...and if you tell anyone I'll cut you.
Iain and I have been shitting ourselves with excitement as we're flying back to California on Christmas Eve to surprise my mom and sister! I KNOW, RIGHT?! They have absolutely no idea, and my Step Dad is the only person that knows.
We only bought the tickets a couple weeks ago, and about 3 minutes before we did I called up my Step Dad and was like, "Oh hai. Is it okay if we come stay with you for a week and surprise my mom?" He was sort of okay with it.
He's been lying left and right like a pro, and he even managed to "send" the box of gifts my mom was sending us and stashed it in the back of his truck.
I feel like a total asshole at the moment because I told my mom that I "ordered some stuff off some internet shop and they said it should be there by Christmas Eve, but I dunno". She also asked me if I sent her any Christmas crackers like I did last year, and I had to lie and say that I totally forgot. (Even though I have like 25 of them in my suitcase.)
My ego is so large I almost want to tell her that we actually are planning The Best Surprise Ever and NO I'm not just a loser daughter who moved 5,000ish miles away and would forget to SEND CHRISTMAS CRACKERS. But alas, that is what she must think until Monday.
We fly to SF, and then to Sacramento which makes me incredibly excited that I will not have to drive the 2+ hours in horendous traffic...but I was terribly less excited about this when I Googled the Death Plane we'll be flying in from SF to Sac...
Yes. Those would be PROPELLERS. It's an EMB 120, it seats 30 people, and has *yet* to be involved in a fatal accident. I sat in horror researching and Googling this plane furiously, and all I could find is that sometimes it has a problem with "freezing", but the "chances of freezing" map I looked at said the Central Valley isn't a "high risk freezing" area. So. Hopefully we won't die. But believe you me, it will be the most terrifying 45 minutes of my life.
Anyway. We're getting a rental car at the Sacramento airport, and we'll high tail it to where my parents live, and surprise my mom and sister at about 6:00 at night on Christmas Eve. My goal is to make them cry for a good hour, so I have a feeling this will work.
I'm so excited I pee a little every time I think about it. In fact, writing this, I completely peed my pants.
We'll be taking loads of photos and videos, but most of the photos will be of my chihuahua licking my face....just so we're clear.
Happy Holidays, y'all! I'll check in with you soon!!!
xx
This past Thursday Iain and I finally did some Christmas shopping. On Oxford Street. I'm not exactly sure WHAT THE FUCK I was thinking going Christmas shopping at 5:00 in the evening on OXFORD STREET but there I was. Surrounded by people. PEOPLE WHO WERE DOING THEIR CHRISTMAS SHOPPING.
It was bad times.However, I managed to stay pretty calm. I even managed not to call anyone a cunt.
The upside to walking up and down Oxford Street amongst all the other Christmas shoppers were:
a) the pretty lights
b) I could purposefully hit people with my shopping bags and they thought it was simply because it was crowded.
c) the Russian "model recruiters"
There were these two Russian guys trying to recruit "models". One guy stopped me on the way in by saying,
"OH! Excuse me! You seemed to have dropped..."
And I looked around worriedly, thinking I dropped a penny or something and then the guy goes.
"You seem to have dropped YOUR GORGEOUS SMILE! HI! I'm Mika! What your name?"
"Come here and talk! YOU'RE GONNA LOVE THIS."
Again, I laughed in his face and kept walking.
Iain and I met up and did a bit of walking and I decided that I had yet to make love to a glass of mulled wine yet this season, so we headed to Covent Garden (not CONVENT GARDEN) in search of some romantical atmosphere and some hot alcoholic beverages.
Let me just say, if you're in London and want something Christmasy to do in the evening, GO to Covent Garden after the sun goes down. They're currently putting on their Christmas Deluxe market, where you can get all the sausages, cider, ale, misteltoe and fancy schmancy cheeses your little heart desires. AND they have space heaters! AND THEY HAVE MULLED WINE...TO GO! (Plus, they have the London Gay Men's Choir!)
Covent Garden is a special place for Iain and I. On my very first night in London when Iain and I met, our first meal together was at the Pizza Hut in Covent Garden (stuffed crust, Hawaiian with 2 bottles of Becks...just in case you were wondering) and we've since spent a lot of time there.
However, one of the main reasons we love Covent Garden is on our first night there, after three months of pining for one another, we were sort of drunk on the idea that we were really together. Finally. In person. And we could, like, touch and stuff. (Heavy emphasis on the stuff.)
We stood there on January 11th, 2006, holding hands and drooling at each other, when a busker near the Piazza started to play U2's With or Without You.
Basically, it was one of the most romantic, disgusting moments of my life and to this day I can't even hear that song without tearing up and mouthing the words and telling anyone who's within earshot of the time we heard a busker singing THE SONG at THE PLACE.
So, sure enough, when Iain and I were sitting at one of the outside tables at Covent Garden Market, eating hot dogs, and sipping mulled wine from a cheap paper cup, we heard a busker playing a Coldplay song, so we decided to walk over and listen.
Suddenly we realized that the busker wasn't just any old busker, oh no, it was Luca - THAT GUY WHO SANG THAT SONG THAT ONE TIME.
We stood there in the freezing cold, with all our shopping bags and our cheap drinks, and secretly hoping he'd sing the song....
And he did.
Iain: "Oh. Here's the thing...Bitch Face might be there."
Me: "I'm not going if that cunt's going to be there."
Iain: "Yeah. Good point."
Then the man on the escalator in front of me turns around and looks at me with the, "GOOD HEAVENS!" face people do when they're too polite to tell you that you have a dirty mouth and are going straight to h-e-double hockey sticks.
Iain and I snickered to ourselves and said our goodbyes.
Moments later I'm briskly walking up a set of stairs thinking to myself about all the emails that need to be written and how it was probably rude of me to say "cunt" in pubic before 10am (update: yes I'm aware it says "pubic" instead of "public". Precious little typo that's staying in.), and I trip UP the stairs, like all the cool people do. I tripped up, and had to do a sort of swinging manouver on the railing to prevent myself from eating it, of course, all the while yelling FUCKING HELL just in case no one heard me use the C bomb 10 seconds prior.
Right, I thought. I'm an adult I need to get my shit together and stop fucking yelling things like the F word and the C word out in front of the British people. Sure they use the F and the C words better than any other types of people I've met, but that's usually when they're drunk. And it's still only 9:06. They won't be drinking for at least 54 more minutes.
So, I get to work and we have a sweet little intern helping us out. Not sure how old he is, but I reckon he still had his soul.You know? He had that youthful, excited grin in his eyes that said, "Spreadsheets? I'd love to do those for you. I heart Excel!"
Somewhere between me calling Liz Jones a "complete fucking idiot" and asking something about why she hasn't "been assassinated yet" (I KID!) I remembered the little kiddo was in the corner, painting one of our fashion editors toenails and I figured I should probably keep my mouth shut...
So, when Kiddo decided to come over and talk the gal in the desk next to me (Hi Laura!) I realized what I had on screen.
BOOBS. I photoshopping up a collage of boob shaped products (as you do, at work), and therefore had a screen with a giant pair of boob cushions blown up so that they covered my entire monitor. I quickly minimized it, only to find another photo of boobs behind it...and behind that was my web browser, which apparently had 6 fucking tabs open, all with BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS.
I frantically minimized each one, knowing that Kiddo probably thought I was the editor of a porn site by now, and then realized that it didn't really matter that my monitor had plushie tits all over it, because I had a vagina with a pirate hat sitting on my desk the entire time.
I think it's safe to say that I'm not ready for kids yet.
I'm feeling pretty feisty lately. Pretty fired up...although I have to admit that the fired up-ness tends to fade in and out of me staring blankly at the wall and/or searching for a bag to breathe in.
I'm guessing if you carry a bottle of Kalms around with you, it's not necessarily a good sign.
However, on Friday morning I had what some would call an epiphany...or an "aha!" moment if you're big on the Oprah. I realized that the old "everything happens for a reason" philosophy doesn't just come and go. It's a constant and just a case of whether or not your eyes are open.
The magical threads that direct you on the correct path and bind you to those who will eventually play a bigger role in your life may be hard to see while your in the middle of a shit storm...but if you put on some protective goggles and manage to stop crying for two seconds, chances are things will become drastically, WONDROUSLY clear.
I realized that whatever struggles I'm going through at the moment, they're not that different from the struggles I had a couple years ago. While I've changed and grown and become much more resilient - the general attitudes, hangups, and judgements of most people have stayed the same. The more comfortable I become with my choices, my convictions and myself, the more disruptive I become to those who are not.
For example, a few years ago, a wise woman once told me that everyone I knew was trying to make me into something I wasn't. She said I could stay in the situation I was in, with everyone making me feel like I was a horrible person for not being what they wanted - and with me beating myself up for not being what they wanted - or I could break away...
I wrote about this on my first blog (on MySpace *cringe*), way back on the 7th of Otober, 2005:
I find it fascinating that I'm essentially in the same situation I was two years ago: people expecting me to be something other than I am, and making me feel like I'm the crazy person for being the way I am."I'd just like to meet someone who has passion, and is infinitely interesting. Who doesn't expect me to try to mold, break, and rebuild myself to try to fit into a world, lifestyle, and existence that I'm just not meant to fit in."
"I am shaped like a star, therefore I will not fit in the square shaped lifestyle that everyone trying to lead me to."
I'm not perfect. It took me a bit longer than I'd like to admit to realize just how sneaky people about trying to make you feel like you're the nutter. Like you're the asshole for not just doing what they say and not asking any questions.
However, I've come to realize that I'm not just going to shut the fuck up just because certain people want me to. In fact, I think the stupidest thing anyone could ever tell me to do is shut up.
You simply do not tell me to shut up.
I'm not just going to be passionate and fiery when it suits you. You can not just flip my "Give A Shit" switch on and off like a fucking toy. My Bitch card doesn't just get played when you're on my team. It's always on the table, and I'll play it every god damn hand if I so please.
Would it be easier for me to just shut up and pretend like everyone knows better than I do?
Would my life be smoother if I moulded and broke myself into each and every shape someone expected me to be?
Yes, I'm sure things would be all smooth and easy and peachy if I were to just shut up.
But fuck that.
I didn't get where I am today by keeping quiet and cruising along through life trying desperately to not leave a wake.
The only way I know how succeed and kick ass in life is to do it my way.
I opened my mouth and I heard myself
It can get pretty lonely when you show yourself
Guess I could have made it easier on myself
But I, I could never follow
No I, I could never follow
I've been thinking a lot about passion lately.
Passion. Conviction. Confidence. Audaciousness.
In fact, I'm thinking a lot about it right now, as I sit here sipping Welch's grape juice spiked with Raspberry Vox Vodka, and devouring Digestives smothered in some creamy garlicy cheese with a fancy name I can't remember.
It's hard to keep your head on straight (and sober) when you feel like half the world around you is going mad. One half gets it. That half is awesome and will buy you drinks and roll their eyes at you in mutual disgust when the that other Crazy Half starts up again.
I'm tired. I can't remember the last time I was this tired...
At the moment I wrote that sentence I had the old Third Eye Blind song "Motorcycle Drive By" pop in to my head, with the line "I've never been so alone, but I've never been so alive."
And that's how I feel. I feel on the verge of a nervous, exhausted breakdown, or on the verge of taking off and flying as high as I can. I'm waiting for a breaking point. I can feel it happening. I can feel that things are going to break, and this training session will soon over.
I don't want to have to worry about the water bill or my dental bill any more. And I hate to say, but I know I won't have to forever.
I am bigger than this moment, and in the words of John Mayer, I am bigger than my body.
I can tell you one thing, this whole blogging deal has done my head in a bit. It bothers me that I can't keep up with how everyone is doing all the time, and I hate that I carry this guilt around that I haven't emailed that person back, or read that post someone sent me, or commented back on someone's blog. I'm too guilty for all that pressure!
I got tired of worrying if what I was writing about what too serious, or too vague, or too silly, or too short. I think because I blog for a living, I've lost touch with what it's like to just run a personal blog.
I feel like I've virtually left a gigantic poop trail of my life and my beliefs and my frosting all over the internet, and I forget sometimes that work is work, and that I can still sit down on my PC, curl up with all of you guys, and just say,
"Dude. I saw this chick on the train today, and she was sticking the tips of her fingers in her mouth and pushing back the cuticles on each finger with her teeth....Man. I almost fucking gagged."
That really happened. And when it happened my first thought was, "Oh shit! I should blog that." And then I didn't for some reason. Mostly because I'm a douche.
When I'm trying to cope, and trying to remain inspired, I become completely transfixed by the people, objects, words that I find inspiring. Some might say it's just me being lazy, and that watching all of Violet Blue's vlogs on Blip.tv is actually "inspiration research", but for me, it is. It's how I stay sane. If I want to get myself all fired up to get some shit done, I'll read the blogs of some seriously audacious women. I'll read Wikepedia entries on them. I'll go to the screening of the movie they wrote and sit in awe at how completely fucking awesome it is.
And then I'll pshaw and say, "I CAN BE AWESOME, TOO, YOU KNOW?"
And so that's my plan. I'm going to be awesome. And I'm not going to waste my time trying to convince others that I'm awesome, because I shouldn't have to. Because if you are not shocked and awed my the amount of awesome that radiates from my skin, then clearly, there is something completely wrong with you.
Yeah. I have an ego sometimes.
But the thing is, YOU HAVE TO HAVE AN EGO when it starts to seem like everyone else that you deal with on a day to day basis is trying to constantly let you know that you're only at Awesome Level 3, and that you're simply just not trying hard enough to reach a level 6.
To which I say SUCK IT, I'm at a god damn fucking level 10 and you're just trying to STIFLE THE AWESOME.
I've learned a lot about my coping skills recently. I wrote a couple months ago about how I was feeling depressed. Thankfully, my depression has lifted and I'm learning what STRESS feels like sans the horrible depressed feeling. To some people this is how you live every day. You're happy. You're sad. You get stressed.
I have never known stress without the horrible consuming feeling of depression, so it's been a bit of a learning curve for me. My mind sort of freaks out and goees, "Wa? I'm feeling unpleasant. I'm feeling like things are a bit out of control. But like...I don't feel like curling up and dying!? WHAT IS THIS FEELING!?" And I finally figured out it was stress.
The weird thing about experiencing stress without depression is that I'm now able to see how much I hold everything in. I hold it in, and I try not to completely freak out about things. I seem to think that holding everything in and laughing at how ridiculous everything is is coping. However, it's not exactly coping, it's getting by and it's me trying to keep from admitting to myself how la poo things can get, because if I admit to myself that things are shitty, then I must have failed. Makes sense, NO?
But anyway. I've seen some killer movies latley on my route to inspiration. Fox Searchlight has been kicking some serious ass lately with their Irish film Once. If you like music, harmony, and a great story - you must see this film. It will knock your socks off and make your heart ache. (And then cause you to drop the $12 on Amazon so you can listen to the soundtrack over and over again.)
Last night I went to a screening of Juno. I reviewed it here, but can I just say that if you don't go see it, you're a fool. A COMPLETE FOOL. It's fucking brilliant. If I could make sweet, sweet cinematic love to one film this year: this would be it. It's written by the fabulous Diablo Clody, who I sort of have a girl crush on, and the dialogue in this thing is just electric. And if you don't fall in love with Ellen Page by the end of this film, you, again, are a FOOL.
Ellen Page is at an Awesome Level 19. Just so we're clear.
And anyway. That is all folks. And now, I leave you with this. PORK SWORDS, my friends. PORK SWORDS.
Then, on Saturday night, I went to the Reclaim The Night march and protested sexual violence against women in the streets of London with a thousand or so other feminists. We cheered. We jeered. We rioted, We drank. It was good times, as I brought my feministy friend Isabelle, and my Wondrous Vulva Puppet, who I've named Sophie, with me.
Somewhere around the time everyone stopped marching and stood outside the Spearmint Rhino Gentleman's Club screaming "WE ARE NOT FOR SALE! WO-MEN ARE! NOT! FOR! SALE!" I realized what a flaming hypocrite I was. And you know what? I enjoy it. I enjoy being a sex-loving, make-up wearing, protesty, rioty feminist who will go to a sex show and a feminist protest in the same weekend.
I respect women's right to strip and men's right to watch it. I may not totally love it, but I respect it. And at the same time, I respect a woman's right to wear whatever they want without being accused of "asking for it" when they get sexually harassed/raped/groped.
Watch my video! I took the footage myself! I do voice overs! I EVEN SHOW YOU MY VAGINA. (Sophie, that is.)
Just got back from getting my root canal. This is the only thing that could possibly make me feel better.
I have a cracked tooth.
This is highly unfortunate, seeing as I would rather go to the gynaecologist three times one day, every day, than go to the dentist once in one day.
I know I've already bitched about my fear of the dentist before, but I feel like it's a subject that can be explored over and over again. Sort of like Britney Spears's life.
Reasons I don't like the dentist:
A) When I was five, I needed to have my tooth pulled and they used that laughing gas shit. I saw all five years of my life flash before my eyes in a psychadelic acid trip and woke up clawing through the glass wall that I thought they were trying to hide my mother behind. "MOM! THEY WERE TRYING TO HIDE YOU FROM ME!!!!" It was a very traumatic experience.
B) I wasn't taken to the dentist very often as a child, so when I did go, it was always like, "Oh hai. You have 13 cavities." And then we would have to stand barefoot on the streets and try to sell our cows and chickens so that we could pay off the massive dental bill my pretty little mouth accumulated.
C) When I was old enough to have my own dental insurance I needed a root canal, so, I paid for it myself, drove myself, did everything myself. However, the nice dentist I went to underestimated the pain I was under, and started to drill away while I was still able to feel. I saw stars, gurgled bloody murder, and almost passed out.
So, now I'm afraid that every time I go to the dentist it will be incredibly painful, and incredibly expensive. What does this add up to? Rotting teeth that will break in half.
I have an appointment tomorrow at 2:45 and GEE WHIZ I'm excited. I'm even more excited as I have a cold and am feeling like death.
It's an initial check up, but they know about the half-tooth I'm sporting, so I'm guessing they'll do the first stages of a root canal (*shudder*) so that I can actually, you know, eat and stuff.
For those of you who have a cracked tooth, or teeth that could fall out of your head if you so much as think of candy apples, here are some things to not eat:
- Starbursts - the purple ones
- A Cadbury's Crunchie bar (no matter how slowly you chew it)
- Walkers Baked Crisps (cheese and onion flavor) (even if you try chewing on one side of your mouth)
- Chicago's 5 Cheese individual Pizzas
- Tesco's honey roasted peanuts and cashews
How do I know all this? Because these are things I've either tried to eat today and couldn't, or something in the past that has ripped off a bit of my teeth.
Pain? I can live through it, I've done it in the past. But when something, ANYTHING, gets in the way of me and eating whatever I want, that's it.
This mother-fucker of a tooth is going to get the SMACK DOWN.
(I say that all tough, but I'm really curled up in the fetal position moaning. Loudly.)
So, I read on this dentist's website that they help out phobic freaks like me:
Nervous patients can be offered a sedative medication, (Intravenous Sedation or IV) or ‘gas and air’ (Relative Analgesia). Both treatments leave you feeling relaxed and although you are still awake you are unconcerned by your surroundings and recovery time is quick.
Now, while I freaked out 17 years ago while using that crazy laughing gas, I will gladly use it again. The place I'm going to tomorrow doesn't have it, but they said after our initial appointment, they can always recommend me to their other locations where they give people the meds.
I plan on getting through tomorrow by taking 3-38 tablets of Valium, and by bringing my iPod. They better let me listen to my fucking iPod. It's mainly the sounds of the drills that bother me, so, if I make it clear to them that THEY BETTER FUCKING NUMB ME ENOUGH and BETTER FUCKING LET ME BLOCK OUT THE NOISE WITH SOME HEAD AUTOMATICA....I think everything will be okay.
I wonder if they'll let me bring in Sock Monkey for comfort.
Wish me luck. If I die, you guys can sort it out with Iain which of my possessions you'd like. I don't have much, but it's all yours. Dirty underwear and all.
For those of you who may not know, I was born and raised in California. I lived in the US for 20 years and 10 months. That makes me an American. (Say it with me now: AMMMEEERRRRIIIICAAAAN.)
I have lived in the UK for about a year and a half. I work here. I play here. My toes get really cold here.
Moving to another country isn't the easiest thing in the world, especially when you get the sneaking suspicion that every time you open your mouth and reveal the fact that not only are you foreign, but your from one of the most judged and hated countries in the world, that people are thinking, "Ugh. An American."
Before becoming an Expat, I had only ever experienced sexism, ageism...never racism.
I've had the occasional comment calling me a Yank that should go back to my own country. I was got into a drunken confrontation where I told some little boy to fuck off, and I was immediately shot with, "Where are you from? WHERE ARE YOU FROM? You should GO BACK TO WHERE YOU'RE FROM."
But other than that, the type of racism I've experienced has been the passive agressive, off-handed comments made by anyone and everyone. Comments that if were made about Africans, Muslims, or Asians, would be branded as offensive and disgusting...but when made about Americans, no one seems to think: "Thats racist and that's not okay."
Watching Have I Got News For You last night, I ignored all the California jokes the presenters made while talking about the horrible fires that are burning up The Sunshine State - but I couldn't help wonder if the same jokes were made about the victims of Hurricane Katrina, would people be outraged?
However, I was pissed off when the host of the show made some off-handed remark like, "Now, I don't hate Americans. I have two initial reactions when talking about them, and that is: the first half of me has this natural hatred of America...and well, the second half of me is exactly the same..." *insert roars of laughter from the audience here*
Sometimes I wonder if people really don't like Americans, or if they're just hopping on the I Hate America bandwagon because they need to get their racism out somehow, and hating the usual suspects just isn't as PC any more. But hey, why not hate America! We sure seem to hate ourselves, so why not? Come on! It's fun! You can mock us with slow southern accents and quote something stupid the President said! Shit, there are books, calendars, and dolls to help perpetuate the hate!
And it's the thing to do, isn't it? Some people dislike Bush, and exercise their freedom of speech because that's what they truly believe. However, it seems like others just buy in to it because, "Hah, we hate Bush! That makes us better than all those other Americans...right?" Sure, there are some jokes that are funny, but I think I at the heart of most of the jokes, it's not just a Bush joke, it's Anti-American joke. And it makes me want to scream.
Scream because somewhere along the line, some parts of the world have now chosen to look at us like we're all a bunch of bumbling, bombing assholes.
Scream because we are so much more than a Fast Food Nation and rednecks and bombs and war and two fallen towers. We are more than obesity and Wal-Mart and Los Angeles.
However, when I ask myself, "Well, then what IS America?" all I can do is get frustrated and cry and grunt and drool and point because I have NO IDEA what America is. How can I even articulate that?
All I know, is that I love country music. I love women like the Dixie Chicks with all my heart. I like McDonalds and the Fourth Of July. I love cowboy boots and my freedom of speech and the fact that when I go back home the girls at Starbucks UNDERSTAND HOW TO MAKE MY FUCKING DRINK, and the waiter at Applebees refils my drink without asking and the cashier at the Safeway looks me in the eye and says THANK YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY MA'AM and when a bunch of Americans are standing in line together, WE TALK.
It's so hard to articulate why I won't apologize for being American, and I think Diablo Cody actually said it best:
When I read people stereotyping Americans and dismissing what somebody says simply because they're a fat American, my head practically explodes. When I hear other Americans in the UK talking about how they're "embarassed" by American tourists, it strikes a cord with me. It does. I like to think that I'm better than that...Seriously, I don't want to hear any more apologies or red-faced admissions. Stop hating yourself because of where you were born, or the fact that you think putting cookie batter in ice cream was a good idea. Stop hating yourself for taping All My Children or preferring Dean Koontz to Proust. You're a product of your culture like anyone else, and it's not a reflection on your intellect or self-discipline. To me, the phrase "ugly American" is as offensive as "ugly Asian." It's called STEREOTYPING and it's gross.
But then why do I cringe whenever I'm walking through London on my way to work, and I hear some guy with socks and sandals and a bright red Jansport backpack with a University of _______ hat on yelling in his loud-ass American accent,
"HONEY!? Where in the HECK is LIE-CESTER SQUARE!? IS THAT NEAR THAT CON-VENT GARDEN PLACE?"
It's
the strangest feeling, staring at someone that could so easily be my
Uncle or your Dad or your Grandfather who is by one culture's standards
making a complete ass out of himself, and by another's, he's simply
just trying to find out where the heck that gosh darn Leicester Square
is so he can take a friggin' picture ofthe Odeon theatre.
I understand that when people come over to Europe and the UK, they're not exactly sure of what the hell they're doing. Put me in the centre of Tokyo, and I promise you I'll be doing the exact same thing. Minus the socks and the sandals.
Granted, there are people who simply don't care where you're from. There are some who just LOVE America and want to know everything about where you're from. There are people who treat you just like everyone else, and are smart enough to know that just because your government is run by a nit-wit, that doesn't make you one, too.
I think the cold hard truth is that there are small truths to practically every stereotype that is out there. For those of you who know the Avenue Q song Everyone's A Little Bit Racist, you know what I mean. There are red-neck Americans like Toby Keith who don't believe in freedom of speech and think that putting boots up people's asses is the "American Way". There are Valley Girls from California. There are Fat Americans. There are Soccer Moms that drive mini vans in the suburbs and pretentious Fashionistas in Manhattan.There are even racist people in the south.
And you
know what? There are oblivious Americans that live in other countries.
There are loud-mouthed Americans on The Tube who talk much too loudly
and don't get the London Rule that YOU DON'T TALK ON THE TUBE. There a
Americans that mispronounce cities and the names of Tube stops because,
no matter how innocently, they don't care if they pronounce it wrong.
And
then there are the Americans that sat next to me the other night at
dinner, they didn't care how FUCKING ANNOYING they were, or how loudly
they were talking.
"So, like, my Dad has a Masters Degree in Theology, but like, I've created my own religion."
"Wow, really?"
"Yeah. Like, for example, I believe that, like, Jesus was married, to Mary Magdeline."
"Wow, really?"
"Yeah, like, cuz have you seen Jesus Christ Superstar, and stuff?"
"Wow. Yeah."
"Okay, cuz like, I have the soundtrack and stuff, and it totally explains that."
"Wow. Yeah. What I don't get is, like, The Bible."
"Wow, really?"
"Yeah, cuz like, it says that men are better than women, and that's just, like, stupid."
"No. I know! And like, how society teaches us that men can't cry in public! That's like, so stupid."
"Wow, I know.Society does teach us that."
"Society totally does,teach us that and stuff."
"Yeah, what society teaches us...puh-leeze."
This conversation took place between a a boy and a girl, both probably about 22-years-old, and they took themselves, like, totally seriously.
I was dying. I kept thinking, "Jesus christ. Is this how Americans sound to everyone else?"
It made me incredibly self-conscious. I remember telling Iain, "It scares me that people will overhear this conversation, and only take in to account that they're American, and they must be so stupid and ignorant because they're American."
And that's the struggle I face. I know that the rest of the world is so eager and quick to dismiss people not because they're stupid, not because they're immature, inconsiderate or even arrogant: they dismiss them because they think that they must be that way BECAUSE they're American.
I think for Expats seeing Americans how some people in the rest of the world sees us can be very tough. I'm not embarrassed to be American. I'm not even embarrassed BY other Americans. It just makes me cringe when I see Americans acting in a stereotypical way.
I suppose the best way to describe what if feels like when I hear an American acting like a "stereotypical American", is that it's like being in high school and having your mom show up on campus wearing her ratty old bathrobe and curlers in her hair screaming,
"SUGAR PIE! YOU FORGOT YOUR OLIVE LOAF SANDWICH WITH THE CRUST CUT OFF!!!"
It's slightly mortifying, but you're also very aware of the fact that you shouldn't care what other people think about your mom. You know her intentions are good and innocent, and that she's just being herself. You even sort of envy her blissful ignorance...however, at the same time, she's still a crazy lady screaming about olive loaf in her bathrobe.
Now, I could choose to blush and sit there thinking, "FOR FUCK SAKE, MOM! Why can't just learn to fit in! Do you have to wear that stupid bathrobe!? Can't you just keep your voice down and learn how to pronounce the cities of the places your visiting?!"
Or I could just smile, not
worry about it, take the sandwich, point which direction Lie-cester
Square is, and carry on with my day.
**Update** Hi! About four hours ago I was asked to talk about what I think of the Learning and Skills Council saying that WAGs are good role models because they have "at least 5 good GCSE" or a degree. I, of course, begged to differ so they asked me to come on and *debate* with Nicola T and an MP. I think I talked for four seconds. 2 of which I looked into the wrong camera, but it was liiiiive television, baby!
