HOW TO BE . . . A MINORITY IN AMERICA

Let me say at the outset that I have the utmost respect for the LGBTQ community.

I have seen too many lives destroyed by issues surrounding sexuality, gender and identity not to have the utmost sympathy for those who struggle and face prejudice and hatred every day of their lives.

The lack of empathy with those who are different from the norm is truly terrifying, particularly in government. How can anyone profess to being Christian when they ignore the basic tenet of that religion? It’s simple: “Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving of one another” (Ephesians 4:32). Irrespective of whether you believe in God, how hard can that be?

  

But the LGBTQ’s growing inclusiveness is rather hijacking the alphabet; and so, before the movement takes up any more letters than the near quarter they have already monopolized, I want to draw attention to a hitherto little discussed group to which I belong: SOFMI. Straight Old Female Minuscule Immigrant.

I feel a march and a placard coming on – albeit currently a march and a placard with a supporter of one.

But give me time. Who knows, I might even take more letters as the popularity of my movement grows. Perhaps, A (I am very Ambitious – not something people particularly warm to in women); P (people like Poor even less); S (Sexy – okay, I’m lying a bit now, but you have to grab these letters while they’re available and before the LGBTQ alphabet-jumpers steal any more).

  

I find myself in a minority in just about every area of my life these days. News headlines are dominated by those whose voices have previously been denied – and that’s how it should be; life is hard enough negotiating buying a pint of milk (try standing in line in Food Emporium on Friday nights), without having to argue the case for simply being who you want to be.

  

However, that doesn’t prevent my feeling constantly out of the loop, in no small part due to living in a country that is more foreign to me than France (where I lived for seven years). Britain and the USA: “two nations separated by a common language – attributed to Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, sometimes both. So, let’s go through my minority status letter by letter.

1.     S. I am straight. Nearly everyone I know is gay. I’ve lived in Soho in London, West Hollywood in LA and now reside in Hell’s Kitchen in New York’s Manhattan. If you’re not familiar with these areas, just think Liza Minnelli meets Liberace meets Sarah Paulson/Ellen De Generes (fill in the gaps with any living lesbian for these two). I love my gay (mostly male) friends, but gosh, they like their drama. I try to subtly suggest that maybe they’d be happier if they didn’t end every night stressed/crying/hitting each other, went home and just watched Netflix with a pizza.

2.     O. Old. It seems I am officially old now. Days away from my 60^th birthday, my phone does not stop ringing with people trying to ease my journey to the grave. “My name is Carol and you are on a recorded line. We notice you are of an age when you will need hearing aids and we . . . ” “PARDON?” Yep, just for the hell of it. Stair lift sales people have also started bombarding me. “My name is Jim and you are on a recorded line. We notice you are of an age when you will be having a lot of falls . . . ” You bet. Because I keep going to the bar to get over the stress of your harassment.

3.     F. Female. Yes, I am. I was born with female genitals, to which I have become particularly attached over the years. Apart from a brief time in my childhood when I identified with an imaginary character called André (my own invention – he was rather terrific, actually), I am and have always identified as a girl/woman. I know, I know, it’s weird, but there it is. I don’t want to be referred to as “them” because there is only one of me; in fact, I’d prefer “it,” which at least is grammatically accurate.

4.     M. Minuscule. Yes, I am a small person. I am only five feet tall and, on most days, weigh between 112 and 117 lbs. You have no idea how that isolates me from the rest of American society. I don’t hold coffee cups on the street; I don’t share my lunch on corners with rodents and large birds. Call me old-fashioned, but I have things called plates, knives and forks in my apartment. And, heaven forbid, a dining table to put them on. Did you know, by the way that Americans eat 20% of their meals in cars? I don’t even have a car, so I’m going to add C for Carless to my list (watch out, LGBTQ, I’m coming for your letters!).

5.     I. Immigrant. Yes, I am. I came to the USA through official channels, qualifying as an Alien of Exceptional Ability. That’s a minority, too, by the way (*smug expression*), as is Alien of Exceptional Ability with a National Interest Waiver (*smug broadens*). The former explains itself, although my Master’s Degree was a huge plus (actors, incidentally, are Aliens of Extraordinary Ability – okay, it’s a rung down - just sayin’). The latter meant that I could be here without a job, so long as I could prove myself to be of some benefit (it can be economic, cultural, social etc., but the goalposts are constantly changing).

6.     Carless. I just added that. Ha! That’s another letter you can’t kidnap, LGBTQ!

The truth is, though, I’m okay with it: minority or majority status. I’m grateful to be alive; let’s be honest, so many aren’t. People say, with ageing, that they wish they’d known ‘then’ what they know ‘now.’

I’m the opposite. I am so glad that I lived (and still live) the fun and the laughter; that I endured heartbreak and job loss; enjoyed heady years with no commitment to property; that I smiled, cried and came through it all to be living in New York, which I regard as the greatest city in the world.

I’m just human, but I was always on my way to you, New York.

In the lyrics of Cody Johnson:

All the boats I’ve missed
All the hell I’ve caused
All the lips I’ve kissed
All the love I’ve lost
I thank God for that
I guess he always knew
I was on my way to you

And to quote that other great lyricist, Bernie Taupin: I’m still standing.

Stair lift sales people, take note.

HOW TO BE . . . A (RECOVERING) GROUPONOHOLIC IN AMERICA

My name is Jaci and I am a Grouponoholic.

   

I didn’t even know I was one until I came to the US, where anything ending with the letters "ic" is an incentive to start a society/self-help group/therapy session. Groupons exist the world over, but in the US, Grouponism is an hysterical urge that takes over one’s life.

   

I realised I had become an addict when I found myself waking up halfway through the night and going to my computer, for fear of having missed a bargain while I was sleeping.

   

It started out like any other addiction. At first, a small pleasure, with me innocently signing up to what appeared to be a great bargain. A mere $35 for a $60 meal? What could go wrong? A $40 facial for $20? All the things I loved, suddenly at my fingertips, for considerably less money.

   

Then there were deals for things I didn’t even know I needed until Groupons came into my life. Boot camp! Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before! Six $80 sessions down to the bargain price of $25! I’ll take it!

   

More things followed. Rally driving. Golf. Rambling. Scuba diving. Infra-red sauna treatments. Microdermabrasion (whatever that was). Tattoos. If it was a bargain, I wanted it. And, down to three hours’ sleep a night and needing to grab the best Groupon deals before everyone else, I invariably got them.

   

Incredible. I was rich, and the more I spent, the richer I seemed to become.

   

I was living a double life and loving it.

   

I had easily been able to segregate my Groupon life from what I called my normal life. My own Grouponism was a guilty secret - I Grouponed alone, I hid my Grouponism from friends and family, I blacked out from ODing on Groupons – but, to all outward appearances, I carried on with my Groupon-free existence, never wishing to openly acknowledge what was happening in that dark place.

   

How I sneered at Grouponites’ open desperation and their sweaty little hands, frantically waving their pieces of paper proclaiming the deal, and making demands upon staff whose eyes you could see burning with Groupon hatred.

   

And how they multiplied: dozens of people, with sheafs – reams - of paper scrabbling for air space, and angry voices demanding why they couldn’t use their Thursday Groupon on a Friday, and why the sliders had lamb rather than beef fillings, and why you couldn’t use the Groupon for a Martini instead of a glass of house wine.

   

They are everywhere now. Having got the bargain, they have to find something wrong with it and are never happy. And they never tip. The deal spells it out: you have to tip the staff, as tips are not part of the Groupon; but the Grouponites are so intent on landing a bargain, they ignore the small print of the deal.

   

I feel permanently incensed on the staff’s behalf – usually after picking myself up off the floor after being trampled on by a veritable herd of Grouponites. All my favourite places have been turned into scenes from the Alamo. Heartbreaking. There was a moment when I knew - and they say that admitting the problem is the first step to recovery.

   

I no longer wanted to be associated with these people, but had I left it too late? Had my addiction already taken too strong a hold? I began to loathe the very sound of the word.

   

Groupon. The monster that is Groupon.

   

Was there a Dr Groupon in a dark office, pondering, like me, how his wonderful creation got so out of hand? How all of us, wanting a bargain and signing up for our discounts, turned so resentful, owing to the fact that in our favourite social destination, we had to hack down Grouponites who stood in our way?

   

I resolved to wean myself off, but discovered that there was no help available, no known cure: no counselling groups, no programmes, no newspaper articles revealing how we might dig ourselves out of this mire. And so I set about devising my own 12 Step Programme (with thanks to AA’s Big Book) that I hope might be of use to those finding themselves in the grip of the same addiction and wishing to step off the Groupon ladder once and for all.

   

So, WE:-

1. Admitted we were powerless over Groupons – that our lives without bargains had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power lesser than our consumerist selves could restore us to sanity – Debt.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of Debt, as we understood It.

4. Made a searching and fearless financial inventory of ourselves.

5. Admitted to Debt, to ourselves, and to another human being, the exact nature of our Groupon inclinations.

6. Were entirely ready to have Debt remove all these defects of consumerism from our weak and feeble characters.

7. Humbly asked Debt to remove the word Groupon from our computers and to block all invitations from future Groupons.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed in our fight to beat them to a bargain, and became willing to make amends by returning all gifts purchased by Groupons.

9. Made direct amends to such people, wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them even more than we already had, when we trampled them while rushing to the discounted Martini.

10. Continued to take personal inventory of our bank accounts and, when we noticed our savings mounting up, promptly admitted it.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with Debt, as we understood It, praying only for knowledge of Its will for us and the power to carry that out in getting our bank accounts back into the red.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other Grouponoholics, and to practise these principles in all of our financial affairs.

My book on the subject will hopefully soon be available on Amazon, by the way, price $29.99. $10 with a Groupon.

HOW TO BE . . . AN NFL FAN IN AMERICA

Tom Brady’s balls. 

More to the point: Tom Brady’s under-inflated balls. 

   

If you can talk about a man’s balls, inflated or otherwise, and keep a straight face, you are halfway to being a true NFL fan. Having arrived in the US with zilch knowledge of American Football, I had to get in the know very quickly if I was to stand any chance of talking to people.

   

The New England Patriots’ alleged deflation of balls in their defeat of the Indianapolis Colts in January 2015 gave rise to the scandal that is Deflategate. I love a good story, and now, I discover, everyone hates Tom Brady, who received a four game suspension for his part in the cheating.

   

That’s all I know about the NFL, though I really try when the summer season starts. I’ve read Football for Dummies several times, but think maybe they need a book titled Football for Dummies’ Dummies that might make the whole thing more comprehensible.

   

You just can’t avoid it though, just as you can’t avoid sport in almost every US bar. Nearly every hostelry I’ve visited has a TV screen; usually, several. Seated in front of them will be men with beers, shouting a lot. Shouting is essential to NFL fandom, in particular. So is throwing chairs across the room when somebody does something really bad, like touching another man and bringing a halt to the game. This happens a lot, but it seems there are recent new rules, about which everyone is complaining, and now even a semblance of touchy-feely is grounds for punishment.

   

So, having learned why Tom Brady and the New England Patriots were in the balls doghouse, I had to start learning the behaviour of fans. Shouting a lot came easily to me (heck, I grew up on the terraces of the Cardiff Arms Park and Welsh rugby Internationals); the rules, less so.

   

As far as I can make out, the basics of American Football are that a lot of men in Hannibal Lecter style masks and Dallas style shoulder pads run out onto a field and throw something the same shape as a rugby ball. Then, just as they’re getting into their stride, they are tackled and brought to the ground.

   

Then, everything stops. I have no idea why. Is there a tea-break? Are the teams required to nip to a bar to have a pint, before turning refreshed and ready for more action?

   

During the tea-breaks, a lot of overweight men with clipboards and the first signs of a heart attack frown a lot and run around frantically, shouting at more overweight men and waving to the Hannibals.

   

This, I learn, is what’s called Time Out: not, as it seems to me, pure laziness and a period in which shoulder pads have to be adjusted. 

   

Sometimes, a man is thrown over one of the sidelines, and that’s a cue for another tea-break and also one for the men with clipboards to start self-combusting.

   

Now, back to Mr Brady. I learn he is very successful and plays quarterback (that’s somewhere near the back, I presume; or is it at the front, ahead of a halfback, threequarterback, or twothirdsback? Who knows) for the New England Patriots. He’s the only player to have won five Super Bowls for the same team, but I’ll get to the Super Bowl shortly.

   

Let’s get back to the rules. So, the Hannibals are required to run over markings on a big field and, each one they cross, they get some points. They can also get points for kicking the ball over the goalposts. Then they all stop again. Think rugby with Bank Holidays in between. Making it over the final line is called a Touchdown, and this is when the men in the bar really start shouting (if their man is the Touch-downer) and throwing furniture (if their man has been bypassed by the Touch-downer).

   

This carries on for hours - possibly days; you could run a couple of marathons and return to find the guys still on tea-break. “What are they doing now?” I asked one of the shouting men, as I recently tried to comprehend another stoppage. Having patiently tried to explain to me the finer details of whichever game it was (they all look the same to me), he responded: “You’re outta questions.” Oh, well; I tried.

   

All of this interminable excitement culminates in the Super Bowl, or the Big Game, and takes place at the beginning of the year and, in 2019, on February 3rd. I can hardly wait.

   

Being a fan means you have to start getting excited about Super Bowl Sunday the moment Christmas is over and it’s a day that comes second only to Thanksgiving (the penultimate Thursday in November) in terms of food consumption.

   

In fact, food is essential; so is beer. Bud Light is currently the official sponsor, a contract that has been extended to 2022. Now, you see? I’m getting into it. The highlights of the event are a superstar belting out his or her greatest hits (with varying degrees of success) and the TV commercials.

   

Oh, the commercials. If there’s one thing that Bud Light does not take lightly, it’s their advertising during the Super Bowl. There’s always a message hidden in there, last year delivered by Bud Knight, a hero who “arriveth to smite thine enemies and pick up thy 24-packs.” Actually, the only message is “Drink more beer.” 

Maybe next year, self-confessed beer enthusiast Supreme Court Justice Kavanaugh will feature. 

   

The food commercials are not in the same league - last year’s Wendy’s Burgers just made everyone thirsty for Bud Light. Why not just stick to chicken wings, the staple diet of pretty much every American? Twenty wings for $5 in thousands of bars across the country? In a place as big as America? 

Don’t male chickens have lessons in birth control? 

Maybe someone should cut their balls off. 

Now there’s a job for Tom Brady when he retires.

   

   

   

   

   

HOW TO BE . . . A BUDDHIST IN AMERICA

It’s a thin line between being a Buddhist and a serial killer: that’s what I’ve learned in my quest for the spiritual enlightenment that most people I meet appear to seek.

If in doubt, buy the book: that’s always been my motto. I’m not someone who buys the book, puts it on a shelf and forgets about the messages therein, though. I buy them, devour them, and put their words into practice within the hour. Hence, I bought Alan Carr’s Easy Way to Stop Drinking, and stopped drinking. I bought Blake Snyder’s book Save the Cat! about screenwriting, and went to Hollywood to put the tools into practice. Neither lasted, but the spirit was willing at the time.

I don’t do things by halves, so I have to avoid sections of the bookstore with titles like Bonsai for Beginners, which would see me spending the next 10 years fiddling about with small trees in my kitchen sink.

I know I need to live a less frenetic life, so I went to my local Borders bookstore in LA in search of things that might help me. I drank my “Calming” Yogi tea beforehand, which stressed me out a bit, because no sooner had I set out on my walk than I needed a bathroom.

I had also taken my calming herbal Kava Kava pills, which also stressed me out, as I could feel them regurgitating in my chest. But I concentrated on the good they were doing me and just breathed deeply: calm, calm.

Then, I arrived at the store and wanted to knock the head off the small child who was screaming for sweets. Why do parents take small kids shopping when it is clear to anyone with half a brain that they absolutely hate it and are always going to kick up a fuss about something?

But calm, calm, I said, as I headed towards the spiritual/new age religion section and chose 20 books about Buddhism that were to be the foundation of creating the new me. I felt very good in my transformed skin.

Two hours later, I took them to the cash register, deposited them and told the assistant I was headed for the restroom (you see how American I have become? I no longer “go to the loo”; I am now “headed for the restroom”). He assured me that my books would be fine and that I could pay for them upon my return.

So, ablutions completed, I went back downstairs, only to discover that my two hours’ worth of research had all been put back on the shelves. “Where are my books?” I squealed. No, if I’m honest, I screamed. Louder than the child. “Oh, for goodness sake you turn your back for one minute and your life’s ruined and if I wanted this kind of shit I’d have stayed in Britain and whatever happened to customer service and look at the time . . . ” Calm, calm.

Two hours more again, I had recouped my selection and regrouped emotionally. I returned to my apartment, sweaty, with, I am sure, high blood pressure, and set about reading Buddhism for Dummies.

The little I knew about Buddhism, I had always liked, although, with my 112 lb frame, I suspected the weight thing might be an issue. Did I have to turn into an overweight, squat person in order to practise Buddhism? I suspected that the reason the obese god sat down, cross-legged, to meditate, was because he was too fat to stand, and I’d been down that path enough to know that it wasn’t where I wanted to return.

Some years ago, I learned Transcendental Meditation and adhered quite strictly to Ayurvedic principles (an Indian philosophy that really does reap physical, emotional and spiritual benefits). I read books by Oprah’s mate Deepak Chopra, a well known proponent of Ayurveda, and it was through re-reading him that I had become interested in Buddhism again. I also bought Chopra’s novel, Buddha, but thought that Buddhism for Dummies might be an easier way in.

It was. As I made my way through chapter one, I instantly took to my new philosophical path. I liked the non-dogmatism and the easily applicable principles: creating the right kind of mental attitude in order to bring about a better quality of life. I was on the floor and crossing my legs before you could sing Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon (I wonder if Boy George got the idea for that song by reading Buddhism for Dummies?).

By lunchtime, I had Buddhism sorted and felt calm enough to deal with the bank to sort my ever complicated finances.

Now, despite the efficient service I mostly find everywhere (post offices excepted), the one thing my bank has difficulty with is the transfer of money in and out of Europe. The idea that this continent would be in anyone’s minds in anathema to the staff, and this causes considerable stress - for all of us.

If you asked the cashiers to pilot the next space shuttle, they could not look more terrified, nor be slower at working out what goes where. This day was no exception and, as my new self evaporated, I ended up not so much tapping my fingers as putting them through my pockets in search of a handy weapon that might speed things along a bit.

One of the fundamentals of Buddhism is that pain and suffering are caused through our attachment to permanence, which is, in reality, only an illusion; and that when we let go of that pursuit of permanence, we will be happier (Got it?). Try telling that to a would-be convert when a bank clerk’s forefinger is permanently stuck on the £ to $ conversion key on his computer.

My Buddha-gathering expedition well and truly on hold, I did what any self-respecting citizen would do and took action. I assume the LAPD got there in time to untie everyone in time for the weekend. 

Me? I swapped Buddhism for Dummies for the Criminal Minds box set.

HOW TO BE . . . THIN IN AMERICA

There are two types of eaters in America. 

First, the Texans and their ilk, who start queuing for the Vegas All You Can Eat Buffet at 5am - and boy, are they going to get their money’s worth. Talk about taking it literally. Staff have to nail the tables to the floor for fear of the mobile hunger homes moving onto wood once they've cleaned up the bacon and eggs. 

And then there’s Eva Longoria.

If you want to be thin in America, there’s only one question you have to ask as you reach for the plate: “Would Eva Longoria Bastón (or whatever her latest surname is) eat it?”

A dish of of nuts and chips is placed in front of you at the bar? By habit, you might reach out. Beware. Take a rain check. Look, but don’t touch, and just ask yourself: “Would Eva Longoria eat them?” It’s a definitive No. 

You don’t get to be, and maintain a size zero (even after pregnancy) - not to mention acquire a perfect mouth that looks as if it has just had a lipstick manicure - by ramming a plate of deep-fried potatoes and 204 calories an ounce macadamia nuts down your gullet.

So, it’s farewell to the chips and nuts. And don’t even contemplate an afternoon tea, which arrives with a long dish of Italian sweetmeats and biscuits. “Would Eva Longoria eat them?” Only if you chloroformed her first and force-fed them.

You must apply the same rule to all bars and restaurants - especially Italian ones. Take Il Fornaio, a lovely, friendly Italian establishment on Canon Drive. Their pasta list is extensive - Spaghetti Calamari and Broccoli, Fusilliani alla Trentina, Tarte Con Argosta, a veritable opera of choices. By all means, make your way down the list, but “Would Eva Longoria eat it?” No, no, no. Just a black espresso for me, please.

The first meal I ever ate in the US was at the Grill on the Alley in Beverly Hills. I ordered what seemed to be healthy fare: grilled steak, a baked potato, one side of green beans and one side of grilled mushrooms.

A cow arrived on my plate, followed by a potato farm, a field of beans, and 12 mushrooms that wouldn’t have looked out of place in New York’s Easter Parade and Bonnet Festival. A third of the way through the meal, it looked bigger than when I started. “Would you like a takeout?” said the waiter. Sorry, but I don’t have a truck big enough.

Ordering anything, I quickly discovered, is to enter a danger zone, and asking the Eva question is therefore a guaranteed way to lose those extra pounds. Having inadvertently stumbled upon the perfect diet (No always means No), I have been able to maintain a relatively low weight (my slim frame is a freak show at the Vegas buffet; I nearly got eaten as a side dish).

I suspect that Eva, like every other thin woman in LA in particular, enjoys playing with the occasional salad – without dressing (are you crazy?) – and, to this end, I am now perfecting the art of steering a leaf around my plate, without ever consuming it, while giving the impression that I am stuffing my face. Over the radish, under the yellow pepper, slalom around the red onion – I can make a leaf’s journey around my plate last longer than a Grand Prix. And, by the end of its course, it really does look half consumed.

Another technique sure to bring about this apparition of greed is to place the weight of a cherry tomato in the middle of, say, a mound of rocket: it flattens the centre of the display to such an extent, your dining companion might be tempted to tell you to slow down, for fear of your developing indigestion through over-eating.

Or, you can achieve the weighing down technique simply by moving all your rocket to the side of your plate, taking a piece of bread (obviously, without eating a crumb), ripping it in two and squashing it down at each end of your rocket pile, thereby giving the appearance of real over-indulgence – carbs, heaven forbid: the woman’s a pig – yet leaving the restaurant thinner, albeit starving.

When it comes to drink, I sip, and alternate with water; I can make a glass of wine last two hours. In New York, I’ve been admonished for drinking too slowly (something that never happened to me in the UK).

Unlike New York establishments, Beverly Hills restaurants are very tolerant of the non-eating and semi-non-drinking diner. My lunch at Il Fornaio lasted three hours, during which both my guest and I ate not a morsel and consumed just two bottles of water. One of my British friends and new to LA is still keen on her food (how quaint – she’ll learn) and bemoans this aspect of the culture. She says she gets invited to breakfast meetings where there is no breakfast, and spends the whole time wondering when the sausages are coming.

Of course, I knew before I lived in LA when I first arrived, that drinking in public was pretty much a no-no, but especially so during the day. If the answer to “Would Eva Longoria eat it?" is No, the answer to “Would Eva Longoria drink it?” is: You must be insane. 

Glass of champagne? 150 calories. Dry white wine? 120. As for that $4 Happy Hour 220 calories a pint Stella, you deserve to be locked up and put in restraints, you over-indulgent hog. 

You don’t shrink to the kind of shape that gets blown away in an LA earthquake by consuming empty calories.

So, the route to being thin is the Eva Longoria eating and drinking plan, and just watch your weight start heading in the right direction and your first pair of size zero jeans.

Eva Longoria, eat your heart out.

Oh, I forgot: she can’t. Too many calories.