Gym-bore-ee

    Going to the gym in London used to be a rather staid affair.   I belonged to a small but, dare I say, select club on the Fulham Road in Chelsea whose members included the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow and Felicity Kendal.  It was well-kept, its women’s changing rooms included a lovely sit-down make-up area with rows of hairdryers, showers with plenty of shampoo and conditioner, a Jacuzzi, sauna and steam room.  It had the very latest equipment and, even better, a tiny but completely adequate women’s gym on the second floor.   There was a pool and coffee shop; trainers were always around to give one a hand and were always courteous and informative.

The dignified aura might not have suited all.  I, for one, chose this club because it was within a five minute walk of my apartment and, if you need encouragement to go to the gym as I do, having it on your doorstep, so to speak, is a good start.  I even managed to get down there for evening salsa classes which is saying a lot.  About the most controversial thing to happen at this gym was the time they decided to face the Abductor machines towards the wall because certain ladies had complained they didn’t want to be facing the general public while repeatedly opening and closing their legs.

The good ladies of New York have no such qualms.  While I am not a member of a city gym, I do go to one out in Sag Harbor for the six months I am out on the Island.  How different can going to the gym be?  Well, first of all, instead of a five minute walk I am now faced with a six minute drive followed by a ten minute search, in the summer at least, for a parking space.   No pool—really not needed out here anyway, but neither are there the other relaxing bits and pieces.  The gym itself is rather run-down, the changing room grotty and the trainers…well, the trainers I’ll get to in a minute.  The bottom line here is that people mean business:  they work-out, they go home.  There is none of the lazing in the sauna showing off your glorious bod, or quiet chit chat you want everyone in the changing room  to hear about your last fabulous holiday.  You get the same assortment of bulimics mixed with fatties but no one seems to care about either.  What you do get is a trainer with the loudest mouth in the world and the worst case of verbal diarrhea I have ever encountered.

For some reason I always encounter this man with a client when I am there and it is always in the supposedly quiet mat exercise room.  I have never seen him with the same client twice---and no wonder!!!!  They probably cannot stand him any more than I can.  I now know all about his hip replacement (yes, I did say he is a trainer), his double knee replacement surgeries in Colorado, how he got into training for them so he would have a shorter recovery time, how he hated being on Coumadin after his surgeries and how it changed his taste buds, his various escapades on boats, his trip to St. Louis, and a good part of his sex life with his wife Sue.  What I have not learned is any of the exercises in which he is apparently instructing his clients.

Last Monday, however, things rather came to a head--- no pun intended, this is the only way I can express this.   He was telling his male client how he had “accidentally” got into a porn site on the internet and then went on to describe, in some detail, the various things he had found there.  Now I’ve never  been on a porn site but I am on the internet a good part of my day and if I’ve never unexpectedly found myself in a porn site I really can’t understand how this person could.  But the game was up.  “Yeah,” said the other guy, “that’s happened to me too.  But trouble is, once you pay them, even if it’s for the one time, you keep getting notices to renew.” 

Trouble with the gym is, it doesn’t exercise your brain.

Telly Me Something I Don’t Know (or Pt.2 TV)

First of all, the answer to last week’s mystery question was “Mary Martin.”  She played the male role of Peter Pan!  All the contestants had answered Julie Andrews for some reason.  I guess they weren’t as old as I; this was the first theater production I had ever been to and I remember trying to fly after the show by jumping on my brother’s back  Anyway…

Many, many years ago, someone once said to me, ‘If you want to know Britain you must listen to its radio.’  And I did.  Even now, when I see the clock hit 12.57pm, I’m ready to turn on Radio Four and listen to the weather report prior to the mid-day news and an afternoon’s listening.  Dinner preparation has never been quite the same since leaving the U.K.; now I am dependent on my iPod for company and at other times, Telly rules.   OK?  American television isn’t quite so bad as Italian where a mother was recently told on live TV that her daughter had been murdered.  In America, we only have to deal with a certain lack of intelligence.  So, back to my viewing diary from last week when I left ‘Jeopardy” which was followed by “Wheel of Fortune.”  To this I said ‘no thank you,’ and moved on to:

“1,000 Ways to Die’:  this might possibly be the funniest programme on television.  It is preceded by the warning, “Do not attempt to try any of the actions depicted…”  This programme is exactly what it purports to be:  a compendium of weird and wonderful ways people have died in these United  States.  First up is a guy on the lam in Montana who’s been robbing banks in an attempt to get the money together to open a meths lab.  Wanting a high and out of booze, he siphons off the gasoline from his Harley believing the ethanol will give him his alcoholic high.  Subsequently he pukes into his camp fire and---guess what? 

Next on this programme is a Japanese couple who, after 7 years of wedded non-bliss have still been unable to consummate their marriage.  The husband comes home plastered one evening and gets his wife to join him in his drunken stupor leading to…  At that climactic moment, they both die of heart attacks.

And then there is the woman who wants to lose weight.  Guess what she does?  She buys a whole load of tape worm larvae from Venezuela… which might not be such a good strategy.  The longest worm they eventually found in her body was 20 ft……..

Joy Behar:  the comedienne, whom I know from catching “The View” in the mornings at the gym, is today interviewing one Jenny McCarthy.  I’ve never heard of this person previously but she is describing to Behar, in graphic detail, a most intimate relationship she had with a stuffed bear called ‘Tubby.’

Swamp People: This is on the History Channel.  Apparently there is not enough history to occupy the channel full-time so we have this series about people with accents so thick we need the provided subtitles to understand anything they are saying.  It would also help if someone explained why they do the job they do---which is hunting snakes and alligators so that the rest of us can look at lovely shoes, belts and fabulous handbags we cannot possibly afford.  Unfortunately, one guy still doesn’t know the difference between venomous and non-venomous snakes which is something of a liability in his line of work.  I leave them frying frog fritters…

American Pickers:  This is about a firm called ‘Antique Archaeology’ who go around the country looking in barns, sheds, run down houses, fields and other unlikely venues where junk that could possibly be sold as antiques might be found.  This week they find a pinball machine with cowgirls on it and we are told that in 1942 Mayor LaGuardia banned and destroyed pinballs as games of luck---or gambling.  History on the History Channel at last!  The men also find the ‘Alien’ dummies used in a film about Roswell.  It’s pointed out that a UFO sighting is reported somewhere on the planet every 3 minutes!  As they load the dummies into their van, one man asks the other, “Do you believe in Aliens?”  His reply?  “I gotta believe there’s gotta be something smarter than us…”

And last but certainly not least:

Better Off Dead:  When I hit the ‘Info’ button on my remote control, it says, “Follow Mark Lilly, Social Worker at the Dept. of Integration, as he helps new citizens…adapt to hectic life in the Big Apple.”  BETTER OFF DEAD????

 Are they trying to tell me something?

T.V. or Not T.V., that IS the Question

One night during the summer I was dining over at my brother’s home when the conversation came round to television.  “So what do you watch?” I was asked.  After a momentary silence and a procrastinating sip of wine I had to tell the assembled guests that, in actual fact, I didn’t watch American television very much at all.   On neither side of the pond have I ever been a great one for the Box; I simply cannot sit and do nothing while staring at a screen.  Since I started living on my own, my television watching predominantly consists of a half hour over lunch and a further half hour or so over dinner.  Sure, I catch the news and turn the damn thing on while dressing in the mornings or getting ready for bed, but actually sit down and watch?  I used to exercise in front of it which added an hour or so to my viewing time but, since I took up gym attendance, that too has gone by the board.

In the UK I used to record programmes and films and watch them over a period of time.  Most of my watching consisted of documentaries, historical dramas and the odd human interest programme such as “Who Do You Think You Are?” which traces the ancestry of various celebrities.  I did watch a few episodes of the American version (did you know Sarah Jessica Parker is descended from a Salem witch??!) but unfortunately circumstances eventually overtook me on that.  I tried watching a few programmes my brother recommended; “Monk,” about a detective with OCD, was my firm favourite but I got there just in time for its last season.  I tried “House” for a while as I used to love Hugh Laurie when he was teamed with Stephen Fry, but after a few episodes I realized how very formulaic this series was and gave up. My nephew recommended “Glee” saying he was certain I would love it; next time don’t be so sure of yourself!  “The Closer” I can happily watch and “Project Runway” I’ve been watching for years as I rather enjoy the cut and thrust of the competition, not to mention the weird fashion---but in a country where I could have some 900 channels from which to choose, this is all slim pickings indeed.

Therefore, in the interests of Investigative Journalism (i.e., this blog), I decided to subject myself to arbitrary television viewing over several days.  In fact, my first inclination was to try to watch for 12 hours of prime time viewing but I’m afraid I soon ditched that idea in the interests of my own sanity.  I set myself certain parameters for this experiment:  I would not watch any of the programmes previously watched as cited above; there would be no films and  no news or current affairs to which I would have normally gravitated; furthermore, there would be no British imports so Masterpiece Theatre was out--- no masterpieces for me!  Finally, there would be nothing with the words ‘Real Housewives of…’ in the title (nothing real about these women since they are 90% plastic and 10% hair extensions), simply in the interests of saving me from regurgitation.   So, here, this week and next, is my viewing diary:

6.30pm: “Flipping Out” is about a gay guy with OCD who does remodeling and home re-designs on a very grand scale.  He seems to have major management issues, particularly with his maid, Zola.  In this episode, his biggest problem was dealing with a 90 year old woman who wanted door handles designed as nude figures throughout the house and he had to explain that this might not be in the very best taste.

7PM:  “Jeopardy”:  this long-running game show basically entails contestants being given the answer to questions and they have to come up with the question; therefore, their replies must always start with who, what, where, or when.  So, the M.C. says, ‘the mortar between tiles’ and the contestant replies “What is grout?”  Or, “A condition in polar regions where snow makes visibility poor.”  Answer:  “What is a ‘white out’?”  But really, if someone asked you, “What is jumping?” would you truly reply, “Miriam Rothschild discovered that a substance in the hind legs of fleas gave them this amazing ability????”  Or if someone demanded, “What is Murder on the Orient Express?” would your answer really be, “Hercule makes a bust on a choo-choo out of Istanbul?”

By the way, the major-grossing question for the night was “In 1955 she became the first and only female star to win a Tony in a male part.”  Out of the 4 contestants and me, I was the only one to know the answer.  Anyone who replies with the correct answer below in ‘Comment’ will get $1 from me.  If you can prove you didn’t Google it, of course.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK…..

STREET SCENES

Summer is over and I’ve come to realize, once and for all, how very different the streets of New York are from the streets of London.  I don’t just mean the very obvious differences, such as the grid system that characterizes NYC, or the lack of ancient buildings.  The whole experience of walking is totally different.

     When I first brought my daughter over to New York for a visit many years ago, I carefully explained the numbered streets going north and south and the avenues going east to west.  I devised “Men Pay Less” so she could remember Madison, Park, Lex, and CAB for Columbus/Amsterdam/Broadway.  Now she knows her way around even those areas my generation once feared to tread:  the Lower East Side, Alphabet City, Hell’s Kitchen are nothing to Kit. And I never get asked for directions here.  In London between May and October I might as well have opened a booth on the Brompton Rd. for all the directions I was handing out.   The winding streets, the leafy squares (many more trees in London!), the haphazard connection between what were once an assortment of villages are nothing like the calculated and deliberately planned street system of the Big Apple.

     New Yorkers walk differently too.  Maybe it’s the broader pavements/sidewalks but there’s definitely a difference in walking the walk.  Londoners tend to play a never-ending game of chicken with one another.  You head directly for the on-coming person and see which one of you will step out of the way first, generally at the last moment.  New Yorkers can’t be bothered with that; they have no time for such games and want to get on, diving in and out of the oncoming population like a mountain climber looking for the next foothold.

     Since some form of English is the native tongue of both cities, one would expect to hear that language on the streets.  But how times have changed!  In NYC you are likely to hear almost equal parts Spanish and English with a smattering of other languages. Since Britain entered the EU, you are most likely to hear almost any language in London other than English.  OK, so a few people still speak it but only just. 

     But it’s the actual people on the streets who are so very different.  First of all, Londoners just do not eat while out and about.  I’m not talking sidewalk cafes here; I’m talking hot dogs, pretzels, and the myriad of ethnic foods available from street carts in New York.  In London you might possibly see someone surreptitiously licking an ice cream cone or taking a gulp of their Starbucks on the way back to the office but that’s about as far as it goes.  Londoners are just not that big on that touch of carcinogenic ‘je-ne-sais-quoi’ in their food.

     Finally:  men in Bermuda shorts?!?  Alright, I admit London hardly has the weather for it, but even when it does you just don’t see this.  And what I want to know is this:  where are these men going in NYC wearing their Bermuda shorts?  Are they going to the office dressed like that?  Maybe it’s because New York has easier access to beaches than London and therefore the men get tanned more readily that they feel they can go out and about wearing shorts while their London brothers would die of embarrassment before showing pale white knobby knees.  I pointed out the Bermuda short factor to Kit once and she replied that in London men who went to Ibiza wore shorts.  Obviously, they were tan!

     But here’s the thing:  the Brits actually invented them!!!  Once, many years ago, I was staying at Reid’s Hotel in Madeira with my parents.  It was then a very grand hotel, a sort of last outpost of the uncrowned heads of European dynasties and was exceedingly formal with 5 course lunches and 7 course dinners for which one naturally “dressed.”  My parents and I were waiting for the lift (elevator for you Yanks) when the door opened and there before us was a gentleman in his evening attire:  dress shirt and dinner jacket (tuxedo jacket) and DRESS Bermuda shorts with knee socks and dress shoes.  Even Wikipedia describes this:  

   “Bermuda Shorts, also known as walking shorts or dress shorts, are a particular type of short trousers, now widely worn as semi-casual attire by both men and women…. They are so-named because of their popularity in Bermuda, a British Overseas Territory, where they are considered appropriate business attire for men when made of suit-like material and worn with knee-length socks, a dress shirt, tie, and blazer.”

     We couldn’t stop laughing as soon as we were out.  Maybe that’s why Londoners don’t wear shorts on the streets?

     

Tatler Tales

For Christmas my daughter bought me a subscription to the British magazine Tatler so that I could feel that I hadn’t quite left everything English behind. While we’ve had Branston Pickle, Savlon, Hob Nobs, TCP, Temple Spa cosmetics and Ormande Jayne perfume brought over by visiting friends, something was still lacking; my body was well cared for but apparently not my mind.
For any American who has never read Tatler, it is a sort of Town and Country meets Vanity Fair with a touch of Vogue thrown in. It is basically a highly incestuous magazine being written by, for and about the stratosphere of society. My sister-in-law, inheriting my copies, once said she loved to read it for the names alone: names like Ticky Hedley-Dent, Balthazar Mattar, Fleur Chenevix-Trench and the Hon. Peregrine Pearson. Established in 1709, the names these days are slowly but rather surely losing their very English edge and a good dose of Pop Culture (only the very wealthiest of course) is being met with a decent smattering of Russian. Social climbing continues unabated no matter what the century.
Since my departure from Britain and the necessary gap in my Tatler reading, the Editor has changed thereby affecting various columns and features. One new column is by Andrew Roberts, the noted historian, who like myself has recently been relocated to the Big Apple. He has many of the same complaints I do; in his Sept. column he notes “They don’t have electronic boards on the subway telling passengers when the next train is coming…; they don’t have chip and pin for credit cards—instead you still have to sign slips of paper; and you can’t catch a cab between 4pm and 5pm…” Right on! What is it with this place? The City of London is just as hard-up as NYC—after all, they have all those historic buildings to maintain—yet they seem to have been able to beautifully maintain the Underground. Credit cards? I’ve had to change one of mine twice in 6 weeks due to identity theft; please bring in chip and pin! And as for taxis, well, I have to plan my day around the 4pm change if I know I’m going to need a cab.
Still, there is one thing on which Mr. Roberts and I don’t agree. He states, “Despite living in the so-called ‘city that never sleeps,’ New Yorkers like to be tucked up in bed by 9.30 and have lights out by 10pm…” Huh??? A small exaggeration perchance? A wee white lie? Dinner at 6.30? Well, Henry Kissinger is getting on a bit these days so if Roberts is dining with him, maybe---though I truly can’t see the Kissingers going in for the Early Bird Special. My own dinner is around 8pm. I may not have to be awake for a power breakfast at 7, but believe me those guys don’t need nine hours of sleep. Maybe Mon.- Weds. is a bit on the quiet side but once we hit Thurs. here in New York the movie rolls continuously until Sun. evening. My daughter has been known to stay out until 5 am. Could it be that Mr. Roberts at 47 is just mixing with the wrong crowd? Those historians, you know, and those busy making history, can be a bit of a stodgy group. Or can it be that he actually prefers sitting at home with the chocolate Hob Nobs?
Me, I’m dabbing on the Ormande Jayne and heading out….I’ve got dinner booked for 8.30, music starting at 9.30 and the main attraction probably not on until at least 10.30. And actually, it’s a Tuesday night!

Meeting My Waterloo

I just finished reading an historical novel set around the Civil War which is, quite possibly, the worst book ever written. For obvious reasons, I cannot tell you the author or title for fear of slander but, believe me, this has given me thoughts of running a Creative Writing course in which this book is the prime text for students to dissect. In fact, it is so awful that when I thought I would discontinue reading it, I had to decide to go on just for the sheer joy of seeing how truly awful it could get and how many anachronisms I could find. I continued with irresistible fascination or possibly an obsessive compulsion and I have got so many laughs out of this that I am now thinking of recommending it as a comedy. Just to clarify how I came upon this opus, I found it on Amazon and only after purchase did I discover online that it seems to have been published by a vanity press. Caveat Emptor, folks!
I haven’t as yet figured out what the story line actually is because two of the main characters have magically disappeared after 14o odd pages--- pun absolutely intended. However, there are quite a few gory battles of various kinds, as one might expect, and endless campfire meals and ---of even more interest--- endless descriptions of ‘making water’ or, in modern parlance, relieving oneself. Not to be too clever and sure of myself, I have read all of this with easy access to the online Etymology Dictionary.
Now, when one character answered another with the acronym ‘O.K.’ I had a great laugh. I had always been made to understand that OK came into usage during the period of the great ocean liners (along with ‘posh’ which stands for Port Over Starboard Home---although this etymology is disputed) when papers were marked OK as in ‘Oll Korrect’ by uneducated seamen. Apparently not! According to the Dictionary it came out of a fad in 1839 for using abbreviations for words and is the only survivor of that craze. Furthermore, there was an OK Club which supported Martin Van Buren’s Presidential election in 1840. One point to my author then, although I dispute whether a poor dirt farmer turned Confederate soldier would have used the expression.
However, when the character goes on to look at a revolting meal and comment “Ugh, gross!” I have to wonder which fraternity he belonged to. The use of the word ‘gross’ as meaning disgusting did not come into use until 1958, apparently, as part of student slang.
Finally, when one of the women politely says she needs to go to the bathroom—oh dear, oh dear. The Etymology Dictionary says “used 20c. in U.S. as a euphemism for a lavatory and often noted as a word that confused British travelers.” (Italics mine)
When I first moved to the UK I learned rather quickly not to use the expression as it produced gales of laughter from friends or mild confusion amongst the general public. Many years later I have returned home wired to say, “Excuse me, where is the Ladies’ Room?” If I remember, I may occasionally ask for the powder room but that term seems to now be archaic and since “ladies’ room” is understood I persist in using that. My daughter and I have both on occasion been corrected and directed to ‘the restroom’ or ‘bathroom’ but old habits die hard.
But at home, it’s the loo: “lavatory," 1940, but perhaps 1922, probably from Fr. lieux d'aisances, "lavatory," lit. "place of ease," picked up by British servicemen in France during World War I. Or possibly a pun on Waterloo, based on water closet.” (from The Online Etymology Dictionary)
After all, when I say I’m going to the loo, I’m not going to have a bath, I’m jolly well going to “make water.”

HEALTHY, WEALTHY AND WISE

I have been avoiding writing about this for weeks now but like the Sword of Damocles it has been hanging over me--- only this time the horse hair has finally snapped. Health Insurance. A subject so vile, so hated, so fear-inducing one only need whisper it to give me migraines, ulcers and palpitations all at once. And then I’d have to figure out if my insurance covered me for any of those.
When I decided to return to live in the USA I realized at once that this was something I would have to sort out before even sticking a toe out of the plane. On previous visits I was able to purchase travel insurance which gave excellent coverage for even extended visits. Back in Britain we have, as everyone knows, a National Health Service which makes visits to doctors, stays in hospitals and just about everything, except medication, free. Your prescriptions cost a set price so there are no sky high charges for medications. But---and this can be a big BUT—this does not mean there are no problems. There can be long waits to see specialists, hospital wards can be unpleasant and certain medications can be denied to you. Enter Health Insurance UK style.
Yes, I admit it, I had Health Insurance in the UK. Why? Because like most sane people I prefer staying in a hospital that resembles a luxury hotel rather than one that is like a bunkhouse, I prefer choosing my own specialists to see rather than the ones with whom my doctor is associated and I like seeing them as soon as possible. The charge for this when I left the UK was about one quarter of what I have to pay here in these United States.
In the US if you are buying your own insurance you first have to decide whether to go for an HMO, a PPO or, at a certain age or with pre-existing conditions, a POS---the 3 different types of insurance which dictate which doctors you may see and what you will pay to see them. I was channeled into the POS (Point of Sale; don’t ask me why) so that I could go out of network. If you are reading this in the UK you may not be able to follow this by now. But wait! There’s more! You then have to find what your coverage is. This includes figuring out co-insurance, co-payments, deductibles, in-network, out-of-network, out-of-pocket. … Did someone run a course in this which I missed when I moved to the UK? What idiot sat down and figured out how to make health insurance so complicated? You have to remember to get referrals to see your specialists (unless they are out-of-network), authorizations for certain procedures and pre-certification for hospital admissions. In Britain I picked up the phone to call the Customer Service Rep at my health insurers, told them my GP (who over here is a PMP---Primary Healthcare Physician!!!) wanted me to see a specialist or I needed an op and that was it. Finito! End of story! And I never heard that their shareholders were complaining about not earning enough dividends. You wonder why I have palpitations??
I have a theory: America is run by the Pharmaceutical companies who are in cahoots with the Insurance companies. Unless a drug goes generic the insurance rarely covers it. Medications are what will put you in your grave --- the cost of them that is. And medications are now permitted to be advertised on television! If you weren’t a hypochondriac before, you’ll certainly be one after an hour of television viewing in the USA. If the little green men ever come down from Mars one day, the pharmaceutical companies will go into overdrive in an attempt to get them hooked on some drug to make them breathe better in Earth’s atmosphere. And then those little green men will watch an hour of telly and come away believing that Americans are a race of constipated, dry-eyed, impotent, depressed, heart burnt folk whose women all suffer with PMT and don’t mind sitting down with Jamie Lee Curtis to discuss their irregularity problems while both desperately needing to pee and suffering with restless leg syndrome…
Restless leg syndrome? Didn’t that used to be called “boredom”?