January B(l)ooze

So, it is now nearing the end of January, which is the month I hate the most.  The weather is usually pretty crappy, the bills have all come in from our Christmas season of indulgence and the paycheck, which we so happily accepted pre-Christmas, ran out mid-month.  Oh, and everyone is on a diet and on the wagon. So, no money, no booze, no dessert, no sun. 

May as well join a convent in Antarctica.

But, the good thing is that this is the month when I get all my culture in for the year!  Yep, if you got no money and you’re trying to lose the Christmas gu-but, (friends, this is a word I am proud to have created, (and yet, not really?) as it is the bane of existence for all apple-shaped women out there: the unfortunate point when your gut and your but become one), then free museums are the answer!  And, if you foolishly committed to  a 100 mile bike ride in May (but, take heart, people this IS me we’re talking about – said bike ride terminates at the Shiner Bock brewery – can you say, free beer?), riding your bike as your means of transport seems like the answer. 

So, I wake up bright and early on a Saturday morning, inspired and renewed, pack a water bottle in my backpack and hop on my old trusty Silverado.  (and, yes, I did think about calling the bike Silver, just so I could say (in my mind, of course!) Heigh ho, Silver away!, but as Silver was just a horse and a Silverado was a car, I thought it might be a more optimistic way of looking at my new mode of transport.)  Now, people think I am nuts to cycle in central London, but I am always careful, I wear a helmut, reflective gear, use signals and never wear headphones.  What I do fail to do, usually, is have any idea where I am going.  I have the free maps that London Transport gives you, I have a fancy android phone that has gmaps and navigation tools and new a bike app downloaded, but, of course, I never remember to bring the maps and I have no clue how to use my phone.  (A friend at work refers to his as a text-machine.  I think that about sums it up.)  So, I take the scenic route often.  Like West London via Waterloo.  Which, for my non-London friends is about the same thing as going from Los Angeles to New York, via Brazil. 

But, luckily on my expedition to experience culture, I have friends I can call who DO know how to use their phones and managed to direct me to our destination.  (which, incidentally, was about 2 blocks from where I got “lost”).  So I zoomed off to the Victoria and Albert museum, where we had booked tickets for the Post Modernism exhibit.  (How cultured do I sound??)  Now, I have never been to the V&A, but I have had many people tell me that it is their favorite museum.  And, I also have no clue what post-modernism is, but my good friends seem excited about this exhibit, so, surely, it must be great.

Wrong.

Turns out the V&A is just a building filled with old crap.  And, the post-modern exhibit is just newer, uglier crap.   I know this will be a sacrilege to some of you, but, really?  I like a museum that has an order to it – the Smithsonians, the British Museum, the Imperial War Museum, the WWII museum in NOLA, the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C.  Those are all about SOMETHING.   The V&A just seems to be a place where all the stuff that no one wanted to buy at a flea market in the 70s ends up: an old comb, a bookshelf, a piece of cloth.  If I wanted to see that sort of junk, all I need to do is walk 5 blocks to Bethnal Green Road and look at all the tat stalls.  (for my American friends, that is code, for junk stand) 

And, the post-modern exhibit was just a strange collection of pictures of Vegas strip malls, a life-size model of someone’s porch, costumes from 80s’ videos (as much as I may have loved Devo’s Whip It, actually seeing the red plastic hat took a lot of mystery out of it for me) and, at one point, just a room with New Order playing.   Seriously? That is art? 

More like bad flashback to my teen years.

So, I zoomed through the exhibit and found the one part of the V&A to which I could relate.  No, I could not find shoes, but I did find the jewelry.  And, more importantly, the jewels.  (again, not interested in tiny pieces of hammered silver with chunks of rock, I don’t care how old it is.  And, a bone or shell pin? No thanks. I will take sparkly and shiny any day.)

Needless to say, my poor friends were disappointed in my failure to appreciate art.

So, the following weekend, we agreed to go for a long bike ride together and then meet other friends for lunch.  So, Silverado and I took off and had a long ride along the canals, dodging pedestrians, market stalls and, at one, point, a rabid runner who nearly took out a family of scared Eastern Europeans and threw a sharp elbow into my friend on the bike behind me.  Two hours later, we ended up a nice old pub in West London. 

Now, my days of abstinence had come to a crashing halt following a 14 hour day of intense contract negotiations earlier that week.  (I mean, seriously, if you aren’t having wheat or sugar and yet are forced to discuss termination rights for hours on end while watching everyone else in the room munch on cookies and chocolate muffins, surely, you deserve a glass of wine?)  But, to be fair, I did only have two glasses of wine, so, really, it was more of an easing back into booze.  So, naturally, a glass of wine following a two hour bike ride is surely no big deal.

Except, of course, it wasn’t one glass.  Or, even two.  To be honest, I am not really sure how many glasses it was as we switched to bottles and our 1:30 lunch ended around 10:30 pm.  Ouch.

Now, at one point, it did occur to me in that marathon session that I was going to need to get Silverado home.  And, that was not going to happen with me on it.  But, what failed to occur to me, clearly, was that while you can take your bike on some tube lines and you can get some taxi drivers to allow you to take your bike in their car, neither of these posed viable options from West London.  (none of those tube lines were anywhere near where I was and, remember, I am always broke in January and a taxi ride was going to run me about 40 pounds)  Well, needless to say, I did end up forking out the 40 quid and getting a taxi home, but not after a few false starts and at one point, ending up under my bike when it fell over on me. (and, no, I was not careening down the road when that happened; although the bruises might indicate otherwise)

So, here we are a week later.  And, this time, I am being much more practical.  No more museums or long bike rides to pubs.  I am going for a long bike ride tomorrow.

And a pub lunch across the street from my flat today. 

Even if January hasn’t ended officially yet, I am done pretending that I am going to be healthy, frugal and sober. 

Oh.  Well, until February 11^th, that is, when I go to fat camp. 

Crap.

Happy New Year!

Happy New year to y’all!  It is that time of year again – time to clean out the closet, throw away old make-up and beauty products that have passed their use-by date (or useful – seriously, blue eyeliner?  What was I thinking?  Note to self, breaking out the ‘80s makeup does not, in fact, resurrect my youthful ‘80s skin…..) and think about what resolutions to make for the year 2012.    


I do actually like to make resolutions and I definitely try to keep them – so, I always try to make them  attainable.  I can’t actually remember what resolutions I made last year, but I reckon they must have been to spend tons of money, eats lots of crap, drink way too much wine and work more hours and weekends.    After all, that makes sense because they were definitely attainable (and, attained).  And, life is short, so I must have decided that I may as well spend the money that the good lord gave me (in the form of MBNA and Citibank credit limits, natch!), and enjoy the fruits (grapes, mainly…well, fermented ones that is) of my unceasing labors.   But, in any event, this year, I will actually make some resolutions that I will not only keep, but will be of some benefit to me. 

And, before you ask, no, I will not stop spending money  I do not have.  SOMEBODY has to pay for this lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed (read: Choos, Louboutins, airfare and cocktail tabs!), and, as a single person, my debt dies with me, so looks like that somebody is Citibank and MBNA.  Given the state of the economy, thanks to the big banks, I think I am doing some good and you should all be thanking me – really, I could even be called an altruist….

But, I digress.

So, this year, I planned my resolutions out in advance.  Or, at least one of them—this year I was going to get healthy.  Not thin, mind you (as plenty of coked out, hollow-eyed, vapid twigs can attest to the fact that thin ain’t healthy), but really in good shape physically.  And, how was I going to do it?  Well, I decided to go to fat camp.  Now, this isn’t exactly the most PC of terms, but I believe in calling it like I see it.  If I am going somewhere where someone is going to make me exercise 10 hours a day, while feeding me lettuce and nuts, this is not a “luxury health spa.”  In my mind, that is a place where the only thing that’s healthy is the amount of wine in my glass following  10 hours of massage/pedicures/manicures/facials etc.  by my private pool. 

No, this is definitely fat camp. 

But, what is luxurious about it is the price.  Despite my father’s repeated assertions that he could do the same for free, it seems like it takes cold cash to get someone to  shout at you from the time they wake you at 6 am for a run to the time you collapse, wilted lettuce leaf and raw almond in hand, into your bed.  So, natch, I asked for fat camp for Christmas from my parents. 

Apparently, they misheard, because rather than give me a camp to get UN-fat, they took me to New Orleans – the place to get as fat as possible.  A few short hours from the fattest city in the nation (yep, you guessed Houston, Texas) New Orleans is well known for its cuisine.  And, like Texas, everything is covered, smothered, dipped, sautéed, fried and DELISH.  I ate my way through NOLA – creole, Cajun, southern, fried mac ‘n’cheese and steaks to name a few, and drank my way through the French Quarter.    You think Vegas is Sin City?  Well, let me tell ya, Nola got ya beat – because, not only is there a casino, but the sins of gluttony, lust, greed and sloth are all in display and you only gotta pop down to Bourbon street for that.

But, I had a great time in NOLA and I would highly encourage anyone to go there – most certainly it should make the top 5 of any destinations in the US to visit – the homes are absolutely beautiful stately old Southern mansions in the Garden District, it is just a hop, skip and jump out to tour old plantations and the swampland, it’s a beacon for sporting events (just think of the SugarBowl and the Saints) and  I already highlighted the food and sin, not to mention Jazz Fest and Mardi Gras.  And, let’s not forget the last working Steamboat on the Mississippi River!  Which, luckily for me, I got to experience first hand on New Year’s Eve.

Now, I think New Year’s Eve is a huge letdown.  After “celebrating” it for the best part of 30 years (And, no, I am not trying to claw back a few years here, before that I was too young to stay up that late!  Trust me, I get that I am turning 40 this year.  What do you think is with all this resolution crap?), I can honestly say that I have never had a magical, romantic or special night on that day. 

Now, what I have had is vomiting in a friend’s bathroom before 9 pm on my own after they carried on to a bar, climbing through a broken window (that I broke with my heel after realizing that I didn’t have a key to our rented ski condo and all my friends were hours away), making out with strangers who tasted of olives and garlic, watching a friend get thrown out of bar after assaulting another friend, and being awakened in the middle of the night by one friend who had to leave our other hotel room after he awakened to the sounds of our other friend getting “friendly” with her “new friend.”  All in all, not such a great night.

So, one year, I cut my losses and decided to spend it with two people whose company I really enjoy—my parents.  And, as I am hanging with the folks, there is no pretense of having a magical, romantic evening.  (Well, not for me anyway.)  And, so far, they are two for two on good times; not that it had anything to do with the fact that those two times were spent on a sailboat in the British Virgin Islands and in a villa in Bali…..(my parents aren’t dumb,  bribery gets you everywhere with me)  So, when they suggested the steamboat in NOLA, I was all for it. 

Now, I am not dumb either, I know that this has old people written all over it…..so, I drag my best friend into it with me.  I figure, open bar, my best friend and my parents, what could be better?  And, I am happy to say, that I was right.  Don’t get me wrong, it was totally prom night at the old folks’ home, but you gotta love seeing people in their 70s boogieing to songs from their past in their orthopedic shoes, fedoras and sparkly palazzo pants.  Brings out a little magical romance in ya. 

But, just when you get all misty-eyed, the sit down dinner ends and the under -50s booze cruise ticket holders from below deck are allowed into the dance area.  The tunes change from “My Girl” to “I Kissed a Girl” and the next thing you know, ya got a Borat lookalike doing the Elaine dance (complete with head toss, arms akimbo and snapping move) grinding on the 40-something “blonde” who is busy checking out her reflection in the mirror while doing the toe-touch, head-flip, hands shimmy down the body move….not pretty. 

Luckily, I have video. J

In any event, it is now well past New Year’s Eve and time to start keeping those resolutions.  And, what you may ask, are my other goals for 2012?  Well, you’re reading one right now.  Yep, CountryDropper has been silent for too much of 2011, so I am resolving to bring you at least two new blogs a month, which means of course that I will need to have more adventures….suggestions welcome!

And, my third resolution is to learn a foreign language.  After studying French, Latin, German, Spanish and Indonesian and only mastering the ability to say “I would like a beer, but I have no money” in most of those (I mean, why bother in Latin?), it is time I commit to something.   So, I thought long and hard and realized that no matter how good I got at French, the French were never going to actually speak to me. (as evidenced by my trip to Paris two years ago where I had a very rude encounter with a maître d’ – I mean, even if I DID say “I am a table of Kristin” instead of “I have a table for Kristin” he knew what I meant)  And, while I do like Spanish, I have been told that I already speak too quickly, so learning a language that necessitates saying as many words as you can without taking a breath would probably only worsen that. 

So, I settled on German.

Not only did I learn it a very young age, so it will hopefully come back to me, but it is the closest to English so should be easier to learn.  And, let’s not forget that thanks to the Euro crisis, Germany is all that much closer to ruling Europe under the guise of the Fourth Reich, oops,  I mean European Bank.  So, maybe I will actually be able to use it in my professional career.   

But, if not, at least, I will be able to rely on it during Oktoberfest this year….woo hoo, one idea for an adventure and a blog! Look at that -- keeping my resolutions already.  Oh, except, that healthy thing. Hmm. 

But, I digress.

In any event, I hope this new year brings you all that you hope for and that we all have a year of love, laughter and friendship.