The Cost of Karma

Well, folks here we are, 3weeks since I returned from Camp Karma and there are a few things that have really stuck with me. Sadly, not the loss of the few paltry pounds (thank you white wine and chocolate!), but a few goals and learnings.   

As some of you know, I have signed up for my local military training in the park.  Now you would think that this would be easier than a week of it (I know I certainly did), but let’s not underestimate the humiliation factor that accompanies public co-ed exercise with really athletic people.  Now, the first time I show up, I drag my friend Sam (she, who drug me to Spain, so I told her she owed me!) as she exercises with this company in her local village.  We got there a little bit early and the first thing I noticed was that everyone was REALLY toned and thin.  Including those people who were putting on the jersey of shame (the “beginner blue,” which we all know is code for out-of-shape).  I was looking around for someone my level.  And nada.  So, sure enough, I was (AGAIN!)  the most out of shape, uncoordinated, balance challenged and slowest person there. 

Even the 5 months pregnant lady was seriously lapping me.

But, I persevered! So, I went again.  And, this time, I saw a man who had to be at least 75 in the blue bib.  Woo hoo!  I will not be the bringing up the rear again.  Yeah, not so much.  Because that feisty hearing aid wearing septuagenarian was also a cheat!   Run to the fence and back to me was pretty clear.  To him, it clearly meant something different.  So this is really getting embarrassing. 

Little did I know what awaited.

As this was a Saturday morning class, it was described as more “social,” meaning games and “fun.”  Well, part of the fun was pairing up with someone – guess who I got paired up with?  Yep.  So, me and great-grandpa now have to engage in the fun, which means one person standing with their legs wide apart while the other crawls between them and then runs around before jumping up to give a high five to the other.    Now, I am not that thrilled about crawling between this guy’s legs and to begin with he barely spreads them and we have a little kerfuffle while I ask him to move them before I realize that he can’t hear me.  Everyone else is crawling, running and jumping and we haven’t even gotten started. Cue more public humiliation.

But, we did get there in the end. 

So, I went back.  And, this time I had the joy of meeting Vlad the Impaler.  (And, no I did not give him that nickname.)  Twenty minutes in and following a particularly energetic sprinting and push-up combo race and I am left with a strained quad muscle.  So, everyone else carries on, I limp around doing eff all.  Turns out, it can be worse than being most the out of shape, uncoordinated, balance challenged and slowest person there.    I have moved from the sick and weak of the herd to the lame. One lazy lion later and I am toast. 

But, I am nothing if not tenacious (or Tenacious K as my law school peeps called me), so I WILL go back.  A few days later, the quad seems to be OK and I am going to for a bike ride today to test it out.  Seems I just can’t stay away from being the center of attention, even if for the wrong reasons.

But, exercise is not the only thing that I took away from boot camp.  I also discovered that, in my old age, I have become an animal person. 

Now, this may sound odd, but what I missed the most from home were my two kitties, Pudding and Sambuca (or, as they are known by their Texas names Sam (pronounced Say-am, natch) and Pud).  And on our morning run in Spain, we passed by a house with two beautiful Alsatians who would run up to the fence and nuzzle our hands.  This moment of tenderness became my favorite part of the day.  And, made me realize that I missed my kitties.

Now, y’all have to know by now, that I wouldn’t have just normal run of the mill cats.  Nope, I seemed to have adopted two special needs boys.  One, who has kitty cerebral palsy and one who is mute.  So, basically, one falls over all the time and the other one can only emit little squeaks.  Now of course, this only makes me love them even more.

But, don’t get me wrong, not in some weird cat lady with a bottle of jack daniels in her drawer and a ratty cardigan festooned with kittens and balls of yarn, crowned with diamante spectacles on a chain around her neck, way.  Although, I do think some of my co-workers may think so.   I was at a women’s networking event recently and when some “woman” (I would prefer to use another word to describe her, but my new-found love of dogs prevents me from doing so) asked I were dating anyone. 

When I said no, she said, smiling in a very condescending way “Oh.  But you have your cats.”

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I love my cats and they are, in fact, both boys.  One of whom who has a terrible gas problem and sadly, as he is the falling down one, has developed a habit of flopping down in front of me and farting simultaneously.  Nice.

And, the other one has the habit of deciding to share how much he loves me, which, in cat speak, apparently, is purring loudly and rubbing your face on the face of the  beloved, while prodding with a clawed paw (for you Americans, de-clawing is illegal here.  Maybe because it is the equivalent of cutting of your fingers to your first knuckle?). 

But, I digress.

No, this show of love is always, very conveniently at around 5 am, when I am deeply asleep.  So, I ask, between the flopping farter and the midnight lover – what am I actually missing in a man?

Now, of course, I don’t share this with the “woman.”  I simply say, my life is very good and I am very happy and it would need to be something pretty incredible for me to bring a new person into it.   And, I do mean it.  I get to be completely selfish.  I can focus solely on my career and goals, spend money on whatever I want and do whatever I want.   There is something very nice about that.

I don’t think she believed me.  But, no worries, because someone asked her (smiling in a very condescending way!) if she had children.   The coup de grace of the one-up-manship of the Coffee klatch.  Because of course she didn’t.  And, then she found herself defending the selfishness of her life sans offspring….

See, karma is still getting ya!

But, even as women can exhibit this waspy shrewishness, the thing I miss the most about boot camp is the support and friendship of encouragement of all of the women in my camp.  (well, save for one).  It is how we all got through it and why we might go again.  It is what makes going to the co-ed class more challenging, but why I will continue to go (as I can hear them in my head and see them on my facebook page!).   

And, frankly, if all I got out of my week of hell is these few things, then I say it was well worth the money.

Camp Karma

As y’all know, in a deluded pre-Christmas indulgence moment, I committed to going to fat camp with my friend Sam.   Now, this made a lot of sense in November as I was contemplating weeks of Christmas drinks and parties and post-drinks/parties hangover lunches, not to mention a week in the Fat Capital of the World, Houston, followed by a tour of all Flavors O’ Fat in San Francisco and New Orleans – Cajun, Creole, French, Mexican and good ol’ American….. 

So, in a desperate bid to really enjoy all of this and to assuage the guilt of this 5 star indulgence, I succumbed to the suggestion that what I needed was to plan for the remedy – a week of exercise and healthy food.   

But, I’m not stupid. 

I nay-sayed the suggestion that Sam posed for a boot-camp “holiday” in the middle of the country with bunk-style accommodation.    I am not a camper.  (and, in case, you need to be reminded of this, check out http://countrydropper.blogspot.com/2010/10/perfect-festival.html) 

Nor, do I do group accommodation – I never stayed in a hostel when I was a poor student, why on earth would I opt for this now that I have a decent  income?  And, February in the UK is just asking for cold.  And wet.  Again, not interested.

But, when she suggested Spain, I started listening.   I could definitely get comfortable with the idea of a week of good health in the sun. 

In February – months away.   In Spain, miles away.

Easy decision in November.

But, even as the week approached, I was almost looking forward to it.   Just as everyone is broke and miserable, completely over the cold and snow and adopting a rickets-like Vitamin D-deficient pallor, where am I headed, but a week in sunny Spain where I had already paid for everything, save for the multiple hour-long massage sessions and manicure/pedicure I had booked?  A week in a beautiful hacienda with a giant jacuzzi bathtubs, mountainous views, cozy log fires and a personal  Michelin trained chef preparing delicious and healthy meals and snacks 5 times a day.  Now, I knew that, obviously, there would be exercise.  But, the brochure also said that we would have personal time to enjoy our holiday. 

So, this is all sounding fabulous to me:  pre-breakfast walks, catching the sunrise over the hills.  A little rest after our gourmet coffee (with skim milk and agave syrup, of course) breakfast buffet, featuring egg white omelets with homemade salsa, fresh fruit, smoked salmon, creamy avocado,  whole wheat toast and lean bacon, then a mid-morning exercise circuit...probably, an hour of body pump style gym class aerobics with funky cardio music.  Then, maybe some yoga or pilates to ease us into our lunch, which would inevitably be prepared al fresco in the sunshine, grilled swordfish or lean steak with a light salad and fruity ice tea.  Of course, our afternoons would be free to “enjoy our holiday,” and we could opt for tennis on the courts, a few hours poolside with a good book, possibly horse-riding on the beach or kayaking in the ocean.  Finally, as the sun is setting on our perfect day, a nice warm dinner in front of the fire (as it does get a bit chilly at night, even in Spain) of chorizo and white bean cassoulet and a single glass of ruby-colored rich Rioja to wash it all down before retiring for a hot bubble bath in the giant jacuzzi tub or an hour’s massage.

Not a bad way to work off the holidays, eh?

Wrong.

Turns out I had traded my soul to the devil for all my Christmas delish debauchery.  Well, not so much the devil, really, as the Captains of Pain.  

Now, the night before I flew to Hell, as I like to call it now, (a 6 am flight, I might add.  It is almost as if I were subconsciously trying to make it as hellish as possible), I went to a friend’s engagement drinks where I had a couple of beers.  Now my friends at this event started asking me if I was ready for what I was getting into – seems everyone else had an inkling of what awaited ‘cept for me.)  In a last-ditch attempt at denial, I put my hands over my ears, shouting “LALALALALAL I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” before taking off in a taxi home, via the local fish and chip shop.   So, maybe not the best prep for the week.

But, deluded I remained.  To the point that it only occurred to me that there would be no coffee as I was sitting in the coffee shop at the Malaga airport waiting for our ride.  I think panic kinda set in then.

And, again, I remained deluded, when the first Captain of Pain – Captain Comedy as he came to be known in my head (and for reasons that will become abundantly clear all too soon) started the drive to our hacienda.    He very kindly offered to pick us up some lunch it was a 45 minute drive, and I actually believed him when he told us that there was a McDonalds en route.  First sign. 

We were met at the casa by Captain Kind.  This was a smart way to ease us into it. As we awaited the arrival of the rest of the girls, we were weighed and measured and then had a half-hearted attempt at playing badminton and volleyball.  We had a delicious bowl of homemade vegetable soup.  We frolicked in the sunshine.  I was happy.

And, yet, I still didn’t pick up on the next two big hints.  One, when I asked what was for lunch after our pre-meal snack of soup and was told that WAS lunch.  And, two, when Captain Kind said that the real boot camp would start the next day.  I assumed he meant when the others had arrived.

Wrong.

Fast forward to 6 am.  It is butt-arse cold.  There is no central heat, so we are ladened down with comforters and duvets to stave off the near zero temperatures. (Turns out February in Spain is FREEZING, afterall.)  We get out of bed in a groggy state.  We stumble to the front lawn where we get our first “consequence” of the week.

From Captain Cool, the third in the triumvirate of evil.  

Now, for the un-initiated, a “consequence” is a torture technique inflicted upon us in retaliation for failure to adhere to one of the rules.  Like, being on time.  And, luckily for us, there is one person who is late. To everything.

Now, in the interest of protecting the annoying, I am going to call this person Floja.  (which is Spanish for lazy.  You can see where this is headed, methinks.)  So Floja is late.  So we have to do push-ups.  Then Floja puts her hands on her hips. So we have to do push-ups.   

We finally get started on our pre-morning workout.  Running. Up and down the driveway.  Which is in on a steep incline.   For an hour.

Then we break for breakfast – woo hoo!  I have now done more exercise in one morning than I have done in the past 6 months combined.   Boy, am I ready for my breakfast buffet!

Imagine my joy at a receiving a cup of oatmeal.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this was clearly the best oatmeal I had ever had.  But, I actually considered licking the bowl and the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I didn’t know anyone well enough yet to reveal that desperation yet.  (Natch, this did come later)

But, then we get a half hour break.  So, I get back in bed and go back to sleep.  I get out bed in a groggy and, if it is possible, even colder state.  I stumble to the front lawn, where we get another consequence for tardiness.  Courtesy of guess who?  Yep.  No flies on y’all.

At this point, Captain Cool introduces me to his world of pain, I mean, circuits.  See, he has two favorite things in the world.  Inflicting pain and looking good while doing it – hence, his name.  And, pain for him comes in the form of burpees, push-ups, stand-up/sit downs and inch worms.  All of these involve getting down on the ground and back to a standing position at a break-neck pace, coupled with any combination of a push-up, jump, crunch, or arch.  Sounds easy, right?  Do 10 in a row of each, following by a sprint to and from a target point in the distance.

Do this for an hour.

Then, do it again.

At this point, I want to die.  Or, kill.  And, it is only 10:30 am.

I keep thinking it is going to get better.  But, it doesn’t.  It just goes on and on.  Luckily, Captain Comedy is circling the group, promising chocolate cake and bacon.  Yeah, a real Ricky Gervais that one.  Captain Kind is also circling the group and answering questions about form and injuries.  A minor twinge injury gets you at least a few minutes rest so I make up all manner of problems to discuss with him.  I think he starts to catch on after I ask about menstrual cramps.

Somehow, I persevere.  Meanwhile, it has become painfully obvious that I am the most out of shape, uncoordinated, balance challenged and slowest woman there.  I am getting out-run, out-lifted and out-push-upped by everyone, including those who were chain-smoking in between sets and my old friend Floja.

Now, two days into this and normally I would be a complete HATER.  I would hate the Captains of Pain, who devise the cruel, bone-crushing and lunge pounding sprints of death up the Hills of Hell.  I would hate the gorgeous athletic sprinters and Gold Standard circuit masters, who barely break a sweat as they lap me twice over.  I would hate the chef who short changed me an olive on my salad and only doles out  two nuts with my paltry child-sized snack of a half banana.  I would hate all the staff who eat burgers and cheese while I am scraping the remains of my soup bowl.  And, mostly, I would hate myself for making the asinine decision to pay this much money to be this miserable.

But, luckily for me and everyone else, I get to hate Floja.  

A little background on Floja – she actually came on this camp to quit smoking.  Not to exercise.  Not to lose weight.  Seems a bit overkill to me – when I quit smoking, I went to a seminar for a half day, not a week in Hell. Clearly, she was as clueless as I was.  But, who knows.

The only problem with her strategy was that she was indignant that she wasn’t getting more food and was being forced to exercise.   She noticed first thing our sweet little Steffi (who is always freakishly cold and resists anything green on her plate – hmmm – ya think, maybe the two are connected?)   who only picks, child-like, at her food, leaving the vegetables and greens to the side.  Floja sees a real opportunity here, so she hones in on Steffi like a lioness circling the weak antelope, positioning herself next to Steffi at every meal, scavenging off the remains.

And, in her disgruntled state she resists all manner of instruction – at pain of, you guessed it, consequences for the rest of us.    I think we were all about to kill her when she put her “weapon” (code: heavy as sh*t weight bar) down on the beach and we all had to run a quarter of a mile in the shifting sand carrying ours.  She, of course, walked.   Without hers.

So, my hate intensifies.  I hate her every time she stabs her fork into food on Steffi’s plate before Steffi even has a chance to sit down, with the comment “You’re not going to eat that.”    I hate her a little bit more every time she cheats at a circuit rep, half-arsing her burpees and push-ups or using the lightest weights and paying lip service to lunges and squats.   I hate her lots more when she quits at challenges, such as our 5k mountain climb or our morning runs up the Hill of Hell.   And I positively seethe with hatred when is able to finish every activity ahead of me and beats me on races and in games.  (never mind that the Captains of Pain have all told me that this is because of her half-arsing it and cheating.  (I see that she is hoarding her energy and strength in a personal goal of beating me.  I see that she is competitive.  She sees that I am.  Game on.)

And, no, I do not think I am paranoid. 

Well, maybe a little.

But, never mind, because it is this hatred that gets me through the week.  Well, that and the fact that I realized on the third day that everyone else hated her, too. 

Maybe not to the extent that I did.  But, I was certainly not the only one who noticed that she was able to move her arse when it was competitive – races or netball and she was on top of her game.  Hikes and team runs and she was lolly-gagging in the back, lunges and hill climbs and it was statements of “I don’t do that.”

But, I digress!

So, day in and day out, we follow the same timeline.  7 am runs, breakfast, circuits, snack, circuits, lunch, afternoon activity (which, blissfully, was actually restful  on some days) dinner and bed.  I learned that I should have actually read the equipment list – blister tape (never even heard of that one before!), blister compresses and nurofen plus all became my best friend.   Two pair of socks and underwear each day really were required.  My running headband wore out, my sports bras had to be doubled up, a hot shower became the sole moment of joy in my day and I guzzled green tea in a bid to stave off the caffeine-withdrawal.  I drank so much water and green tea, that I naturally had to pee a lot. So much so that we ran out of toilet paper in our room one night before bed.  I was so tired and achey that I proffered up my face wipes as a poor substitute rather than have to get out from under the three comforters on my bed to go out into the cold night to get more TP. 

(Needless to say, Sam was not amused.)

The actuality of what I had voluntarily paid money and taken a week off work to do that had been so apparent to all my friends became a never-ending, cold, pain-filled, exhausted, hungry and cranky reality.   At one point, I actually pushed myself so hard that I cried and threw up from the effort.

And, yet, the women were all supportive and encouraging, we laughed a lot, the Captains of Pain all looked pretty good (and, even better with their shirts off at the beach on the ONE warm day we had) and the food was extremely tasty and filling, leaving us wanting more.  I discovered that I actually liked hot water with fresh lemon, ginger and mint instead of coffee.  I survived without cheese or wine.   I learned that I could hike up a mountain, run a couple of miles and push myself to do push-ups, lunges and squats until my muscles felt like they were about to burst.  I learned to play rounders, netball and the most pathetic girly version of touch rugby you ever saw.

On the last night, we actually had a glass of champagne and had another weigh-in and a set of measurements taken.  I was positive I had actually lost tons of weight, as I felt I had literally worked my arse off.  Yeah, not so much.

And, guess who lost more than me? 

Yep, turns out Karma is a b*tch.  (or is for those of us who act like one, anyway.)

Guess I will just have to do this again in the summer.  Which is what I told Sam on the flight home.

I must still be high from the endorphins.

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. 

Texish Tradition

Happy Halloween y’all - the festive season is upon us!  And, do I ever love the holidays – the apple crisp, smoky leaf and cinnamon bite of cooler days and cold nights.   Foggy breath mornings and fireplace nights…and all the parties: Halloween, Bonfire Night, Thanksgiving and Christmas.   And, what’s the best part about the holidays?  The tradition.  Yep, I’m a sucker for tradition.   Which y’all might think is odd, because I can’t seem to stay in one place long enough to create my own.  (Course if I did, I’d have to rename this blog Neighborhood Dropper.  Not quite the same ring, methinks)

But, I digress!  Because here I am, living the dream in the UK.  And you would think that you couldn’t get more traditional than the UK.  I mean, this was an empire, right?  It still has a monarchy,  old homes, castles and churches that date back hundred and thousands of years and has at any given time at least one period drama as one of the highest ranking television shows.   

So, when the subject of Halloween came up at work, I asked my colleagues at work what their plans were – none of them had any.  If they had a Halloween plan at all, it was to paint some fake blood and gore on their face and go.  This is not what Halloween is about.  We, Texans, know what it is really about, right?  Yep, candy.

And LOTS of it.

 

Who doesn’t remember counting the days until you got to bring home the mother-load, only to sort through it by quality: mini-fun bars of Snickers at the top, do-gooder toothbrush/floss combo at the bottom.   And, don’t even get me started on the people who give out apples.  The best thing that ever happened to Halloween was that urban myth that lunatics were putting razor blades in apples – never really happened, but it saved us from mushy, bruised, space hogging apples.  (I mean just think how many more mini-fun bar you can fit in the space one apple takes up – and don’t even get me started on how heavy those mofos were.)

And, of course, Halloween just kicks off the many months of the smorgasbord known as the holidays…just about when you finish your last few sad bit-o-honeys,  chick-o-sticks and cheap Tom’s candy style rejects, there is Thanksgiving time!

Mmm, turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, pecan pie, rolls and pumpkin pie.  Yep, it is all about the food….and then just a few days later, you guessed it - Christmas parties begin.  And the best Christmas party traditions? Cookies!  Both for Santa and also the time honored tradition of the cookie exchange party.  Fudge, divinity, iced sugar cookies in tree and reindeer shapes, peppermint candy cane cookies…the list goes on! 

And, I’m pretty sure I just gained 5 lbs thinking about that.

(BTW, I gave up drinking for a while in a bid to lose weight.  Didn’t lose a pound.  Decided I’d rather be fat than bored.  Bring on the mulled wine and egg nog.)

So, it’s starting to look like tradition is just code for food.  At least in Texas, that is. 

Because tradition and food in the UK?  Not so much.  Let’s take the quintessential tradition of all traditions – high tea.  Now, you might think that’s about food.  I mean the title does seem to indicate that there is at a minimum, some drinking going on.    But what do you get to accompany said tea?  Cucumber sandwiches?  With no crusts?  Is that even food? 

And, the highlight – scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.  Well, let me tell you, this is just a fancy way of sayin’ dry biscuits with jelly.  (Note: the cream is just to make it a little less dry)  If you’re lucky they might throw a few raisins it. I mean, really. 

And, speaking of dry, let’s just talk about Christmas pudding – this is a completely foreign concept to me.  Somehow it starts with suet (I don’t even know what that is, but I think it is some kind of a pork fat thing.  Oh wait.  I think I am just confusing that with Sooey.  Damn those Arkansas Razorbacks.) But, I digress.

So, start with suet a month in advance and add some brandy and more raisins (what is up with the raisins?  I mean, c’mon on, they are just dried out grapes.  Chocolate chips; now that is a dessert additive.  Not raisins.  Those need to stay in the little red box and 8 year olds’ lunch sacks).  Anyway, somehow once Christmas arrives you get, wait for it…dry fruit cake.  That you add more cream to – only this time it is at least called custard and has some sugar in it.   Woo hoo. Gettin' crazy at Christmas!

And, what about the mother of all festivities -- weddings?  What is more widely known than the taste of a triple tiered buttercream white wedding cake?  So widely recognized and appreciated, I have owned candles and drunk martinis that are wedding cake flavored.  YUM.  Guess what you get at a British wedding?  Yep.  Dry fruit cake. This time with a thick sheet of, well, I won’t even call it icing, because it has the consistency of marzipan.    But, regardless, dry fruit cake all the same. 

Am I the only one seeing  a trend here?

And, it’s not just holidays and festivities. Let’s take sports for example.  What comes to mind when you think of baseball? Hot dogs, beers, peanuts.  And, cricket? 

Well, honestly, I got nothin’.    At least at Wimbledon, there’s pimms and strawberries with cream. (Again with the cream?)  For those of you who’ve never been fortunate enough to sample pimms, it is pretty much a minty cucumber and fruit salad in a cup with seven up and some mildy alcoholic fruity syrupy stuff.   Sold?  Yeah, not me either.   If I am going to take in 200 calories a cup, I better get a buzz off it.  And, I’m not talking sugar high.  

But, if you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you will know that drinking is actually pretty central to most traditions in the UK .  Now, the pimms and tea prove that it doesn’t have to be alcohol related.  Of course, let’s not forget the hub of every village is the local pub.   I need not remind y'all what you do in a pub.  I mean there is a TV show called Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps – clearly, the dinner of champions.  (I can only imagine if you tried the Texas version – two longnecks and a bag of fritos.  Not quite the same ring to it.)

And, if you had to pick a hub for a small Texas  town,  traditionally, it would have been  the church. And, before, you think “Aha! That isn’t about food!”….just think about one of the big draws of church….the post Sunday service potluck, the cake walk and bake sale fundraising efforts  and coffee cake prayer groups.  I mean, I so much as hear a hymn and my mouth starts watering for fried chicken. …

 So,  the more I think about it, the more I don’t need to stay in one place to honor my Texas traditions.  So long as I have my Texas shaped cake pan, Better Homes and Gardens red-checked cookbook and a steady supply of Crisco, pecans and marshmallows, I can whip up any tradition I need.

And, luckily for me, I get to combine that with my favorite British traditions …..the liquid kind.

Cultural Puberty

I’ve been feeling pretty homesick this summer – primarily as the weather hasn’t cracked 70 degrees and the sun has been an elusive myth, all the while Texas has been having months of over 100 degrees and a historic heat wave.  Now, I know everyone has been complaining about that, but I am used to the heat.  Summer is supposed to be hot!  It is supposed to remind us that we packed on the pounds in the winter and we don’t need them anymore.  (Nor can we hide them in baggy sweaters and coats)  We are supposed to get a healthy tan (yes, I know that is an oxymoron; but admit it, pale people look sick.  And, you DO get Vitamin D from the sun, so really you NEED to sit by the pool with a crappy book and a daiquiri (which, with the lime and strawberry adds even more vitamins.  Well, look at me – I am a total health nut, after all!)).

But, no, I've had none of that this summer.  I stayed white and fat – pretty much like a big glow worm.   And, let’s not even get into the cobwebs on my grill and the state of my backyard garden.  My health is not the only thing suffering.  So, imagine how excited I was to head to Texas for my annual pilgrimage to Austin City Limits!  Now, I have a new job and I work too much so it had to be a really short trip, but I fully intended to pack in all the steak, sunshine, margaritas, music, friends and family that I could.  Not to mention shopping!  Which, I did the minute I got off the plane.  Headed right to the mall and Banana Republic where I saw a totally cute cardigan in purple, which I wanted in black.  So, I asked the sales lady if they had it in other colors.   To which she replied, “Ohmigod, where are you from??  England?!”

Cue shock, surprise, horror and dismay.

What?? How could I be confused as English?  When my work nicknames are Texas Tornado and Texas and I am constantly told that I need to tone down my “Texas-ness” when giving bad news or disagreeing with people at work.  When my phone ring tone is Texas Fight and I wear my cowboy boots on Fridays?  When I constantly amuse people with my Texas phrases – come to Jesus, crazier than a sh*thouse rat, drunker ‘n Cooter Brown (not that these are all used in the same sentence, but, given some of the people I have to deal with at work, they SO could.) and, not the least of which, the omnipresent “y’all.” 

And, yes, people, I put that in work emails, lest anyone forget that, while I may have to tone down the “Texas-ness” at times, it is lurking there below the surface, just in case I ever need to “open up a can of whoop a$$.”  So, turns out maybe my little work reputation (which, I have been told “precedes me, but in the nicest possible way”) may not be unwarranted.  But, I digress.

So, if I am more Texas than pecan pie (see what I did there?  Clever, clever!), how could this poor fellow Texan think I was English? 

Well, as it turns out, it was the way I asked the question.  Not, “hey, does this come in other colors?” but “Have you got this in another colour?”  Tell the difference?  (other than the superfluous “u” that indicates this was spoken in a British accent.  And, don’t get me started on the inappropriate use of the letter “s” in place of the perfectly good, but oft neglected, letter “z” ( NOT zed.  What even is that?).  Come to think of it, I don’t even think they use the letter z in England.  They certainly never say zany or zilch.)   

So, yes, I realiZed that it must have been my intonation since I ended my sentence with an upturned accented question – as in, have you got this in another COLOUR?  See, Americans, say everything as if it were already a fact.  The British seem to almost apologiZe for speaking up.  (and, don't even get me started on the affected stutter or over-use of the passive voice.  Headline, Brits -- no one FALLS pregant.  Things do not GO missing.   Surely, I need not explain why.)

But, in any event,  I think all of this belies a much bigger cultural difference.

We, Americans, are always noted for being uber confident.  We are brash, outspoken, emotional and  operate in obvious-ness and  extremes.  The British are  timid, restrained, subtle and operate in skepticism and cynicism.    I wonder if this reverts back to our histories – we Americans think we won the last two world wars and are now the only super-power in the world.  The British think they ran the world into the ground through imperialism and colonialism and are embarrassed by the legacy of this domination.  It is as if Americans are the dumb teenagers who don’t yet know the effects of getting into bar fights while the British are the grown-ups who just got released from jail after being rehabilitated.   In one, the hormones are in the driving seat, while the other has the brain is in over-drive.

Never is this more obvious than on the new import into the US of a British show – The X Factor USA.   Now, I love the X Factor here in the UK, but I am annoyed to no end by the X Factor USA.   Why?  Well, not just because the complete and utter lack of personality or intelligence exhibited by Nicole Sherzinger who astounds even me with her complete vacuous-ness.  (But, then again she did get famous by wearing underwear and singing about slagging off some guy’s girlfriend.)

No, actually, what annoys me is how everyone LOVES each other.   And, yes, they had all just met.  Now, the British would say that dilutes the value of the word “love” while the Americans think, “hey that just really means I’m a fan.”  (who can forget the “I love you man” beer commercials?)   So, here I am annoyed as all get out by this gushing of emotion that seems totally fake.  But, the thing is, it is not.   I know that those people sincerely felt what they were saying.   Just like a 14 year girl really DOES love  Zac Efron or New Direction (for you Americans, this is the latest boy band craze brought to us by X Factor – see how I bring this full circle? ;)), Americans really and truly think they feel this way.

And, there is something to be said for this youthful open and guileless sharing of emotion.  Not to discredit the benefit and maturity of being a little skeptical and cynical –not always taking things at face value.  

I think my challenge is to retain both – almost like going through cultural puberty.

So, back to being Texish. 

I am going to keep my margaritas like a good Texan, but, like a good Brit, I’ll have it with a grain of salt.

Rules of Engagement

This week was an interesting one at work; we had a three day training led by some of our American colleagues over from our Texas offices.  So, woah, total collision of cultures.  Ironically, I was supposed to take my life in the UK test to qualify for my Indefinite Leave to Remain status (Or; if you’re American: green card), but had to cancel it.  (Of course, I had already had to cancel it once as I foolishly scheduled it for a Saturday morning after a work event with open bar.) 

Tsk, tsk.  

Really, I should have known that while, taking the test with a raging hangover would most definitely make me qualified to live in the UK, the official view remains that I have to know what percentage of the population of the UK is black-asian and what year women got the vote.  These are facts that one cannot just wing (or; if you’re British, “blag.”  See, why do I need that test anyway?).   But, I digress.

So, here I am in an audience of all Brits and me, watching some VERY American style corporate training.  I am not even sure I can put it into words, but, let’s just say that all those Brits now know what the phrase “drink the Kool-Aid means.”

And, no, they didn’t know what it meant or what Kool-Aid was before.  I guess it is just Americans who add artificial colors, flavors and chemicals to sugar to make a powder that we add to water to feed to children.  Actually, come to think of it, my old Aussie flatmate (wait, read that as old flatmate who was an Aussie not some Australian geriatric lady that I live with.  That would just be creepy.) But, anyway, she pointed out, while I was unpacking all the groceries I had brought back from Texas (read: smuggled past customs) it was all powdered food.  Yes, I liked my Crystal Light, Good Seasons’ zesty Italian dressing, cream gravy, ranch dip packets of goodness.  But, sadly once I realized what I was actually putting in my body, the idea of a bunch of powdered chemicals seemed a bit weird as I wasn’t actually combating gravity or facing a lack of storage space to carry actual food.  No, sadly I am not an astronaut.  Turns out, the wonders of Tang-like products are actually unnecessary.

In any event, the Brits were pretty horrified by the gung-ho, pep- rally, “how great is our job!  Our company! Our training!” training.  And, yes, I was equally jaded (note that is American jaded, not British jaded, which is, yes, shock, surprise, another word for hungover).  My own skepticism, carefully cultivated from 5 years of living in London, made me equally disillusioned. 

But, sure enough, after three full days of indoctrination, even the Brits were drinking the Kool-aid.  And, when we all got to present our final presentation, everyone embraced the humorous side, dressing in costume, singing, and being generally silly.  Pretty much the way that they would all look after 12 pints of beer.   Victory for the Americans, right?

Well, not so much. 

Because, sure enough, some dude thought he really was down at the pub after 12 pints and started telling jokes. 

About the trainers’ premature ejaculation and whore houses. 

Cue American shock and horror.  And, suddenly I am right back there waving the flag for the Americans.  Um, hello?  NOT appropriate.

So, maybe this whole British conservatism isn’t such a bad thing. Kinda reminds me of that old Eddie Murphy joke about the quiet women being the most dangerous.  You know, because all women have skeletons in the closet and the women who are quiet are only keeping their mouth shout because they are afraid a bone is going to come flying out!  I mean, think about it.  A sex scandal in the States is an extramarital affair.  A sex scandal in the UK is a member of parliament dressed in a Nazi uniform with hookers.

I think we must just have very different rules of engagement.  We Americans like to treat our jobs like they are vocations, a marriage of values and a paycheck. 

And, the Brits?  Well, let me point out that Friday is called Poet’s Day.  Which, stands for Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. 

Rumor has it, a VERY senior person at my company has started pulling security logs on Fridays to see who actually shows up at work.  (Let’s hope he doesn’t pull the times or I am screwed.  I am notoriously late on a Friday.  Well, actually, every day.  On Fridays it is just less noticeable, particularly as I am wont to sneak in at lunchtime as if I had just popped out for a sandwich!)

We Americans get two weeks’ vacation a year.  The Brits?  Well, 4 weeks is considered a “bad benefits package.”  Luckily for me, I have 5 ½.   And, as I am a slave to my travel addiction, that is perfect for me.

Unfortunately, the downside of all this is that salaries don’t rival the US.  So, while I have all this vacation time, I don’t really have the cash to use it.   But, I am American.  I have credit.

And as any one who knows me will point out, I live like Mastercard is my paycheck.  So, the fun continues – next stop, Morocco.  Suitably attired in Jimmy Choos, natch.

Some day it is going to catch up to me (read: the credit limit is exhausted), and as my dad is fond of saying, I will have to pick up my toys and go in.  But, until then, I am going to be a skeptical, pint-swilling, vacation taking, credit card living, non-offensive joke telling, Texan-Britishy person. 

I am a Texish person.  And, those are my rules of engagement.