that I hate flying. I have said this before, I know, but the hatred is starting to overshadow the excitement of going somewhere new. The whole flying thing is much better with Ben by my side. He is a great travel buddy. Mainly because he humors me when I behave like this.
But also because he is far more laid back about delays and little inconveniences. When we’re delayed and we’re together, we play Yahtzee or Peggle (the world’s greatest electronic pinball game). He keeps me grounded when we’re grounded.
So all of this begs the question: Am I a bad traveler, or is it just the transit that gets to me? Maybe I am just a bad ‘transiter’.
Once I get to where I am going, I am just as amenable to sleeping in a rustic cabin as a five star hotel. I will gladly climb, hike, swim and cycle my way around the wilderness. I happily drink with locals and share my table with strangers. I love to explore tiny curio shops, galleries and museums in tiny towns. I like to eat, try and experience new things. I equally appreciate the majesty of nature and architecture, and I am all about learning some of the native language.
Phew! I am still a traveler. I just don’t transit so well.
Spring is three days away, and this is what we woke to:
and this:
and this:
It is a pretty sight, I must admit, but it is noon and 2 Celsius (36F). Brrrr. We were warned. We’d been told that February teases with bouts of warm weather, like we had last week when it hit the teens (54F), and then digresses into wintry weather once again. On days of warm, sunny weather I ran outside without gloves and a hat, and I got hot! Imagine!
Today is the digression. It is still novel enough to inspire me to take photographs, but I imagine that if I had to drive to work today – like Ben did – on slippery roads, the novelty would wear thin pretty quickly.
Oh, yes, and I am mindful that I am beginning to think of 13 Celsius as ‘warm’.
Footnote:
As I have discovered, the Americans do not consider the 1st of the month to mark the first day of the season. Apparently, March 20th is the first day of Spring here. I stand corrected. These little differences are getting curiouser and curiouser.
Last night President Obama addressed Congress. It was televised live, and I watched as I did last month during the Inauguration, transfixed.
Ben came home half way through, and we sat side by side, nodding, and occasionally commenting to each other. “He’s a doer,” I said at the end. “Some people are talkers, and some people are doers. He’s a doer.”
“I hope so,” was Ben’s reply.
After the speech I caught Ben up on what he had missed, and he responded with a mixture of hope and a healthy dose of pragmatism. “I know he is all about change, and that he wants to sanction the banks for everything they’ve done, but I heard almost the exact same thing out of Bush’s mouth last year. I just hope that he actually does it.”
I understand where Ben is coming from. He has lived here his whole life, and for the past 8 years has had to listen to a President who, it has now been revealed, lied – and without apology. I understand that in politics there are key phrases that come up again and again, and that when they come from the mouth of someone new, it is hard not to attach all the connotations conjured by the previous guy. I feel I experienced something similar in Australia at the end of 2007, when the election campaigns hit their stride. It is hard not to be cynical.
But there is a buzz in the air here. It is palpable. He is not the Messiah. Understood. The ‘buzz’ is about him being a man of action, as has already been demonstrated. What makes him different from others is the integrity that grounds his words, and that he speaks frankly. About those who are responsible for this economic mess he said, “I will not spend a single penny for the purpose of rewarding a single Wall Street executive…”, and he knows”…how unpopular it is to be seen as helping banks right now, especially when everyone is suffering in part from their bad decisions.” And this, “I promise you — I get it.” The more I listen to his practical and straightforward policies, the more I believe that he does get it. People here are fed up, hurting and ready to get back on track. He gets that, which is why he was elected.
He went on to talk about Health and Education reform, and the dependency we have on fossil fuels. When he addressed the upcoming budget, I was reminded of that brilliant scene in the film, Dave, where he gets his accountant friend in to look at the budget. His friend, played by Charles Grodin, is staggered at the wasteful spending. President Obama had this to say:
“In this budget, we will end education programs that don’t work and end direct payments to large agribusinesses that don’t need them. We’ll eliminate the no-bid contracts that have wasted billions in Iraq and reform our defense budget so that we’re not paying for Cold War-era weapons systems we don’t use. We will root out the waste, fraud and abuse in our Medicare program that doesn’t make our seniors any healthier, and we will restore a sense of fairness and balance to our tax code by finally ending the tax breaks for corporations that ship our jobs overseas.” Hooray!
As I stridently seek work, knocked back again and again in a sick and sad economy, despite my experience and qualifications, I can have hope. I have the personal hope that comes from knowing I am in the right place for me, and that something will come along. I can also have hope that this country – my adopted homeland – will pull itself up by its bootstraps and get on with it. And that hope comes from knowing that the person at the helm is a doer.
Sandy Barker | Author 
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