She's cursed herself

Don't celebrities know by now not to say in an interview: "I'm happier than I've ever been" ? That's an immediate curse. I've lost count of the number of times I've read celebs say that, then they move on to immediate doom. I think Kirsty Alley was one of the standouts in my mind.

Nicollette Sheridan says this in You magazine, one of those style supplements that comes with the Sunday papers. Even the editor must know how trite it is to put that statement on the cover because they print "I'm happier than I've EVER been" with EVER totally capitalized as if to emphasize that this is not just another stupid celeb statement.

And what was I even doing reading crap like that? I used to read the style mags when I was into fash last summer. But since autumn came, I've been jaded and just wear the same dark stuff over and over to work where no one cares what you look like so trying to make a fashion statement is pointless (my department is all male).

My other beef with these style mags is that they have a columnist who recommends herbal remedies when people have problems that really need medicine like diabetes. Wouldn't you feel terrible if you told people not to use conventional treatments and they got sicker as a result?

Need advice?

My friend Linda, an award-winning writer of books such as The Words We Live by: Your Annotated Guide to the Constitution (Stonesong Press Books), thinks I would be a good advice columnist. She always knows best about these things -- so if any of you out there have any problems, send them to me at etwritingservices@yahoo.co.uk, and I will solve them for you via this blog.

PS:
My qualifications for giving advice include dealing with divorce, alcoholism, depression, suicide, Asperger's Syndrome and Multiple Sclerosis -- and that's just in two generations within the family. In this respect, though, I am probably not that much different from most people as we all have to deal with these things but don't let on to others if we can help it.

Christmas is for children

I didn't realize my husband was a Dalek until he started going around the house on Christmas Eve, scaring all of our party guests by shouting, "You will be exterminated!" in this mask that changes your voice into a Dalek's with the press of a button. It was his favourite present of all.

And here's my daughter's festive legs on Christmas Eve:

Daughter Envy

My daughter and I just walked home from the gym -- she ran like the wind on the treadmill, rowed for 3500 meters and did other really hard stuff effortlessly. And there I was, huffing and puffing on the cross-country trainer, exhausted after 15 minutes.

I'm not a Joan Crawford mother, but I am struggling with Daughter Envy. My kid Katie is so smart and strong.

She's home for Christmas from medical school. When her membership in the British Medical Association came in the mail, I really suffered pangs of jealousy because it brought it home that my daughter was going to be a doctor, and I was a mere technical writer. Then other thoughts kicked in: "Just think of the drug samples and party invites that will come with this membership," I said to my husband.

Monopoly madness

My husband is a ruthless capitalist. Every night he beats the rest of the family at Monopoly (we play games during the holidays -- I was the Old Maid twice on Christmas Day). Somehow he ends up with hotels scattered across the board, just waiting to bankrupt the rest of us. "Why can't we have some socialism in this game," my son wailed as he forked out for yet another expensive night at one of my husband's properties. "I could stay at a youth hostel then."

I always feel sorry for my kids when they are losing, and let them off debts and trade off properties in their favor. But my husband -- he's a modern-day Mr Potter.

My son has been reading tips on the Internet on how to win at Monopoly (try to get the orange set of properties; don't worry about the cheap purple ones as no one ever lands on them, etc.) so he's more hopeful for tonight's game.

Old Vic panto

The Christmas pantomime at the Old Vic was superb a couple of years ago, so I went to the latest production yesterday (written by Stephen Fry) with high hopes. I was a bit worried by the bad review it got in the Evening Standard though: "Stephen Fry and wit are supposed to be long-term companions, but it now looks and sounds as if they are undergoing a trial separation, with Fry the bereft party."

But the paper was right. It wasn't very good. The audience sat stupefied, not even bothering to hiss when the evil sisters came on stage. As I looked around the beautiful theatre, I tried to imagine how it felt to be in the audience when Laurence Olivier, Vivien Leigh and John Gielgud were performing there in the '30s and '40s.

A Christmas gift

We had a Dickensian Christmas with no heating or hot water when the boiler broke down on Christmas Eve. We huddled in one room all Christmas day then heated up water on the stove to make a bath of a couple of inches and took turns taking a quick dip.

On the 26th, I sent a 'can anyone help me' text to my friends. Immediately I had calls with suggestions for how to get a boiler fixed when no one is back at work until January the 2nd, and a neighbour came over with portable heaters and an offer to let us take a shower at his house later today.

Now is having friends like that a wonderful Christmas gift or what?

Bard of Beer

I was in Devon over the weekend and sat in a pub having lunch with my friends. In the corner was an eccentric man with a long beard, surrounded by books, candles and quill pens.

My first thought was that he was Santa, and I could ask for that expensive hair straightner appliance I've been wanting, but on closer inspection, I was that he was in fact the Bard of Beer. He had his poetry books around the pub (The Anchor Inn near the seafront), and I was sure I had made a fabulous discovery and that his poetry would lead to enlightenment for me.

But, as with so many things in life, disappointment waited for me. The Bard's writing was trite and overblown. See what you think:

'There is a wholeness, all things are complete, fulfilled: Vastness of the past, far flung future, meet, embrace in the Eternal Now.'

'How should faith respond to the onslaught of atheism?' asks the Times today.

The Times condemns 'militant atheism' today in its main opinion piece. I don't understand why talking about a lack of belief constitutes some sort of 'militancy' but Christians who spread the word about Jesus aren't being militant, they are just sharing their faith.

Archbishop says belief in God not the same as belief in Santa

The Archbishop of Canterbury says: "The thing is, belief in Santa does not generate a moral code, it does not generate art, it does not generate imagination. Belief in God is a bit bigger than that."

Let's take his points one by one:

1. Belief in Santa does not generate a moral code:
What about 'you better watch out, you better not cry, better not pout I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town.' Santa promotes good behaviour among millions of children.

2. Belief in Santa does not generate art:

What about those fine pictures of Santa drinking from a Coke bottle that were done by Haddon Sundblom in 1931. That's iconic stuff.




3. Belief in Santa does not generate imagination.

Kids all over the world believe in Santa and think he lives somewhere inaccessible and brings them the toys they want. They dream of him all year 'round -- that's imagination generation.

Zen Moment for today

Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die

- Basho

A new appreciation for religion

I had to miss a carol service in a beautiful village church last night because of a stomach bug. I find now that I've acknowledged to myself that I don't believe in a deity, I can appreciate the by-products of religion such as its architecture and music much more. Now I don't pay any attention to what the vicar says, musing instead about if I need more milk at the supermarket or if I've washed that shirt I need to wear to work the next day. I know in this respect I am only catching up with the rest of the world who have never listened to what a man of the cloth says.

Hammie Love

There's a war going on in Iraq, people are diagnosed with terminal illnesses everyday, the vet's waiting room was filled with distressed people holding wounded animals -- and there I was with a dwarf hamster tucked away in my bag. I was so embarrassed to be taking this tiny thing, no bigger than a ball of fluff, to the vet. But when he appeared to have a broken leg and wasn't able to move much, I thought maybe the humane thing would be to have him put down. My son and I were devastated to think of that happening because we just adored our dwarf hamsters, (named Hammie and Hammie because we can't tell them apart).

When the vet called for the next patient to come in and couldn't even see that I had anything with me, he was perplexed. Apologizing, I pulled a little hamster container out with the sick little hammie inside.

In the end, the vet gave hammie a shot of steriod - the needle itself was 5 times the size of our pet --and he rallied. He's stayed alive and happy another month. We were thrilled. But now his brother Hammie has a big tumour on his stomach, but still eats and plays happily. I'm just hoping they last through Christmas because they put their stockings out on their cage and are hoping Santa Hamster leaves them some treats....

Oprah's thyroid

Oprah says: "At the end of May, I was so exhausted I couldn't figure out what was going on in my life....was still feeling really tired, really tired, going around from doctor to doctor trying to figure out what was wrong and finally figured out that I had literally sort of blew out my thyroid."

Oprah's thyroid has been on my mind recently. She's been overweight for a million years, and you mean to tell me that all those expensive doctors she has in her employ never thought to do a simple thyroid function test until she was in her early 50s?

I'm suspicious....

On a general note, Oprah used to be amusing in the '80s when she would do programs where she opened up people's closets and filmed what secrets she found there, for example. But in the '90s she got to be such a Know-it-All. I remember her telling us how to raise kids and I thought, honey, who made you Pope??

Unwrapping a happy Christmas

I think I'm trying too hard to force my family into having a delightful festive season.

Unwrapping Christmas ornaments to put on the tree the other day, I exclaimed: 'Look at this decoration from years ago. Do you remember when we got this one? Doesn't it bring back memories?'

'Um, not really,' my husband said.

'Never seen that one before,' my son chimed in.

I grabbed another thing from the box. 'What about this one?' I said, holding it up. 'Don't those happy Christmases from years past coming flooding back?'

They both shook their heads. 'I just can't place it,' my husband muttered.

I put my Ipod on its speakers and started playing my favourite cheesy Christmas music -- 'Christmas on the Ponderosa' (I heartily recommend this CD to any of you who grew up watching Bonanza re-runs.)

As I continued to decorate the tree, I noticed my son quietly fast forwarding all the songs until we were suddenly on the last track where Ben Cartwright has a soliquoy and wishes the entire world a merry Christmas.

'You don't like 'Christmas on the Ponderosa'?' I asked, incredulous.

'No, I don't,' Mikey admitted.

Note to self: Let your family members enjoy Christmas in their own way. Stop trying so hard.

Post-modern dilemma

"Mommy, I don't like modern art," my son said plaintively as I led him around the Tate Modern the other week.

"Just keep an open mind," I counselled. "Contemporary art is supposed to shake you up and make you think about things differently." We kept on walking. "Look at this," I said excitedly pointing to Marcel Duchamp's 'The Fountain' from 1917 that caused a stir in the art world. I read aloud from notes:

Paris museum director Alfred Packmon has observed that Duchamp and the Dadaists were making the point that art was no longer just a nice bunch of flowers on the wall:

"The artist is the person who decides what is art and what is not art.”

Mikey tried to get into the spirit of things and observed the object for a moment.

"But Mommy," he said, "It's just a toilet."

Ponder this -- our Zen Moment for today

To what shall I compare this life of ours?
Even before I can say
it is like a lightning flash or a dewdrop
it is no more.

- Sengai

Put me on the couch

I met a real Freudian analyst from Vienna at a party the other day. She was so formidable, and I was sure she could see immediately all my deepest psychological problems. (She must have been thinking: this woman is stuck in the oral stage, or something similarly Freudian.)

She gave me her business card and on it was a picture of her psychiatrist's couch. I was entranced by the idea of being in Vienna (in my mind, it would be snowing and Christmaslike) and discussing my childhood on her antique Freudian sofa.

I blurted out that I would love to be analyzed. She looked concerned. "I can give you the names of some good people in London who you could talk to," she said.

"NO!" I replied quickly. "It's YOU I want to see. In Vienna. And I want to be on that couch from your business card."

(The fact that I don't speak German, don't live in Vienna, couldn't get to her office three to four times a week for intensive analysis but still entertained fantasies of seeing her showed clearly that I was a hopeless case.)

Discreet Christianity

Wouldn't you like to invite this woman to your next party?

She wrote this to a Sunday newspaper:

"I and all other Christians are made to feel we must be discreet for fear of upsetting other faiths. People have been asked not to wear crosses, to 'dumb-down' Nativity plays, to make non-religious windows displays at Christmas, to rename Christmas 'Winter Fest.'"

You know, you guys have Christianity as the state religion in England. It's taught in schools, you have officially sanctioned prayers every day -- I don't see what the problem is.

It's people like me -- the non-believers -- who have to be discreet. You get judged so harshly for rejecting mainstream beliefs.

I'm sending this card to tell you No More Cards

What a beautiful Christmas card my friend sent -- Santa being pulled through snowy woods with a little robin under a little tree nearby. Ah, I was filled with the holiday spirit as I opened it to see greetings from a friend I hadn't seen all year.

But what's this? A little piece of paper slipped out -- full of family news, no doubt.

But no! I read that due to the family becoming more 'environmentally and socially conscious,' they would no longer be sending cards. Ever.

In addition, they informed us that we should 'feel free not to send' them a card in return.

I felt sort of like Charlie Brown at that moment -- rejected. Don't they even want to know what happened to us in 2007? I could have made stuff up to make the family newsletter more interesting -- but now they'll never know.

Faux Pas Queen

Can anyone cite a worse case of Foot-in-Mouth Disease than this? I was at a birthday party and somehow started talking about my husband's college girlfriend. "Can you believe that she actually named her daughters Alexandra and Charlotte?" I scoffed. "How pretentious is that?"

"Actually," said the woman I was telling this tale to, "MY daughters are named Alexandra and Charlotte."

I almost fell off my chair. Trying to make the best of a horrible situation, I fibbed, "well, I think the daughter's middle names are Isabella. I'm sure you didn't call your daughters that!"

I can't wash her out of my hair

Why are hairdressers so expensive? My local salon now charges £50 for a cut ($100) and another £40 (£80) for coloring. And this is my local place -- just down the road from my house that is in no way a ritzy joint -- If I try to go cheaper, I get a lousy cut but still, it seems so pricey.

Last night I rushed in to the salon from work and the stylist wasn't around. They said, 'she'll be here shortly' but it was at least 15 minutes. That's a lot of time if you add on the additional two hours it takes to get your hair colored and cut. I don't even stay for a blowdry anymore --- the 'finish,' as they call it, costs another arm and a leg. I sat there fuming in the chair thinking, I'm never using her again and she's not getting a tip -- but by the end of the evening as I examined the costs involved in using another stylist, even more expensive, and the fact that the woman gave me a good cut and the fact that the salon is only down the street from me, I relented. I made another appointment with her and gave her a £5 tip.

Americans! Don't be intimidated by British accents!

I've been noticing that Brits are starting to call each other 'Hon' with abandon. Being a Mississippi girl, I used to be the only person in the UK who called people 'Hon' but now they are all doing it. There is nothing stranger than hearing British people use American slang, especially when they say something is 'way cool' or something similar that they heard from a Simpsons episode. It's just not right.

But just because Brits assume I am stupid because I have a thick Mississippi accent, I have learned to avoid the mistake of assuming that a person with a posh British accent is intelligent. In fact, it can often be the opposite -- the posher the accent, the dumber the person.

Americans, we have to stop being intimidated by their accents. One time I saw Jeffrey Archer (before he became a convicted criminal) intimidating an American interviewer on TV by speaking like he was a member of the Royal Family. (Brits exaggerate their accents when they feel the fear of an American being intimidated, I can tell you.) I was annoyed with her for displaying her Accent Insecurity like that.
Remember, a posh accent does not equal intelligence!

A village vicar's progressive thinking

I used to live in a little Hampshire village and loved to read the monthly column by the local vicar in the parish magazine. It was so amusing when he'd get his knickers in a twist over how far we've fallen in modern life (or so he thought; I don't agree). In fact, he mused so much on sex at one point that I wondered if he wasn't a bit preoccupied with the topic in a worldly, rather than a spiritual, way.

This month, though, he's just merely sexist. He thinks we should make Christmas presents, rather than buy them. But when he says 'we', he really means 'women.' Yeah, vicar, give us more stuff to do!!

Let him explain:

There is a solution to this dilemma - it is to
make your presents yourself. This does not
guarantee that the recipients will be delighted
of course, but it more or less ensures that
they will say they are pleased, because since
you actually made it for them it would be rude
to do anything else! Generally speaking this
solution is more accessible to women than to
men. Apart from the fact that they have more
time (!) women tend to enjoy occasions like
craft evenings which give them scope for this
sort of thing. They also tend to have a wider
range of skills: they can knit (very useful!),
sew (not so exciting!), bake (excellent but
short-lasting!). They can create things with
paper and card (pretty but useless!), perhaps
even make costume jewellery (possibly
wearable in certain circumstances!) and they
can weave wicker baskets (positively
practical!)

Don't call me in an emergency

I've taken the Red Cross First Aid course two years in a row & I still am not sure what to do in an emergency. I haven't done enough Red Cross duties to be very experienced so I usually just hover around while others take charge.

Yesterday I was at a birthday lunch for a friend and a woman collapsed, and the person on the scene before me had her in the recovery position and was sorting her out in no time. I could see how deathly pale the woman was -- she had passed out -- but I had no idea what to do for her. Someone called an ambulance and I did comfort the two sobbing kids nearby but I felt so inadequate! I feel like I should know right away what to do.

Looks like I'm going to be taking that Red Cross course for a third time next year.