Need to know Who's Who?
My trip to Texas and California was fun and, truth be told, some time in LA had re-energised me somewhat but I'd be lying if I said by the end of it I wasn't aching to get back to New York.
Prior to leaving I had left my flat in a state of disarray. Clothes strewn all over the dining room, bills tossed across the kitchen counter, dirty laundry and half read books on my bedroom floor...a lack of space and storage was starting to get on my nerves.
While in LA, with time to think, I developed a determination about getting things in order in the hope that doing so will help me feel more centered and productive (and perhaps even ensnare an a unsuspecting man).
I noticed this determination abounded with an accompanied feeling of calm ease, of simply 'knowing' that when I decided what was to be done, so it shall be. I think the California attitude and sunshine does that to you. Perhaps it burns out all of your cynicism and lethargy or something.
My list included: join a gym and start a new routine, find a nice dresser for my clothes, find a bookcase, find a date with someone who looks like Matt Bomer from White Collar etc.
On the plane back to JFK I got chatting to a film producer who was flying in to direct a video for a heavy metal band. I pitched him my screenplay (another energised to do on my list) which he didn't exactly fall over himself to buy or even read but he did ask me if I'd be interested in doing some rewrites for a smaller budget film he's working on starring Judge Reinhold. All without knowing whether I have any credentials.
Of course I said I would, and if this had been ten years ago and I'd been in LA I might even have gotten overexcited about this 'possibility', but I was back in New York now and this is a city of empiricists. We're ShowMeTheMoney kind of people.
We decided to share a cab into the city and while I was at the ATM he was commandeered by a black cab guy. I never use those guys but he offered us a cheap deal for two stops and everyone loves a bargain, right?
Ah New York drivers.
They have one hand on the wheel and one on their cell phone, oblivious to the dangerous swerving of the vehicle that occurs as a result. They're operating under their own agenda: blasting air conditioning because that's what they want, taking the cheapest route because that's what they want, changing the route because that's what they want:
'I'm not sitting in this traffic all night,' the driver said when he got off his phone. 'I gotta get to my salsa party. We gotta take the toll. You gotta pay. That ok? You don't mind if I go fast, right? How do I get to West 15th?'
We weren't basking in California sunshine anymore where my friendly taxi driver dutifully waited for me at each gay bar 'just in case I wanted to go somewhere else'.
'Don't go fast. I don't want to get killed on the way home. I already told you the toll is fine. And, west 15th runs west so go up 7th until you can take a left on 15th and go all the way down til I tell you to stop,' I sighed irritably with a 'Why don't you know that?' under my breath.
'And how do I turn the airconditioning off? It's freezing back here.'
The weekend started by catching up over sushi with MonogaMouse who's also been away, and then on to the list.
I found a dresser on craigslist that was essentially free, I just had to pay the guy to deliver it for me. The idea of going to Bushwick to check it out didn't exactly appeal, especially since I wasn't even sure where that was. Then the guy called and offered to pick me up and drive me to Bushwick to check it out and then bring it straight back if I was interested. Easy peasy.
He was kind of odd in that he talked incessantly in a low voice which I could hardly hear. You know in that sort of New-York- has- turned-me-slightly-crazy way. In five minutes I knew he had moved here from Berlin seven years ago, he had two brothers who also lived here, he had a son whose mother was a 'junkie waste of space', he had hurt is back moving a sofabed for another client 'which was all that guy's fault' and that he had come to the conclusion that 'jerking off is better than marriage.'
'Hmmm,' I replied to that last part. 'Sorry, what did you say the dimensions of the dresser were again?'
The next day a bookcase was located in Midtown West. I had exchanged some emails with the girl selling it. You can tell whether you're going to get on with someone by their emails, can't you? When I got there we started chatting, finding common ground.
'Oh you have Middlesex did you like it? You have the most adorable dog.'
'A friend of mine worked for your company.'
And, of course, the most effective binding material of all: reality telly.
'Reality tv really is sooo irresponsible to me,' I harped pretentiously, while New Jersey housewives played in the background. 'I mean, people watch it and think that's an appropriate way to act.'
'Yes,' she agreed, carefully. 'It's awful to think that people aspire to be like the ones on these shows.'
'Oh great!!' I cried, suddenly transfixed. 'This is the part where that woman throws the table over at her own dinner party and calls everyone a whore. It's my favourite bit.'
Over the course of the next few days we've exchanged extremely amusing emails.
'I have a sort of board meeting tonight over dinner,' I wrote. 'Shall I do a New Jersey housewife and throw the table whilst calling everyone a whore?'
'I believe it's pronounced "prostitution whore"?' came the reply. 'Regardless, I think that will go over swimmingly. I usually yell out something similar or throw a glass of water in someone's face during any awkward silence or lull in conversation. Fixes it right up.'
I'm going to have to think of a blog name for this girl.
Gym joined, dresser and bookcase in my apartment, clothes reorganised, papers put away, bedroom tidied meant I only had the date with the Matt Bomer lookalike and my screenplay left on my energised agenda list.
As if by magic, Lovely Lady MEDley messaged me the next morning insisting I meet with her very attractive and single neighbour and asking when would I be free. I've no idea if he looks like Matt Bomer but I trust her judgement and it's a start isn't it?
While the screenplay is still in progress, in the two days of being back in NYC I incorporated the gym back into my life, organised my space so that it's somewhere I love to be, got annoyed by the taxi drivers, unwittingly discovered intimate information about a stranger, and made a potential new friend as a by product of buying a piece of her furniture.
God I love this city.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
La bound - part 3: Endings
Need to know Who's Who?
It's with a sad heart that I report that on the last day of my visit in LA, QKofD called me to inform me that our friend Carl, Emperor Lu's XBF but to whom we remained close, lost his battle with cancer and passed away.
Towards the end he could neither speak nor walk but before it got to that stage he made sure to go to Harley Street and get botoxed so he'd look great going out. God love him.
At forty years of age, this man who had such a love of life, is gone.
When you lose someone you love it simply becomes something you learn to live with. You don't forget that person but you forget the breadth of interactions you had with them. Instead, you remember the way they said certain words, or you pinpoint their expressions during specific situations which brought out their happiest joys or their worst fears, and you picture the love they had in their eyes for you or others they held in their heart. And these things start to form the vision of that person.
At least that is how it is for me when I remember my dad. As I write that word I'm smilingly thinking how funny it is that I miss saying it. Now I no longer have the chance to vocalise those three little letters I realise how much pleasure it used to give me to say the word, although I didn't realise it at the time.
On my last day, my uncle had several medical appointments for treatment of his own cancer which is stable and operable. We planned to have dinner on the grill and enjoy the evening weather.
He returned in the afternoon and we set about cooking together, which is something we always do when I am there.
'Now come and sit down for a minute,' he said. His words and his tone instantly returned me to being a boy in front of my father who wanted to talk to me about my report card, or calmly explain to me why my behaviour had been inappropriate and how I should have acted differently.
'Are you afraid of me?' he asked.
'No! What makes you think that?' I replied laughing.
'[Your aunt] seems to think I'm too hard on you. And I feel like our interactions have been too combative.'
And I felt sad. Because it made me realise that while I viewed our relationship as humourous, banterous, and open, I must come across as argumentative and ungrateful.
I told him that.
'Look, you have to understand, I always look forward to seeing you when you come here,' he said. 'And I don't feel like we really spent much time together.'
'I agree but that's not all my fault.'
'It's not about whose fault it is. I'm telling you how I feel, that's all. You know you can talk to me about anything. I don't want you to not be open with me because I'm hard on you.'
'I argue with you because I feel close to you and feel able to talk to you openly.'
We continued talking while I mashed the potatoes, while he marinated the steak, while we smoked cigars in the back yard and drank whiskey and grilled meat and shrimp.
'You know, your father was my best friend. In college we were all kids but he was different. He'd worked, he had money. He bought a car when he didn't have a licence. He drank whiskey and smoked. I'd never met anyone like him. '
I nodded.
'I know I'm not your father but I feel like that.'
It's difficult for me to have these kinds of conversations. I don't find it easy to remember the full details of my father and our relationship because it painfully reminds me of how much I miss him still.
But sometimes you have to go into the midst of it, don't you?
'You're not my father,' I replied. 'I haven't had a father figure in my life for a long time....but you are that to me.'
He smiled. 'I'm going to check on the food in the oven,' he said.
I smoked my cigar and raised my glass of whiskey to a star in the sky and said a little toast and a prayer for Carl, for my dad, and my uncle.
And then we ate.
It's with a sad heart that I report that on the last day of my visit in LA, QKofD called me to inform me that our friend Carl, Emperor Lu's XBF but to whom we remained close, lost his battle with cancer and passed away.
Towards the end he could neither speak nor walk but before it got to that stage he made sure to go to Harley Street and get botoxed so he'd look great going out. God love him.
At forty years of age, this man who had such a love of life, is gone.
When you lose someone you love it simply becomes something you learn to live with. You don't forget that person but you forget the breadth of interactions you had with them. Instead, you remember the way they said certain words, or you pinpoint their expressions during specific situations which brought out their happiest joys or their worst fears, and you picture the love they had in their eyes for you or others they held in their heart. And these things start to form the vision of that person.
At least that is how it is for me when I remember my dad. As I write that word I'm smilingly thinking how funny it is that I miss saying it. Now I no longer have the chance to vocalise those three little letters I realise how much pleasure it used to give me to say the word, although I didn't realise it at the time.
On my last day, my uncle had several medical appointments for treatment of his own cancer which is stable and operable. We planned to have dinner on the grill and enjoy the evening weather.
He returned in the afternoon and we set about cooking together, which is something we always do when I am there.
'Now come and sit down for a minute,' he said. His words and his tone instantly returned me to being a boy in front of my father who wanted to talk to me about my report card, or calmly explain to me why my behaviour had been inappropriate and how I should have acted differently.
'Are you afraid of me?' he asked.
'No! What makes you think that?' I replied laughing.
'[Your aunt] seems to think I'm too hard on you. And I feel like our interactions have been too combative.'
And I felt sad. Because it made me realise that while I viewed our relationship as humourous, banterous, and open, I must come across as argumentative and ungrateful.
I told him that.
'Look, you have to understand, I always look forward to seeing you when you come here,' he said. 'And I don't feel like we really spent much time together.'
'I agree but that's not all my fault.'
'It's not about whose fault it is. I'm telling you how I feel, that's all. You know you can talk to me about anything. I don't want you to not be open with me because I'm hard on you.'
'I argue with you because I feel close to you and feel able to talk to you openly.'
We continued talking while I mashed the potatoes, while he marinated the steak, while we smoked cigars in the back yard and drank whiskey and grilled meat and shrimp.
'You know, your father was my best friend. In college we were all kids but he was different. He'd worked, he had money. He bought a car when he didn't have a licence. He drank whiskey and smoked. I'd never met anyone like him. '
I nodded.
'I know I'm not your father but I feel like that.'
It's difficult for me to have these kinds of conversations. I don't find it easy to remember the full details of my father and our relationship because it painfully reminds me of how much I miss him still.
But sometimes you have to go into the midst of it, don't you?
'You're not my father,' I replied. 'I haven't had a father figure in my life for a long time....but you are that to me.'
He smiled. 'I'm going to check on the food in the oven,' he said.
I smoked my cigar and raised my glass of whiskey to a star in the sky and said a little toast and a prayer for Carl, for my dad, and my uncle.
And then we ate.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
LA bound - part 2: HelloKitty
Need to know Who's Who?
When I was in LA strategising my path to stardom (by watching I Love Lucy reruns all morning and then lying by the pool), my partner on this journey was HelloKitty from my acting class. We bonded quickly and became lifelong friends despite only having known each other a few weeks.
Today, we've taken a break from scaling the heights to Hollywood fame. She is a rather brilliant graphic designer, whilst I look after my small cat, Chicktoria Beckham, which takes up practically all of my energy. It's simply exhausting.
Before heading to LA, she messaged me to ask me what I wanted to do.
'I want to go to Jack-in-the-Box, and In N Out Burger, maybe Supermex, see the Hollywood sign in a rented Mustang convertible like the old days,' I replied.
'We'll sing Alanis Morrissette with the top down so loudly we can't talk,' she responded, referring to how we used to kick it back then.
'And Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something. Have you noticed that as soon as we got really into them they sank into obscurity?' I asked.
'Sounds like two other megastars I know.'
Of course the other agenda item was seeing Marty and Elayne, a Hollywood musical institution, perform at The Dresden Room. They've been performing hilarious and brilliant covers of such classics as Copacabana and, my favourite, Stayin' Alive, 6 days a week for 27 years. When we were there last I actually performed a rendition of Anything Goes to their excellent accompaniment.
HelloKitty sent me a text the day after I arrived: 'We're going to have pancakes in Hollywood and then to see the sign. What else do you want to do?'
'Perhaps get an alibi in case my aunt and uncle meet with a freak accident,' I texted back.
Moments later she was pulling up in the HelloKitty mobile (which in the old days used to be a zippy red sports car with an in car phone that had an actual svelte phone receiver, but today is a kid friendly van thing with a mobile phone holder).
Whenever we see each other, which is not that often, it seems like hardly a day has passed. Except she has two kids now and looks fantastic, and I have my small cat and have filled out a little.
We chatted all the way to Hollywood, catching up over the last 3 years. We ate humongous pancakes - well, she had a few mouthfuls, I ate most of mine (with side orders of sausage and bacon) until she insisted I move away from them because each mouthful was accompanied by me saying, 'I really think I might throw up now.'
We didn't make it to the Hollywood sign and the vintage stores didn't prove to be too successful (honestly, do people really find perfectly preserved Armani jackets at these places for a pittance?) and after a rest, a quick change, and a whiskey with my aunt and uncle, HelloKitty and I were back in Hollywood at The Dresden Room.
It was as I remembered it. I saw the bar where they lovingly made our cocktails by hand. I saw the table we had sat at after acting class, where once with a hot, buff, young guy from our acting class in tow, HelloKitty and I did a shallow take on Elizabeth and Rock betting on who could seduce Jimmy Dean. (Neither of us did or would have of course but we must have made some sort of impression because I don't ever remember him returning to class).
If you've seen the movie Swingers, you'll catch a glimpse of the bar and the ever-present duo Marty and Elayne. It's difficult to describe this lounge act and so I have included a clip here of their famous scene in Swingers performing a snippet of Stayin' Alive. It's in the first 40 seconds so I urge you to watch it.
We sat at a booth drinking the bar's signature Blood and Sand cocktail and Seven and Sevens reminiscing in the old and taking in the new.
The next day my aunt and I went to see This Is It and over lunch the waiter told me about the popular gay bars to go to. At cocktail hour with my aunt and uncle I told them which bars I was going to.
'Why don't you ask our gay neighbour where to go?' my uncle asked.
'I already know where to go.'
'He's right next door. I don't understand why you don't want to ask the gay neighbour. He'll tell you where you can go.'
'I already have a plan,' I laughed. 'And isn't it a bit random to go to your gay neighbour's place and say 'Hi, I'm gay and would like to know where to go to have fun?' And anyway what is his actual name?'
'Do you want me to call him?'
'No. Let's just have another drink.'
'Do you think you'll be back late?' my aunt asked.
'No. Unless I get laid, in which case I'll see you in the morning.'
'Oooh, ok. Well just be careful.'
I stuck with my plan. The first bar, aptly called the Brit, had about 3 patrons. The second, about 5.
'I know it's a Wednesday night but where is everyone?' I asked the bartender.
'At The Silver Fox. But you better hurry, it kind of wraps up at 11.30pm.'
'But it's 10.30pm now,' I sighed.
I hightailed it to The Silver Fox, sang some karaoke, chatted to some nice Californians and had enough Seven and Sevens to make the taxi driver take me to Jack-in-the-Box on the way home.
The next day HelloKitty picked me up after her breakfast meeting.
'I'm feeling a bit Rachel Zoe today,' I said, as I clambered into the HelloKitty mobile. 'As in I'm like literally dying.'
We drove to Belmont Shore, wandered around and drank coffee, neither of us in a fit state to offer sparkling repartee. But with good friends, as with family, you feel comfortable whatever state you're in.
When I was in LA strategising my path to stardom (by watching I Love Lucy reruns all morning and then lying by the pool), my partner on this journey was HelloKitty from my acting class. We bonded quickly and became lifelong friends despite only having known each other a few weeks.
Today, we've taken a break from scaling the heights to Hollywood fame. She is a rather brilliant graphic designer, whilst I look after my small cat, Chicktoria Beckham, which takes up practically all of my energy. It's simply exhausting.
Before heading to LA, she messaged me to ask me what I wanted to do.
'I want to go to Jack-in-the-Box, and In N Out Burger, maybe Supermex, see the Hollywood sign in a rented Mustang convertible like the old days,' I replied.
'We'll sing Alanis Morrissette with the top down so loudly we can't talk,' she responded, referring to how we used to kick it back then.
'And Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something. Have you noticed that as soon as we got really into them they sank into obscurity?' I asked.
'Sounds like two other megastars I know.'
Of course the other agenda item was seeing Marty and Elayne, a Hollywood musical institution, perform at The Dresden Room. They've been performing hilarious and brilliant covers of such classics as Copacabana and, my favourite, Stayin' Alive, 6 days a week for 27 years. When we were there last I actually performed a rendition of Anything Goes to their excellent accompaniment.
HelloKitty sent me a text the day after I arrived: 'We're going to have pancakes in Hollywood and then to see the sign. What else do you want to do?'
'Perhaps get an alibi in case my aunt and uncle meet with a freak accident,' I texted back.
Moments later she was pulling up in the HelloKitty mobile (which in the old days used to be a zippy red sports car with an in car phone that had an actual svelte phone receiver, but today is a kid friendly van thing with a mobile phone holder).
Whenever we see each other, which is not that often, it seems like hardly a day has passed. Except she has two kids now and looks fantastic, and I have my small cat and have filled out a little.
We chatted all the way to Hollywood, catching up over the last 3 years. We ate humongous pancakes - well, she had a few mouthfuls, I ate most of mine (with side orders of sausage and bacon) until she insisted I move away from them because each mouthful was accompanied by me saying, 'I really think I might throw up now.'
We didn't make it to the Hollywood sign and the vintage stores didn't prove to be too successful (honestly, do people really find perfectly preserved Armani jackets at these places for a pittance?) and after a rest, a quick change, and a whiskey with my aunt and uncle, HelloKitty and I were back in Hollywood at The Dresden Room.
It was as I remembered it. I saw the bar where they lovingly made our cocktails by hand. I saw the table we had sat at after acting class, where once with a hot, buff, young guy from our acting class in tow, HelloKitty and I did a shallow take on Elizabeth and Rock betting on who could seduce Jimmy Dean. (Neither of us did or would have of course but we must have made some sort of impression because I don't ever remember him returning to class).
If you've seen the movie Swingers, you'll catch a glimpse of the bar and the ever-present duo Marty and Elayne. It's difficult to describe this lounge act and so I have included a clip here of their famous scene in Swingers performing a snippet of Stayin' Alive. It's in the first 40 seconds so I urge you to watch it.
We sat at a booth drinking the bar's signature Blood and Sand cocktail and Seven and Sevens reminiscing in the old and taking in the new.
The next day my aunt and I went to see This Is It and over lunch the waiter told me about the popular gay bars to go to. At cocktail hour with my aunt and uncle I told them which bars I was going to.
'Why don't you ask our gay neighbour where to go?' my uncle asked.
'I already know where to go.'
'He's right next door. I don't understand why you don't want to ask the gay neighbour. He'll tell you where you can go.'
'I already have a plan,' I laughed. 'And isn't it a bit random to go to your gay neighbour's place and say 'Hi, I'm gay and would like to know where to go to have fun?' And anyway what is his actual name?'
'Do you want me to call him?'
'No. Let's just have another drink.'
'Do you think you'll be back late?' my aunt asked.
'No. Unless I get laid, in which case I'll see you in the morning.'
'Oooh, ok. Well just be careful.'
I stuck with my plan. The first bar, aptly called the Brit, had about 3 patrons. The second, about 5.
'I know it's a Wednesday night but where is everyone?' I asked the bartender.
'At The Silver Fox. But you better hurry, it kind of wraps up at 11.30pm.'
'But it's 10.30pm now,' I sighed.
I hightailed it to The Silver Fox, sang some karaoke, chatted to some nice Californians and had enough Seven and Sevens to make the taxi driver take me to Jack-in-the-Box on the way home.
The next day HelloKitty picked me up after her breakfast meeting.
'I'm feeling a bit Rachel Zoe today,' I said, as I clambered into the HelloKitty mobile. 'As in I'm like literally dying.'
We drove to Belmont Shore, wandered around and drank coffee, neither of us in a fit state to offer sparkling repartee. But with good friends, as with family, you feel comfortable whatever state you're in.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
LA Bound - part 1
Need to know Who's Who?
Ah LA! Thirteen years ago I ventured there to become a huge star of stage and screen. This hasn't actually manifested yet but I like to think I planted the seeds back then and the universe is simply marinating my stardom until the world is ready for me. Or something.
Prior to my Houston trip, with my characteristic ignorance of geography and distance, I figured LA was merely a hop, skip and a jump from Texas so I might as well go there to visit with my uncle and aunt and Hello Kitty. I thought a restful 6 day visit would be fun.
And then I suddenly remembered something: 'Oh, LA...'
I decided to cut my visit short by a day or two.
It's not that I hate LA - truly, the people are much more welcoming from the outset than East Coasters, and the weather is always delightful - but as a pedestrian city person I find it too restricting to be in a place without a centre to anything, where you have to drive everywhere and which hardly has a public transport system.
When I think back to the 1990s and my two hour trek to my acting class - bus to the tram, the tram into Hollywood and a bus to the theatre - I don't know how I had the patience to do it.
I think I still have patience in me somewhere but like my hair, it's thinner than it used to be.
Plus, I'm a different person than I was thirteen years ago: I make a living and I live on my own.
My uncle and aunt (who are not really my uncle and aunt but old family friends) are very active, lovely people but when you answer to no one and are used to a certain way of life, it's a difficult adjustment to live under someone else's roof.
My aunt likes to talk. All the time.
This is great. It means we have interesting and varied conversations. But when it's 8am and I've only managed to open one eye and am trying to kick start my body by ingesting coffee, I'm just not in a position to converse about gay unions in the state of California and the criminilisation of the declawing of cats.
My uncle, while in actual fact is a big softie, likes to be a bit contentious. About the simplest things.
Since we are both strong, opinionated and vocal people, this means that me choosing penne in response to his simple question of what type of pasta I want for dinner can turn into a loud, verbal tennis match culminating in the importance of being decisive in life.
I'm being a bit unfair. My uncle simply wanted my undivided attention when I was with him, admittedly, I was a bit unfocused during my stay what with blackberry, emails, texts, phone calls. Naturally, I understand this - I hate it myself when with a person who deems those to be more important than my company - but sometimes when you're with relatives you need a bit of an escape, don't you?
I decided to meet a friend for drinks one night:
'Uncle, how far is this address from here?'
'Why?'
'I want to go there to meet a friend for a drink.'
'Why doesn't he come pick you up?'
'Because I'm thirty-eight and am self-sufficient.'
'Well, I'm just saying if you were MY friend I would come and get YOU, take you for a DRINK and then DROP you home. Call him back and tell him to do that.'
'I just want to know where this address is. That's all I'm asking.'
The drink didn't work out.
The next day I decided to use their gym to kick start a new regime and become hard-bodied like everyone surely is in LA. I've never had the sort of ass you could bounce quarters off or abs that could grate cheese. (Rather, my ass looks like a 20lb bag of quarters and as for my abs, let's say the cheese was grated and ingested - on several large beef patties encased in sesame seed buns, and often on some chips).
My uncle gave me a week's pass. The gym wouldn't honour it after day 1 as I wasn't a California state resident. Fine by me, I'd just pay the $15 day fee.
'WHY should you pay? It doesn't say on the pass that you HAVE to be a state resident,' my uncle boomed.
'Look my goal is to work out. I can handle paying $15.'
'But you shouldn't HAVE to pay. This isn't just about you. What if I have another guest who wants to work out there? I'm going to shout at them about it.'
'IF YOU'RE GOING TO SHOUT AT THEM I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYMORE!' I shouted.
'Don't get short with me. And don't tell me what I can and can't do. And where were you when I came to pick you up. [Your aunt] had the gym page you twice.'
'YOU HAD THEM PAGE ME?? I was in the supermarket! Why didn't you call my cell phone?? Oh God, how can I show my face there again?'
'Relax, they won't remember you. They'll only remember me.'
'That doesn't help.'
We both silently fumed all the way home.
Ah LA! Thirteen years ago I ventured there to become a huge star of stage and screen. This hasn't actually manifested yet but I like to think I planted the seeds back then and the universe is simply marinating my stardom until the world is ready for me. Or something.
Prior to my Houston trip, with my characteristic ignorance of geography and distance, I figured LA was merely a hop, skip and a jump from Texas so I might as well go there to visit with my uncle and aunt and Hello Kitty. I thought a restful 6 day visit would be fun.
And then I suddenly remembered something: 'Oh, LA...'
I decided to cut my visit short by a day or two.
It's not that I hate LA - truly, the people are much more welcoming from the outset than East Coasters, and the weather is always delightful - but as a pedestrian city person I find it too restricting to be in a place without a centre to anything, where you have to drive everywhere and which hardly has a public transport system.
When I think back to the 1990s and my two hour trek to my acting class - bus to the tram, the tram into Hollywood and a bus to the theatre - I don't know how I had the patience to do it.
I think I still have patience in me somewhere but like my hair, it's thinner than it used to be.
Plus, I'm a different person than I was thirteen years ago: I make a living and I live on my own.
My uncle and aunt (who are not really my uncle and aunt but old family friends) are very active, lovely people but when you answer to no one and are used to a certain way of life, it's a difficult adjustment to live under someone else's roof.
My aunt likes to talk. All the time.
This is great. It means we have interesting and varied conversations. But when it's 8am and I've only managed to open one eye and am trying to kick start my body by ingesting coffee, I'm just not in a position to converse about gay unions in the state of California and the criminilisation of the declawing of cats.
My uncle, while in actual fact is a big softie, likes to be a bit contentious. About the simplest things.
Since we are both strong, opinionated and vocal people, this means that me choosing penne in response to his simple question of what type of pasta I want for dinner can turn into a loud, verbal tennis match culminating in the importance of being decisive in life.
I'm being a bit unfair. My uncle simply wanted my undivided attention when I was with him, admittedly, I was a bit unfocused during my stay what with blackberry, emails, texts, phone calls. Naturally, I understand this - I hate it myself when with a person who deems those to be more important than my company - but sometimes when you're with relatives you need a bit of an escape, don't you?
I decided to meet a friend for drinks one night:
'Uncle, how far is this address from here?'
'Why?'
'I want to go there to meet a friend for a drink.'
'Why doesn't he come pick you up?'
'Because I'm thirty-eight and am self-sufficient.'
'Well, I'm just saying if you were MY friend I would come and get YOU, take you for a DRINK and then DROP you home. Call him back and tell him to do that.'
'I just want to know where this address is. That's all I'm asking.'
The drink didn't work out.
The next day I decided to use their gym to kick start a new regime and become hard-bodied like everyone surely is in LA. I've never had the sort of ass you could bounce quarters off or abs that could grate cheese. (Rather, my ass looks like a 20lb bag of quarters and as for my abs, let's say the cheese was grated and ingested - on several large beef patties encased in sesame seed buns, and often on some chips).
My uncle gave me a week's pass. The gym wouldn't honour it after day 1 as I wasn't a California state resident. Fine by me, I'd just pay the $15 day fee.
'WHY should you pay? It doesn't say on the pass that you HAVE to be a state resident,' my uncle boomed.
'Look my goal is to work out. I can handle paying $15.'
'But you shouldn't HAVE to pay. This isn't just about you. What if I have another guest who wants to work out there? I'm going to shout at them about it.'
'IF YOU'RE GOING TO SHOUT AT THEM I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYMORE!' I shouted.
'Don't get short with me. And don't tell me what I can and can't do. And where were you when I came to pick you up. [Your aunt] had the gym page you twice.'
'YOU HAD THEM PAGE ME?? I was in the supermarket! Why didn't you call my cell phone?? Oh God, how can I show my face there again?'
'Relax, they won't remember you. They'll only remember me.'
'That doesn't help.'
We both silently fumed all the way home.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Houston, we have a problem - and it's you.
Need to know Who's Who?
My father was an oilman who before starting his own geophysical consultancy in the UK, pondered taking a lucrative position with a company in the oil mecca of Houston. I used to wonder how different my life would have been if he had taken that road rather than the gold-paved ones leading to London (well, Surrey).
I could have been a great tennis player with a cool accent. How could my father have thwarted my dreams by choosing tea over Texas?
Kross Court and I travelled to Houston to play in one last tennis tournament before the end of 2009, and after arriving there all I can say is thank God my mother talked my father out of moving there.
Apologies to any Houston lovers but when you have lived in pedestrian cities with a variety of cultures, foods, interests and peoples, it's disarming to be in a large flat expanse where all you can see are fast food restaurants.
'Don't you feel uncomfortable being here?' Kross Court asked, as we drove from the airport to the hotel.
'God, yes,' I replied as we passed a huge crucifix lit up on the side of a building. 'It's such an unattractive place.'
'I meant politically, because we're not in a blue state. And the gun control issue.'
'Oh, er well yes, of course, I'm uncomfortable about those things too,' I mumbled. We pulled up to a cute guy in a sports car and oohed. As he passed us we noticed the vote Sarah Palin bumper sticker. We ahhed. But not in the good way.
I lost in the third round of singles but Kross Court and I made it to the doubles semis which was not a bad result. All in all it was a fun tournament and people were friendly - which is not always the case at these things.
My brother happened to be in Houston for work and decided to stay on after his meetings to hang out with me and watch me play. I told him I'd pay for the extra nights but he insisted on treating.
'I'll buy us a steak dinner then,' I told him. We've been trying to eat a steak dinner in New York during his last three years' worth of visits. I'm not sure why it hasn't panned out but since, of course, that's all anyone eats in Texas I figured it was a good opportunity for us to finally chow down.
The restaurant was as a proper steakhouse should be - all starched linen tablecloths and napkins, people dressed in suits and waiters calling you 'Sir' every five minutes.
We ambled to our table in our jeans passed the window display of raw slabs of steak and lobster tails that were bigger than Chicktoria Beckham.
The maitre d' sat us at our table.
'Would Sirs care for a white napkin tonight?' he asked, holding some dark navy blue napkins. My brother and I looked at each other. Then at the white napkins on our table setting. Then at each other again.
'Sorry?' My brother asked him.
'Would Sirs care for a white napkin tonight?'
My brother and I exchanged looks again.
'Um, sure, why not,' I replied.
'Very good, Sir,' the maitre d' said before removing our white napkins and settling a navy blue one in each of our laps.
'What the hell was that about?' I said.
'God knows,' my brother replied. 'Maybe it's some sort of Masonic thing.'
My father used to tell a story of ordering a steak in a Texas restaurant which was so enormous that for a week after the meal he dreamt of cows.
I persuaded my brother to order a 16 ounce steak and asked the waiter for a simple green salad.
'We don't actually do that, Sir. But we have our version of a green salad right here, Sir,' he said pointing to the requisite spot on the menu.
'Er, do you mean your house salad?' I asked.
'Yes, Sir.'
'The one that has white and yellow cheddar cheese and salami in it?'
'Correct, Sir.'
'Um, I think I'll pass on the salad, thanks.'
I had to send my steak back to be cooked a little more and while I waited my brother cut me pieces of his which I enjoyed with the good red wine he'd ordered.
I'm somewhat sad to say that the vast steaks defeated both my brother and me. When the bill arrived he paid it and I weakly contested it. But then older brothers are supposed to do those sorts of things, aren't they?
My father was an oilman who before starting his own geophysical consultancy in the UK, pondered taking a lucrative position with a company in the oil mecca of Houston. I used to wonder how different my life would have been if he had taken that road rather than the gold-paved ones leading to London (well, Surrey).
I could have been a great tennis player with a cool accent. How could my father have thwarted my dreams by choosing tea over Texas?
Kross Court and I travelled to Houston to play in one last tennis tournament before the end of 2009, and after arriving there all I can say is thank God my mother talked my father out of moving there.
Apologies to any Houston lovers but when you have lived in pedestrian cities with a variety of cultures, foods, interests and peoples, it's disarming to be in a large flat expanse where all you can see are fast food restaurants.
'Don't you feel uncomfortable being here?' Kross Court asked, as we drove from the airport to the hotel.
'God, yes,' I replied as we passed a huge crucifix lit up on the side of a building. 'It's such an unattractive place.'
'I meant politically, because we're not in a blue state. And the gun control issue.'
'Oh, er well yes, of course, I'm uncomfortable about those things too,' I mumbled. We pulled up to a cute guy in a sports car and oohed. As he passed us we noticed the vote Sarah Palin bumper sticker. We ahhed. But not in the good way.
I lost in the third round of singles but Kross Court and I made it to the doubles semis which was not a bad result. All in all it was a fun tournament and people were friendly - which is not always the case at these things.
My brother happened to be in Houston for work and decided to stay on after his meetings to hang out with me and watch me play. I told him I'd pay for the extra nights but he insisted on treating.
'I'll buy us a steak dinner then,' I told him. We've been trying to eat a steak dinner in New York during his last three years' worth of visits. I'm not sure why it hasn't panned out but since, of course, that's all anyone eats in Texas I figured it was a good opportunity for us to finally chow down.
The restaurant was as a proper steakhouse should be - all starched linen tablecloths and napkins, people dressed in suits and waiters calling you 'Sir' every five minutes.
We ambled to our table in our jeans passed the window display of raw slabs of steak and lobster tails that were bigger than Chicktoria Beckham.
The maitre d' sat us at our table.
'Would Sirs care for a white napkin tonight?' he asked, holding some dark navy blue napkins. My brother and I looked at each other. Then at the white napkins on our table setting. Then at each other again.
'Sorry?' My brother asked him.
'Would Sirs care for a white napkin tonight?'
My brother and I exchanged looks again.
'Um, sure, why not,' I replied.
'Very good, Sir,' the maitre d' said before removing our white napkins and settling a navy blue one in each of our laps.
'What the hell was that about?' I said.
'God knows,' my brother replied. 'Maybe it's some sort of Masonic thing.'
My father used to tell a story of ordering a steak in a Texas restaurant which was so enormous that for a week after the meal he dreamt of cows.
I persuaded my brother to order a 16 ounce steak and asked the waiter for a simple green salad.
'We don't actually do that, Sir. But we have our version of a green salad right here, Sir,' he said pointing to the requisite spot on the menu.
'Er, do you mean your house salad?' I asked.
'Yes, Sir.'
'The one that has white and yellow cheddar cheese and salami in it?'
'Correct, Sir.'
'Um, I think I'll pass on the salad, thanks.'
I had to send my steak back to be cooked a little more and while I waited my brother cut me pieces of his which I enjoyed with the good red wine he'd ordered.
I'm somewhat sad to say that the vast steaks defeated both my brother and me. When the bill arrived he paid it and I weakly contested it. But then older brothers are supposed to do those sorts of things, aren't they?
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Man / Child
Need to know Who's Who?
I couldn't sleep the other night and so rather than do something productive like read, write or tidy my apartment I lay on the sofa and watched a late night episode of SATC. It was the episode where Samantha hooks up with some hotshot executive who likes to indulge in baby talk while engaging in sex.
'Me want to feel Samanfa's titty witties,' he says - or something to that effect.
It made me think of how someone can several have differing levels of maturity at the same point in time. For instance, if anyone spends time reading my blog they will get the sense that despite my thirty-eight years of age, being the youngest child in a brood of five has never (and most likely never will) leave me.
A person can be a suit-wearing ball breaker in the board room before going home to change into an adult diaper and be bottle-fed by their lover.
People can be emotionally mature and feel a parental sense of responsibility for others, providing rational advice and comfort when needed, but childishly spend vast amounts of money on clothes without a second thought of the crippling financial consequences simply because they 'wanted them'.
And someone might be incredibly well spoken and articulate to his work colleagues but go home and indulge in ridiculous baby-voiced coddling of his cat - you know, for example.
I understand that in the privacy of their own homes and minds, often, people need to practice the opposite of what and who they are in life. What then, is the equation for working out who you are in life? Is it the way you are at work plus the way you are at home plus the way you are in bed? And since everything most likely doesn't always remain equal, does the answer change each time you calculate it?
I could react differently to the same question if asked by two different people. Towards one I may feel resentment while towards the other I may feel refreshing honesty - naturally because I may feel closer to one than the other. Hopefully this is just part of being human and doesn't make me bipolar.
But how does it happen that a person grows up in one area of their life but remains stunted in another?
Glitterati is one of my oldest friends and she and I have very relatable lives. Both single, hardly dating, somehow always breaking even despite having moved up the work ladder rather impressively, both spending too much money on attire....
I was laughing out loud while reading Glitterati's blog the other day where she writes about being an unprepared host who doesn't have two of anything - not two matching just two of anything.
She writes:
I often feel I missed that memo too.
Since I've been writing about finance lately it seems fitting to stick with this example. I have fits of trying to be more financially responsible but it all seems to be done with a rather childish air.
I was talking to Yours Truly today to arrange what time we should dine.
'Is 9ish too late for you?' he asked.
'No. That's fine. I need to do laundry anyway.'
'Ok, so - wait, what? You do laundry now?'
'Yes, I've started doing my own,' I replied, defensively. 'In an effort to save money.'
'Uh huh. Well, I don't know about you chil' but it seems to me that by you going to Chicago, Rochester, Houston and LA, doin' your own laundry ain't gon' help you save that much money.'
'Well,' I sighed, 'It's only really until I get myself sorted and then I'll get my laundry guy to come round again.'
I was looking at flights back to the UK and was stressed to see that they seem to cost more this year than any other. In a frenzy about the unfairness of having to shell out this money before even getting to the festive part of things, I emailed my brothers and sisters to tell them I wasn't going to buy Christmas presents this year because 'it costs me an arm and a leg to get home in the first place.'
My brothers and sisters all replied saying that my decision was fine - it was my presence that was important not the presents. And then I immediately felt mean and petulant for my words.
I guess the beauty of all this is that when you're immature in one or more areas of your life, there's always someone more grown up around to help set you right.
I couldn't sleep the other night and so rather than do something productive like read, write or tidy my apartment I lay on the sofa and watched a late night episode of SATC. It was the episode where Samantha hooks up with some hotshot executive who likes to indulge in baby talk while engaging in sex.
'Me want to feel Samanfa's titty witties,' he says - or something to that effect.
It made me think of how someone can several have differing levels of maturity at the same point in time. For instance, if anyone spends time reading my blog they will get the sense that despite my thirty-eight years of age, being the youngest child in a brood of five has never (and most likely never will) leave me.
A person can be a suit-wearing ball breaker in the board room before going home to change into an adult diaper and be bottle-fed by their lover.
People can be emotionally mature and feel a parental sense of responsibility for others, providing rational advice and comfort when needed, but childishly spend vast amounts of money on clothes without a second thought of the crippling financial consequences simply because they 'wanted them'.
And someone might be incredibly well spoken and articulate to his work colleagues but go home and indulge in ridiculous baby-voiced coddling of his cat - you know, for example.
I understand that in the privacy of their own homes and minds, often, people need to practice the opposite of what and who they are in life. What then, is the equation for working out who you are in life? Is it the way you are at work plus the way you are at home plus the way you are in bed? And since everything most likely doesn't always remain equal, does the answer change each time you calculate it?
I could react differently to the same question if asked by two different people. Towards one I may feel resentment while towards the other I may feel refreshing honesty - naturally because I may feel closer to one than the other. Hopefully this is just part of being human and doesn't make me bipolar.
But how does it happen that a person grows up in one area of their life but remains stunted in another?
Glitterati is one of my oldest friends and she and I have very relatable lives. Both single, hardly dating, somehow always breaking even despite having moved up the work ladder rather impressively, both spending too much money on attire....
I was laughing out loud while reading Glitterati's blog the other day where she writes about being an unprepared host who doesn't have two of anything - not two matching just two of anything.
She writes:
'[The] last time someone stayed with me, I had to go shopping for coffee, tea, milk, sugar, bread, butter and salt, because none of those things are to be found in my cupboard. Then I had to go out and buy a cafetiere for making the coffee in....[I feel like I missed] the memo that said 'time to grow up.''
I often feel I missed that memo too.
Since I've been writing about finance lately it seems fitting to stick with this example. I have fits of trying to be more financially responsible but it all seems to be done with a rather childish air.
I was talking to Yours Truly today to arrange what time we should dine.
'Is 9ish too late for you?' he asked.
'No. That's fine. I need to do laundry anyway.'
'Ok, so - wait, what? You do laundry now?'
'Yes, I've started doing my own,' I replied, defensively. 'In an effort to save money.'
'Uh huh. Well, I don't know about you chil' but it seems to me that by you going to Chicago, Rochester, Houston and LA, doin' your own laundry ain't gon' help you save that much money.'
'Well,' I sighed, 'It's only really until I get myself sorted and then I'll get my laundry guy to come round again.'
I was looking at flights back to the UK and was stressed to see that they seem to cost more this year than any other. In a frenzy about the unfairness of having to shell out this money before even getting to the festive part of things, I emailed my brothers and sisters to tell them I wasn't going to buy Christmas presents this year because 'it costs me an arm and a leg to get home in the first place.'
My brothers and sisters all replied saying that my decision was fine - it was my presence that was important not the presents. And then I immediately felt mean and petulant for my words.
I guess the beauty of all this is that when you're immature in one or more areas of your life, there's always someone more grown up around to help set you right.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Where I wish I paid more attention to detail
Need to know Who's Who?
It's true that I have an odd memory when it comes to attention to detail. I can recall the plot twists of rarely viewed films and names of 1940s actors with ease. I can tell if a painting is not hanging straight even if off by only a few millimeters. I can tell if the smallest ornament in my apartment has been moved.
But when it comes to remembering if I fed my cat, packed enough underwear for the trip, delivered that critical piece of information to my project team without which everything will come crashing down and everyone will basically die, I'm often left wondering, 'I think I did. Did I?...'
This doesn't help at the best of times but never less so than when it comes to finances. My attempts at saving money are not going well.
I recently purchased some very fetching grey and black leather gloves which remind me of the morning gloves I have always wanted. (How I wish top hats were once again a staple part of everyday wear.)
I tried them on once - in the store before I bought them - and they are now nowhere to be found in my small abode. And because I really liked them I will probably buy them again. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened when it comes to apparel.
The last in my trio of weddings in six weeks culminated in me attending my Adorably Intense Little Sister, AILS's, wedding this weekend.
It was a lovely intimate affair. For AILS, being the center of attention in a large group is probably her worst nightmare but she looked radiant in her strapless beaded gown as things got under way at the country club in Rochester.
I confess I teared up as she and her beau said their vows because when I looked at her it was my little sister getting married up there and starting on this new adventure and, happily for me, to a really great guy that I know does and will continue to make her happy.
I didn't know anyone well enough to eat their dinner as well as my own this time. But I thought I'd comment on that since my writing about eating Miss Jones's dinner at Prince CHARming's wedding reception resulted several people asking me if I had actually done that. I'd like to clarify that I didn't eat the whole thing. Just 1 or 2 (3 or 4) forkfuls of butterfish and risotto or whatever it was placed on. And Miss Jones didn't mind. And she adores me.
Honestly, anyone would think I am the only person in the world who steals the food off other peoples' plates at formal affairs when they are not looking.
The night before AILS's wedding I took Queenie out for a few belated birthday drinks at the St Regis, which in hindsight I realise is not the place to go if you're on an economy drive.
'I've got to get going after this because I have a 9.30am flight tomorrow,' I said.
'Sure,' she replied.
Two and a half Manhattans later and I was responding affirmatively to a text from Prince CHARming, fresh back from his mini moon to Puerto Rico, asking if I wanted to meet up for drinks and cigars at his place.
I could have taken the subway but since I didn't want to be out late, time was of the essence I justified and so jumped in a cab. We feasted on a bucket of KFC and glasses of Jacob's Creek while waiting for Lord In Law to arrive.
'I can't get too drunk,' I slurred, 'because I have a 9.30am flight tomorrow.'
'Yeah, of course,' PC replied. 'Oh did I show you what I bought at duty free?' He pulled out a beautifully packaged bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue which usually goes for around $250.
'Why don't we have a glass a bit later?' he suggested, seductively swaying it slowly in front of my face so that it was almost in reach.
'Um, no. I...no,' I said, weakly. 'You do have cigars to go with it, don't you?'
Lord In Law arrived and the whiskey was had. Then beer at Prince CHARming's local pub.
'Go now. I must,' I Yoda'ed drunkenly. '9.30am. Flight. I have.''
'Look, my wife-' - who here I have decided to call The Barefoot Contessa - 'is back at the apartment now. Come and say hi to her, we'll have a glass of Port and then you can go.'
More whiskey and a cigar later, I jumped a cab and rolled in at 2am where I hurriedly packed for AILS's wedding, blindly throwing random things into my bag. I thought I'd triple check my itinerary so I could calculate the absolute latest time I had to get out of bed.
You know how in movies or on telly when someone is in a panic and just goes 'Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,' and you just think 'Well that's not very realistic', well, I can assure you it is.
I sank onto my sofa as my inebriated eyes focused on my flight departure time which read 9.30pm and arrival time which read 10.40pm. Not a very good arrival time for a wedding that starts at 4pm.
It's 2.30am, I'm drunk, I feel really sick from the KFC and the only recipient of my blind panic is Chicktoria Beckham.
I phoned expedia.
'Yes you can change your flight but there'll be a change fee of a few hundred dollars,' I was told.
'But that's more than the actual flight cost me,' I gawked.
'Sorry Sir. Why not call Continental and see what they can do?'
I phoned Continental.
'Yes, I can help you change that. There'll be a change fee of course.' While the fee was not as astronomical as I had at first been informed, I berated myself anyway.
'You must think I'm really dumb?' I said to the attendant as I gave her my credit card details. She didn't contest my statement.
Funnily enough, at AILS's wedding I was talking to a fellow guest who said,
'I had the worst experience getting here from New York. Clever me thought I had booked the flight for 9.30am but oh no...'
'I think I know how this story goes,' I said.
Damn, stuff is expensive - especially when you have to pay for it twice.
It's true that I have an odd memory when it comes to attention to detail. I can recall the plot twists of rarely viewed films and names of 1940s actors with ease. I can tell if a painting is not hanging straight even if off by only a few millimeters. I can tell if the smallest ornament in my apartment has been moved.
But when it comes to remembering if I fed my cat, packed enough underwear for the trip, delivered that critical piece of information to my project team without which everything will come crashing down and everyone will basically die, I'm often left wondering, 'I think I did. Did I?...'
This doesn't help at the best of times but never less so than when it comes to finances. My attempts at saving money are not going well.
I recently purchased some very fetching grey and black leather gloves which remind me of the morning gloves I have always wanted. (How I wish top hats were once again a staple part of everyday wear.)
I tried them on once - in the store before I bought them - and they are now nowhere to be found in my small abode. And because I really liked them I will probably buy them again. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened when it comes to apparel.
The last in my trio of weddings in six weeks culminated in me attending my Adorably Intense Little Sister, AILS's, wedding this weekend.
It was a lovely intimate affair. For AILS, being the center of attention in a large group is probably her worst nightmare but she looked radiant in her strapless beaded gown as things got under way at the country club in Rochester.
I confess I teared up as she and her beau said their vows because when I looked at her it was my little sister getting married up there and starting on this new adventure and, happily for me, to a really great guy that I know does and will continue to make her happy.
I didn't know anyone well enough to eat their dinner as well as my own this time. But I thought I'd comment on that since my writing about eating Miss Jones's dinner at Prince CHARming's wedding reception resulted several people asking me if I had actually done that. I'd like to clarify that I didn't eat the whole thing. Just 1 or 2 (3 or 4) forkfuls of butterfish and risotto or whatever it was placed on. And Miss Jones didn't mind. And she adores me.
Honestly, anyone would think I am the only person in the world who steals the food off other peoples' plates at formal affairs when they are not looking.
The night before AILS's wedding I took Queenie out for a few belated birthday drinks at the St Regis, which in hindsight I realise is not the place to go if you're on an economy drive.
'I've got to get going after this because I have a 9.30am flight tomorrow,' I said.
'Sure,' she replied.
Two and a half Manhattans later and I was responding affirmatively to a text from Prince CHARming, fresh back from his mini moon to Puerto Rico, asking if I wanted to meet up for drinks and cigars at his place.
I could have taken the subway but since I didn't want to be out late, time was of the essence I justified and so jumped in a cab. We feasted on a bucket of KFC and glasses of Jacob's Creek while waiting for Lord In Law to arrive.
'I can't get too drunk,' I slurred, 'because I have a 9.30am flight tomorrow.'
'Yeah, of course,' PC replied. 'Oh did I show you what I bought at duty free?' He pulled out a beautifully packaged bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue which usually goes for around $250.
'Why don't we have a glass a bit later?' he suggested, seductively swaying it slowly in front of my face so that it was almost in reach.
'Um, no. I...no,' I said, weakly. 'You do have cigars to go with it, don't you?'
Lord In Law arrived and the whiskey was had. Then beer at Prince CHARming's local pub.
'Go now. I must,' I Yoda'ed drunkenly. '9.30am. Flight. I have.''
'Look, my wife-' - who here I have decided to call The Barefoot Contessa - 'is back at the apartment now. Come and say hi to her, we'll have a glass of Port and then you can go.'
More whiskey and a cigar later, I jumped a cab and rolled in at 2am where I hurriedly packed for AILS's wedding, blindly throwing random things into my bag. I thought I'd triple check my itinerary so I could calculate the absolute latest time I had to get out of bed.
You know how in movies or on telly when someone is in a panic and just goes 'Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,' and you just think 'Well that's not very realistic', well, I can assure you it is.
I sank onto my sofa as my inebriated eyes focused on my flight departure time which read 9.30pm and arrival time which read 10.40pm. Not a very good arrival time for a wedding that starts at 4pm.
It's 2.30am, I'm drunk, I feel really sick from the KFC and the only recipient of my blind panic is Chicktoria Beckham.
I phoned expedia.
'Yes you can change your flight but there'll be a change fee of a few hundred dollars,' I was told.
'But that's more than the actual flight cost me,' I gawked.
'Sorry Sir. Why not call Continental and see what they can do?'
I phoned Continental.
'Yes, I can help you change that. There'll be a change fee of course.' While the fee was not as astronomical as I had at first been informed, I berated myself anyway.
'You must think I'm really dumb?' I said to the attendant as I gave her my credit card details. She didn't contest my statement.
Funnily enough, at AILS's wedding I was talking to a fellow guest who said,
'I had the worst experience getting here from New York. Clever me thought I had booked the flight for 9.30am but oh no...'
'I think I know how this story goes,' I said.
Damn, stuff is expensive - especially when you have to pay for it twice.
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