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A Christmas Surprise

25 Dec

Well, times sure have changed. When I was younger, a gentleman’s suggestion of a game of Truth or Dare usually ended up with a memorable five minutes of fumbling in a darkened cupboard. Not anymore, I’m afraid.

When Christopher arrived at mine, let’s just say it was obvious he had already been drinking in the beauty of the season. After pouring me my evening tipple, he asked if he could join me. I, of course, said of course. Once a few bottles were emptied, Christopher suggested a round of the Truth or Dare.

Now when I was a child, our Christmas Eve rituals often involved game-playing so I thought it a rather charming suggestion. Although my plan was to subtly increase the “danger” of the dares (a strategy successfully used against myself on many an occasion), I was a bit disappointed that Christopher continually opted for truth and extremely disappointed when he told me his first kiss was nothing like I had imagined (in minute detail, at least once a day) it to have been. Soon the mood turned:  the game itself was abandoned entirely and I ended up spending my Christmas Eve—a time when other women were being cherished and showered with gifts—listening to a long list of rather vicious admissions, sprayed across my person like graffiti on a bridge. These included the indictment of  my hats as “less than flattering,” the confession that not a single one of my books has been read cover to cover by Christopher or any member of his immediate family and perhaps most hurtful, despite every indication to the contrary, Christopher does not in fact enjoy brushing my hair before bed each night.

This holiday assault ended with a quick rush out of the room followed by a disturbing eruption (Malibu is just as unpleasant coming out as it is going in). Vomit is well known for snapping people out of their stupors; it worked its acidic charm on Christopher, and the apologies began to be begged. I laid him down on the sofa and placed a damp washrag on his brow. He was weeping and asking my forgiveness (in between dry heaves). He has only just now fallen to sleep. It’s no wonder old St Nick chose to bypass our address this Noel.

If there is one thing my family has taught me, it is that Christmas is not Christmas unless someone’s feelings are hurt (or someone blows chunks): the fact that both happened here tonight can only mean Christopher and I are indeed a real family. Tomorrow I shall give him his gifts and, once he’s cleaned up the messes, our December 25 will carry on as usual. This hasn’t really been my favourite Christmas Eve, but it certainly hasn’t been my most dramatic. A silly drunken boy hardly holds a candle to the night I became radioactive.

Many of you will be waking soon and I hope Santa Claus has left you everything on your lists. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

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Once, Twice, Three Times A Loser, Lady

3 Nov

What’s the likelihood that we’ve finally seen the end of Christine O’Donnell? After losing the Delaware Senate race three times, I think even the Little Engine That Could would probably say fuck it, I give up. Fingers crossed, little Miss Not-A-Witch moves on to a more appropriate career (my advice: look into medical transcription, it’s steady pay, relatively easy to learn and requires no knowledge of the Constitution).

I am so grateful that I was able to travel to Washington, DC to participate in the Rally to Restore Sanity. Even though I wasn’t pleased with all the outcomes of this midterm election, the day I spent on the National Mall with sensible and (mostly) sexy Americans gives me hope that so many (over six billion, according to Stephen Colbert) of our citizens still believe that critical thinking, rather than ranting from the media and the nutters, should guide their decisions.

The message of the Rally was to take things down a notch–stop shouting and calling names and start listening and thinking (a message I was politely trying to pass onto those border police, but they were having none of it). The placards that many people carried were perfect: clever and funny, as you know, are two of my favourite characteristics.

This is partly why I find Jon Stewart so delicious. However, I do have a slight bone to pick with him. On the big screen, he showed cars merging as they entered the Lincoln Tunnel:

“These cars — that’s a school teacher who thinks taxes are too high…there’s a mom with two kids who can’t think about anything else…another car, the lady’s in the NRA. She loves Oprah…An investment banker, gay, also likes Oprah…a Latino carpenter…a fundamentalist vacuum salesman…a Mormon Jay Z fan…But this is us. Everyone of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear — often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers.

And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile-long, 30-foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river…And they do it. Concession by concession. You go. Then I’ll go. You go, then I’ll go. You go, then I’ll go — oh my god, is that an NRA sticker on your car, an Obama sticker on your car? Well, that’s OK. You go and then I’ll go… Sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute. But that individual is rare and he is scorned, and he is not hired as an analyst.

Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together and the truth is, there will always be darkness.  And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey.  But we do it anyway, together.”

New Jersey is not the promised land? Mr Stewart, use those sexy fingers to dial my number and I will personally escort you to the Shangri-La that lies within the borders of the Garden State.

But he’s right about that tunnel, it is a bitch. Especially when you’re in a hurry, it’s tempting to slide up that shoulder, wiggle your bumper and smile at the lonely businessman in the Beemer to push your way in. But it doesn’t work when drivers do that. Sometimes things take time. Sometimes you have to wait more than forty five minutes to get through that tunnel. Sometimes you have to wait more than two years to clean up the messes the previous administration and a global financial crisis left behind. America elected (kind of) George Dubya for eight years, yet so many have expected Obama to get it all sorted so quickly. I know he’s younger and ever so fit, but be realistic—he may not have accomplished everything yet, but he’s made a start.

The election is over and choices have been made. I beg all winners to remember the lessons the Rally taught us. Stop gerrymandering, filibustering and all those other five-syllable words that cause a bottleneck on the road to our recovery.  Reach across the aisle, stop shouting and calling names and start listening and thinking.

You go, then I’ll go, you go, then I’ll go. It’s what gets us through.

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Breaking News: Reports of My Arrest Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

31 Oct

As one of the key messages of Saturday’s Rally to Restore Sanity was about the press’s fear mongering, I thought I would clarify any mis-reporting that is happening in the UK regarding my arrest at the border. I was not charged with sex trafficking; the police just had a few questions about the nature of my relationship with Christopher and once I was given the chance to provide answers, I was allowed to continue my trip without incident. While I appreciate the immediate establishment of the “Free Agatha” fan page on Facebook, it is no longer necessary (though Alice Wintergarden is staying at my home and able to sign for any gift packages or flower bouquets if you still feel compelled to show some type of support).

 

Additionally, if you happened to catch me when I showed up on the Jumbotron, can I please clarify that it was a banana that I was eating. My high level of decorum and the fact that the police were “keeping an eye on me” mean that this is the only reasonable explanation for my rather unflattering pose.

I shall post more on my experience of the Rally shortly, as soon as I have regained feeling in my wrists (police handcuffs unfortunately are not covered in pink fur like normal restraints and are therefore nowhere near as comfortable).

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A Sensible Match Report—England v USA, 12 June 2010

13 Jun

Please note: The unfortunate circumstance of the USA goal as a result of Rob Green has occurred. We can’t change that now. Whether or not there were problems with the ball is neither here nor there. The plain and simple truth is that mistakes happen. All of you have made them; I have even come close myself. So I say, let’s not dwell on this. We must move forward.

Despite the incessant phone calls I receive from Mick McCarthy, the truth is I’m not really an expert on football. However, I would like to share a few of my observations.

WELL DONE TO ONE MISTER WAYNE ROONEY

I’m very impressed you managed to keep your temper under control this evening. Well done, son. The next challenge is to maintain that control while actually getting involved in play some time before the 71st minute.

MEMO TO FABIO CAPELLO

1. Your suit and glasses—absolutely divine.

2. Stevie (I can’t help but still think of him in that way) Gerrard rose to the occasion as captain, particularly in the first half.

3. Aaron Lennon was in fine form. Tell him I said that.

4. Frank Lampard needs less hair gel and more focus.

5. Glen Johnson worked hard and shed blood, which has got to count for something.

6. I’m not going to comment on your choice of Rob Green. As I said, we can’t dwell on it.

7. Less Heskey, more Crouch, please. A Crouch and Rooney partnership is magic.

8. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl, but have you ever thought to mention to the players that sassing the referee never comes to any good?

COMPLAINING ABOUT THE VUVUZELAS MEANS YOU ARE A RACIST

I think the condemnation of the drone of the vuvuzelas is too much. Throughout my travels in Africa, I’ve come across a number of enormous horns and have never found them too hard to handle. Pay attention to the action, my friends.

THE STYLE, THOUGH, WAS QUITE VULGAR

Both the orange and the yellow boots have got to go. Besides being dreadfully hideous, they unfairly call the eyes to the feet of certain players. This was distracting to me as I was trying to focus more on their asses.

I’m not a fan of the USA’s sash. I’ll avoid any making any comparisons to beauty pageants, because I’m sure pundits everywhere have already done that. I’ll just say this: unless you’re the heir apparent of a small European principality, a sash is never the right choice.

Although he played his little heart out, Tim Howard’s goalkeeping get-up was too flash for me. When will the world accept that very few people look good in head-to-toe orange? Rob Green’s kit was much easier on the eye and also coordinated nicely with his surname. But I’ll move on from that. Mustn’t dwell.

Additionally, something must be said about the hairstyles. The close-cut clip look, so favoured by English lads, may not be at the cutting edge of fashion, but let’s face it—it makes us who we are. My god, just pause for a moment and imagine what potato-faced Rooney would like with a mop of hair. Frightening. Though there was more variety on the heads of the Americans, most of it was appalling. Robbie Findley’s was too reminiscent of Lionel Jefferson’s. Oguchi Onyewu—it’s a mustache and beard, not mustache or beard. And I’ve only got one word for Landon Donovan: your forehead is out of control.

THE FINAL WORD

Overall, it was not a totally unenjoyable/enjoyable (delete as appropriate) way to spend ninety-seven minutes of one’s time.

(An England match is never an England match without a mention of David Beckham. Sigh. He’s so lovely.)

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Cold Comfort Farmville

25 Jan

Recently, Oprah Winfrey’s personal physician Dr Phillip McGraw doled out some advice to a woman (whom we’ll call Teresa because that was her name) about her addiction to playing games on Facebook. Although I have never watched his television broadcast, I understand he has produced a number of books so I’m sure he is a perfectly competent doctor. However, I feel I must take issue with his advice to Teresa. It represents a fatal misunderstanding of the changing world in which we are all living in.

Apparently, Teresa is addicted to playing a game called “Farmville.” In this game you can do all the things that farmers do (including but not limited to raising crops, breeding livestock, watching your family’s legacy crumble before your very eyes and refusing to let traveling salesmen sleep with your daughter). To play Farmville, you must be signed up to Facebook, a new and exciting way to “network” “socially” on the “Internet.” Teresa has family of her own, and they seem to feel neglected by the amount of time she is online, tending to her virtual responsibilities rather than her real life ones. Dr Phil’s advice was quite simply to “unplug it and walk away,”  (which I believe, in talk show speak, is the opposite of “You go, girl”).

This is very bad advice. Very bad indeed. I appreciate that the good doctor may not be as aware of the importance of technology as I am; however, it simply makes no sense to encourage anyone to stop using Facebook. Social networking sites are as essential to a thriving economy as were sub-prime loans—-we need them to get to where we want to be and damn the consequences. If Teresa’s family feels a little abandoned, well, that’s a small price to pay. Whatever her line of business, be it Avon sales, arts and crafts or head of the PTA, Teresa has acknowledged that she needs to be “connected.” Dr Phil would never have dreamed of asking a 1960s businessman to give up and walk away from his alcoholism for it was an essential part of clinching the deal. Today social networking sites have taken the place of the boardroom. With every poke, Teresa is climbing the ladder of success.

Personally, I admire Teresa’s dedication to her farm. Has not Dr Phil heard that people are starving all over the world? Teresa’s contributions to the food chain might just be enough to kickstart the end to global famine. The fact that her crops don’t really exist is neither here nor there in my book. My guess is that she is geographically limited in terms of raising actual food for actual starving people; so why shouldn’t she raise virtual food for virtually starving people? It’s better than doing nothing, Dr Phil!  Teresa should be seen as a pioneer for her willingness to focus on growing food for the planet, even at the expense of looking after her own children’s nutritional needs. Everyone acknowledges that it is challenging being a parent in today’s day and age. Teresa is setting a good example for her children by showing them that there are other things in the world more important than them, and I see this as an excellent lesson in global responsibility.

A far more sensible suggestion for Teresa would have been to encourage her children to join Farmville and Facebook. I’ve personally found that since I started communicating online, my relationships with my family have improved immensely. They can stay up to date with what’s going on in my life, and I needn’t see or speak with them so really it’s a win-win situation. Having her children as Farmville friends on Facebook will not only intensify their family bond (for what child could feel neglected when his mother is constantly available to fertilize his field), but it should also expand her acreage and, as a result, increase her harvest profit margin.

Keep farming, Teresa, I’m behind you one hundred per cent. I award you a blue ribbon for being both the Farmer and Mother of the Year.

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Taking My Responsibility Very Seriously

10 Jan

While thankfully I rarely have to do this, I am prepared to apologise for being wrong about the weather. This winter has been rather cold, apparently the coldest in the last 1000 years. So while I still stand by my original comments on British weather in general, I was concerned that some readers may take my comments about the English overreacting to the cold to heart and do something stupid. Therefore, I want to take a moment to discuss some of the dangers of cold weather.

I was shocked to find out that when the thermometer shows below 0C, pensioners in Britain die at the rate of one every six minutes.  I am led to believe this has something to do with the fact that many of them are on the poorer spectrum. Shame on you, British Gas! I, for one, would be happy to pay an extra 2p each month if it would help keep an older couple from freezing to death under their Littlewoods duvet (especially if they still owed on it). Our nation is in a positively frightful state when we let our pensioners die from the cold rather than through more usual means.

However, bad weather can be treacherous even for those of us who still have reasons left to live. Ice on the roads in Britain can kill you as soon as look at you. But even if you don’t venture away from your house, you can put yourself at risk. You could take a tumble as you fetch your morning’s milk and many a cardiac arrest has resulted from snow removal. Just this morning, I myself found my heart rate racing like a bastard as I watched Christopher clearing my path. It’s never bad to see a young man’s exertion, but it’s important not to go beyond one’s limits.

Perhaps my most perilous exposure to the freezing weather happened during Trenton, NJ’s coldest winter. A gentleman friend and I had gone to the theatre in the City as we normally did on Saturday evenings; that night we were honoured guests at the opening of Dolly’s Destiny, starring the gorgeously drunk Quentin Wisteria. On the drive home, my friend (whose name currently escapes me) and I decided to stop off at the Lucky Diamonds Motel (extremely reasonable hourly rates) in New Brunswick. After, we popped into a liquor store to purchase a bottle of whiskey, which was fortunate for as soon as we had gotten back onto I-95, the weather made a turn for the worst. We were virtually “snowblinded.” Darren (I’ve just remembered his name) temporarily lost control of our sedan and we ended up in a bit of a ditch. Because we were dressed rather dapperly, we decided that fleeing the car was not a viable option. Instead we cracked open the drink and spent a delightfully dangersome hour or two until we were rescued by some charming policemen. Some of you may remember the consequent news story—believe me, we were fully clothed when the officers arrived and I have long since forgiven them for arresting us as charges were dropped once they realised just who exactly we were. In many ways, I am lucky to be alive after that evening and although I never spoke to Darren again once he reunited with his wife, the fact that he and I came so close to meeting our maker together means he will always hold a special spiritual place in my heart.

Hypothermia is not a joke, my friends. Listen to me.  I hear it’s quite an unflattering way to go. So indulge in some cocoa, keep well bundled and snuggle up in front of the fire, Britons, until the cold snap passes. I don’t want any of you suffering frigidity under my watch.

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