This is Danni

The Dracula Tour--The Grand Finale

2007-09-28T12:55:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I kinda got waylaid and didn't quite finish the story of our grand adventure, but that's mostly because the last day was, for all intents and purposes, the tying up of loose ends.

After a refreshing evening with Pat, Dave and Steve and several cocktails and a fabulous night's kip in cool air conditioning, we awoke to spend the final morning in Sibiu, before returning to Bucharest. On the way we stopped at Poenari Castle, former residence for Vlad Dracula. As a woman who prides herself on spending five days a week in the gym, I shamed myself by not climbing the 1,484 steps to the top, but having been on the go for days, with abridged sleep, shattered eating schedule and an intense desire for someone to throw me a salad, I declined.

But while the others began clambering to the top, several local canines, took up temporary residence around the landing where I was perched. While one sat behind me, supposedly guarding me, the other planted himself directly in front of me, rolled over and then used my feet as his pillow while he napped for the next half hour.

Once the group returned we began the last leg of our coach journey to Bucharest. By the time we returned to Bucharest that evening, most of us were debating the merits of a few hours sleep versus simply staying awake as our early morning flight demanded a 4 am departure time. That discussion was tabled for a 10 pm dinner reservation at Club Dracula.

While the restaurant was charming, I'm a bit beyond the age where a fried chicken fillet, molded in the shape of a rat and stuffed with a red pate' that oozed rather convincingly when sliced, impresses me. The waitress noticed my disenchantment and asked "Vat? Dere is a radt on your plate, and you do not find zis int-er-esting?"
Repulsive? Yes. Interesting? No.

Of course I was so happy to see something that vaguely resembled fresh veggies, I quickly scarfed down every carrot, radish, kale and lettuce leaf garnishing the platter. After listening to a recorded selection from Bram Stoker's novel,and a requisite visit by Count Dracula, most of us were using the champagne flutes to prop our heads up. Fortunately the hotel was nearby so we were able to walk back, but with the city having reached 107 degrees Fahrenheit earlier that day, the streets were loaded......with Romanian Roaches. As their carcasses crackled underfootI was very grateful my sandals had 3 inch platforms.

When I collapsed on the bed, I calculated just how effective 2 hours and 57 minutes of sleep might be, but I think I may have passed by the time I crawled to the top of the bed and found my pillow. The time had moved swiftly but we'd met a great group of crazy people made several friends I hope we'll see again soon, and after seeing additional points of interest in Romania on the Discovery channel, who knows? A return trip may be in order.

The Special One Leaves Chelsea

2007-09-20T08:02:00.001-04:00

I made Mecca to Stamford Bridge and sat in his chair.
I loved watching his expression, or lack there of, when Chelsea played.

What shall I do without Jose Mourinho?

And who the hell is this Avram Grant?

What will happen with Sunday's match against Manchester United?

Many questions, few answers and lots of worry with an away game, at Old Trafford in the balance.

I'm feeling positively bilious.

The Dracula Tour--Part III

2007-08-24T14:14:00.000-04:00

The tour well and truly beings

After breakfast, the journey began with a brief stop to photograph the Palace of Parliament. Originally named the People’s Palace, it is the second largest administrative building in the world and exemplifies the decadent excess during Nicolae Ceauşescu’s regime. The building boasts lavish interiors, crafted from Romania’s best natural resources, including 480 chandeliers, 900,000 cubic meters of parquet flooring, and brocade curtains, embroidered with silver and gold.

Soon we were off to visit Snagov and the final resting place of Vlad Tepes Dracula. We accessed the island in small groups via row boat. The trip over took less time than it did to get some of our fellow travelers in the boat. The island itself was beautiful and had everything you could ever wanted in a summer place. As we ambled down a path towards the chapel, we passed several fruit trees, a few goats, a ramshackled cottage, a rooster and several very plump chickens, and a big German Shepherd. Apparently work was being done on a few of the buildings but while we were there, the quiet was only punctuated by a few crows of the chickens, followed by the dog, contributing a few barks for good measure.

Inside the chapel round chapel, ancient frescos of religious icons and the Dracul family, look down upon crypt, as an orthodox monk held vigil. Posing before the tomb was the ultimate photo op and we all took turns kneeling before the crypt in the floor and the picture of Vlad that sat atop.

The next stop was Bran Castle near Braşov. The castle, currently on the market, was created to defend against Turkish invaders before serving as a customs post and most notably as home to Queen Marie, a British royal who became a Romanian patriot and collector of items illustrating the skill and craftsmanship of the Romanian people. Although there were some questions regarding where Vlad actually lived (it’s kind of a George Washington Slept here thing) we do know he was at one point held captive there in a tiny cell which we all piled into. I really liked the castle, but more impressive to me was the furniture that Queen Marie had collected. If I thought I could have slid the handcarved bed under my coat I would have tried it, but security was evident when someone kept hitting the magic velvet ropes cordoning off the antiquities which triggered a heavily accented English voice reminding visitors not to touch the collection.

The following day, we entered Sighişoara, where Vlad was born. After viewing the clock tower and visiting the torture room located just outside the city gates, replete with a rack and iron maiden, we walked around a bit, picking up a few souvenirs and finally deciding on stopping for pizza in the piazza. The thin crust pizza was a poem, and I only wish more of the places we ate offered pizza instead of the deep fried schnitzel that seemed to be overly represented on the Romanian menu. That evening we arrived in Bistriţa at the Corona d’Aur hotel.

We were all exhausted, but dinner had been specially arranged for us at Jonathn Harker’s restaurant around 10:30 that evening so we all retired to our rooms for about 40 minutes, cleaned up a bit and then entered dinner as a group, where a caped Dracula wannabe, served us a local liquor which I barely got up to my lips before someone else jumped out of the dark, startling me and sending the aforementioned aperitif down the front of my skirt. When we were seated, we were presented with a cheese ball, decorated with pimentos and olives for form a face. The presentation was cute in a kitschy sort of way, but the cheese reminded me of eating paste as a child, only paste has a bit more moisture. At dinner, we all began talking about all we had seen so far on our whirlwind tour and began celebrating the fact that this was truly a once in a lifetime event, especially as we had finally arrived in the Transylvania region and it was, Friday the 13th. We were abuzz with excitement know the next day we would be driving up the Burgo pass to the Hotel Castle Dracula, and attending the Dracula Ball on the night of a full moon.

After a good night’s sleep, and finally having a few free hours to ourselves, Jordan and I walked through Bistriţa, towards the area where we observed a local carnival, when we entered town the previous night. Although it was early, by 10 am we found rides whirring, as vendors set out their crafts to the sounds of a local band punctuating nonsensical but rhyming English lyrics with rock guitar riffs. For most of our lives we’ve always headed warnings about Gypsies and Carni folk, and suddenly we were surrounded by nothing else. Although we didn’t see any real souvenirs labeled Transylvania, we did pick up a few religious icons from the Orthodox priests and nuns. Most of the Orthodox clergy were dressed in long black tunics with huge crosses swinging from their necks, but the nuns, instead of wearing veils, had what looked like black pill box hats. If I’d ever been a nun, I definitely would have chosen that option. It was like, I can be a Bride of Christ and still rock the fashion angle. At other time we would have haggled for the best prices, having been schooled in the fine art from days spent in markets in East London, but it just didn’t seem kosher to bargain with nuns who had taken a vow of poverty for a few religious icons that, with the exchange rate, we were already getting for a song. I’m sure there are world travelers who will tell me it’s that kind of thinking that forces the next group of visitors to pay full price. Like I care? I’m not spending an eternity explaining to St. Peter why I had to be cheap when it came to dealing with his bretheren.

The final leg of the tour was the scenic Burgo Pass. The mountainous route through the Eastern Carpathian Mountains connects Transylvania with Bukovina, the gateway to the realm of the literary Dracula. Our collective jaws dropped, as we caught the first glimpse of Hotel Castle Dracula perched atop a mountain, beckoning us to that evening’s Dracula Ball. Because this was the summer tour, not the one offered around Halloween, we didn’t know whether people would really dress up or not. Fortunately the missing luggage for our group members arrived so everyone had their outfits. After a bit of a walk outside, and a few adult bevvys, we took a nap and then prepared to put on what we though would be low key sartorial elegance, Jordan in a black suit that shimmers with an electric blue mylar thread, when lit at certain angles, and me in a black voile skirt, 4 ½ inch coffin heeled shoes and a full black leather vest with collar and keyhole openings in front and back. Sure that sounds like gear for a bondage club, but faced with women in Spiked bras, Victorian gowns with fangs, a Nosferatu and a guy with an animatronic alien sticking out of his chest, we were sedate.

Dinner began with shots of what must have been the Romanian version of white lightening, and a large bonfire over which we roasted chicken on skewers as traditional folk musicians played for us. After the sun went down the temperatures in that area were rapidly dropping so many people were drinking the shots. I used mine as marinade for the chicken, making sure not to get too close to the fire as I could feel the grommets around the corset lacing and the leather encasing my boobs, getting hotter by the second. Once we returned to the hotel, a long table was set for our group of 20 and we enjoyed dinner and local wine before spending the rest of the evening dancing, watching the bat fly around the hotel and visiting the vault for a picture opportunity in a coffin.

When you’ve experience an evening like that, everything else has fall a bit lower on the roster, so we returned South to Sibui on our way back towards Bucharest and our final destination the airport.

After driving all day, and the temperatures in the south rising dramatically, we stopped back to Sighişoara to watch a re-enactment of a witch trial, followed by a tour of a gothic graveyard before arriving at our hotel.

As world travelers, we’re well aware that what equates as four star in America can be, less stellar in foreign climes, but once we checked into this hotel, we discovered there was no air-conditioning and it was close to 107 degrees, the windows barely opened, the refrigerator in our room, was not only, warm, but held none of the honor bar niceties that were listed on the menu. There were however, a number of beetles who were happy to escort us from the bed to the bathroom.
I tried to catch our breath for a minute as we watched The Discovery Channel (the only channel in English) before visiting the hotel bar, being too worn to go anywhere far. Alas, the hotel bar was closed. The manager said we could have a drink in the restaurant, so we went upstairs to see if we could meet Pat and Dave there, but instead, we found a large family enjoying Sunday dinner in a room that smelled musty, as they were regaled by the groovy sounds of a three man combo with the leader playing a circa 1983 Casio, complete with bad 80s drum track.

We made a hasty exit and once outside the hotel, tried to pull a few thoughts together. I knew Dave and Pat were equally as tired. Since our guide given us the general direction of the town square, we began walking when I had an epiphany. I saw a light, and it said RAMADA. “They must have a bar!” And the doorman confirmed, they had three. We walked upstairs as strains of jazz filled the halls and we began noticing things like diffused lighting, and neon, and air-conditioning. The first bar was open and modern but we figured, before we plopped ourselves down, we’d look at the second bar. And there they were. Looking refreshed from the cool and with a bottle of wine in front of them, our mates, Pat and Dave. This was great. This was cause for a celebration. After the day we had, this was virtual ecstasy. We joined them and after the quaffing of many refreshing beverages, the addition of a bridal party, and a bartender that may have spoken five languages but was really not of this earth, we were nearly moved to tears at the prospect of returning to the roach motel. And then it dawned on us. Why not stay. We could meet the group in the morning but at least we’d be refreshed and happy. So we said bugger all to group bonding that roughing it as a collective is supposed to imbue and we sent the men folk to pick up luggage, and our favorite New Yorker Steve, and we expatriated to across the street. Do you know how to say heaven in Romanian?
Ramada!!

The Dracula Tour--Part II

2007-08-13T10:50:00.000-04:00

When we went downstairs to check in for our flight, we met the tour group. Maybe it was the excitement or the two glasses of wine, but suddenly we were being hurtled towards the check in counter and shoved on an earlier flight. We found it strange and quite disconcerting as in all our year of travel, we’d never had British Air shove us on an earlier departing flight, with no reason given other than, “Hurry, the flight will be boarding soon!”

Oh those nutty French.

Soon we were being loaded on a flight and I was being separated from my husband to spend the next seven hours next to two strangers.
Fortunately there was an empty seat and with the help of a lovely French expatriate named Pascale, the stewardesses obliged and let me join Jordan in the front of the cabin.

The flight was pretty uneventful until when landed in Paris.

Although we’d been in Paris before, we took the train through the Channel tunnel. Having to negotiate Charles de Gualle airport was another story. Once we disembarked we had to take a bus to the next terminal, which of course was the last terminal on the route. Once we arrived there, we had just enough time to get a bottle of water go through security and board the flight.

Or so we thought.

It turned out that a severely disabled man had been left on the flight and the company that was to arrange transfer had not arrived. We waited two hours in a rather small waiting area, with no bathroom for the next two hours. I feared my bladder might suffer irrepairable damage.

As soon as we were allowed on the flight, I headed post haste to the loo. (Like you needed to know that, right?)

By the time we finally landed in Bucharest, we were all anxious to grab our luggage and head to the hotel. That would have been too easy. Four members of our party had their luggage lost in transit so by the time we waited for them to fill out forms, we were right in the middle of rush hour traffic in Romania.

Eventually we made it to the hotel and after about 22 hours of travel we were all worse for the wear, but we, along with our new best friends from Cali needed to partake of the kind of refreshment that can only an adult beverage can impart. We tried the local pilsner, Ursus, then we tried a few glasses of the local wine before deciding to take a wee walk about with two more of our group, Steve from NY and Juan from Santa Cruz. After about a ten minute walk, we ended up stopping for a bite to eat at the Waterloo restaurant in Bucharest.

One of the first and most joyous things we discovered about Romania was the exchange rate. Since we usually pay $3 for every Maltese lira and $2 for every British pound, it was immensely gratifying to spend one American greenback for two Romania lei. At the Waterloo restaurant that meant paying just four bucks for a large Chimay. Although the pictures of us at the restaurant illustrate just how zonked we were, we did feel better after having some soup and bacon crepes.

Then sated and exhausted, we headed back to the hotel.
Yup, this Romanian thing was starting off pretty well.

The Dracula Tour to Transylvania- A serial/Pt. 1

2007-08-01T10:41:00.000-04:00

Our new mates! Dave & Pat!
We’re not the relaxing type. We don’t loll around in the sun on holiday. We’re constantly exploring the strange and unusual from exhibits to events. One look at our respective wardrobes, and you know we’re not your run of the mill Gap crowd. So when it came to planning our summer holiday, we were looking for a bit of excitement.

One of the possible contenders, and number one with a bullet, was to go running with the bulls in Spain. The Festival of San Fermin, as romanticized by Hemingway, sounded like a great idea, but when I began researching, I discovered there were no direct routes to Pamplona, once you landed in Madrid you’d have to take a train, bus or private plane to the area. Even more disappointing was those shrewd Spaniards doubled the prices of every hotel, B&B, restaurant, and drinking establishment for the two weeks of the festival to effectively gouge festival revelers and cover the other 50 weeks when the city moves merrily along without the crush of touristas. (Ka-ching!)
With hotels averaging $350 per night per person (Ka-ching, kaching), quick calculations were heading into thousands and that was without airfare or the essential veranda bookings required if you wish to see the bulls run beneath you every morning while you enjoy your breakfast. Balcony reservations $200 per person. Breakfast, additional. (Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka blooey!)

On to plan B.
Plan B was the Dracula Tour to Transylvania. It was a one week group tour departing from JFK which covered everything from visiting Bucharest, Vlad Tepes final resting place (that’s Vlad the Impaler to you), driving up the Borgo Pass and spending the night at Hotel Castle Dracula. It seemed to be just the ticket for Ma and Pa Goth and with the cost of the package including airfare, all coach travel, accommodations, some meals, coming in less than just a few days hotel stay in Spain, I booked the trip immediately.

Since we jump the pond on average, twice a year, we don’t worry about the things that hang up novices, like travelers cheques (don’t bother, ATMs are virtually everywhere and you get the days best rate on currency exchange) phones (we have mobiles with international albeit pricey long distance that cover virtually every country up to the Chinese border) and luggage (we take carry-ons that hold several days clothes should we lose something and TSA locks that make it easy for customs to check out anything suspicious), but we’re so spoiled flying out of Philly International all the time, that JFK was a whole new world. So aside from the hassle of having to get there, we were ready for the Dracula Tour (blah, blah, blah).

Have you ever seen the show Airplane where people arrive at the Airport with far less than the requested 3 hours before international flights? That’s not us. We were there so early that we had plenty of time to park ourselves and luggage for a few glasses of vino before Air France was even accepting check in for our flight. So there we sat, discussing the beginning of our adventure, when at the very next table, we met the first of or merry group of co-travelers, Dave and Pat. “Poor souls.” I thought. They were so sweet, and treated us like real people. I wanted to whisper “Run away from the weirdos now, while you can.” But they stayed. Question is, would that be something they’d eventually regret?.......
To be continued

Venturing off on a Vlad Vacation

2007-07-03T17:12:00.000-04:00

I suppose I could be satisfied with a holiday at the shore, or a vacation in the Caribbean.........
if I was loaded up with Thorzine.

I want to got the places most go. I'll walk down a dark alley instead of the sright and narrow. I'll read guidebooks but leave myself open to taking a wrong turn and finding something really groovy there, so when I found The Dracula Tourm despite being no big fan of the group experience, I signed on.

Now with just days before my departure to Transylvania (a region in present day Romania)I'm so psyched I can hardly stand it. The wardrobe has been scaled down to a set of fabulous frocks in appropriate dark motifs, a pared down toilette kit, and a fab outfit for the Dracula ball including Demonia 4 inch coffin heels, and the full scale leather corset that makes me look like I could slay every deamon from Philly to Bucharest.

Of course only time will tell if it does what it says on the tin, but I'll post here when I return so you'll be the first to know.

Paris released. So what took ya so long?

2007-06-07T19:07:00.000-04:00

Paris served three days in jail.

That was supposed to be 23.

That was supposed to be 45.

She got time off for good behavior.

How do you get time off for good behavior when you haven't even gotten there yet?

I still held out a bit of hope that it wasn't true. You know, the thing
about there being two versions of the law, ones for the haves, and another for the have nots.

Of course some would say a DUI shouldn't have put anyone in jail, and it was only done to set an example to those crazy rich "It" girls.

I don't know. I'm not really sure I care, but the best quote about the situation goes to my husband.

"It's not for us to be upset. You know who should be pissed?
Martha Stewart and Lil Kim.

SO YA NEED AN UPDATE, DO YA?

2007-05-30T13:21:00.000-04:00

I have friends with blogs that haven’t been updated for more than a year. I can understand it, as some days life seems to flash by, but I always feel a bit sad when I see those pages. It’s like coming across a crumpled picture in a burnt out house. You wonder what ever happened to those faces but have to live with not knowing.

It just sometimes you’re so busy doing other things that you simply don’t take the time to do create another glorious story about me. I think it would be easier if I found myself more interesting, but I don’t, which is why I’m always trying to learn new skills and seek the new, exciting and off beat. But I’m taking a moment to check in because I know there are friends, especially those spread across the US and UK whose contact would be limited to a postcard from my next wild holiday (we’re off to the Dracula tour of Transylvania in July) or a Christmas card.

So for those of you who have been wondering, here’s what I’ve been up to…

Celebrating Chelsea--2007 FA Cup Winners!
Yup, it was close and we didn’t win the Champions League for the UEFA cup (won by Sevilla, but congrats to Liverpool for making the finals) or the Premiership title, (ManU had the points, what can I say) but it does mean for the third year in a row, the cup will reside at Chelsea’s home, Stamford Bridge. So I’d like to thank all of you who said we’d never beat ManU again, for the comedians who make jokes like, “I bumped into the television while Chelsea was playing, and Drogba fell over” and a special thanks to Arsenal who in a trade for Ashley Cole, took Gallas (the whinging pain in the ass) off our hands. Now everyone sing a rousing chorus:

“Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together, and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name

Wall of Voodoo
I’m not very good with heights. I generally find myself backing away from railings and staying in the middle of very high terraces or balconies, but having come to the belief that life is too short to be ruled by fear, I decided to go indoor rock climbing with Colleen and Aly at Go Vertical, the largest indoor rock climbing center on the east coast. And therein lay my secondary fear, that even if my life depended upon it, I wouldn’t have the upper body strength to pull myself up from a cliff. Well it turns out I was wrong, okay, half wrong. I’m still not a big fan of heights, but once I put on the harness and faced that wall head on, I found I was able to climb much higher than I thought. And, had I not looked down, and done a couple of yoga stretches I may just have made that last 10 feet to the top. What I didn’t realize is the practice was less a matter of upper body strength, but grip strength and the ability to plot out the best toe holds helps…...alot. Sure, I had to sacrifice a perfect manicure (replete with two coats of Lincoln Park After Dark) in order to climb, but it was a mall sacrifice for such a rush. After three hours of climbing and learning some basics on belaying (that’s being the person at the bottom who is secured to the rope of the climber and saves your sorry ass from crashing to the padded floor) I was exhausted, but exhilarated enough to enjoy a celebratory lunch, with Mimosas, to toast the prowess of our collective She Beasts within.

No one Here Gets Out Alive

Even when you know death is inevitable, it doesn’t make it any easier to bear. Within the span of two weeks we lost our nephew Matthew at age 14, my buddy Colleen lost her nephew and a dear friend of mine G, lost his mother. While the death of Collen’s nephew came as a shock, a car accident took his life, both G and I were dealing with illnesses for which we hoped for miracles, but knew were probably terminal; cancer and heart disease. Matt had suffered heart attacks from an early age and had “clinically” died several times. He’d been waiting for a heart transplant and when that didn’t materialize, had to make due with an artificial heart in the interim. Although modern medicine was able to sustain his life, the waiting left him in such a weakened state that his systems began shutting down. Towards the end, he said he wasn’t afraid to die. In a way, that’s incredibly comforting and I admire that kid for having that kind of strength, mostly for the family he was leaving. I’d like to think I could leave here peacefully with the dignity he had, but as a person who’s doing all I can to extend and maintain a health life, I can’t help feeling when the angel of death finally knocks on my door, I’ll try and kick his ass and when pinned to the mat on the 9 count still ask, “Best two outta three?”

Here comes the Sun

Here comes the summer and I’ve been getting ready for it. While working out is a regular thing, I had been recently been laying a base of instant tan courtesy of a spray booth at Hollywood Tans. But when some yob broke the glass door of the only Instant tanning booth in the salon and the owner didn't rush to fix it, I had to take drastic action. I thought I’d reach for my normal fix of tan in a can, but for some reason, it didn’t want to adhere to my calves, and in the middle of a walk, I looked down to view legs that looked as if they had a serious case of orange impetigo. I pulled out a bottle of Kiehl’s sunless tanner that had worked wonders on my face and after applying two days in a row, had perfectly tanned gams that looked so good (and toned) they didn’t look like mine. Soon after, I slathered my entire body and by the time I wore a halter dress the next day, I looked the sun kissed picture of health (despite feeling like crap from my allergies) and a dapper older man in a gorgeous boater was trying to chat me up. Trust me, admiration from a true gent is a big step up from my usual coterie of admirers which consists almost entirely of retirees (read, dirty old men) in Kangols, Fred Durst wannabees who misguidedly think I’m impressed by board shorts and tattoos and the mentally challenged, who seek me out because having a Mum who taught Special Ed for 30 years, implants some sonar thing allowing them to sense when I’m near.

Writers Write, Always!
Finally I’ve managed to squirrel away time to write my great American novel. I have worked on things over the years only to stop, but 34 pages into this story, based in Philadelphia, I think I may actually get there. Or course, once I’m nearly done, I’ll need to edit and am fielding any offers from those of you who want to read and critique what I’m vaguely referring to as Chick Lit with a supernatural theme. Those of you who know my passions, will know the subject. I thought I might need a little help with the sex scenes, I mean what gothic romance doesn’t have em, but I’m more of a leave ‘em at the bedroom door than a erotica writer with a working knowledge of at least two dozen synonyms for “John Thomas” and “love pocket”. If I’m ever to get it published, I may have to get more graphic, but I want passion and romance, and too many descriptions of body fluids associated with bumping uglies simply remind me that I need to change the sheets when I do mid-week laundry. And who needs that in escapism fiction?

Dust and Grime Monopolize My Time : Confessions of a Homekeeper

2007-05-14T15:05:00.000-04:00

I’ve got a kitchen floor that needs scrubbing.
It's been on my to do list since last week.
I wish I was less concerned about it, but I was traumatized into clean by my father at an early age. He harbored these anti-deluvian ideas of what was expected from a marriable young woman and homekeeping skills were required. And he was a ball buster about them too. Sometime around the age of 10, after being asked by my mother to clean my room, and procrastinating, my father stepped in and demanded that it be done by the day’s end. I did what I believed to be a fine job and Mum seemed okay with it.

That satisfaction was short lived.

After I had gone to bed that Saturday night, I was roused by the blinding, sudden flick of the ceiling light being turned on, while my father demanded that I get out of bed and explain myself.

Explain what? I cleaned my room.....mostly.

He then ordered the opening of each desk drawer. Had I been conscious of the F word back then, I would have surely (at least in my internal dialogue) screamed it, because I knew I was caught dead to rights. As soon as he reached for the knob to open the top drawer, papers virtually leapt out greet him. That, was quickly followed by him overturning aforementioned desk drawer in the middle of the floor, with the shouted request that the entire desk be cleaned within one hour, when there would be a second inspection.

I was startled and scared shitless, but needless to say, the mission was accomplished in 59 minutes as I awaited perched on the edge of my bed, in my jammies, for a secondary inspection.

One hour and four minutes later, again he opened the desk, and though not perfect, by the time he'd reached the last of seven drawers, he had grunted a tacit approval.
I held my breath hoping he’d go away and let me return to those lovely dreams where I sang and danced with the Partridge Family. He turned and was about to leave when, out of the corner of his eye, noticed something sticking out from the rug.

When he pulled it back that funky purple shag carpeting, there appeared the odd bits of dust and stuff that accumulates from carpets bereft of padding.

Shouting! Take Two.

The new demand was the shag rug, which covered all but a five inch perimeter around the room, be lifted and the wooden floor beneath thoroughly swept before I would get any sleep that night.

By then it was after 11 pm and Mom stepped in with her disapproving David why do you have to play the evil dictator tone, but it was too late. The house was in an uproar with the dog at the bottom of the steps wondering what the hell was happening on the one floor where he wasn’t allowed. Dad was yelling, I was wailing, replete with crocodile tears plummeting down my chubby cheeks and Mum exasperated with trying to pacify us both.

At the time, I thought it was evil, torture, tantamount to child abuse. But that moment changed my life, and whether dorm room at Temple or shared apartment in Philly, my surroundings have remained, if not always immaculate, at least cleaned regularly and thoroughly.

I don’t blame Daddy. That was what he was taught.

I blame his mother.

My grandmother was a formidable woman. She could be your staunchest supporter or your worst nightmare; and with her family, often simultaneously. (There are those who will tell you I often channel her.) She was a fantastic cook, maker of the best spaghetti sauce, cream puffs and peach ice cream this side of the Mason Dixon line but when it came to home keeping she was an exacting tyrant. Even at the age of 80, she insisted on full seasonal cleanings which included, but was not limited to washing of walls, ceilings, woodwork, windows, Venetian blinds, window screens and cabinets, shelves, cupboards and household appliances.

I thought it was over the top, but as I’ve gotten older, what seemed OTT has become necessary. In a month’s time we’ll be yelling our annual battle cry, “the British are coming”, so the guest room and everything else from floor to ceiling needs attention.

I’m lucky though. The trial by fire and hard education on cleanliness assured that I knew how to do it. Outside of the of Martha Stewart wannabees, 20 and 30somethings are seemingly bereft of the knowledge of how to clean. How else can you explain the recent proliferation of shows like How Clean is Your House?, Mission Organization, Clean House and Perfect Housewife?

While for some, they serve as primers, for me they serve as a reminder that in a world full of dirty buggers, who let grill pans crust over, allow shedding animal hair to grow on carpets like an oversized Chia pet, and change sheets once a quarter, the best thing I can do for the great unwashed, is not be one of them.

And while stirring up the dust has set off my allergies on more than one occasion,it's a means to an end. And allergic reactions have lessened once I began eschewing chemicals for good old fashioned and non toxic mixes made with baking soda, powdered detergent, lemons, salt and vinegar. Yup, old fashioned, unpackaged, DIY cleaners that leave fresh and not chemical or overly deodorized scent behind. (If I want a scent, I'll light a Yankee Candle, Thank You.) And once I've finished, rooms have the aroma of air, everything seems brighter (including our entire and Coke collection occupying multiple shelves, dado railing and wall space in the kitchen.) And pristine results have convinced my husband to join in the tasks. Now that we've given a full spring cleaning to 75% of the house, there’s a tremendous sense of satisfaction in knowing that the house is not only tidy but deep cleaned.

So now instead of cleaning only on Saturday, I find myself wiping down kitchen cabinets, bathroom tile and Hoovering anytime I’ve 15 minutes to spare. Sure there's a downside. The cleaning rota, in addition to my gym schedule, means I'm so tired I'll never need a prescription for Lunesta . My lush friends have noted that I haven’t had time for a cocktail in nearly two weeks, and I spend more time searching for cleaning hints and ogling cleaning accessories in Home Trends catalogue that I do perusing fashion trends in Vogue.

Who cares! When I do collapse, I do so with the knowledge that there are no grime covered collectibles hovering around me or dust bunnies stalking me.

So armed with a duster specifically designed for cleaning ceiling fans and brushes created for cleaning the tracks of sliding shower doors, I remain vigilant against the onslaught of household grime. And though it's a dirty job, I take solace in knowing I’m just the broad to do it.

Was Mojo JoJo Cho Seung-Hui's Role Model?

2007-04-19T09:31:00.000-04:00

What happened Monday at Virginia Tech was a tragedy.
While headlines will tell you it was the worst massacre of Americans in History, my husband quickly points out the incident it dwarfed by the massacre of Native Americans as white European transplants proceeded across the West, so in our home we refer to it as the worst "illegal" massacre of American's in History.

Regardless, we wonder if Cho Seung-Hui was actually using a role model as his inspiration for the carnage. Mark David Chapman blamed his obsessed with John Lennon. John Hinkley was inspired by DeNiro's portrayal of Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver.

I think Cho Seung-Hui was inspired by the villan of the Powerpuff Girls, Mojo JoJo.

If you haven't seen the PowerPuff Girls,

http://www.cartoonnetwork.com/tv_shows/ppg/index.html
(what, have you been living under a rock?)

the villan who most frequently terrorizes our three heroines from Pokey Oaks Kindergarten, is Mojo JoJo a mad scientist chimp with stacatto accent who loves going off on berserk diatribes. View just one episode and I'm sure that you'll agree they share a penchant for head coverings, talking in non-sensical circles, brandishing weapons and sending recorded manifestos using virtually the same voice.
C'mon, surely you watchers of PPG thought so when you saw the footage released by NBC.

But has anyone contacted The Cartoon Network?

In a world that blames so many of society's problems on the media, shouldn't we be gathering up these two dimensional, hand colored characters for questioning?
I want to see them hauled in for grilling. I want to see the backlash of supporters claiming "Cartoons don't kill people. People kill people." I want to see the trial played out on Court TV. That would be fantastic, especially since Jessica Rabbit already gave them the perfect defense,
"I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."

Judy and the creation of a Warrior Princess

2007-04-10T06:54:00.000-04:00

I was talking to a mate yesterday who was a bit dejected by problems he was having with gig outside of the US.

He was a bit down and had the "Oh, well, par for the course" kinda feeling.
I wouldn't let him give into a pity party.
I told him to be positive, but I was rebuffed with, "I was positive until this happened. You should live my life. I doubt that thinking positively will change that."

I let him vent and then texted him later, saying no matter what, I still believed and even if he couldn't sum up enough positivity for himself, I had the faith of Pollyanna to still think positively for him.

Yes, the last few years haven't been easy for him, but he's not alone.

Maybe because of the way I act, people believe that I'm some sort of Golden Child. Hah!! My brother was the Golden Child. I was just the scrappy runt of the litter. What I've managed to achieve has come from years of hard graft and many self sung choruses of We shall overcome, thank you very much.

Sure, I had doting parents that gave me a good start, but they couldn't protect me from all of the nasty things out there in the big bad world. If they could, there would be two unmarked graves, containing the defiled corpses of my attackers.

Of course hind sight is 20/20 and retribution solves naught.

What saved me was my Mum's friend Judy.

Judy was the quintessential white 1970s, Ms. magazine reading woman. She was no great beauty but tall and thin and very interested in ERA and politics of that time. All in all she was a bit barmy, but a good egg. After being viciously raped, she was left naked and traumatized in the bushes on the side of a road, and it was hours before anyone found her.

Afterwards, Judy was never quite the same. I'm not making a judgement call, as every story of rape or abuse is as individual as the victim. It was horrible and difficult for her to move on, but seeing what happened to her sparked something in me. Although I could never have suspected what I would face years later, I vowed if anything similar ever happened to me, I'd never just shut down and withdraw from the world as she needed to. And even when it did happen, and parts of me were conflicted, I chose to believe that I could get something positive out of it and to believe I would have the strength to move on. If I didn't, my attacker would win and I couldn't let that happen.

In this life, your survival depends on you being the ultimate winner.

So from that nightmare, I awakened with two things: Belief and Fight.

I became a warrior princess. And everytime I choose to fight, and refuse to simply lay down and give up, I win.

Even when I lose the battle and make a tactical retreat, I clean my wounds, sharpen my steel and I press on. I may lose a series of battles but because I persist, because I believe, I am positive I will win the war.

And sure regular physical training is at the top of the list, but I've other elements to my arsenal. And while my armour of mental discipline, the shield of meditation, and the swords of visualiziation and positive energy could easily be dismissed as New Age hokum, in a time before quantum physics, Galileo was considered a heretic and a nut job too.

So despite what others think, as Shakespeare penned in Hamlet "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy"

And this Warrior Princess has got her MOJO workin', positively.

You've been X'd by Text

2007-03-15T15:38:00.000-04:00

I love my mobile phone. For someone who didn’t really want one, I have to say purchasing one just as the new camera models were coming out, was one of my better ideas.

If I’ve forgotten to add something on the grocery list and need to call my husband, it’s there. If I need to let someone know I’m caught in traffic, it’s handy, and most importantly if my husband (trash picker that he is) wants to bring something home with him, he can send me a snap for approval before he lugs it home only to receive a Caesarean thumbs down.

I particularly love texting because there are times when I need to get a message across but don’t have the time to call, (I usually use this to relay footie scores when I’m watching Chelsea matches and my husband’s at work.)

Lately however, the text has been taken to a new level. I knew it was coming, I’d heard about people in the UK being sacked via text and a woman in India who informed that her husband was divorcing her via text but I didn’t think it would happen to me....until it did.

The first one came when I returned from vacation. I’d been roped into attending a recruitment meeting in Orlando in May and I wasn’t pleased about going.

I know, I know! Some of you love the whole Disney experience and even as adults would relish visiting Disney World. I, am not one of those people. It’s got at least three things I hate, cutesy wutsey, crowds and children. If it wasn’t for Pooh, I’d skip through the park, spreading kudzu seeds everywhere in the hopes the vine grew at a miraculous rate and choke the life out of all and sundry.
But I digress.

The only thing I was looking forward to was seeing my mate and hoping to spend the long sunny afternoons trying to forget about the corporate schmoozing I’d be forced to do from 7:30-3 each day. Those plans were scratched by a terse text indicating that courtesy of a cool film opportunity that had come his way, that he’d be out of the country when I was in town. I sat there staring at the words, not quite able to fathom the idea of me, completely alone, smack dab in the middle of a Mickey Mouse operation.

I felt like texting back URRRRGHHH!!!

A few days later I texted my trainer to let him know I was looking forward to returning to the gym after my holiday when I received a return text about him needing to see me.

"Don’t worry," I replied, "I ate healthfully didn’t drink much, ran up and down the stairs that are the streets of Valetta in Malta." Long story short, I wasn’t quite the wreck you’d expect someone to be after a sybaritic holiday. His return text informed me that he had accepted a real job as a computer programmer and would no longer be my trainer. Four years, and I get dumped via text!?!

Yes I know it’s easy to text but when the news is particularly good or devastatingly bad, I prefer to have a human voice relay it. I want to hear a voice filled with sadness, tinged with regret or even gurgling with allergy season mucus. Instead I got to read cold words on a grey screen, all the while adding my own paranoid subtext.

I mean if reading a text was so great, why would satellite navigation systems, phone companies and advertising groups spend millions to soothe you with the dulcet tones of Bacall, James Earl Jones and Thom Baker (my favorite Dr. Who). I shouldn’t be surprised, they were both men. Isn’t it de rigeur, that they think not of the woman who they were disappointing, but of their own comfort. I still agree that text is great for quick, “meet ya at 7:30” or “We need OJ” but I implore you, even if you’re bereft of time, send a MMS (Multi-Media Message) so if you’re going to tell me to F ** off, I can hear it in your own sweet voice.

Oh how I miss Tara Reid!!

2007-02-21T07:17:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was this nice little lush named Tara Reid.

She was an actress (allegedly) but she was best known for being a slight and slightly dim blonde who had the habit of enjoying a cocktail at the odd red carpet event. For a short time, E! Entertainment channel paid her to take her act on the road, billed it as a travel show, and called it Taradise.

The show, E! hoped would encourage world travel among 20 and 30 somethings, showed
beautiful scenery and exotic locales. Tara seemed to enjoy jetting off to report on the haps in Athens, Mykonos, Pamplona, Monaco, St. Tropez, Cyprus, Sardinia, Paris and London. Tara also seemed to enjoy the cocktails. LOTS OF COCKTAILS. By the end of each episode, she was visually tipsy and there were more than a few instances where her commentary was so slurred, a written transcript and the Rosetta Stone could not have helped decipher it. That would have worked if E! had marketed it more as a reality show where watching Tara was like viewing a train wreck videoed from multiple international locations. Instead, Taradise was viewed as a travel show without substance(although some will say not without substances) and after airing ten episodes of a boozy Tara, E! pulled the plug on this floating open bar, where a passport required.

The funny thing is in light of Lohan's professionalism being questioned in light of partying habits, Anna Nicole's paternity battles, Brittany sans knickers, Paris and Nicole and their DUI run ins, Lohan flashing her bikini wax, Anna Nicole's death, and Brittany shaving her head, I really miss that acutely, alcoholic, accidental boob flashing jet setter. How I miss her wide eyed (pie-eyed) innocence. She wasn't really sinful, she'd simply had a skin full.

And as another weekly issue of US and OK! hit the stands replete with all the gorey details of the weekend escapades of Hip Hollywood, I miss Tara more and more.

Truth and it's Consequences

2007-02-07T08:12:00.000-05:00

There's a reason I'm a writer and not a pundit relying on verbal finesse. Part of it is because I'm usually working a touch slower than hyper speed which means thoughts zip around my head faster than the words can shoot of our my mouth.

It's also because I'm honest. Some would say, too honest.

My father encouraged us to be honest and to say what we thought. Mummy warned him about passing that trait on, especially to me, and although there have been a couple of times where that lesson's come back to bite him on the ass, he's managed to turns the other cheek .

I am my father's daughter.

Ask me an honest question and you'll get an honest answer.

I've shocked/incensed people at work with that honesty, and probably lost a few friends, but truth is truth. The funny thing, is the truth that seems to flummox people the most is not the negative truth, but the positive truth. On several occasions I've been questioned on viable resolutions to problems and when I've outlined workable options, I tend to get responses like "Thanks very much for your thoughtful input."

In past relationships I've been asked for emotional honesty only to leave recipients with mouth agape, and surprised that I , fully in touch with my emotions, could say such a thing.

Jack Nicholson was right when he exclaimed ,"You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"

It's like the world only wants to deal with truth that doesn't require work or introspection or emotional consideration.

Truth has gravity people. Know it, and deal with it for Chrissake!

Mummy believes that truth, like medicine, goes down better with a spoonful of sugar, but I'm a busy woman and I don't have time to pop a little royal icing on it before serving on a crystal plate with paper doily.

I have learned to make one concession. When asked for honest input, I raise and eyebrow and ask, "Do you really want the truth?"

If the concerned parties are still willing, then I warn that my truth comes without the sugar coating.

My truth is a hand grenade.

Once I pull the pin, and lob it out there, you'd better either brace yourself for impact or seek cover.

Immortal, ugly and under 18

2007-02-04T17:50:00.000-05:00

I'm doing a bit of research for a novel.

Inspired by my niece, the topics tend to focus more on the dark side. Since I haven't been heavily propelled into the darkness since I regularly listened to Lords of the New Church in the 80s, I'm a bit at a loss for what is current in the dark realm.

Research was needed.

Didja ever try and Google Goth or Vampire? Everything from Gothic.Net to Wikipedia's definition for Vampire comes up, and there are like a million entries before you get to any substance.So, say my topic is something along the lines of Zombies, then how does one get background information from people with experience with the undead from, oh, I dunno the Romanians or Haitians. It would seem like turning to the Internet would be the obvious answer that is until you actually do a search and visit a few sites.

There are numerous theories that support and discuss everything from vampirism to Santeria. There are many similarities and even more inconsistencies that divide camps, but there is one glaring thing that binds. While there are many lovely, learned young women who run sites either because they are hopeful, self delusional, or just too steeped into the world of fantasy; their male counterparts are, more often than not, ghastly, non-exercising, light avoiding post pubescent gamers, who are all looking for devotees, while obviously existing in a world bereft of social skills and mirrors.

I mean you would think that once in a while, you would run across a non-insane person (normal in this realm is notan option) with whom you could discuss a topic seriously without having them tell you how you should join their group and asking if you're hot. When it comes to alternative lifestyles it seems every meet up, chat, my space page or support group is inhabited by a membership that runs the gamut from Screech to Jim Jones.

Is a little Snake Pliskin too much to ask for?

I don't get it. Even ugly girls switch on an occasional episode of What Not to Wear and take a crack at improving themselves, while guys often resembling Matt Lucas from Little Britain, seem to make an ad hoc decision, that they are cool, and worthy of a gorgeous female following. Unfortunately the ones who believe they are the be all and end all, are.......not. I suppose the beautiful people of Darkwave, influenced by the music, literature and fashion walked out of the darkness and into the light before the dawn of the new Millennium leaving only die hard Dungeon and Dragons types in the goth population.

Like youth, apparently Neo-goth is wasted on the young.

If vampires and the undead are suppose to walk the earth for hundreds of years, why can't I find even one over 35?

My Ipod, a flawed fortress

2007-01-24T15:18:00.000-05:00

My face can be a detrimental. It's not because I'm a complete troglodite, it's because it's mostly what's deemed "a friendly face."
I’m constantly accosted by people wanting directions, advice, and human interaction. The physically and mentally disabled seem to have a radar that leads them to me. They generally stare and smile a lot before ambling over to talk or grab at my hands or pat and rub my arms.

This problem is genetic. I blame my mother.
The family consensus is her 30+ years in special education endowed her with some beacon that sends out a signal far and wide that she is a very cute, very caring and immensely approachable person. Unfortunately, a beam from that beacon lasered some funky indelible mark on me that pulls me on their radar as well.

But I am not as genuinely sweet as my mother, and my wardrobe not as easily laundered after pawing from the general and not always hygiene practicing public.

I think that may have influenced the now infamous and temporary darkening of my hair. I thought dark and dour would act as a stop sign, or at the very least a warning to proceed with caution.

Apparently my public, is immune to sign recognition.

So I employ the use of my i-pod when traveling from point A to B.
I do tend to stand out in a crowd, but I thought the clear view of my ipod, encased in a menacing looking skull skin hanging around my neck, with earphones shoved firmly in my aural orifice, would hamper outsiders from attempting to enter my world.

”This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand or war,
This happy breed of (woman), this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall or as a moat
defensive to a house against the envy of less happier lands,”

But still they come.
Now they tap or poke me to get my attention. Sometimes they begin talking whether I respond or not. Usually they’re the monologues of the insane, where questions posed are generally rhetorical, but still they make eye contact hoping I’ll nod knowingly, or glance at them approvingly. I don’t know why they seem to need that. I don’t. Between dealing with clients all day and then listening to my husband’s daily installment of the soap opera where the main characters are all butchers, which he calls work at Esposito’s Fine Purveyors of Meat, I could use a moat around my scepter’d isle.

But just when I’m ready to look stoned faced and scary, some wee bairn in a goofy hat his Mum slapped on his head, looks up at me from a stroller and waves. Despite not being a fan or the pre-university set, in a split second, like a pavlovian conditioned dog, the ice breaks, I wave and the kid smiles.

And suddenly, there’s someone rubbing my arm again, and I feel their fingers adhere slightly to my crushed velvet jacket.

Internally, I scream EWWWWW!!
Externally, I increase the volume on Cruxshadows, and just nod.

The flu bug always hits twice!

2007-01-22T14:10:00.000-05:00

I’d just stopped running to the loo and seemed to be on, shall we say “solid” footing when my stomach flu morphed into the regular garden variety bug complete with constant sneezing, runny nose, sore throat and the general malaise that accompanies most people who feel they’ve been run over by a bus. On the plus side, those hours of being bed ridden did enable me, after praying for a quick death, and when that prayer wasn’t answered, to rent The Devil Wears Prada from On Demand.

Since I’d read the book some time ago, I did notice a few changes in the movie, but did appreciate the wonderful job the casting director did in getting Anne Hathaway and Meryl Streep for the parts. The same sick feeling I had for poor Andi as she endeavored to please a demanding boss translated well from book to movie, but I was never quite sure if that was because Meryl Streep did such a mahvelous job playing the bitch or simply and empathetic flash back from when I worked for Dan Ruth, a nursing editor who was known for his foul moods, slamming doors and often refusal to acknowledge my existence for hours at a time.

In the case of both that assistant position and my second cootie infection, I suppose whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And since I’ve managed, on multiple occasions, to dance with the Devil and live, I must be ready for a strong woman competition by now.

The Downside of Detox

2007-01-08T15:51:00.000-05:00

So after the holidays, I decided to detox. After consuming carbs and champagne like it was going out of style, it seemed like the thing to do at the time so my last drink and consumption of evil things was in the early evening hours of December 31st. Over the next few days, I felt cleansed and healthier, especially after returning to the gym on January 2nd, but apparently the champagne may have been what kept the creepy crawlies at bay because by end of day Thursday January 4th, I was suffering from severe body aches, sore throat, stomach cramps and a bowel that was demanding a visit to the loo approximately four minutes after the last sip, slurp or bite of anything I ate or drank.

By Friday, I was canceling my appointment with my trainer, calling out from work and responding to email from clients as I lay flat on my back, while my fingers stretched to reach the keys of my laptop perched somewhere around my knees.

And there I remained until late day Saturday when I managed to get enough strength to strip the sheets from my bed and toss them, along with all used towels, washcloths, dish towels and bathmats in a heavy chlorine bleach wash, for fear of re-infecting myself.

I guess I should look positively at the whole thing, because not only did eschewing alcohol reduce my caloric intake, and being bed ridden reduce what I would have spent shopping or hanging out over the weekend, but I ‘ve gotten in that extra cardio the nutritionist wanted, as days later I still find myself sprinting to the toilet.

The 34% Solution

2007-01-03T15:19:00.000-05:00

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

Three days before Christmas I went to see my GP for my annual check up. He was pleased to see me, mostly because I’d dropped over 20 pounds since I’d seen him last year and because I was bearing a rather large box of Christmas cookies from Isgro’s Bakery. But that warm glow was short lived.

As we began discussing aging and health, I complained that although I had dropped in sizes, and the shape of my body had changed dramatically, I had hit a wall and even adding extra cardio to my five days at the gym, hadn’t shifted the scale in months.

“Wah, ya wanna be Nicole Ritchie?”
“Heck no,” I countered. “If I was that thin, my face would drop off.”

Of course that discussion quickly degenerated into a discussion regarding the doc’s 47th birthday, which was set to traumatize him in 24 hours. We then discussed his interest in learning how to inject Botox, if only to be able to zap his own wrinkles. When I did get him back round to the topic of me, he mentioned that he has a nutritionist that comes into the office once a month and that I could get an appointment with her that afternoon if I could come back to the office at 1 pm.

Since I like the truth, however brutal it may be, I agreed, and returned a few hours later to see her. After preliminary intake, she gave me a Body Cell Index test. More exact than a Body Mass Index, this test, shoots an electromagnetic current through your body to determine in pounds how much muscle, fluid, and fat your body contains. What I got was a real shock, not electrical, but emotional.

While I had an amazing amount of muscle mass (of the 48 pound of recommended muscle for my height and weight and fitness level, I had 47.9) but I also had a scary body fat percentage of 57.3 pounds or 34%.

I could have cried. That’s like the fat percentage of those who are over 200 pounds and think walking to the corner constitutes a work out. Rosie Bloody O'Donnell is 31%. What the hell was going on? Even my trainer was skeptical of the results, but after a temporary freak out, I decided I couldn’t argue with science. (Well I could, but that would be called denial.)

The conclusion was obvious, at least to Nicki the Nutritionist. I needed a 9 pound loss of body fat just to get me in what she determined “healthy range” so on top of working a full time job, manning the homestead and trying to get my jewelry design website off the ground, I had to manage that, while exercising even more, eating less and eschewing (sigh) champagne.

So I did what any woman who's about to capitulate would dom I drank enough sparkling wine and Piper Heidsieck to float the QEII between December 23rd and December 31st when at 8 pm I decided enough was enough and it was time to work on a solution for the 34%.

So three days into the new year I’m keeping a food diary, drinking nothing but water, and green tea, both hot and iced, and wishing that my stomach, would stop embarrassing me with it’s loud demands for food.

Even when our mate Jimmy joined us for dinner last night, I virtuously refused to indulge in a gorgeous bottle of red wine presented to us, because unless my heavily pregnant nutritionist plops out progeny prior to her due date, I’ve got a follow up appointment on January 25th.

I’ve cleared out the cupboards and set myself up for success and even posted last January 2005 and 2006’s weights and measurements to keep me motivated, but it will be tough, especially in light of Chelsea’s recent matches. Because if the Blues keep playing as poorly as they did against Aston Villa it may be enough to drive me to drink.

Christmas and Me, like Peas and Carrots

2006-12-08T16:37:00.000-05:00

I love Christmas.

As a kid you're crazy about for the gifts, time off from school, and let's not forget the holday favorites on telly from The Grinch, A Charlie Brown Christmas and Santa Clause is Coming to Town.

Getting a kid to like Christmas is like shooting fish in a barrel.
With adults? Well, let's just say people don't always feel the love.

There were a couple of years when I joined the Bah Humbuggers. There's always a chorus of those complaining about the cost of gifts, and the lack of time to accomplish every day tasks, let alone the additional headaches of sending cards, making cookies and buying and wrapping gifts.

For me that changed in 1985.

At my parents home, single and miserable, I decided to go out for a bit with my Mum.
Of course when you're truly gloomy, it follows you around like that cloud of dirt envelopes Pigpen. So when Mum began humming along to the Muzak Christmas carols as she bopped through the shops like some derranged elf, I grabbed the keys to the Datsun and made a hasty exit.

Sitting there in the freezing car, I put the key in the ignition to turn on the heat. When I did, I heard Band Aid's "Do They Know It's Christmas." And suddenly as Bono told me how there wouldn't be snow in Africa that Christmas and the biggest gift they'd get that year was life, I realized that despite my problems (which at 21 were so monumental, right?) I didn't have it so bad. I wasn't starving, I had a place to live, a family who loved me, friends, and basically, no worries. I was fortunate. Really fortunate.

And in that instant, I had an epiphany as monumental as that of Ebenezer Scrooge. I decided that I would keep Christmas and I have actively done so every year since.

So while my husband is dragging around the house complaining about work load, I'm illuminating the homefront, sending cards and making everything from cookies to home made marshmallows.

Sure, I've been keeping late hours in an attempt to get everything accomplished in less than a fortnight, but I'm digging every minute of it. For me the joy really is in sharing the holiday spirit especially with those that, in the words of Frank Cross from Scrooged "having a little trouble making their miracle happen." And I encourage you to do the same. Give a bit of yourself whether it's taking flowers to the old lady down the street who doesn't get out much, sending a card to someone who could use a bit of joy or adding a toy to your shopping list to deposit at your local Toys for Tots drive.

I've done all of the above and even though I'm getting less sleep, it's a better sleep knowing I've done my bit so spread a little cheer. And it ain't over yet.I've got cookies to bake and distribute and a bit of charitible giving to do.

By the time of the big day, I hope to kick back, relax and know although I'm not Santa, I gave the old boy a good run for the money.

Temporary Brunette: Why Jim Canfield wants me blonde.

2006-11-06T08:22:00.000-05:00

It’s nearly time to renew my passport. As I looked at my picture, I realized although I’d lost weight since that picture was snapped a decade ago, one thing had not changed, my hair.

There it was, short cropped, very curly and totally blonde. I can’t deny that with my tan skin, that the year round Malibu Barbie look did suit me, but I thought perhaps it was time for a change. Having been virtually every color under the sun, I considered returning to the black of my batcave years, but worried that my 40 + face and it’s newly etched lines would look severe, so I opted for a dark brown.

The whole time I was doing it I heard the voice of the late Jim Canfield in my head warning me against it. Jim was an artist and we had dated briefly in the 80s. He also loved me in blonde hair and once when I went red, he snuck up behind me at one of his art installations, and said, “Girl, you should never be anything but blonde. It suits you best.” Of course I couldn’t possibly change it back on his say so, so I toyed with a myriad of colors before returning to blonde that evolved from gold, to champagne, to platinum.

But this time, as I turned my back on blonde, I enacted the Canfield Curse.

Once my barnet had been shrouded in dark velvet brown, I gazed at the results. It was dark. So dark, you could see the gaps between each little curl and my scalp. I thought seeing the flesh on my head, was a little weird, but all in all, I was pretty pleased with myself. Without the focus on my hair, I thought my eyes popped and I could finally wear vamp red lipstick without looking tarty.

Finally, I thought, I could go incognito. I’d be able to walk down the street without people seeing me from miles away. I could go about my business without being asked “How did you get your hair that color?” I could shop without finding the hands of strangers in my hair as they’re asking, “Can I touch it?” And I was free from the weekly touch ups to keep my unnatural blonde looking, well, natural.

But I wasn’t prepared for the reaction.

I knew people would notice that I’d gone dark, but from the moment I stepped into my office building, I was accosted by the general public. The most common reaction was, “Uh, you dyed your hair, huh?” More vociferous reactions were voiced by friends, neighbors and locals who had seen me for years as a blonde and were highly critical of the change. “What the hell did you do?” “I prefer the blonde.” “When are you going to change it back?” “This is just for the winter right?” Everyone had an opinion from my florist to the doorman at my office

Even my brunette sisters who would never consider going blonde, railed against my return to the dark side. Even people who didn’t think black people should be blonde were cringing against my new color. “But you’re different, it just goes with your skin color.”

The worst comment was “Oh, so you’ve evolved beyond physical beauty now, and don’t care how you look?”

That was it! I naively thought my hair was my choice. That I had the right to be what I wanted, but suddenly it was as if I’d put my own light under a bushel, doused the sparkle that made me Danni. You might have thought, based on the reaction the hair "don’t" inspired, that I could not have disfigured myself more if I had tossed lye in my own face.

I know I’m not classically beautiful type, but I found it odd that some of the loudest critics were those who were organic and prizing natural beauty. But for me, when I went to a shade that was more “natural”, it was the “un-natural”, the non-conformist, the alien that the masses were baying for.

And while I am the strong willed type, there is enough vanity in me to be concerned that I was deemed less attractive because I’d strayed from platinum locks. I mean, when you’re already on the B list, do you really want to be demoted to C?

So this weekend I shall return to the Abbey, Abbey Normal that is. I’ve ordered silver hair dye from Japan that will coat hair I will intentionally bleach within an inch of it’s life. And part of me is very ashamed for caving in, but after a month of average, I do miss the reaction of strangers as they stare and little children as their eyes glaze over as they regard me with their wee mouths agape. As hard as it is for me to believe, I suppose it has become an integral part of who I am, like Marilyn Monroe, Jean Harlow and Mae West. No one seems to care about the bottle that makes me blonde. I suppose I do unnatural, very naturally. And somewhere in the afterlife, Jim Canfield is smiling.

Me at Stamford Bridge Stadium

2006-10-26T13:33:00.000-04:00

It was a hope. It was a dream and on September 27th it was a reality, me sitting in the seat where Jose Mourinho growls at Chelsea during every home match. I was there at Stamford Bridge. The trip from Philly to the Fulham Road was only slightly longer than the bus to get to the stadium from Central London, but when I toured the stadium, viewed the hallowed pitch, saw the locker room, complete with Moulton Brown shower gels, well, for me, it just didn't get any better than that.

Inevitably goodbye

2006-10-09T14:47:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, one of those infernal circulating emails, happens to be relevant. Once I received one about the different types of friendships: the lifelong; the common interest; and the temporal. And though it’s been years since I first received it, I’ve reflected upon that missive many times, including when I received the call that the woman who had for years been a close friend, and the maid of honor at my wedding, had died.

I wish I could say that her death was a surprise. It wasn’t. It was inevitable. While we’d all been a bit wild in that forever 21 way, by the time most of us were touching 30 we were cleaning up our acts and for all intent and purposes, becoming contributing members of society. She wasn’t. She had been a skilled chef but as time went on, that Gordon Ramsey temperament leapt out of the kitchen and into every aspect of her life. The kind of high drama deemed exciting when you’re younger, became grating and her behavior also became erratic and schizophrenic. She checked herself into rehab only to leave when they told her she couldn’t take the ounce of pot in with her. She tried to commit suicide and was hospitalized and demanding I come and see her just as I was opening the doors to 50 of my closest friends for a holiday party. And there was the infamous the birthday party she gave for her girlfriend. In a matter of minutes, a night that was supposed to show her partner how much she loved her degenerated into jealous accusations. She then began demanding that everyone leave the house leaving her girlfriend in a flood of tears and me playing mediator in the midst of mayhem.

By then, most of us were bored with her antics, and as the rest of us became involved in relationships and setting up house, she began assuaging pain both psychological and physical from a deteriorating disc in her spine with multiple pharmaceuticals. I always hoped that one day she would seek the treatment she needed, but instead she continued until finally consuming enough drugs to prove lethal. And while I don’t believe that was intentional, in a way, it couldn’t be anything else. By the time the autopsy was completed and her funeral scheduled, I was back in London, a world away. Ironically the gulf between us had widened into an entire ocean but perhaps that’s as it should be. Sometime friendships are a mirror showing you clearly what you do and don’t want for your life. It’s just we realized that the era of youth, copious cocktails and no responsibilities was transient. And because she didn’t, it was her life that was evanescent.

How to fly Business Class for Free!

2006-08-29T10:13:00.000-04:00

When I go on holiday, I fly economy, or as British Airways refers to the class, World Traveler. Sure, BA is kind enough to feed you and ply you with free alcohol, but as I eschew cocktails when flying, I have the privilege of enjoying the seventh circle of hell in glorious sobriety.

I usually pre-book seats opting for the last available, middle row of three. I check the seats booked around it and make sure we’re leaving a single with no chance that the spare is part of a group,including those with widow seats. It works well for us as it’s near the loo, we usually end up with a spare seat and the ability to stretch out a bit, and since we let everyone else disembark before we exit, the throngs have thinned out from passport control and our luggage is waiting for us.

We’ve gotten several upgrades to World Traveler Plus with it’s wider seats grouped in clusters of two, but with the exception of a bit more leg room, it’s much the same. I have yet to experience the fab world of Business Class. And while I’m saving frequent flier miles, currently the pleasure of awakening from a seven hour snooze in fully reclined comfort, landing at Heathrow, fully refreshed and ready for action, is just a dream.

Or so I thought, but John Mark Karr, may have the answer.

Apparently if you’re willing to confess to a highly publicized, unsolved crime, which DNA will ultimately exclude you as suspect, you can net a return flight to the US in Business Class, supping on king prawns prior to enjoying the aforementioned reclining room. All that and 15 minutes of fame?

Now, why didn’t I think of that?

True Blue even after Chelsea loss

2006-08-24T07:17:00.000-04:00

Okay, so you can't win 'em all, but to lose against Middlesborough's last minute goals in the 80th and 90th minute just about did my head in. Yeah, I know it's early days yet, and with 35 matches left, I still hold a fervent belief that May will see us at the top of the league chart once again.

Chelsea does play better, nay, magically at their home in Stamford Bridge so it'll as I'm about to make my twice annual visit to the motherland next month, upon my return from Scotland, I'm headed straight to Fulham Road to tour the home of the Blues. The tour includes a photo op in front of the jersey of your favorite player, sitting in the managers seat and of course, exiting from the tunnel onto the hallowed pitch to the roar of the crowd.

So watch this space in October for pix of me on the sacred pitch.
In the meantime, I'm holding positive thoughts for a win against Blackburn Rovers on Sunday.

My raison d'etre/Chelsea and the English Premier League Football

2006-08-21T09:08:00.000-04:00

It seemed like an eternity between the end of World Cup and Chelsea's next season, but it's finally here. After a fantastic 05/06 season for Jose Mourinho and the boys from Stamford Bridge, Chelsea handily defeated Manchester City on Sunday and no one was happier than yours truly! John Terry, Chelsea Captain and newly named captain of the England team gave a wonderful performance despite not having new signing Michael Ballack, or Joe Cole, Petr Cech and Claude Makelele, all of whom were injured. Personally I missed Hernan Crespo who has returned to InterMilan, Terry, Frank Lampard and Didier Drogba, secured the three-nil win agains Man City.
Of course the big question is whether we'll have Newlywed Ashley Cole out of Arsenal and in Chelsea blue before the next match.

The Girl Guide: Top 10

2006-08-17T15:45:00.000-04:00

Chronologically I’m a woman. In reality, I’m a girl. A made-up, cute outfit and heels with matching bag wearing type of girl. I work hard and Lord knows I shop even harder, and what better way to tie in the dressing, shopping and girlie-ness than meeting other chicks for confabs over lunch. Over the last couple of weekend brunches with various girlfriends, we’ve come up with bits of wisdom that we wished we’d known earlier in our lives. While it can’t help us, maybe there are some chicklettes that can benefit from our words of warning.

1. Don’t Dial Drunk
(or email, text message, voice or multimedia message)
Maybe Stevie Wonder should pen a little ditty about this, since his catchy tune worked for Don’t Drive Drunk. Trust me, this is equally dangerous. Estrogen plus alcohol equals OTT emotion, giving new heights to passion, new courage for confrontation and extra vitriol to anger. With all that going on, conversations can get a little loco even when you’re talking among the likewise inebriated, but the introspective nature of your booze fueled epiphany can easily be lost on the sober. Although I can’t report any fatalities from drunk dialing, a few social lives have been completely killed. If you’re lucky, you’ll hang up when the voicemail comes on, but you can be held to task later for sending a rude texts. And a shot of my mate’s spectacular tits have been forwarded to more than one mobile in Central London, after a night down the pub.

2. Or codicil to #1 Don’t get drunk---well not REAL drunk
The ladette culture has given us the freedom to go out on a bender just like the blokes but going from tipsy to blotto, IS JUST NOT ON. While there’s safety in numbers, there’s always one girl that wanders off on her own which is not remotely safe in this day and age. Mondo blotto also isn’t particularly appealing to anyone, except opportunistic losers who you wouldn’t give the time of day if you were coherent. Generally a good time is made better when you can remember it. Of course, you could play Nancy Drew and figure out how the evening finished up based on the remnants in your flat, but wouldn’t you rather know the details behind the kebab wrapper, the blue condom with knobby bits on the side, and the pool of melted chocolate on the floor?

3. Buried it. Had to. Dead you know.
Unless you’re really creepy, if your pet died tomorrow, you’d bury it, mourn and move on. Give that same respect to friendships, relationships and job situations that are past their sell by date. You don’t need a Magic 8 ball to tell you All signs point to no. When it’s over, put a period after it and go. It may not be easy, but if the situation is really untenable, it ain’t gonna get any easier waiting around. Take back your power and cut bait. Remember what Scarlett said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

4. Or codicil to #3-- Kelly sez “It’s their loss”
When I was younger and crying over a boy, my school mate Kelly Trent admonished my tears with three words; “It’s their loss.” She reminded me that I was a good person with a lot to offer and if he didn’t see that and, more importantly, value that, then there were better and brighter to be had. For me, it generally applied to men as I was never a “joiner” and didn’t do the clique thing, but it reminds you that you have to have self esteem and believe you do deserve better and it is their loss, lest you get mired in the “why don’t they like me “s. Sentiments are also echoed in quotes like: “No boy is worth crying over, and the one who is, won’t make you cry.”

5. Sometimes sex, is just sex
Sex. It comes in many shapes, sizes and flavors, but historically women haven’t been free to enjoy it with hedonistic abandon. We’ve been conditioned to want it only in the confines of marriage, or a loving relationship. We’ve called our sisters sluts because they weren’t hung up about it but if a man did it, we’ll he’s just popular with the ladies. What’s wrong with this picture? This is a new millennium and Jane Austen sensibilities do not apply. Men don’t seem to have a problem going out with women for the sake of a sexual conquest. If you can’t do it, then don’t, but don’t kid yourself into creating a love scenario to justify every assignation. If you do, you’re only going to be disappointed, and you’re wasting prime shagging time. Relationships develop. The simmer for ages, like soup stock. Sex for sex’s sake, is virtually microwaveable. All you need is a partner, an attraction and the hope that the neighbors have good sound proofing or at the very least won’t look at you funny when you hobble out of the flat, hoarse and unable to sit down. Make it safe, make it nihilistic and make sure you have an aforementioned excuse to leave early if it all goes pear shaped and you need a quick exit.

6. When he’s not saying it, he’s saying it.
Recently I wrote about a girlfriend who had to find happiness in the occasional. Because he cared about her and she really didn’t want to end it, she needed to find peace, joy, etc. in seeing him when she could. Unless you have extraordinarily busy schedules, or you’re someone’s bit on the side (not recommended), that probably won’t work. Friends can reach out and touch me when they can, but I, along with my girlfriends, seem to agree if your paramour is not getting in touch until the weekend for a Saturday night out, or not remembering your birthday or doing much of anything with you except sex, then he’s saying loads without saying a word. (for further reading try: “He’s Just not that In to You” by Greg Behrendt) If the sex is good, review #5 and drop all ideas of a relationship. If you can’t just leave it at sex (or it really wasn’t that good and you thought the relationship was more important) then refer to numbers 3 and 4.

7. Character. Being one is good, having some is better.
For those of us who dance like crazy people to the beat of our own drummer, being a character is easy, but what about having a bit. Character demands a strong moral compass, belief in yourself and a belief in such antediluvian concepts as right and wrong, is essential. It also helps to have self discipline, a polite demeanor, the ability to keep your promises and a touch of compassion. If you know yourself and have a strong belief system you’ll easily stand up for what you believe in, even when work, friends and the government are against you. If you don’t stand for something you’ll fall for anything.

8. Reality Check
Make sure to take honest inventory of yourself and your life periodically. If I didn’t look in a mirror, sometime in the 90s, I’d still be wearing eyeliner thick enough to rival most raccoons. And while my sparkling personality netted me a husband, I was, at the time one big (214 pounds big) stressed out mess who drank too much, smoked like a chimney, had bad asthma and passed out once the temperature climbed in the 80s. I had to take a hard look at myself and once I decided I wanted to change, I had to commit to it. It’s taken years of hard slog to shave off 60+ pounds and reshape my body through 5 days a week at the gym, but I’m much happier and healthier at a size 10. And I hit my second anniversary of being smoke free on August 20th. Bottom line is if you don’t like whatever it is, big or small, you can change it. Your life may not require the complete overhaul mine did and may require just a minor change, but if you’re still wearing shoulder pads and a fragrance like Forever Krystal it might be time.

9. This too shall pass
I was in a really dark place in the winter of 1982 and thought I wanted to end it all. I got the harshest treatment from my friends who were pissed. Once they actually were talking to me again, I got more than an earful. I even got an earful from a professor who’s friend had taken her life. I was reminded of all the things I should be grateful for and told, in no uncertain terms that I was a selfish child because there were people dying everyday who would give their eye teeth for another day on the planet, even if that day was the crappiest day I’d ever had. After that I decided to never, ever try it again. Whatever it is, and I’ve been through a shed load myself, including rape, loss, injustice, and childhood molestation. Pretty it ain’t, but survivable it is. It can, and usually does, get better but you have to stick around to get there. If you’re alive, you can get help, you can get angry, hell, if revenge is a motivating factor, you can get even, but you’ve got to stay around and believe it really will pass. Remember the entire world can change in 24 hours.

10. Don’t ever Ditch the Girls for a Man
Most women I know wouldn’t even think of dropping their girls for a man, but there are some who believe they are only half a woman until they find a mate.
May I just interject EWWW!!
I was a strong and opinionated bitch before I met and married and I intend to remain one until I suck my dying breath. Yes, they’re good at killing bugs, opening jars and as I prefer warm flesh to a battery powered latex covered seven inch lady killer now with squirting action, they’re helpful in matters of coitus. They are less effective in situations involving shopping, emotional support, and intense conversations, as they involve active listening. So don’t go ditching your girlfriends for the sake of a man. I don't care if he loves you and promises he'll fufill every need. And for God's sake, if a man is trying to sequester you away from framily and friends, RUN AWAY IMMEDIATELY!! There's some ulterior motive there and it's not kosher.
Besides some day you’ll need an emotional shoulder to cry on or a trusted opinion on your fashion choices and I’ve yet to meet a man who has a clue about how to support you when you’ve broken up with your best friend, or would suggest that a pair of silver sandals would keep your little black dress from looking too funereal.

Finding joy in Occasionally

2006-08-07T13:33:00.000-04:00

Time; do we ever have enough? I know by the time you do what you have to do, work, feed and clothe and bathe yourself, you’re generally left with just enough time to get in a bit of sleep before waking up and doing it all over again.

A mate and I were having a time discussion recently because she felt as if a guy she’d been seeing, had just about written her off. When he had free time, there were texts flying, and phone messages left. But for the last two weeks, not a word had come from him. She was getting a bit miffed, and began equating his state of Incommunicado, as a signal that “He’s just not that into you.”

Normally, I’d agree with that assessment and urge her to move on, but it was more involved than that. The problem was the object of her affection worked in a job where he traveled and although he did think of her often, translating those thoughts into a call or a quick text, simply didn’t occur to him, especially when he was in opposite time zones.

Of course she didn’t buy his excuse and wasn't too keen on me taking up for him. She reminded me that we all have the same 24 hour day and divvy it up based entirely on what we have to, quickly followed by what we want to do. The fact that he had to work for so many hours, obviously fell into the had to category, but she felt the absence of any contact with her meant that she didn’t fall into his want to category and was feeling more than a bit rejected.

I couldn’t argue with logic or an emotional status like that, so I tried another tack.

I suggested that maybe the problem wasn’t his not getting in touch but her expecting him to. I have loads of friends in the UK but I only keep in what I’d call regular contact with about four of them. Whenever I hear from any of them, I’m pleased that they took the time out to think of me. I derive joy from the occasional. If I was expecting an email from Chloe (especially as she’s really bad at corresponding) I might be angry that she’s not keeping in touch, but because I don’t expect it, when I find one, complete with pictures of her premier sky dive, I’m ecstatic.

Of course it gets gooier when you’re dealing with bloke you have feelings for, but I suggested she try dropping the expectation level along with two other things. The first was to stop thinking that men think the same way women do. They generally lack the emotional acumen of women and assume if they like you, and they’ve told you, that you’re supposed to be secure about that. They don’t seem to acknowledge that the entire world could change in 24 hours and we’re constantly monitoring behavior for signs that “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling.” Of course if you tried to explain that, they'll most likely misconstrue it. You only want an acknowledgement that you’re still breathing and above ground but somehow they read clingy and insecure and start scanning the room for an exit.

So my second suggestion to her was to fully occupy herself. Not just do something to kill time but to become so involved with a project that it occupies more of your thoughts than he does. I recommended buying a house, as Lord knows once I signed the mortgage, it was like voluntarily and contractually agreeing to give up any free time and money fixing, cleaning or improving the place. The upside is as I’m doing things like that I can spend loads of time developing strategies, like the aforementioned. So while I’m finding the joy in the unexpected call or the surprise email, she’s now learning to relax her expectations of other people, especially men.

And what's she doing now, well she didn’t buy a house, but she is currently donating time creating websites for non-profit organizations.
And Mr. X? Even though his work schedule has gotten worse, they’re still pursuing a relationship, and date occasionally.

Heatwave Survival

2006-08-02T07:08:00.000-04:00

When the temperature lurches toward the 100 degree mark, it’s harder to find a reason to drag yourself out of central air and into the soupy climate that has engulfed the entire tri-swamp area. So here’s my survival guide for days when the mercury climbs over 95 degrees.

Water:
When I’m at work I keep a 56 ounce container of water on my desk. Since I got to the gym five days a week, regardless of temperature, I try and get three of these (that’s 21, 8 ounce servings) down my neck before I head off. Sure, that’s a lot of water (and a lot of visits to the loo) but that kind of hydration means when others are reaching for bottles when they’re working out, I can continue my routine uninterrupted.

Make up Forever:
Make Up For Ever Lengthening Waterproof Mascara Heat and sweat can do a number on make-up, especially around the eyes. Instead of going for smoky sexy eyes, I just double up on coats of Make-Up Forever lengthening waterproof mascara. The small brush allows you to get even the shortest lashes. And dark fringes framing your eyes sure beats the raccoon circles created by melting eyeliner.
Make Up For Ever Florescent Orange Pink Lipstick #203 I was on the wait list for 2 months, and just days after finally obtaining a tube, Sephora was out of stock yet again. This color is bright enough to distract eyes from every other sweating, melting, dripping part of you. It’s positively mesmerizing. Alas, this color for brave girls only. Shrinking violets should back away and find a more subdued lippy!!

Aerosoles:
I’m hard on shoes and about this time of year, the heels and soles of virtually all of my sandals have succumbed to the uneven brick and cobblestone surfaces that make up Philadelphia, so while boots are beginning to appear in stores, Aerosoles is having a gianormous sale on sandals at $29.99 and $39.99 per pair. Remember what Mummy said about body heat being lost through the top of your head and your feet. So give yourself a pedicure and put those little piggies out for a bit of podiatric air conditioning.

Cold food
By the time the temperatures reach the mid 90s, I’m like so over the eating thing, but I know I have to keep up my protein levels lest I lose my status as Power puff girl at the gym, so it’s mesclune mix, or chopped romaine lettuce topped with grilled chicken or steak. And when it’s so hot, I don’t even want to heat up the grill, throw a can of salmon or crab in the fridge and use it along chilly cucumbers and cubanelle peppers to top a bed of greens. Also ditch the creamy style dressings for a light vinaigrette or a refreshing sesame ginger dressing.

Finally, if you’ve got A/C use it. If you don’t and use a fan please remember to keep windows open for circulation. The majority of deaths that happen during a heatwave are because people close windows and turn on fans, which essentially works like a convection oven and cooks you. So if you’ve got aging family or friends, remind them that convection cooking is for turkey not people and check in on them often. There’s nothing worse than forgetting about them and having a pungent smell remind you that Grandma is done, literally.

Un-Natural and Proud of it.

2006-07-18T09:16:00.000-04:00

I am a city girl. I was born and bred in a small city, moved to a larger city and vacation, in great cities. I do like a garden, but mostly the manicured type with mazes and gazebos. I tend to avoid woodlands and primeval forests. With this in mind, I spent at least an hour wondering why the hell I agreed to hike the trails of the Wissahickon Valley Park on Sunday. While I’ve been trying to slot in a bit more exercise into the weekend (house work not withstanding) I don’t think I completely understood what I was getting myself into.

First there was a twenty minute bus ride to get to the park, followed by traversing narrow paths until we connected with the wider gravel course that connects the smaller trails within the park. Then we hiked the upper trails, identified as appropriate for horseback riding, hiking and mountain biking. As I followed it for the first ¼ mile I wondered if the people who deemed these trails appropriate for the aforementioned activities, had actually tried them. While I did like the challenges of waking up and down hills, over rocks and around storm felled trees, I could have lived without the surprise mud pits which threatened to engulf my shoes, the plants with their spiraling tendrils that were reaching out to touch me and the vampire mosquitoes which decided to replenish their blood supplies by gnawing on the exposed flesh between my knees and ankles. Add 90 degree temperatures and I’m sure the experience could be liken to a force march in Southeast Asia during some military conflict.

You see, I do try. Periodically I force myself to try something different so I don’t spend a lifetime being on of those nauseating people who lives within a narrow comfort zone, refusing to budge from it, but I just really don’t dig the woodsy thing. I was the Girl Scout who loved archery and riding, but hated camping. I hated the tents, the musty smell of camping gear, the communal bathing facilities, the bugs and the flora. Okay, so I likee the chipmunks but that’s about it. I think I may have been permanently traumatized by bad food cooked over an open flame that was doused by a sudden storm and hungry cold and exhausted, finding refuge in an unheated tent that was eventually and without invitation, shared by a rather surly raccoon and a boisterous cricket. Sure I survived, but just because I can, doesn’t mean I’d opt to do so.

So for those of you who live to commune with nature, find sleeping on the ground restful and have secret desires to be the next Grizzly Adams, enjoy. As for me, the closest I want to get to dirt and weeds for a while, is a therapeutic mud bath while half dressed male attendants fan me with palm fronds.

Let's get some sex in the city

2006-07-11T13:28:00.000-04:00

Despite what the girls in Sex in the City would have you believe, I have an awful lot of girlfriends in the 30/40 something range that aren't incredibly focused on, fascinated by or some days even interested in sex. Surprisingly, the general consensus appears to be that it's less of a pleasure and more like something on their “to do” list. For women who work full time and have homes, pets, children and schedules to keep, many would prefer something scrummy in chocolate to copulation.

I’m not sure why I don’t feel that way.

Of course, I’m not a big fan of chocolate. Perhaps it’s because I’ve just spent a month watching incredibly fit men run around in shorts and lifting shirts to expose (oooh) perfectly honed abs and achingly firm pecs. Perhaps it’s because there are few women in my gym and the testosterone levels are starting to affect me. Maybe it’s because my diet, which excludes virtually everything but protein, has pumped me full of bizarre bovine horny hormones.

All I know is lately “Me so horny!” ain’t just a movie quote.

If you’re missing out, you should get on the bandwagon. A good proper rogering will cure what ails you. After having a really crap day at work juggling deadlines with the periodic breakdowns of my co-worker who’s cat is dying, I was exhausted and had a headache. After forcing my husband into a pre-dinner fling (yeah, like you have to force them) I felt worlds better. Sure a bit drained and lightheaded, but I feel the same way after three glasses of champagne and these were burned calories not consumed ones. And despite my favorite obsession, my hips and thighs, ironically when you start removing clothing and men believe there’s a chance to take old one eye to the optometrist, they’re not looking at that dimple in your right cheek or coming at you with a tape measure to see exactly how large the circumference of your thigh is. HOW COOL IS THAT? Even doctors, especially naturopaths, homeopaths and those interested in integrated medicine, encourage sex for overall health. And believe me, after three days heavy weights with my trainer, and two days cardio, it’s the least strenuous exercising I do. And even if it does get more demanding, my training has prepared me for the more intense sessions.

So, if you’re not hot to trot yet here are some tips to get you going.

People watch. I’ve noticed even when I’m having a fat day, I’m visually reminded that there are worse out there than me. I make not disparaging comments, just send up a silent prayer of gratitude. Reason two, there are always one or two members of the opposite sex worthy of drool inspiring, opened mouthed stares. You can up your chances of seeing God’s more inspiring works by sitting near parks, gyms or large corporate offices around lunch time. Besides, unlike men who can be affected by a stiff wind, it helps to start thinking about it early to get heated for a late date liaison.

Buy new undies. I’ve just dropped another dress size and new bras and knickers became an imperative as gapping waist bands were threatening to dive south. The replacements were not granny panties, or comfy cotton bikinis with dorky flowers (like you could feel sexy in those). Nah, I picked up a few sets by Felina; all lace, tiny bands and light as air. The Brits don’t call them “smalls” for nothing. New underwear, especially of the exotic nature, makes you feel like a million bucks and when he see it, he’ll grab you and hold on like you were a million bucks. Think not? Well if love is blind, then why is lingerie so popular?

Get active. Since I upped my gym routine in October, I’ve seen real changes in my body. Of course I’m not quite where I want to be, but I’m closer than ever before. Getting regular physical activity makes you feel more comfortable with your body as a whole and in particular with taking it all off (even with the lights on). And presently, I’m feeling pretty good about what’s revealed when I take my kit off.

Study up!! I recently bought 302 Advanced Techniques for Driving a Man Wild in Bed by Olivia St. Claire, her follow up to the best selling 203 ways to Drive a Man Wild in Bed, and am working my way through it. Sure, everyone thinks they know the mechanics of sex, but there are entire worlds that exist in the gaps between the theoretical and the practical. I’ve put Post-it flags on the intriguing bits and I'm working them, one by one, into my repertoire. If you’re in a long term relationship, it helps to up your game once in a while. Besides a good portion of the book is about empowering yourself so that you’re more comfortable between, on top of, or tied up with sheets.

Finally sex shouldn’t be a chore or a competition. And if you think it’s only for procreation, boy are you missing out. Sex should be about sharing and getting mutual needs met. If you’re not doing that, then try communicating about what you both want. If you can’t discuss sex, you probably should be having it. Of course if there’s not a meeting of the minds before a bumping of uglies, I suppose you could get another partner, or personal motorized assistance, but for the love of God, do something. Maybe not everyone is having the kind of sex Madison Avenue promotes on glossy pages of Vogue or Rolling Stone, but I’m sure there’s something to be said for the Utne Reader version too.

Golden Ball win doesn't assuage Zidane shame

2006-07-10T06:58:00.000-04:00

Being disappointed by a man is not exactly a new feeling for most women. As mere mortals with feet of clay, occasionally it's to be expected and anger tends to bring out the worst in us all, chicks included.

Of course there is a different expectation based on age, personality, and responsibility.

I wasn't surprised that Wayne Rooney got a red card. He's hot headed, young and impetuous. And in his defense, I can see how Rooney felt betrayed when his Manchester United team mate Cristiano Ronald, seeking the love of his countrymen, encouraged the ref to red card Rooney for stomping on Ricardo Carvalho’s groin.

I wasn’t expecting that of Zinedine Zidane, but perhaps I was temporarily blinded by his beauty and should have. Zidane does have a history suggesting he may need to practice a bit of anger management on the pitch. He was sent off in the 98 World Cup for stamping on a Saudi player and when he played for Juventus he was banned for five Champions League games for a similar headbutt. But in a game that was eventually decided by penalty kicks when Thierry Henry was already pulled from the match, to say his actions were unwise is an understatement. Marco Materazzi, was rather aggressively defending Zidane moments before, and the thought is he intentionally sought to inflame the French Captain with a few pointed barbs. Zidane did walk away before turning and headbutting Materazzi square in the chest. There was some discussion as only one of the refs saw the incident and there was some review before a red card was drawn. And despite what Chelsea's William Gallas said, let's face it,once Zidane was gone, so was France’s best chance at winning.

Whatever Materazzi said, it was Zidane’s reaction that led to a shameful end for such a great player.Although he has won the World Cup’s Golden Ball for being outstanding player during the tournament,and deservedly so, it was painful to see a career that should have ended with a sparkling crescendo be tarnished by a rash act.

Remembering 7/7

2006-07-07T08:59:00.000-04:00

I remember waking up that morning and hearing about some disturbances in London. US news is always slow in covering breaking international news, and there were conflicting stories. Then news began to trickle out about an explosion in Kings Cross station and a bus that blew up in the neighborhood we call home when in London, Tavistock Square. I struggled to get a call, an email, a text, anything through. I was especially worried about Catherine who lives in the area and about Sam, Tess and Shauna who worked in the Tavistock Hotel, a mere 300 yards from where the #30 bus exploded.By the end of the day, I was able to reach my mates and knew everyone we loved was safe.

For the families and friends of the 52 people killed on July 7th, that reassurance never came.

And a year later, it still hurts.

GUTTED!!

2006-07-05T07:16:00.000-04:00

It was a dream:a hope that Beckham would show leadership, that Rooney would score, and that Crouch would get a chance to do that stupid robot dance. But like all dreams, it was interrupted by the cold harsh light of day in the form of winning penalty kicks from Portugal. I sat there, alone in my living room, too stunned to cry.

What a way to start the 4th of July holiday weekend.

The only thing that made me feel even marginally better was that France beat Brazil which means that Zinedine Zidane, that talented and very dishy squad captain has a chance to play in the semi-finals before he retires from the sport. And coming off a winning Chelsea season maybe Makelele and Gallas can help Zidane and the French team, go out on top.

Two days without a match?!? Wot's a girl to do?

2006-06-29T08:18:00.000-04:00

After a month jam packed with a bridal shower, two weddings, houseguests and World Cup matches, I’m worn out. The entire last month has involved eschewing alcohol and carbs, increasing the amount of cardio work and a level of fake tanning worthy of fictional queen of Footballers’ Wive$, Tanya Turner. And all this while avoiding final scores so I could run home and watch rebroadcasts of the days matches on ESPN Classic and Univision.

After attending the aforementioned nuptials, entertaining houseguest from across the pond who flew in for one weddings, and observing the most scrupulous of grooming regimes required in case the wedding photographer decides to practice his Paparazzi routine on you (which did happen), I’m exhausted, broke and working with what appears to be a version of spray tan vitiligo, with spots of my skin is peaking through the orangey bits.

So what will I doing while suffering World Cup withdraw? I’m currently getting caught up on my reading, watching a few episodes of Born and Bred Series IV which just arrived from amazon.co.uk, drinking copious amounts of water to detox from wedding tipples, revarnishing my nails in my standard French mani and pedicure and anxiously and appreciatively awaiting the quarter final matches airing over this long holiday weekend.

Unlike real footballers’ WAGs (wives and girlfriends), I’m not shopping or partying in Germany like Posh and Cheryl Tweedy, or á la Colleen McLoughlin, flying back to Liverpool to have extensions overhauled for those oh so important reaction shots at the England v. Portugal match to be beamed worldwide, but I will be adding a few more coats of fake bake.

Hopefully I’ll reach a satisfactory shade somewhere between Tanya Turner and an Oompa Loompa by match time.

Go England!

3 Lions on a Shirt

2006-06-21T08:43:00.000-04:00

It wasn’t a win, it wasn’t pretty and we lost Michael Owen in the first minute, but England’s 2 all draw against Sweden did win them the group and Sven and the boys will progress to the Round of 16 and play Ecuador on Sunday in Cologne.

So we’ve hung the St. George’s Flag bunting, have a CD of Football anthems, including 3 Lions, Meat Pie Sausage roll (C'mon England, give us a goal), Sven, Sven, Sven playing and house guests from the UK (flying in for a wedding)will be enjoying a proper fry up and hoisting a pint as we view the match Sunday morning.

So let’s hope that the lyrics of 3 Lions are wrong and That England's not:
Gonna throw it away, Gonna blow it away

Cause I know they can play.

USA- No, in footie, you’re not number one

2006-06-13T12:44:00.000-04:00

Anyone who knows me or has spent anytime reading my scribblings knows I’m a dyed in the wool England supporter. Still, I do want football (soccer) to catch on in the US, as I’m hoping with proliferation of the sport, we can finally see the caliber of player that populates teams like Chelsea, Barcelona and Real Madrid.

So it was with a mixture of tempered pride and a healthy dose of skepticism that I watched USA play the Czech Republic. Personally, I don’t see how FIFA can rank the USA fifth in the world when the England team, littered with talent and probably the best team Sven Goran Eriksson has ever put together, ranks tenth.

Of course, the US, did what the US does best, believed it’s own hype. The team, along with their fans collectively shouted “We’re Number One.” Of course, the Czech Republic ranked second, did what any well seasoned team does, and crucified my cocky countrymen. Phone it in? Hell, the US didn't even fax it in.

So America, before you go into Saturday’s match with Italy remember while we may live in the most powerful country in the free world, on the pitch, we’re a bunch of young upstarts and there a bunch of world class teams ready to take us to school and learn us some manners.

Digging June

2006-06-07T09:42:00.000-04:00

I dig June. It’s chock full of long warm days and even rising at the crack of dawn seems easier with the knowledge that I won’t have to cycle against frigid headwinds to get to the office. It’s not blazing hot yet, and as the days continue to grow longer until the 21st, there actually seem to be hours to enjoy life after work.

Although we’re not spending June in the English countryside enjoying village fetes, Philly has it’s fair share of ethnic festivals. In just the last few weeks we’ve gone from the Italian festival and dancing on 9th Street with Jerry Blavat(The Geater with the Heater), to enjoying moussaka and folk dancing at the Greek festival.

In the next couple of weeks I’ll be attending a shower, and two weddings while keeping my bleary eyes open long enough to monitor all pertinent games played by leading up to the final match of the World Cup. GO ENGLAND!!
I’ve got lillies ready to pop in the garden and a new grill that’s been in constant use since I picked it up at Home Depot.

All in all, I’m just happier than a squirrel with a key to the peanut factory and if you’re not out enjoying this month, you’re a complete sap for not taking full advantage before the inevitable descent of humidity that turns everything from Connecticut south into one big urban swamp.

And if that's not warning enough, just rememberonce the summer solstice occurs on June 21st, the days begin to shorten again.

As for long and sultry summer nights, that’s my raison d’etre come August.

The DaVinci Codes/Just remember, it's only a movie

2006-05-25T08:31:00.000-04:00

Lately I’ve been inundated by emails about The DaVinci Code. Some are offering me free copies of the book. A number of them are from religious groups calling the book, and pursuant movie, blasphemy and an attack on my faith. Others claim the book and the movie are just another example of Christian persecution and if Hollywood made such a film opening the tenents of Islam to question, then bombs would be dropped at dawn.

So allow me to address all of the above.

No, I don’t want a free copy of Dan Brown’s book. I read the NY Times daily as well as a plethora of periodicals wedged in between chapters Gautam Malkani’s Londonstani, about Asian youth culture dealing with race, identity and issues of 21st century tribalism written in a Hindi-text-messaged-gangsta-Brit slang. Besides, I tried to read it and lost interest very early on. The same goes for his other book, Angels & Demons.

As far as the book being an attack on my faith, not bloody likely. You see, that’s the thing about faith, it’s belief without doubt or question. If I have faith, then I don’t need proof and even if something disproved it, I wouldn’t care. True faith is a question of trust, Etymologically, the word faith is rooted in the Latin fidere: to trust. So if I truly believe that Jesus is the Son of God, then neither Dan Brown’s writings, nor the fact that jackasses like George Bush, Jerry Falwell and Pat Roberson (Ewww!) , claim to share my faith, is going to affect my allegiance.

And what about Jesus having progeny? I don’t think offspring is the problem here, I think the Religious Right can’t abide by the idea of Jesus having sex. Yeah? So? If you are Christian, you may have heard of the Nicene Creed, a little document the Roman Emperor Constantine and the Ecumenical Council established in 325 at the First Council of Nicea as way to unify the Christian faith and resolve the question of the divinity of Jesus. In the creed, if you remember your confirmation/catechism classes, it reads as follows:

“For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven by the power of the Holy Spirit He became incarnate from the Virgin Mary and was made man.”

Man!! M-A-N, with all the foibles, frailties and desires of the flesh the rest of us mere mortals have. I think a whole heap of people forgot that part. But what the hell, it’s only one of the PILLARS OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH, but I suppose being morally offended is way more important that actually believing what you claim to believe.

And finally regarding “If you did it to the Muslims they would …….” Oh please!? Do you really want to be a fundamentalist who doesn’t allow dissent and doesn’t question anything?

I don't pretend to know the mind of God when most days I can’t even figure out what to make for dinner, but if I'm made in His image, it's a safe bet that God wants spiritual fruit and not religious nuts. Intelligent discussion, supposition, and creative fiction aren’t going to put your soul in jeopardy. I can’t say the same about being bigoted and intolerant of others.

The latest in British Haps

2006-05-17T12:04:00.000-04:00

Pete Dougherty

Britain, even more than America, tends to have a group of celebrities who are famous for…..well God knows why. I mean we know Jade Goody was on Big Brother, but she didn’t win. She seemed to be known basically for being a kebab eatin’ nutter. Fair dues to her for parlaying that into what seems like 15 years of fame.

Pete Dougherty is another case. Sure he’s in a band Babyshambles, but with only one CD Down in Albion and one single Killamangiro his real claim to fame is his on/off relationship with Kate Moss and heroine. Maybe you could be excused for the excess of a rock and roll lifestyle if you were putting out great music, but they’re so derivative that Franz Ferdinand, Hard-Fi or the Artic Monkeys could turn up an amp and blow them off the music scene in a heartbeat. I think Pete may have an inkling about this so he does what he can to keep his name in print. After recently being photographed shooting up a female fan, his latest stunt was to splatter a syringe of his own claret at MTV cameramen as they were interviewing the group. Fellow band members were embarrassed and apologized while Pete just laughed at his own hijinx thinking them the height of hilarity. I think it would be funnier to have him banged up. If I’m not mistaken, he’s already on probation for several drug offenses and surely a case could be made that the blood letting was a form of assault and he should be locked up for breaching terms of his probation. Or do the tabloids have a deal with the Old Bill to keep him out so he can generate a few inches of copy on slow news days?

Macca and Heather Mills split

C’mon, like anyone really expected this to go on forever? If you’re lucky you get one extraordinary love story a life time and Paul McCartney already had his with Linda. It would have been better if they’d just kept it a “relationship” without getting married, and better still not have another child. But how could she have insured a lifetime of financial security without the ceremony and progeny? My question is if Sir Paul is going to blame the dissolution on the media, will the paparazzi be named as co-respondent in the divorce papers?

Humps top list of Turner prize nominees

A sculpture of a woman with a large and lumpy posterior has been short listed for the £25,000 Turner Prize. The artist Rebecca Warren, 41 created a rough looking sculpture of a woman’s legs atop what appears to be platform shoes with a torso that resembles an elongated pear with either spindly arms or two dreadlocks at the top. On the plus side, with it’s knobby bits on the buttocks, only those afflicted with the most severe form of cellulite will have to worry about even a passing resemblance. In British vernacular, “no oil painting” refers to a person or thing without great beauty, and believe me this sculpture's in no danger of being considered one.

Lorraine Kelly/Top presenter who’s Down to earth

If you’ve never watched GMTV, you may not have seen Lorraine Kelly present her own LK Today show, Monday-Thursday. Of course it would be hard to miss this lively Scottish lass altogether as she’s highly popular not only for her telly presenting, but for her charitable work (she’s participated in both the London Marathon and Walk the Walk, Playtex’s moonlight walk for breast cancer the columns she pens for the Sun and The Sunday Post, and her book Real Solutions for Real People. With such a busy schedule, including being a Mum to an eleven year old, she’s still one of the most down to earth people you could ever hope to meet. How do I know? Because after watching for her for years during my trips to the UK, I decided to send her a quick email just letting her know that there was one fan on the wrong side of the pond that thought she was just super. What did I get for my trouble? Only a hand written note from her, and autographed picture, key fob, GMTV tote bag, pen and matching t-shirts for my husband and me. When I received her package, it was my very own Marsha Brady meets Davey Jones moment. I was just chuffed that she even ready my email but to take the time to respond, absolutely won her a fan for life, and I won’t hear a bad word said out her.

A Lady Bugged, or Queen of the Aphid Killers

2006-05-08T15:28:00.000-04:00

I hate roses.

A few years ago, I had lofty dreams of simulating a cozy English cottage in the front of the house. Towards that end I bought what were to be the penultimate in English climbing roses, the Constance Spry. The ordering of these tagged bare root plants, only occurred after Jordan built deep planters with large pyramid like finials under each of our front windows and filled them with dozens of bags of Miracle Grow soil to make sure these babies got off to the right start.

That was four years ago. Since then I have lived through mould, black spot, and generation after generation of aphids. I have worked with organic products, earth friendly sprays, ordered thousands of ladybugs which were to dine on the aphids, but instead ended up on their backs, legs up in a few days. I’ve pruned, topped off with new soil, burned infected leaves, and prayed over them before having to turn to level three toxic poisons, the use of which is only recommended only when the wind is still and the user is swathed in a Hazmat suit and respirator.

And after four years, I’m finally getting my first yield of roses. They’re pale pink floribunda that smell glorious, but I’m still fighting aphids that reappear seemingly hours after I’ve just killed virtually all of their kith and kin.

And the reason I’ve managed to get a half dozen actual blooms is because at least weekly, I’m outside with rubber gloves, spraying each stem and then wiping the carcasses off with Q-tips and smearing them on to damp paper towels.

It’s so time intensive and meticulous and for what? A rose! Not an orchid or something more exotic. Just a stinking rose. The kind that all of my neighbors have climbing walls and trellises while they’ve simply neglected them. It’s absolutely infuriating!!

And just when I thought the maturation of several blooms indicated that things were getting better, aphids had nested in several others so when they did open, they didn’t expose mille-feuille of blush pink, but rather gnawed petals and a host of aphids, providing each rose with a pink with green polka dot pattern that Lily Pulitzer would envy. Where is the justice I ask you?

Supposedly planting onions with roses helps deter aphids, but I heard the same thing when I surrounded them with marigolds to no avail. I dunno, I think this is my last year of trying, but for one final summer, I guess I’m doomed to spray and scrub. So when I finish yet another stressful day at the office, I’ll be donning gloves and brandishing a fist full of Q-tips.

Of course, I could take another tack, and maybe spend the same amount of time I do tending the roses to self tanning, pumicing and slathering on anti-cellulite potions. Then maybe when I stand in front of the house to greet guests, they’ll notice me instead of the dodgy flowers. Granted, I may not be as fresh or naturally pretty as the erstwhile Constance Spry, but one thing’s guaranteed, when I display myself in my best pink finery, there’ll be no green, soft bodied, parasites clinging to my limbs.

Roddy Frame returns/Footballers' Wives Axed

2006-05-04T08:34:00.000-04:00

I'm a devoted kinda girl. If I love or admire you, unless you're a chronic complainer or disloyal, you pretty much stay loved. That explains my 17 years with the same bloke, an inner circle which has generally remained the same for the last 20 years, and my adoration of Modfather Paul Weller and Roddy Frame. Roddy, was the driving force behind one of my college faves, Aztec Camera. I sorta met him years ago, when they played a gig at the Chestnut Cabaret and I stood pressed against the stage, at his feet. He kept tossing guitar plectums (picks) and began snickering when those around me caught them and I remained empty handed. He finally felt sorry enough for me that he dropped one in front of himself and nudged it towards me with his foot. It took awhile as my arms were short and he was trying to make sure I could reach it before lifting his toe. When I finally grabbed it, he broke into a big smile, as did I and we both laughed.

Maybe it was that endearing act that sealed the deal, but regardless, I remained a fan of band, extending through his solo outings The North Star and Surf. I was thrilled to discover he's just released a new CE Western Skies and it will be followed by a full tour of the UK in May and June. I've got the CD on order from Amazon.co.uk and I'm hoping his haunting meoldies will help asuage the pain of losing.....

Footballers' Wive$

Yup, ITV has decided after 5 seasons to ax Footballers' Wive$. Having become addicted to it and its spin off Extra Time while in Britain, I've seen all but the fifth and final season. (I'm currently in negotiations to have the series burned on a DVD for me.)

It's sad to know that once I've viewed it, it'll be all over. (BBC America will probably not finish out the series until end of 2007)

Considering the outlandish plot lines and the memorable character of Tanya Turner, played to the hilt by Zoe Lucker, I'm surprised that ITV didn't want to do continue for one more season, where writers, realizing the end was near, could really go to town, but apparently ratings were dropping and they chose to go out on a high note.

My thoughts are completely with Zoe Lucker thought. Most British actors would give their eye teeth to "crack America" and now that Lucker has made her mark on US audiences, we can only hope that some casting agent will have the wisdom to use her in another role that makes the most of her considerable talents. When it comes to playing a complex bitch, Zoe's got wicked, mad skills.

Outfit Remorse

2006-05-02T14:18:00.000-04:00

Sometimes things go so well, the cynic in me waits for the other shoe to drop, so after what can only be described as a fabulous weekend, I should have expected it.

It began at 7:30 am on Saturday when after a disappointing loss to Liverpool last week, and being knocked out of contention for the FA Cup, I saw Chelsea beat Man U (LIVE) to win the English Premier League After celebrating with a cracking cup of tea, I did a bit of haus frau work, before slipping on my Ipod and leisurely walking 20 blocks to meet my friend Hilda for lunch. I was pleased just to have her company, so the fact that she picked up the tab was a bonus. After lunch, we took a look at few handbags at Leventhals. She was actively looking while I, simply by chance, noticed a small evening bag that just happened to match a bronze dress I picked up for the summer wedding season. Unbeknownst to me, while I thought Hilda was buying a gorgeous red leather tote, she was also purchasing the evening bag for me.

“RE-SULT!!”

Top that off with a Sunday evening BBQ at a friend’s home in the neighborhood, and the whole weekend rounded off rather well.

It was when I returned to work on Monday, that it began. I was to have the day off, but between pressing deadlines and plans that fell through, I ended up in the office. It began as something small, and then did it’s best to ruin the rest of my day.
It was awful.

It was uncomfortable.

It was outfit remorse!

When I get dressed for the office it’s about 5:30 in the morning and although I do my best to hang coordinating colors and outfits that have already been established as winning ensembles together, there are some times when changes (in clothing condition and my body) aren’t quite as noticeable until a few hours after I’m in the garment.

Thus was the case of Monday’s skirt choice.
This long brown patterned skirt which had previously served as a fabulous accompaniment to a sleeveless chocolate top with plunging neckline, suddenly began to go wrong. First I noticed that the skirt was too long. I’m only 5’3” and although I eschew skirts which threaten to make the whole world your gynecologist, this thing was so long that next to me, the Amish looked like tarts.

It was also too A-line. Yup, I didn’t think that was possible, but when I held the dress by the seams, I realized it could serve as a teepee for a family of six. It also seemed really poufy, which is when I realized that it was fully lined. Had I realized that before, I wouldn’t have worn the additional slip underneath. I then began looking for a reason this skirt wasn’t working. “Maybe this was hand made?” I thought. I mean, I had purchased the skirt on ebay and I didn’t remember who made it. Then I noticed the tag. “Wow, a company really made this?” And then it came into focus. It was long and kind of a convergence of ethnic and boho, and all at once this skirt was going out of style as I was wearing it. The only thing that worked was it’s length did mean that when I rode my bike home I had no worries of the skirt blowing up.

And when I finally arrived home I removed the skirt and after laundering, it’ll be ready for a trip to Goodwill where hopefully it will find a new home. Since it has a zipper, I guess the closet of a trendy Amish woman is out of the question.

Big changes and even bigger head!

2006-04-26T13:10:00.000-04:00

There are those that spend an inordinate amount of time picking out the flaws in others.
Then there are those of us who spend an inordinate amount of time deconstructing ourselves. I don’t do it so much as a matter of vanity, but as an assessment, so I can change what I don’t like. No, I don’t mean plastic surgery. The fact is I’d rather spend the money anonymously sunning my fat ass in Malta, then spending thousands of dollars and several weeks recuperating from liposuction. Besides I bruise really easily, and I don't reckon I wanna spend weeks looking like I spent a few rounds in the ring, before looking marginally better. I make changes the old fashioned way; pure, hard graft!

Since October I’ve worked out five days a week and although my weight hasn’t dropped much, mostly because of the muscle mass I’ve developed, I have dropped a dress size. And before wedding season, I’d ideally like to drop another size, so towards that end, I’m, (gulp!) going teetotal.

The funny thing is, I’ve become more accepting of my body, and even liked the way I looked in a recent picture (well, except where it looks like my shirt substituted for a bib). But a smaller body has emphasized what can truly only be described by my gigundo head and face.

My friend Fritz, used to complain that he had the world’s largest face and that it took up most of his head. If that’s true, I must be running a close second. Of course, it would probably be mitigated by the actual having of hair, but I’ve done the hair thing and for me, it’s played out. One of the most liberating things I’ve ever done was to stop chemically straightening my hair into submission and chop it off, opting instead for wash and go blonde Caesarean curls. I owe the blonde to the late artist, Jim Canfield, who told me with my skin color, I should never be anything but blonde. And to some extent, it must work as I’ve had everything from kids to little old ladies following me around, asking if they can touch it. Hell, sometimes they don’t even ask, I just find a stray hand in my hair.

But I digress.

Unfortunately, as my body gets smaller, it’s going to make my head look bigger. I suppose if I ever reach my goal weight, I’ll be able to double for a bobble head doll.

I’m not sure if that’s a look worth striving for, but then again I’m nowhere near what is considered classically beautiful anyway, so what do I care? I’ll be the one in the cute outfit (probably something pink), with the inevitable spot on my shirt from when her tea missed my mouth, and in deference to Fritz, the second largest head in all of Christendom.

And if the yellow tricycle wasn’t enough to make me stand out, even encased in a helmet, the head thing should make it even easier to spot me on the crowded streets of Philly.

Not up for the Cup/Chelsea Loses FA Cup semi-final for

2006-04-24T08:56:00.000-04:00

I had to see the game. Chelsea was playing Liverpool for the FA Cup semi finals and although I have Fox Soccer Channel it wasn't being shown on fox until the following Wednesday, nor on local PayPerView. My only option was to plant myself at a pub with a satellite dish. So once a duly appointed pub was found, I enlisted the company of my buddy Jamie and off we went to Tir Na Nog to see the match.

Unlike previous weeks matches, for which I aroused early on Saturday morning and celebrated with a good cuppa PG Tips, this was an early evening game which meant a 12:30 start in the US and the ability to quaff pints of Stella without looking too much like a lush.

I was glad both Drogba (15), who scored Chelsea's only goal, and Crespo (9) were starting together since both players have been giving a great showing as of late. I was less thrilled with the replacement of Goalkeeper Cech's (1) replacement by Cudicini (23). It was a case where a game with such expectation degenerated into a spectacle that was painful to watch, especially once Liverpool scored. And even when the chances seemed to come the goals didn't and in the end, Liverpool moves on to play West Ham United at the The FA Cup Final,3pm, Saturday 13 May 2006 at the Millennium Stadium, in Cardiff. As for me, yes, I'm gutted but Chelsea is still top of the league and with three more games to go, I'll still be singing until the end.
And once England Premier league is over, this summer, there's still FIFA World Cup and who knows, England might just win.

Absinthe is not a diet drink

2006-04-16T09:36:00.000-04:00

I don't like to obliterate the gains I've made at the gym, so I watch my diet pretty carefully and have severly limited my alcohal intake, but this being Easter weekend, I decided to celebrate spring and meet two girlfirends for lunch, and have a few cocktails.

In lieu of this special occasion, we returned to our place and cracked open the Absinthe. Periodically my husband would bring Absinthe back from the UK, but a friend of ours, who works at the mega club Fabric, said what we bought wasn't really the business and promised us a proper bottle. Of course, I thought his claims were more of a pissing contest, but between my diminished tolerance for alcohal and the strength of the Fruko Schultz, it didn't take long before the four of us, were FUBAR f**ked up beyond all recognition.

I don't really remember alot, other than managing to stay upright while the guest were here. Jordan remembered even less than I did, so in the morning I had to treat the living room like a crime scene. We ate eggrolls, and apparently Jordan got warm because his clothes had been peeleed off and strewn from the front door to the stairs. There were a few beer bottles cluttering the table, but no broken glass or anything, so I assumed I hadn't really done anything to shame myself. I was wrong. There it was, digital evidence that I had sent several incoherent voice messages. There seemed to be safety in not quite remembering but when confronted with a copy of the message that remained in my outbox, I was mortified.

Oh well, life's too short to worry about it too much. I'll explain to the people I messaged and apologize to Ray for ever doubting him. I now know they stopped serving Fruko Schultz at Fabric, as I can't imagine it's too brilliant having your clientelle stripping and babbling incoherently. As for me, it's back on the wagon, back to the gym tomorrow and I'm tightening the cap on the Absinthe so that little Green Fairy doesn't get out any time soon.

Blue win makes for bright weekend.

2006-04-10T08:14:00.000-04:00

I’m not much on conspiracy theories, but after surviving the week, I’ve started to wonder. I spent the week at work trying to figure out how I’m going to increase revenue by 12 % for 2007 when sales figures in 2006 are waning.

Then I bought new phones. For the average person, such a purchase would be a no brainer, but I’ve yet to buy any electronic that didn’t cause me a few problems. From loading the software for my I-pod to getting my digital camera to work, there’s always some niggling thing that doesn’t work on the first try. With the phone, it was a damaged SIM card. So I went back to Cingular and got a replacement, but accounts, which I had set up on line, were so new that the store couldn’t activate my account, so upon returning to the office and calling customer service, I spent a half hour reading back SIM numbers small enough to make my over 40 eyes tear, as a representative kept repeating “please bear with me”. Finally he was able to activate it, and I began what can only be described as a torrid love affair with the camera, video and Bluetooth functions of my phone. Of course there was yet another glitch that prevented me from setting up my voicemail, but the customer service department managed to get that sorted within a few minutes. I’m still reading through the manual, as this thing comes with enough features I’m pretty sure I could launch surface to air missiles.

But none of that or the minutia of cleaning house, doing laundry and having plans cancelled due to inclement weather can bring me down because, you guessed it, Chelsea won.. I did have a bit of a scare on Saturday night because Candace thought she heard Chelsea lost, but flipping on Fox Soccer Channel at 7am Sunday morning, I was able to watch the entire match live and see Drogba, Crespo, Terry and Gallas score goals against the single goal scored by West Ham’s James Collins in the first 10 minutes of the game.
Of course it ain’t over yet and Chelsea has seen an 18 point lead reduced to 7 , they still remain at the top of the league table so I’ve got a few more nail biting weekends to get through, but in the meantime I'll be chanting, “From Stamford Bridge to Wembley, we’ll keep the blue flag flying high!”

Misery is a choice

2006-04-03T07:34:00.000-04:00

You know what I like about life? Everything.

I sell advertising. Not the Darren Stevens kind of advertising, but boring recruitment advertising for medical journals. Last week I learned that the evil publishing corp, to whom I've virtually sold my soul for 34 vacation days a year, is doubling my workload by increasing my largest publication from twice per month, to weekly. The mere thought of that, in another point in my life would have sent me to a tower with an uzi. Instead I prayed for guidance, kidnapped my husband, and began my weekend a day early in the company of a lovely bartender named Candance and a slew of Mojitos.

I completely believe mind set is everything. I have one friend who is so consistently and increasingly depressed that I'm beginning to think having a colonic would be less mucky.

You see, attitudes, for the most part are contagious. Of course there are vaccines that can keep them at bay. She’s prefers to be mired in self pity, that she blocks every positive suggestion and reinforces the negative by continuing to engage in behaviors that she knows are hurting her. From the tone in her voice to her body language, she’s made it obvious to everyone except the Tommys of the world (you know, deaf, dumb and blind) how mizzy she is.

I vaccinate myself against that by putting on a HazMat suit constructed of joie de vivre, and when all else fails, by extricating myself from the situation and surrounding myself with people who want to be happy. The result, I look forward to everything from the 4:30 alarm to my five days of sweat and strain at the gym and every thing in between. As a result, Chelsea’s still top of the league, my garden is looking fabu and an attractive young man 12 years my junior tried to chat me up. (See there are benefits of moisturizing early and often.)

I’m not crazy (okay, so the jury's out on that one).I’m edgier than any Pollyana or little Mary Sunshine and I know there’s pain, stress and aggro in life, but as long as there is life, there’s hope: hope that this too shall pass, hope that God will make a way, and even hope that a dream deferred for 20 years, may yet come true.

So as you start this week, which for me began 20 minutes late when an alarm didn’t go off on a dark and drizzly Monday, remember the favorite quote of Christopher Reeve:

”Suffering is inevitable. Misery is a choice.”

This ain’t yer Mama’s Sweeny Todd

2006-03-28T13:22:00.000-05:00

In theatrical circles, Philadelphia has always been like Connecticut; a place to try out shows before they go to the great white way. Recently, shows like Wicked, Hairspray and The Lion King have been booked in the city of brotherly love. The problem is a higher priced ticket, a touring company that may or may not have any stars, and only a small selection of what Broadway offers each season will ever go on tour.

So when I really want to see something, like Kathleen Turner in the revival of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf, I resign myself to a voyage over two trains and two and a half hours, and head to Manhattan. And when I heard how wonderful the new staging of Sweeny Todd was I packed up by Broadway buddy, Bette, my husband’s niece, who’d never been to NYC, and did just that. Except for a quick stop at Lush Handmade Cosmetics, and a slice of pizza we grabbed en route, we had only enough time to walk from the station to the theatre and avail ourselves the use of the ladies before the curtain went up but as good as the show was, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I’m old enough to remember the original with Angela Lansbury but this version, with it’s spartan set, and musician/actors who have made the orchestra redundant, was darker, saucier and more sinister. Fantastic seems an inadequate description. The new staging focuses on minimalism. There are no scene/set changes and the full cast remains on stage for the entire show, as even when they’re not involved in a scene, they’re still responsible for instrumental accompaniment. The set was basic with floor to ceiling shelving at the rear of the stage. These shelves, constructed from wide planks, were carefully spaced, like picket fencing, and when lights were brought down, an eerie effect was achieved.

The props were very simple, the largest of which were an English styled coffin with removable lid and a ladder. But by careful manipulation of those two props effectively doubled for tables, counters, podiums, balconies and doors and the ladder conveyed the sense of height as need for balcony scenes and stairs for the levels of Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop. The murders were illustrated with gruesome red lighting and shrill whistle sounds. Once a character was killed, they remained on stage, but each victim donned a white butcher's coat spattered with blood. And while the original version seemed to be dark but humorous, this version was more subtle, witty and haunting and not appropriate for children (as the Dad who took three preteens who wanted to leave at the intermission, quickly discovered).

What happened then, well that's the play,
And he wouldn't want us to give it away. Not Sweeney,
Not Sweeney Todd, The demon barber of Fleet Street.

World Cup Prep: Learn Anthems, drink bubbly, buy condoms

2006-03-22T14:58:00.000-05:00

Apparently, I'm not the only one preparing for the World Cup.

While in London, Jordan had the foresight to pick up jerseys for England & Brazil (just to hedge his bets. Traitor!)

I've been practicing my sing-a-long-with-lager-louts anthems, like "Sven, Sven, Sven"; "Meat Pie, Sausage Roll (C'mon England G'Is A Goal" and just in case things go pear shaped "Three Lions".

But the best may be Chancellor Gordon Brown's decision not to increase the tax on champagne and sparkling wine in preparation for a glorious win.

Unfortunately the tax on a pint will increase by one pence.

While I think that's swell, preferring to quaff champers instead of ale, I can certainly empathize with the Campaign for Real Ale (CRA) folks who make a valid point that most footie fans swill beer during matches. Mike Benner of the CRA commented, "Given that beer is our traditional drink and the World Cup is being held in Germany, it's outrageous that the chancellor has frozen duty on champagne."

Of course should luck afford us an England win, and any of your find yourself in the company of equally excited and attractive punters needing to work off a bit of extra energy, you'll be pleased to know that in preparation for World Cup celebrations, the duty on condoms is dropping from 17 1/2 to 5 percent.

The Death of a Doorman

2006-03-22T06:43:00.000-05:00

There's a general consensus that I'm a nice girl. I usually tell people it’s a myth and then do my best impersonation of a crusty curmudgeon. Realistically, I try not to be rude, and show thoughtfulness through a plethora of cards and notes for every occasion. But I also know that working in Corporate America for ages has left me a bit less friendly than I used to be, but I do have a genuine soft spot for precocious kids, animals and people in the service industry that many people feel entitled to treat shabbily.

Not me. I say good morning to bus drivers, wave to window washers and always have a chat with office security. Such was my relationship with Jim McDonough. He was the front desk security at my office building and the first person I'd see when I entered at 6:15 a.m. While there was the odd contractor that would speak to him while signing in, or lawyer on crutches who would need Jim to hold an elevator while he slung his braced legs rather precariously down the hall, most people didn't give him a second thought.

We, however, had great conversations especially about the theatre. Having worked in community theatre for years, he loved talking about revival shows and stars he'd worked with in the original productions. He'd save the bank's extra copy of the Wall Street Journal for me every morning, and I'd bring him souvenirs from my trips. I sensed that having no wife or kids, he kinda thought of me, in a strange way, as family.

We had just been counting down the number of days before my vacation, as we did with every holiday, when he didn't show up for work one day. He was out again the following day. By the third day I asked his substitute what had happened, and he told me that he had taken ill with what they believed to be a gallbladder infection. He'd been rushed into surgery and it didn't look good. I sent cards to him in ICU telling him I hoped that he would be well and out of the hospital by the time I returned from my holiday. He wasn't. He never made it out of ICU and died last week. I still have the Maltese Cross keyring I'd brought back for him. In the grand scheme of things, a few kind words and tourist tat wasn't much of a strain on me, but it meant alot to him.

How do I know? A few people who worked with him were very nervous telling me about his passing. They said, "He thought you were a good kid, ya know. You made his day."
And knowing that, makes mine.

The Mourning After and I'm Chelsea Blue

2006-03-20T07:04:00.000-05:00

Jordan entered the house, took one look at my face and knew.
"Chelsea lost huh?"
Yup, I'd waited all week for the match. It was supposed to be a dead cert. Chelsea had beaten Fulham in every match since 1979 and when they were trounced by Liverpool 5-1, I just knew they boys from Stamford Bridge were going to secure their bid for the FA cup with another win.

It wasn't to be.

In the end the goal scored by Luis Boa Morte in the first quarter of the game was all that was needed to win.

In the end, Chelsea's William Galla got a red card for stomping Heidar Helguson, and both a field microphone and my hopes for a win were trampled.

As my husband hugged me he said "You shouldn't get so upset. It's only a game."

Yeah, right.

Footie Obsession Redux

2006-03-14T13:02:00.000-05:00

My relationship to American football is like my relationship with my brother. You feel like you should love it because you've been indoctrinated since birth, but my personal preference would not be bothered by its pompous, smug, egoistic self, ever again. Unfortunately, while I live in America, that ain't gonna happen. So instead, I've immersed myself in English Premier League Football a.k.a. soccer to you Yanks.

I used to only be able to catch the matches if I went to a sports bar or when it was a year for UEFA Euro Cup or FIFA World Cup matches. I wanted to keep up with my favorites including Manchester United (who I still love despite the departure of David Beckham)and Chelsea, but at $21.95 a match, it wasn't fiscally possible. Of course, there was one ESPN channel that showed all the matches a week later but by then I'd read the synopsis in the Sun and, apologies to the hardcore fans, but I'm just not the type to watch sports history. Of course exceptions are made for the last game of the World Cup in 1966, when Bobby Moore (God rest is soul) lead England to victory over West Germany. Hail Britannia.

Then one day, we decided to drop Showtime from our cable subscription since we never watched it and after a lenghty discussion with Comcast discovered for just $5, I could get all the sports channels, including, wait for it, Fox Soccer Channel. A FLIPPIN FIVER!! Well, I couldn't Adam and Eve it and I signed up, post haste!

Suddenly my life has purpose. I have a reason to survive these winter days made even harsher by this plebeian need to work for a living. Suddenly it all makes sense.

I was born to know the names of the players and each teams' home field. My raison d'etre is to critique Saha for shooting wide and high when attempting to make a goals against New Castle.

Yup, I looked for the silver lining and found a Golden Fleece. My only quandry is the choice of team loyalty. Do I go with Manchester United who has a great record even though Striker Wayne Rooney makes me ill, or do I support the top of the league team from Stamford Bridge,Chelsea?

And it gets even better as Premier League segueways into World Cup this summer. I guess sleep goes out the window between June 9th and July 9th.

Oh, well wait, since, I’ve got two weddings scheduled in June, I guess beyond choosing my "home" team, I do have another pressing question: exactly what is the proper etiquette for ducking out of the church to check the scores?

Another Birthday with Ray Davies

2006-03-08T10:32:00.001-05:00

I resent illness. I figure for as much as I watch my diet and exercise, I should be in perfect health at all times and easily survive into my 120s.

Unfortunately, life doesn't always follow the blueprint, which is why I'm spending my 42nd birthday positively virulent with a raspy voice, mucus coated lungs, and aching sinuses. I fought hard, pressing on with work deadlines, and even convincing myself that a good sweat at the gym was just what I needed to cure me.

I was wrong, and now I'm piled on the sofa, with only the Ray Davies to keep me company. I picked up his new CD, Other People's Lives while in London. Jordan had been going through a rediscovery of old music and picked up a CD from Davies' former band, the Kinks, a few months back and after a delightful reintroduction to songs like "Dedicated Follower of Fashion" and "Waterloo Sunset", I suggested he buy Davies' new solo CD.

Once we played it, I fell so in love with the CD I've probably played it a dozen times within a week. The irony is, the only album I wanted for my 16th birthday was the Kinks Two for the Road. So as I sniffle and wheeze, I'm comforted in the knowledge that the more things change, the more they stay the same. So I'll have a nice cuppa, listen to the tunes that chronicle English life and think even though this may not be the most exciting birthday I've ever had, Ray and I are just glad to have survived this long.

MMMMMMMM....Malta

2006-03-07T06:55:00.000-05:00

I guess most of my friends were so used to my semi-annual trips to the Motherland, most thought that I'd spend four weeks of every year for the next 20 doing nothing but exploring England. While that's a capital idea, the fact is I'm a bit more adventurous than that.

Of course when I disclosed that Malta was the destination for my next holiday I was confronted with a mix of blank stares and crooked smiles. While one person asked, "Is that in England?” most tried to disguise their lacking geographical knowledge and responded "What cha wanna go there for?"

The fact that most Americans didn't know where Malta was, meant that I'd be able to enjoy a holiday without hearing that cutting American twang that 20 years on, still harbors Valley Girl phrasing "like you know. Omigod." Another reason few Americans go is because there are no direct flights from the US to Malta. You have to fly into a hub like Rome or London to get a flight, but from London, the flight is less than three hours.

So why did I go to Malta? I was watching ESPN when I saw the World's Strongest Man competition. The competition was being held in Valetta, Malta and between events like pulling a truck and lifting anchors; the camera men were kind enough to show cityscapes, aerial views of the island and crystal waters perfect for diving.
So since Jordan and I plan holidays nearly a year in advance, I decided, then and there Malta was on the list.

Of course the decision went from strength to strength. The weather, though not hot was going to be at least 35 degrees higher than what we were leaving in Philadelphia, everyone speaks English and there's a great system of busses and ferries to help you easily explore the island.

When you first see Malta from the air, it kind of appears in the middle of the ocean, like Atlantis risen. The airport is small and we arrived to our hotel in Silema in about 20 minutes. While Silema is a lovely quiet town, you can easily walk to Paceville, with its clubs and Casino. We chose to explore during the day and return to Silema spent each day. Our hotel, The Victoria was awash in dark mahogany, brass and leather. We ascended to our room via one of two small wooden elevators with a four person maximum capacity. The hotel housed a restaurant which served a full breakfast buffet as well as dinner, and it also contained a small bar, which hosted a "Jazzy Night" on Thursday where we enjoyed a small jazz combo while sipping Bajtra, a local liqueur made from prickly pear.

Considering the Turks, Napoleon, and the Germans have tried to capture the island, the Maltese people are extremely friendly group. I guess they can afford to be generous to tourists (even the Germans) since no one ever succeeded in, to paraphrase William Wallace, taking their freedom.

I'm working on uploading pictures (HP hassle free photo sharing my eye!)
Be prepared to be amazed.

The Revolution will be Pod-cast!

2006-02-07T15:25:00.000-05:00

I have a love/hate relationship with the gym.

I’m dig fitting into smaller sizes but I hate actually working out. I like the endorphin release. Often it keeps me from asking clients if unbeknownst to me, they’re in a competition for the stupidest person on earth. And although I like the idea of jettisoning toxins via sweat, the actual moist and drippy properties and act of producing sweat, still skives me. The three days I’m with my trainer Chris, there’s conversation peppered with puns, trash talking and good humored banter to keep me going, but on those long, solitary cardio workouts, it’s music that gets me through.

I used to carry by CD walkman. It was big and bulky and there isn’t a shelf on a Precor on which I can park it, so I was often reduced to shoving it between my ass and my knickers hoping that while I was pounding away to the crescendo of “A Pain that I’m Used to”, that it didn’t fly out of my waistband, like a retriever launched, dog dampened Frisbee, killing all and sundry as a sweaty denouement.

That frightening vision prompted me to request an i-pod for Christmas.

Of course actually finding one under the tree was surprising on many levels, not the least of which is the fact that Jordan bought it for me. My husband is a lovely bloke, but his knowledge of computers begins and ends with his PlayStation, so the fact that he not only purchased an i-pod, but could actually tell me a few of it’s features, is a hell of a testament to the staff at Best Buys.
Even more shocking was that I actually got the thing to work (eventually) as loading i-tunes caused my laptop to crash and when I rebooted it, I sustained corrupted Windows files forcing me to blow the entire hard drive and reload every program. (Well, not me exactly, but the aforementioned trainer Chris, who though buff and very social, leads a secret life as a computer geek.)

So round mid-January, with i-tunes successfully loaded, I began filling up my i-pod. At first I added a few songs I loved but were missing from my collections like Depeche Mode’s “Shake the Disease” and “Question of Lust” . Then, realizing I’d be using it mostly at the gym, I had to make sure the mix had equal amounts angst and heavy bass. Enter electronica, garage, trance and dance music. And just to keep current, I began checking out the free downloads each week. I'm currently rocking out to Hard Fi’s “Cash Machine” with it's bass line reminiscent of The Clash's “This is Radio Clash” and the sample of an acoustic twinkle from Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes”.

So now my i-pod helps me amp up my workout. My i-pod allows me to drown out the pedantic cell phone conversations on the bus. And even on the coldest days I bop through the city streets giddy with the power of listening to my own soundtrack. And as I do, I realize Gil Scott Heron was right, and indeed the revolution will not be televised, it’ll probably be pod cast.
And, thanks to my big butt, now I’m revolting.

What’s currently on my i-pod and why.

Black Eyed Peas: My Humps –Because I’m working mine off
Akala: Bull shit –because you’ve gotta admire a rap that complains about everything from London’s congestion charge to British weather.
Kylie Minogue: Spinning Around Because it's KYLIE, and sometimes I just want to be a pop girl
The Specials: Enjoy Yourself (it's later than you think) A simple song, an honest message and a ska beat
Blur: Music is my Radar To remind myself that for a brief time in the 90s, Britpop was cool and inventive

Desperate Working Housewife sks Husband with a Clue

2006-01-25T09:51:00.000-05:00

Despite being a thoroughly modern chick, there are still remnants of mid 20th century America implanted in my brain. Not all of them cause me to emote in a warm and fuzzy fashion either. While visions of Marlo Thomas in fab couture, strutting her independence as she pursued her career helped to girder me during my formative years, unfortunately, so did one too many episodes of the Donna Reed show. So what do you get when you combine the two? A hardworking, intelligent woman battling corporate America who clocks out at the end of the day, only to rush home to do a load of laundry, make dinner and tidy up the living room before her husband gets home.

Some days that wears a bit thin.

I know I’m not the only one. I’ve got friends who do the same thing. Even if the sig/other is home before them, we’re largely the ones expected to do the cooking, cleaning and shopping Okay, so I don’t mind the shopping, but when I’m not the only one using the toilet, why am I the only one cleaning the damn thing?

And for what? Yeah, I acknowledgeit’s partly for me. I’m still appeasing the Donna Reed in my head who would be appalled that I could think of complaining when, I have a husband working so hard to provide a home and semi-annual trips to the Motherland. But some days I'm so sick of that broken record, I’m tempted to get a knife and start rummaging until I can excise the programming chip like Denzel in the Manchurian Candidate.

Make no mistake however, a big, nay, HUGE part is for him and unfortunately, as is human nature, when you do so much for someone, all the time, it becomes an expectation. So now he’s become one of them, an archetypical Homer Simpson, who doesn’t think that you might have actually been watching that, when he commandeers the remote and starts flipping the channel. A man who won’t put his dirty clothes in the hamper, yet assumes I’ve gone through what can only be described as a reconnaissance mission, digging through layers of clothing he’s removed in one piece, like a banana shedding his peel. A dolt who forgets the few things you asked him to remember, on those rare occassions when he's actually LISTENING, and who instead of being grateful for a home made dinner every night, now sees cheddar and chipotle peppers and begins whinging “ Mexican…again?”

Some days I fantasize about a newer model. Perhaps a man 10 or 12 years my junior. One that would be intelligent, sweet,and caring and having been the only male child, raised by a single Mum and three sisters, would appreciate my efforts.

But alas I fear that's a recipe for a gay "girlfriend" as opposed to a husband. And if he was straight,his metrosexuality would bankrupt me with demands for designer wardrobes and ablution products. And after a time, even my dreamy British gentleman would probably degenerate into some megalomaniacal EastEnders character.

I suppose the only hope is to pray the prayer of wives and partners world wide:
Dear Lord, I pray for Wisdom to understand my man; Love to forgive him; And Patience for his moods. Because, Lord, if I pray for Strength, I'll beat him to death. AMEN

GREAT SCOT! IT'S A FAKE TAN-Schools to provide lesson in bottle bronzing

2006-01-19T07:40:00.000-05:00

Oh, those lovely Scots. Such a giving people. Having already graced us with Sean Connery, Alan Cummings and television presenter Lorraine Kelly, not to mention golf and, well, Scotch, they’re now doing their bit to keep the young ‘uns both beautiful and healthy by teaching school kids how to properly apply a fake tan.

As a country largely bereft of sunshine, many Scots have sought help in disguising their naturally pasty complexions, by flocking to tanning salons. Glasgow now has more sunbeds per person than any other city in the UK. But the increased usage of sunbeds, is reflected in an increase to skin cancer. With 125 new cases diagnosed every week, Scotland’s rate is now higher than that of Australia, where they actually have bright sun.

After staff at the Thomas Muir high school in Bishopbriggs, East Dunbartonshire, discovered more and more students returning from lunch break looking as if they’d just returned from a fortnight’s holiday in Tenerife, the school’s nurse became concerned that if the practice continued, those students may be the next melanoma victims.

So in hopes to stem the tide, beginning next week, Fake Bake, a company who boasts celebrity clientele, will begin giving students tips on applying an even tan with cosmetic products. By instructing students on application and maintenance of fake tans, along with information on celebrities that choose the artificial option, the company hopes to encourage students away from the harmful UV rays of the sunbed to the safer, moisture infused cosmetic version. Sandra McClumpha, UK managing director of Fake Bake hopes to make her Save Your Skin campaign a success in Scotland before extending it to the rest of the UK.

Might I suggest Dale Winton as the spokesperson?

Hey diddly dee, it’s British Air for me

2006-01-10T09:56:00.000-05:00

While I didn’t get loads of free time during the Christmas break, I did manage to book our next holiday. I haven’t used a travel agent in nearly ten years, which means that yours truly spent and inordinate amount of time on line trying to ferret out the best deals on flights and hotels. Fortunately, British Airways, which usually runs an after holiday special around this time, was offering $135 each way to Britain, so after all the research, I ended up booking through them anyway.

The best part about any travel to Europe and parts east is BA, and it’s allies fly nearly everywhere we want to go, but all flights from the US stop at their hub, Heathrow London. For some that stopover or plane change is a hassle, but because you can stopover for as long as you like, for us it’s manna from heaven. I booked a flight from Philly to Malta with a stop in London for a weekend on both outgoing and return flights, so I can hit the East London markets and scope out the art scene and have a proper Sunday roast before flying to Malta, then return to London to stock up on necessities from HMV, Boots and Marks & Spencers before returning to Philly. Granted the taxes and fuel costs added about $250 to each ticket, but the whole shebang cost a little over $700 per person and I was able to get discounts on accommodations at our fave hotel The Tavistock in London, and a super deal on the four star Victorian Hotel in Malta. Sure I could have booked via Travelocity or Expedia, but they were only saving me about $20 on airfare, couldn’t offer me reservations at the hotels I wanted, and I wouldn’t have racked up those ever important Executive miles we’re saving for a long haul trip. Sure, I had to do the research to find out the cost differential, but let my time on line save you some legwork and go British Airways.

What I did on my holiday vacation.

2006-01-10T09:36:00.000-05:00

After our annual holiday party, the rest of December serves as a well needed rest. Of course in my world a rest just means I don’t have to go to the office. I still found myself getting up with the hub-ster at 6 am, which compared to my usual wake up of 4:45, is a bit of a lie-in, but the rest of the day was spent making meals, doing the washing up after making meals, traveling into the center city to hit the gym every day and doing loads of laundry.

By the end of the week, I was pretty scheduled and managed to prep dinner after making breakfast and before going to the gym which meant after working out and showering, and preparing lunch for him, I had exactly three hours to myself, before the aforementioned husband returned home. Obviously I was delusional when I though I'd actually have loads of extra time to write, lunch with friends or be massaged within an inch of my life at the spa.

After a week of intensive haus frau-dom, I realized exactly why I normally leave the country when I get time off.

2005-12-29T15:03:00.000-05:00

The cerise Christmas party dress, or FROCK HORROR!

One party, many perceptions

2005-12-29T14:29:00.000-05:00

Well it all went as scheduled. The parents and grand parents, friends and co workers all piled into our South Philly row house for our annual party.

There was plenty of food, all carefully categorized and labeled as vegan, ovo-lacto, meat and seafood; enough beer to construct a beeramid, and champagne enough to keep half of Monaco afloat on tiny bubbles. The dress had been taken in and the alterations made the cerise satin gown from ebay fit like haute couture. And for that night I was happy. I thought the party had been successful and all was right with the world.

That was my perception at the time. Over the next few days it became apparent that my champagne fueled perception was mere folly.

Post party, I was telling my mother about my sister-in-laws attempts to dismiss me. I mean, I know we're not best mates, but it was amusing to see her attempt to ignore me at my own party, in my own home. She murmured hello as she brushed by me to get to the food and then proceeded to make a grand display when she saw my cousin, odd since they live in the same hamlet. Obviously my preparation of food and decoration of both my home and myself merited no comment.

Then there was my brother. Despite introducing him and the aforementioned wife when they arrived, he commented to Mum that he doubted I knew he was there. So he was pissed since he wasn't the center of attention and she was pissed because I was. Both perceived the party to be less than stellar.

Then there were friends who were upset that I was unable to spend enough time with them, because I had the nerve to spend time trying to entertain the 70 other people who ebbed and flowed into the party. Then there were people who complained about not knowing many of the other guests, but made no attempt to make small talk to get to know anyone. They probably perceived the party as less sociable than summer BBQs where fewer guests get more of my time.

But the piece de resistance was the disastrous viewing of all my digital pictures. Every picture of me was horrible. I sat there, looking at them with the repulsed fascination one reserves for viewing car crashes. I mean, I know there are limits to how great a dress can make you look and I wasn't expecting Halle Berry, but I thought I had a shot at looking like a red carpet Queen Latifah. I would have settled for Hairspray's Tracy Turnblad in her Auto Show coronation gown. In the end, what I saw was more like Babe, Pig in the City. (see Frock Horror above). In one minute, the weeks of five days a week at the gym, the avoidance of holiday goodies and the sheer will that kept me motivated to wear the perfect dress, was gone. Suddenly the party wasn’t a success, it was just a gathering that happened one Saturday where no fatalities were reported.

But despite what everyone thought, including me, I can lay down my head knowing I did my best. Maybe I didn't look like a starlet, but I was cheerful and friendly and warm to people whether they were returning guests or spending their first Christmas with us. And for a few people, it was still the most Christmasy thing they'd seen since Danny Kaye partied with Bing Crosby.

And if it all turned out more like a party given by the Griswolds instead of the Grimaldis, so what. Princess Stephanie prefers my shindig to an uptight state function any day of the week.

Christmas (Party) comes early at our house

2005-12-15T07:28:00.000-05:00

Thank God it’s nearly here. In the last three weeks I've been consumed by Christmas. Not the Christmas everyone else celebrates on December 25th, but December 17th which for all intents and purposes is my Christmas; well at least the secular one. And while my focus has been completely on the event, many other things have fallen by the way side. Delicious and exotic party foods may fill the fridge, but it's soup or frozen pizza for dinner for the next few days. I've got an unread stack of the weekly Women's Own piling up, right next to a larger stack of the daily NY Times. I’ve fallen behind on important tabloid news about Charlotte Church and Posh and Becks and should anyone try to discuss anything other than the party with me, I hear nothing but the chicken squawk of Charlie Brown's teacher.

I've eschewed mindless telly, for hours of Slade and a cavalcade of rockers singing holiday tunes on "The Best Christmas Album in the World EVER!" I've made five sets of hors d'oeuvres which now sit at the ready in the freezer, bought enough champagne to launch the Queen Mary, and washed more crystal than a person has a right to. And now as I'm entering the home stretch, the TO DO LISTs, which were categorized by, what needs to be cleaned and sorted, what needs to be bought and What needs to be Made ,have turned into one, What needs to be baked and served.

Christmas is a time of giving and to quote the Pillsbury dough boy, "Nothing says lovin' like something from the oven." And if it's covered in cheese, wrapped in puff pastry or broiled to a glistening caramel color, even better. This is the most extensive (or is that expensive) outpouring of love I could possibly give my family and friends and if they miss it, well shame on them. Those who've come before, are usually asking for their invitation in September.

Preparing for this is much akin to giving birth, there's a lot of work and planning and pain (especially when you're sleep deprived and putting up with a whining spouse who's coming down with a cold) but afterwards the reward of having done it is so great, you forget about all of that.

Of course once the stress of getting everything ready is all over, I'll probably come down with the flu, but I plan to be fit and sparkling and in a red carpet worthy gown on Saturday. And with all the work that's gone into this, my husband has been warned; should he fall ill, the guests will be instructed to party over the corpse.

Need a little Christmas, and a whole lotta sleep

2005-12-05T07:09:00.000-05:00

I love Christmas! Not the presents or hustle or bustle, but the quiet of the actual holiday. Much like Thanksgiving, I use it as a time to reflect and be grateful. And on Christmas and Boxing Day, I'm most grateful for peace and relaxation.

You see, the week before the big day we host a massive party for family and friends.
The party is our big annual event which means as soon as the Thanksgiving Turkey has been carved, I become one of Santa’s busiest elves. Aside from all the house cleaning and cooking, there are presents to wrap, menus to plan and gift bags to assemble. Because menus and gifts are top secret, I can't risk using friends for help. In order to keep costs from spiraling out of control, I can't afford to hire in , so from the creation of the invitation to the final garnish on a platter, it's all me, like some Martha Stewart hepped up on speed.

The problem is the more I do this, the better I want to do it each year. In those 364 days between parties, I discover new and impressive recipes, or decorating ideas or find a gift that becomes a must give. That means plates that used to hold finger sandwiches, have now morphed into platters of architectural stacks of sushi and goodie bags once filled with dime store toys have become gift bags that rival those from Oscar parties. Maybe it's all too much for the average hostess, but for those who consider themselves more of event planners, nothing will stop us from creating an event that will be discussed in reverent tones for the first quarter of the coming year.

And what do I get out of it? Well, when the party is in full swing, I get to see the beaming faces of about the happiest bunch of nutters on the planet. And though she’s gone, I can almost feel my Grandmother swelling with pride. She too was a major entertainer and somewhere in the afterlife I’m sure she’s hosting some sort of event. And while I’m completely spent by Christmas, creating a great memory for the people I love is about the most glorious expenditure of resources I can make. And once it’s all over, I can relax with a glass of bubbly, watching sappy made for T.V. Christmas movies, wishing peace on earth and Glory to the newborn King.

For love or Money: Colleen McLouglin

2005-11-27T13:32:00.000-05:00

While I'm not overly impressed by labels and bling, I admit a bit of dosh in my pocket is a groovy accessory. It can pay my gym fees, and buy a box full of fabulous fragrance and warpaint from Sephora, and basically gives me a reason to cycle to work each morning. It can also get me a mid winter break in Malta and, someday, please God, it will get me World Cup tickets when England plays.

What money won't buy is my trust, my loyalty or the use or non use of my brain.

Enter Colleen Mc Louglin. If you don't know who she is, you've obviously never picked up a British tabloid. While she hasn't quite reached the upper echelon of tabloid column inches consumed by the daily doings of Posh and Becks, she's right up there. The fiancée of Wayne Rooney, who became one of the most expensive teenagers ever when the striker signed a deal with Manchester United, she's mostly known for dropping 20 grand per outing at ateliers like Cricket. Of course, he can afford it with signing deal that's in the neighborhood of 30 million pounds; which coming in around 51 million dollars US, becomes a very comfortable neighborhood indeed.

The problem is, like all men, if ya give them a little fame and fortune and they start having visions of grandeur. Suddenly they believe the hype and start singing "Sex Bomb" to themselves in the mirror. Add in a few groupies willing to bump and grind just to bask in the luminosity that is fame and fortune, and suddenly he's treating the girl he once claimed was his rock, like a stone around his neck.
All the while, she continues to smile at us from the pages of O.K. as she shops to furnish they're new home and buy more things for the upcoming wedding.

And who in their right mind signs on to a marriage when it's obvious the groom's got a roving eye and wandering schlong. Sure, not every marriage is a fairy tale, but do you have to start out with relationship that could have been penned by the Brothers Grimm?

As a grizzled warrior, I'm one to tell ya marriage ain't for sissies, and under 21s need not apply. I think their marriage plans should have been tabled a long time ago but with visions of diamonds and all those raging hormones of youth floating around, I guess it was perceived by some to offer the star a bit of stability off the pitch. Groovy if it works, but it's not. After at least two trysts that have caused her public humiliation, exactly what is the going rate for having your love life dissected by the tabloids? Do you offer jewels with multiple carats a la Kobe Bryant, or do you accept vacations and public remorse of the Jude Law camp?

Maybe I'm just old fashioned. When I got married I did it for love, not the balance of his HSBC account?

Making my millions on ebay, Five bucks at a time

2005-11-22T07:34:00.000-05:00

After selling several items now on ebay, I'm feeling much better about the process. Oh I still think it's a bit demeaning posting my cool and unusual treasures only to have throngs of plebs review and dismiss them, but cold hard cash does help assuage the humiliation of having caste pearls among so many swine.

Tying up loose ends/Tubal ligation and me

2005-11-15T07:26:00.000-05:00

I thought about having kids once.

ONCE!

But as I began living my That Girl existence in the big city, even the mere thought began losing luster. And as I matured and married and began building a life, I eschewed progeny in search of something different....freedom, and financial solvency. And as each year passed there seemed to be something else that required time and money. Nature abhors a vacuum. There was a house to buy, cooking school for Jordan, and requisite trips to the UK. We enjoyed remaining steadfast in our childlessness, even as those around us, who voiced a desire to remain DINKs (dual incomes, no kids) began families. That was cool for them, but not for me. I wanted to visit the Valley of the Kings, not the Magic Kingdom. We made a deal going into the marriage that we had no desire to procreate. If that meant somewhere in the future, we’d be alone in our dotage, so be it. After all, having wee bairn, doesn't mean they'll grow up wanting to know you, let alone care for you as a pensioner.

In my early 30s, I remember being called a selfish bitch by one of Jordan's friends for not wanting to bear his children. Coming from a man whose wife packed up his two kids and returned home to her parents, that meant little. If anything that made me more resolute. A bit more niggling, was the constant assumption/discussion by people, my Mum included, that someday I'd change my mind and have just one.

I read an article from a similarly inclined woman once. She said that not making a choice in effect was a choice; a choice to let it ride until Menopause made the decision for you. Once nature said no more, there was no going back. Of course anyone who knows me, knows I’m not big on letting people or circumstances dictate my fate, so I’ve decided now, at 41, to make the definitive choice and on Friday,I’m having my tubes tied.

The ten minute laproscopic procedure is simple. I’ll actually be in recovery longer than I’ll be in surgery. At the end, I’ll be free: free of the need for birth control and more importantly, free of the need to answer the “what ifs?” My husband backs me on this. In reality, he’s the selfish one; not wanting to forego flights to London on a whim, having a few sheckles in the bank and my undivided attention. Children require two things; time and money. When you’ve worked hard to get a small reserve of either, you don’t sacrifice them willingly unless it’s critical to your existence. To us, parenthood is not a must do.

I suppose it’s too much to expect the friends, with whom we’ve celebrated the births of their children to celebrate our choice; and as it usually falls on the woman, I’m sure I’ll be the one called selfish, or a heathen for not using my body for it’s intended purpose. But hey, I’m comfortable with my God, and my choice. And if I long to see me reflected in the eyes of a child, Daddy’s got an album full of my baby pictures at home.

Earwig of the week/ HUNG UP

2005-11-08T18:42:00.000-05:00

I'm beginning to think my buddy Gehrett a is working for VH1. As a dedicated devotee of Madonna, Queen of Re-invention, he's definitely the type to have played her video, Hung Up, twice in ten minutes which is what the station did on Saturday morning. As if that weren't enough, they followed with a newsbreak which focused on her love of dancing. Even after mercifully giving us a break by airing a Cheryl Crow video, they still posted the video tag information for Madonna's Hung Up. I doubt I'd be so bothered if I liked the video, but I don't. I mean hey, congrats to you for having a better body in your late 40s than you did in your 20s. Personally as one too familiar with the hard graft that it takes just to keep from looking like Mr. Blobby, I find it quite inspiring, but the bad disco moves and leotard that conveniently shows her Brazilian wax and muscular ass just made me think the only thing she was "Hung up" on, was herself. It also doesn't help that it samples "Gimme, Gimme, Gimme" by Abba (another song of which I'm no big fan). Of course having said this, it's inevitable that this is now my earwig of the week. Everywhere I go, I seem to hear a bar or two of the song, which of course sets it off in my noggin. And now the insidious tune is romping around in my head even when it's not actually playing. I'm now chiding myself for complaining about last week's musical earwig. I never knew how much I’d miss "The Chicken Dance."

Piss me off, I need a good workout!!

2005-11-08T13:53:00.000-05:00

I received an email today that got me steamed. It wasn’t malicious or sarcastic or full of bad news. It was one of those emails that outlined reasons why I couldn’t do what I really wanted to do.

I hated it because as a pragmatist, I knew JT was right. And I really hated it because his being right had a moral element to it, which left me feeling like an amoral asshole watching him take the moral high ground. I could have spit nails. Instead I went to the gym.

My trainer spotted me at the front door. I’m not sure if he saw the steam pouring out of my ears or noticed me stomping my spiked heels into the stairs on the way in. He just told me to smile, and when I growled at him, he ran in the other direction. Smart boy!

For the next 33 minutes I stomped out my anger to the beat of Depeche Mode’s Playing the Angel, on Level 6 of the Precor elliptical. When I was done, I was a heaving sweaty mass, but I’d burned 450 calories and felt less like a Cretan; well morally anyway. The combination of the sweat and a hot shower had vulnerary properties.

According to Dr. Ernie Randolfi (www.optimalhealthconceps.com) research has documented the role that expression (or repression) of anger and hostility plays in disease progression. And for most people, physical activity is a healthy catharsis for anger, the most caustic of emotions. Exercise provides a socially acceptable means of physically releasing negative energy and the physical release of energy appears to dissipate feelings of anger in a healthy way.

Thanks, Dr. Ernie! Now I have another reason to keep going to the gym. And feeling this good, I’ll concede publicly that as much as I didn't want to hear it, JT YOU WERE RIGHT!!!

So my anger is quelled, for now. But tomorrow is another day. And in a bizarre symbiotic relationship, working off the everpresent vitriol is getting me closer the sleekest pair of thighs and buttocks this side of Radio City Music Hall.
And in the end, what could be more right than that.

Are we only helping Media approved Disasters?

2005-11-08T07:39:00.000-05:00

In the last ten months the world has suffered a spate of disasters. The Tsunami on Boxing Day, Hurricanes Katrina and Wilma and the earthquake disaster in Pakistan and Kashmir. But while many people contributed to the Tsunami and to hurricane relief, the earthquake impacted more people, yet remains under funded. At this point some 83,000 are confirmed dead, millions have been left homeless and more will die as winter approaches and some areas have not received even the first wave of disaster relief. Although 70 times more people died in the earthquake than in Katrina, only 1/70th the amount of aid has been received.

Some have suggested that the tsunami received so much press because of it's holiday timing. Immediately after the disaster, vacationing tourists who had also been sunning themselves in the days prior were emailing pictures from their cell phones of the devastation and upon returning to Europe, telling stories of the loss of life and massive destruction. In response, the viewing public, home for the holidays, feeling bloated and guilty, quickly rang up to make donations.

In the case of Hurricane Katrina, response arrived as a result of the shock of seeing one of the most recognized cities in the most powerful country on earth decimated. And let's face it, the situation of New Orleans was championed by Anderson Cooper, who would not let us forget the people most impacted by the storm and ensuing flood.

But the earthquake doesn't have an Anderson Cooper. Those most affected by the carnage are in places so remote, it's doubtful television signals can get through, let alone reporters, should some be interested in trying.

These people are poor and Muslim, which doesn't exactly put them at the top of the West's popular causes list. And politics between Pakistan and India have not helped the situation. India has refused to open their borders for fear an influx of Pakistani Muslim extremists will use the opportunity to infiltrate India and inspire acts of terrorism. While that may be a valid concern, the more pressing issue should be easing the vast amount of human suffering.

I'm just a nobody from South Philly but to know what's going on and not act would be one of the most cold hearted and malicious acts of cowardice I could do, so I'm taking this space, usually reserved for discussing the trivial, fashionable and in the long run, inconsequential, to implore you to help in any way you can.
Network for Good (www.networkforgood.org) links a number of religious (of all denominations), and secular charities who are helping with the earthquake relief.

Please, ring in the holidays a bit early by donating to the charity of your choice and let the biggest Christmas gift you give this year, be life.

Experimental cooking with seasonal produce-Danni's Pumpkin Soup

2005-11-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

I'm of the belief that pretty much anyone can cook from a recipe. What separates chefs from cooks is the ability to make something fab out of the run of the mill or find a great way to use up a sudden windfall of a certain product.

Right now, pumpkin is widely available in both fresh and tinned form so I spent a weekend experimenting with some. What I came up with was a delicious pumpkin soup that can be adapted for either carnivore or vegetarian. And lest you think I'm just in love with my own cooking, my husband, who wrinkled his nose up at the prospect of pumpkin soup, liked it to much that he went back for seconds.

Danni's Spicy Pumpkin Soup

32 ounces chicken stock or veggie stock
14 ounces of pumpkin puree (MAKE SURE IT'S PURE PUMPKIN PUREE NOT PUMPKIN PIE MIX WHICH IS SEASONED FOR PIES AND TARTS)
1 1/2 pounds of boneless skinless chicken breast (omit if you are making veggie version)
5 large yellow peppers (can use red)
1 teaspoon grated ginger
1 pack Taco Bell taco seasoning
2 tablespoons of Wondra flour

Whisk pumpkin into chicken or vegetable stock. Whisk in flour and bring to a simmer.
Put peppers into a shallow cooking pan and put under the broiler for about 15 minutes, turning every few minutes until skins are evenly blackened. Let rest and come to room temperature. Once blistered and blackened the skins should separate easily from the peppers, remove stems and seeds and chop flesh of peppers.
Chop chicken into bite sized pieces and sauté or steam.
Whisk in package of taco seasoning, add cooked chicken and chopped roasted peppers.
Bring everything to a simmer. Serve topped with dollop of fat free sour cream garnished with chives and/or toasted shelled pumpkin seeds or pepitos.

Alternate garnish, pan fry or grill thin slices of garlic and sun dried tomato ready to eat polenta.

For veggie version add canned or frozen corn instead of chicken.

Selling on ebay, or should the stupid be allowed to buy my stuff?

2005-11-07T07:07:00.000-05:00

I'd like to be one less rat in the race and toward that end; I've begun divesting myself of all assorted and sundry items that are no longer used, worn or needed in our house. So this weekend, I spent several hours photographing and posting items on ebay for sale. While the process if not difficult, it does take a bit of time. It helps to have good quality shots of the item and to make sure you describe the item as accurately as possible. I thought the process was pretty straight forward and my descriptions very clear. What I wasn't prepared for is the stupidity of the public.
I posted a picture of a black shirt with a red and yellow flame motif on the collar, sleeves and bottom of the shirt. The header accurately described the item as Groovy Black shirt w/red tipped yellow flame pattern. The picture was very clear and the flames and their color reproduced in all their bright splendor and when you look at the picture, quite frankly, hard to miss. But what was the first question I received from a potential buyer? "What color are the flames?" Geez, are you flippin' illiterate and if so, didn't you even bother to look at the picture or is your monitor such crap that you can't possibly see the colors jumping out at you.

Seller's can post a tag line indicating requirements from a buyer.
I'm thinking of including "Stupid people are not allowed to bid on my stuff."

Jude and Sienna back ON!!

2005-11-04T10:31:00.000-05:00

It seems our fave pair of the moment Jude Law and Sienna Miller are back on. After reports of them lunching together, the Mirror has reported that she's forgiven him for the dalliance with the Nanny and he's forgiven her for being shaken and stirred by former Layer Cake co-star and new heir to the James Bond franchise , Daniel Craig.Aw, Bless!!<>

Steve McFadden (Phil Mitchell) also attacked

2005-11-03T13:23:00.000-05:00

Man, it's a tough day for the Bruvvers Mitchell.

It now appears that Stee McFadden who plays Phil Mitchell, on BBC's EASTENDERS was also assaulted this morning by a woman believed to be his ex girlfriend Angela Bostock.

Although the incident, which came on the heels of the attack of his on screen brother, Ross Kemp don't appear to be related it's got to be one of the stranger coincidents in recent Entertainment news.

Ross Kemp (Grant Mitchell) Assaulted by Wife

2005-11-03T10:13:00.000-05:00

News from the Motherland this morning is that Ross Kemp who's just begun reprising his role as Grant Mitchell on BBC's soap, EASTENDERS, was apparently assaulted by his wife Rebekah Wade(editor of The Sun) who apparently spent a bit of time this morning with the Old Bill in South London after police were called about an assault around 4 am. Ironically, Wade (former editor of news of the News of the World), and previously launched the Sun's rather high profile campaign against domestic violence.

Why I'm gutted by the rumoured move of Anderson Cooper!

2005-11-02T07:10:00.000-05:00

It always happens. I make a discovery and get comfortable with my coup and then the rest of the world jumps on the bandwagon and the ensuing familiarity breeds contempt.
Case in point, Anderson Cooper. I was absolutely mesmerized by his coverage in New Orleans of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. He grilled local politicians with the tenacity of a pit bull while offering genuine compassion to the residents and animals stranded in the maelstrom. I watched him at 7 pm, night after night amazed that he was able to continue asking the tough questions, viewing the catastrophe and the corpses, despite the emotional drain. When the path of Hurricane Wilma was predicted to hit much of the same area, he geared up for the next round. If the fourth horseman of the Apocalypse was coming, then Anderson Cooper was going to report it.

And then it happened; other people started noticing his reporting. People were commenting and complimenting. He reported not only on his own show, The World in 360, but also on News Night. Additional reports were broadcast on Paula Zahn and Larry King. And then he appeared on Oprah. I should have known that was the death knell. You see, you can't even scratch you ass on Oprah without being seen by a worldwide audience of millions.

And now there's talk of promoting him to the anchor of News Night. While it's a promotion for him, I know its goodbye for me. As someone who's up at 5am daily, I know I'll never make it through an entire broadcast of a program that begins at 10 pm. So now Anderson Cooper belongs to the world. That his talent should be recognized by a wider audience was as inevitable as the loss of his early evening audience. And while I’m sure he’ll be a success and probably as much of an institution as Larry King, I’ll miss him. But thanks to you Coop, we’ll always have New Orleans.

Wanna learn how to make Mosaics?

2005-10-31T07:12:00.000-05:00

My buddy Andrew Panico is running a Mosaic Workshop in North Jersey.
It's an opportunity for folks to learn to create a beautiful mosaic project. All materials are free. The workshop will run on 4 consecutive Tuesday nights, November 22nd, November 29th, December 6th and December 13.
Everyone will go home with a completed mantleplace mirror.

$125 for 4 weeks with materials and tools provided.
Call Andrew at 732-565-9119 or respond via email at drewcali@yahoo.com.

CIGGIES R NOT A FASHION ACCESSORY

2005-10-28T11:52:00.000-04:00

One personality trait I’m proud to possess is I'm not a joiner or easily led. Despite the best efforts of the nuns at Ursuline Academy, I avoided converting to Catholicism (although the fact that conversion would put me out of contention for the throne, probably had something to do with that). I also escaped debutante training, the sorority circuit, and memberships to a plethora of clubs both social and country. Generally I find ordered sameness stifling and I’m too busy picking out my likes and dislikes from the worldwide smorgasbord of life, to want to be just like any or everyone else.

But once (and there’s always a but), I fell into a trend that I’ve only recently extricated myself from….BUTTS, FAGS, CANCER STICKS, SMOKE ‘EM IF YOU GOT ‘EMS.
CIGARETTES!

Yup, I avoided smoking all through high school only to end up a sophomore in University and a novice smoker. It was dumb and I shouldn’t have started, but I thought a clove cigarette was the perfect accessory to my mod dresses with matching coats, and pink walkman playing The Style Council. They tasted sweet, smelled good and definitely got a reaction from the college set. I was cool. I was alternative, and I was destroying my lungs. And it didn’t stop with cloves, because when I was out of them I begin smoking unfiltered Pall Mall.

Yup, pulling the strands of tobacco from my ruby stained lips, dead sexy!!

Of course I wasn’t concerned about that then. Smoking opened a whole world of retro accessories. There were cigarette holders, that ranged from a few inches to over a foot long. Matte black, carved ivory, rhinestone encrusted; each one, the perfect final flourish for a certain evening ensemble. Then there were table lighters, traveling ashtrays, and cigarette cases from models small enough to fit in evening bags to globes whose tops lifted, splaying 20 cigarettes in different directions.

It was exotic, and sexy and fun until I developed asthma. And now, even though both my husband and I have quit, the damage is done. Now I get attacks when weather changes or if I’m cycling on a particularly windy day. I’m now one of those “high risk” people for whom flu jabs are recommended. My accessories now are prescriptions for Singular and inhalers for Combovent and Advair.

Moral of the story, is the one time I joined anything it turned out to be the worst thing I could possibly do to myself. So if you’re a joiner, join the non smokers. The way it’s being banned, you won’t be able to do it anywhere soon anyway. Unless of course, when your mates are in a warm pub and you’re smoking alone in the cold, you’re simply using it as practice for a premature trip via pine box to a resting place in the cold, cold, ground.

I want, I want, I NEED!! Inspiration for the Gym!

2005-10-24T15:07:00.000-04:00

I’ve been spending way too much time in the gym lately. Trust me, it’s not by choice, but my trainer insists I can lift all the Russian Kettle bells in the world, and unless I reduce my body fat, my gloriously hard biceps will continue to be swathed in squidgee fat.

So in addition to training with him three days a week, I’m now doing cardio on an elliptical machine two days a week. I shouldn’t complain. The number on the scale are finally going down and I’m finding it less hateful each day (marginally). I do however, need a lot of encouragement and accessories if I’m going to keep reducing while others use winter and it’s bulkier fashions as a perfect excuse to pile on the pounds. Here’s the list of current stuff that’s keeping me inspired.

SKA for speed: I’ve never been a reggae fan. For raging type A’s like myself, music that drags is, well, a drag. I can’t listen to Bob Marley without wanting to speed it up. That’s why I love Reggae’s more adrenaline fueled brother, SKA. My favorite CD for pushing up your heart rate and increasing my strides per minute is Beat This: The Best of The English Beat (simply known as The Beat in the UK). From Twist and Crawl to Mirror in the Bathroom my knees lift higher, I stomp on the pedals faster and feel altogether better about taking the virtual hill climb to nowhere.

When you can’t look, Audio book: I’ve got vision and balance issues. That’s why my bike is a tri-cycle, I don’t skate, roller or ice and I don’t read while treading on the elliptical. So on the days when I’ve had my fill of music, I pull out audio books. I don’t get the steady pulse that music gives me, but it’s a great way to catch up on chick lit that would otherwise have to wait until I’m finished the Times, the Wall Street Journal and the 30 pounds of magazines (in both weight and cost) that I lugged home from W.H. Smith. My current selection is Lauren Weisberger’s, The Devil Wears Prada. I’ve found a slew of them on ebay, usually at a reasonable price so Sophie Kinsella’s: Shopaholic series and the Elizabeth Kostovo’s: The Historian are next on my list. Sure I’m denying myself the pleasure of actually reading the book but this isn’t like watching Shakespeare instead of reading it the night before a lit exam. This is real life with all the time constrains that come with working full time and trying to keep a household running. I prefer to think of it as multi-tasking. And with all the stuff I try to accomplish in a day, the audio book version may be the only way I get around to dealing with The DaVinci Code before the Tom Hanks movie hits the screens.

Lonsdale for Love: Although I’ve been weight training at Maxercise for a number of years, I still find it laughable that my life actually requires fitness togs. I can only assume that my gym teacher Mrs. Capadonna, (RIP) is having a right old laugh as she peeks over from the other side. Anyhoo, I’ve got a long torso and short legs so trousers are a difficult fit for me but somehow Lonsdale makes the perfect ones for me. They’re short enough in the crotch that I don’t have to pull the waist band up to the middle of my chest like some four o’clock dinner eating senior citizen and they seem to be made for those of us with pear shaped lower halves. So needless to say when I saw Sports World in London was going out of business, I bought the lot. I’ve got full sweat suits in pink, black and white, slip on trainers plus extra slacks and tops all emblazoned with Londsdale London or mini union jacks. Sure I still sweat like a pig, but it’s better to look good than to feel good, and “I Rook Mah-velous! “

Falling in Love: My new Philosophy: With age, I’ve developed issues with fragrance. Some of the potent potions I used to wear drive me positively insane now. And I think quitting smoking lowered my defenses even more, now that my nasal cilia actually work.

For ages I’ve relied on water based scents like Inis, which I’ve been importing from Ireland for the last few years. Then I found Falling in Love by Philosophy. What is it like? I’m no perfumier. I’ve not clue if the base is oriental with floral top notes. To me, it’s like they bottled yummy and put a label on it. I shower, moisturize and spray it first thing in the morning and carry an extra bath and shower gel in my gym bag so after sweating so profusely that I’m soaked from sports bra to knickers, I can exit a shower feeling refreshed and revived. I only hope someday I can love this body as much as I adore this fragrance.

Shorts for winter? British Vogue, what were you thinking?

2005-10-24T07:24:00.000-04:00

In the October issue of British Vogue I saw one of the most horrifying choices for fall--SHORTS!! Not only were they shown in corduroy for a country look, they were also shown in velvet for the Urban Dandy. My God, doesn't anyone listen to Trinny and Susannah? Shorts are the least practical piece of apparel, unless you're an athlete. To paraphrase Mr. Humphries, they “ride up with wear” and tend to gather in the most unflattering of places when you rise from setting. If the whole raison d’etre is to keep you cool, then why in hell would you want or need them in velvet and wear them over tights? C’mon girls, this is a bad trend, like gauchos and the one strip of eyeshadow (á la Flock of Seagulls) that surfaced in the 80s. Save your dosh and your reputation, unless of course you really want a piece of tat hanging in your wardrobe that screams, “Once while I was shopping, I had a temporary lapse of sanity.”

Ah, the merits of a lovely Sunday Roast

2005-10-24T07:01:00.000-04:00

There are those who eschew British Cookery claiming it's under seasoned swill with overcooked veg. To be honest, it, like the myth that it's always rainy, is one of those things we perpetuate to keep you lot out of the country.

The truth is nothing beats a good Sunday roast. Sure, it's not quite the same as getting a nice piece of British beef, but courtesy of my husband the butcher, a slow roasted steak roast along with roasted potatos, carrots, mushrooms, broccoli and yorkshire puddings with loads of gravy was just what the doctor ordered.

To top it off, I was lucky enough to locate, here in Philly, my new favortie bevvy, Magners Irish cider. I was introduced to it a couple of weeks ago in London when I wanted a cider but complained that Strongbow was just too sweet and cloying. A barmaid pulled out a Magners and dumped the bottle over a bit of ice and asked me to try it. What a cracking drink! When I returned to Philly I knew if anyone carried it, it would be the Foodery on 10th and Pine Streets. And among their other imports and microbrews I found six bottles which we promptly escorted home.

Who needs afters when you can top off a meal with the sparkling fresh taste of a Magners.

British Telly without BBC America

2005-10-23T08:12:00.000-04:00

While I watch a considerable amount of BBC America, I've never quite forgiven them for cancelling EASTENDERS and thus denying me the pleasure of catching up with the residents of Albert Square over a cup of PG Tips. I'm also not thrilled about all of their programming. Often BBC America airs newer programs sporadically while repeating the same episodes of Changing Rooms and What Not to Wear so often my cat could tell you what the final product will look like . And even their newest offerings are often years old. One of their biggest recent successes, Footballers' Wive$ was originally broadcast by ITV so long ago that by the Americans were sitting down to watch the first episode of series 1 of Footballers' Wive$, I'd just finished watching the entire 4th series. How do I do it?

Multiregional DVD player!!

I bought a Toshiba multi-regions DVD player on ebay from Elektromart and never looked back. Since then, I've seen all four series of Footballers' Wive$ as well as it's spin off show Extra Time and purchased boxed sets of Fat Friends and Cutting it. It's also enabled me to watch the four series of chef Hugh Fearnly-Whittingstall's self sufficiency experiement at River Cottage as well as movies such as Layer Cake, starring the new James Bond Daniel Craig, and Apocalypse, the big screen debut of those dark comedy geniuses The League of Gentlemen. The purchase of the DVD player has also enabled my husband to view a number of Asian Extreme movies, some Japanese and some Korean, all with English subtitles. While I'm not so hot on all of them (I refuse to watch Ichi the Killer point blank having no desire to see a man split in half with a samurai sword) I did find Battle Royal, a story of Japanese youth gone wild, corralled on an island in a fight to the death, psychologically intriguing and it's nice to be able to see an original before an uninspired Hollywood producer gets his hands on it only to remake it with a lollypop headed teen television actress who couldn't act her way out of a Tesco carrier bag.

For me, the multiregion DVD player has, without a doubt been my best purchase of 2005. Unfortunately owning one translates into spending a mint at the Virgin Mega Store on Oxford Street, but trust me, I really needed Count Duckula in my DVD collection.

Interested in getting one of your own, I recommend Elektromart

http://stores.ebay.com/ElektroMart-The-Region-Free-Mall

2005-10-21T17:07:00.000-04:00

Me among the ruins in Ephesus, Turkey.

2005-10-21T13:58:00.000-04:00

Hard to go back to my tricycle after riding this.

Welcome to my world. Won't you come on in.

2005-10-21T13:35:00.000-04:00

For those of you who have been crying in your beer since the demise of This Is Danni TID, finally you can turn off the waterworks as I've returned with a new and exciting format to keep you updated on my life and the cool haps in the UK and this one costs me considerably less than mailing newsletters to all of you. So as this is the first missive you'll have to give me a couple of days to corral all the latest news and pictures from our recent visit to the Motherland and our triumphant tour of Turkey. We brought home loads of stuff, not the least of which was the possible avian flu as harbored by my dear hub Jordan, but he's scratching less and well, it's a small price to pay for a chance to haggle in the Spice Bazaar, see relics and ride a camel.