So, you might not want to read the three posts below this. They're about tampons. They're not explicitly gross or anything, just thought I'd give you some warning in case this sort of thing makes you squirm...
In other news, life is good. It was wonderful to come home for a proper English Christmas, but leaving L.A. did make me realize that there are some good things about this place that I would miss if I left.
Don't worry, I'm not turning to the darkside or anything. London is still infinitely superior in every way. I just don't completely hate it here anymore...
Give it another year and i'll be blonde and botoxed and whitening my teeth.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
THREE TALES OF TAMPONS - ONE
A few weeks ago, I accidentally bought a large pack of scented tampons. Theses things happen – you’re in the supermarket, it’s that time of the month, and you grab the first pack of tampons you see without really studying the small-print. I mean, tampons are tampons. How different can they really be?
It’s not that the scented tampons smelt bad or anything. They smelt mainly like a medium-priced floral airfreshner; perfectly pleasant but basically bland. But why? Why perfume tampons? I try to imagine the Research&Development meeting which came up with this idea: “hey, folks, there seems to be a heck of a lot of tampons on the market – how are we gonna differentiate ours?"
They probably ran over all the existing varieties, applicator v non, organic v non. Did they discuss making different colored tampons and decide that was a stupid plan? Did they scratch their heads, the people in this meeting, and say “women need tampons. Women like perfume…dear god I’ve got it!”. Is this all a hideous joke being perpetrated on the American public? Why oh why would anyone think that there was any point scenting an item that is to be placed inside the body?
I mean, where does the company go from here? Will we soon have flavoured tampons too? And will I be stupid enough to buy them?
It’s not that the scented tampons smelt bad or anything. They smelt mainly like a medium-priced floral airfreshner; perfectly pleasant but basically bland. But why? Why perfume tampons? I try to imagine the Research&Development meeting which came up with this idea: “hey, folks, there seems to be a heck of a lot of tampons on the market – how are we gonna differentiate ours?"
They probably ran over all the existing varieties, applicator v non, organic v non. Did they discuss making different colored tampons and decide that was a stupid plan? Did they scratch their heads, the people in this meeting, and say “women need tampons. Women like perfume…dear god I’ve got it!”. Is this all a hideous joke being perpetrated on the American public? Why oh why would anyone think that there was any point scenting an item that is to be placed inside the body?
I mean, where does the company go from here? Will we soon have flavoured tampons too? And will I be stupid enough to buy them?
Two
A year after it came to our (and our landladies) attention that our heating system was giving us carbon-monoxide poisoning, she finally called a man to install a new heater for us. Unfortunately for us, our landlady is very, very cheap, and the installation process was rather more protracted and messy than would normally be the case. Our entire apartment was coated in plaster.
So, we called in Isabelle the cleaner. Isabelle is an amazingly quick and efficient cleaner and, as such, she terrifies us. She refuses to work unless you provide her with exactly the right brand and variety of cleaning products. Only purple windex is good enough for Isabelle, and floor cleaner must be pine-scented or she will not clean. During the early days of life with Isabelle, we questioned whether perhaps we, the clients, should get to have a say in the scent of our floor. We soon learned not to argue. She is the professional, and we are ignorant in the ways of cleaning.
Isabelle doesn’t just clean. She likes to rearrange. Usually her rearrangements of furniture are genius – she moves things to logical places that saves space or are aesthetically pleasing in ways you never would have imagined. Sometimes you have to spend a good half hour after she’s been round searching for, say, the George Forman grill or your favourite blanket, but it’s worth it when you discover she’s moved these items to the perfect place.
Isabelle did a great job cleaning the dust and debris caused by the heater installation. The only problem I have is that, two months on, I am still unable to locate my tampon supply. They had been stored in a box next to the toilet, which I thought was a fairly sensible location for them. Clearly Isabelle disagreed. Maybe she didn’t like them being on display. I checked the bathroom cabinets first, then my bedside drawers, then my closet. I have now worked my way through the whole house searching for the missing tampons. I know I can easily buy some more, but dammit I’m intrigued. Where could she have moved them too? She always puts things in such great places, that I really want to know where she thinks I should keep my sanitary protection.
The only conclusion I can draw is that Isabelle does not approve of tampons and threw them away in some seething, silent disgust. I’ll let you know if I ever find them.
So, we called in Isabelle the cleaner. Isabelle is an amazingly quick and efficient cleaner and, as such, she terrifies us. She refuses to work unless you provide her with exactly the right brand and variety of cleaning products. Only purple windex is good enough for Isabelle, and floor cleaner must be pine-scented or she will not clean. During the early days of life with Isabelle, we questioned whether perhaps we, the clients, should get to have a say in the scent of our floor. We soon learned not to argue. She is the professional, and we are ignorant in the ways of cleaning.
Isabelle doesn’t just clean. She likes to rearrange. Usually her rearrangements of furniture are genius – she moves things to logical places that saves space or are aesthetically pleasing in ways you never would have imagined. Sometimes you have to spend a good half hour after she’s been round searching for, say, the George Forman grill or your favourite blanket, but it’s worth it when you discover she’s moved these items to the perfect place.
Isabelle did a great job cleaning the dust and debris caused by the heater installation. The only problem I have is that, two months on, I am still unable to locate my tampon supply. They had been stored in a box next to the toilet, which I thought was a fairly sensible location for them. Clearly Isabelle disagreed. Maybe she didn’t like them being on display. I checked the bathroom cabinets first, then my bedside drawers, then my closet. I have now worked my way through the whole house searching for the missing tampons. I know I can easily buy some more, but dammit I’m intrigued. Where could she have moved them too? She always puts things in such great places, that I really want to know where she thinks I should keep my sanitary protection.
The only conclusion I can draw is that Isabelle does not approve of tampons and threw them away in some seething, silent disgust. I’ll let you know if I ever find them.
Three
Five years ago (ah, how rapidly time is passing in my old age) I spent six months working in Central America. A month of this time was spent learning (or, more accurately, failing to learn) Spanish in Guatemala. During this time, pretty much everyone I met was robbed. Some of these occurrences were more distressing then others. Nikki had her camera stolen from the bedroom of her homestay. Luckily, she had just enough money to buy another. Unluckily, she has not learnt from her earlier experience, and this camera lasted three days before being stolen. Some people had their passports taken when their bags were slashed. Others returned from a swim to discover that their picnic lunches had mysteriously vanished. We learnt to viciously guard anything that could be conceived as having any value at all.
My turn to be robbed came when I spent a weekend away from language school with my boyfriend in a romantic lakeside hotel. It was a cheap hotel, but there were locks on the doors, so we thought we’d probably be okay leaving stuff in the room. Coming back after dinner, we discovered we were wrong. The door had been smashed in, and the contents of our backpacks were strewn all over the room.
Fortunately, we had taken our passports and money out with us and, as we searched through the debris, we realized that the robbers hadn’t been able to find much of value. A few books had been taken, and the batteries out of my walkman (although, oddly not the walkman itself – clearly too old and crappy even for a Guatemalan thief to bother with). The only other thing missing was, you guessed it, my tampons.
Who would steal tampons but leave a walkman, we wondered. All we could postulate was that perhaps “western” tampons were hard to come across in this part of Guatemala, and could be hawked on the street (along with batteries) to passing tourists. That must be it, we decided as we got into bed. I plumped up my pillows and discovered that there, tucked deep inside the pillowcase of the bottom pillow, were my missing tampons.
This remains one of the great, unexplained mysteries of my life. Any ideas, please let me know.
My turn to be robbed came when I spent a weekend away from language school with my boyfriend in a romantic lakeside hotel. It was a cheap hotel, but there were locks on the doors, so we thought we’d probably be okay leaving stuff in the room. Coming back after dinner, we discovered we were wrong. The door had been smashed in, and the contents of our backpacks were strewn all over the room.
Fortunately, we had taken our passports and money out with us and, as we searched through the debris, we realized that the robbers hadn’t been able to find much of value. A few books had been taken, and the batteries out of my walkman (although, oddly not the walkman itself – clearly too old and crappy even for a Guatemalan thief to bother with). The only other thing missing was, you guessed it, my tampons.
Who would steal tampons but leave a walkman, we wondered. All we could postulate was that perhaps “western” tampons were hard to come across in this part of Guatemala, and could be hawked on the street (along with batteries) to passing tourists. That must be it, we decided as we got into bed. I plumped up my pillows and discovered that there, tucked deep inside the pillowcase of the bottom pillow, were my missing tampons.
This remains one of the great, unexplained mysteries of my life. Any ideas, please let me know.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
That whole art/life - which imitates which - dilemma
In the film 'Swingers' (which, incidentally, every one of Scott’s aspiring actor/writer/director friends seem to worship as the pinnacle of filmmaking prowess), Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau are shown, dressed in smart suits, drinking cocktails and picking up women at hip Hollywood nightspot, the Dresden. I like the Dresden. It’s a beautiful, unpretentious, bar with friendly doormen and delicious drinks. It’s small and almost neighbourhoody, a rare find in big, bad, anonymous Hollywood. Plus I can walk there from my house, which is always a bonus.
A few weeks ago, Scott and his good friend Richard walked down to the Dresden for a few quiet drinks. After taking only a few sips, the boys were disturbed by two men making a BIG SHOW of entering the unpretentious and non-showy bar. Dressed in smart black suits and sauntering Bar-ward were none other than Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau. They proceeded to take their drinks back to the exact same table that they had sat at in ‘Swingers’, and to have a nice drunken evening.
The questions is, is this action totally cool, or the saddest thing in the world, a symbol of all that is wrong with the state of celebrity in the modern world?
On the side of cool is the fact that it’s nice that these two men, although now proper Hollywood stars, are still hanging out at the same bar they (presumably – this is based on the assumption that they wrote Swingers based on real-life experiences) patronized when they are nobodies. How cool that they’re not letting fame change them.
On the side of depressing, there’s the fact that the actions of the two men could be seen as shouting:‘Hi everyone. We’re moviestars. Look at us. Did you see the film Swingers? Just in case you don’t remember it, we’re going to spend our Saturday night reenacting one of our favourite scenes. Then everyone will look at us! We’ll get to spend a whole evening pretending that our real lives are as cool and funny as those of the guys we played in a movie”.
One final anecdote before you make your decision. A week after the above events, my friend Daphne bumped into none other than Vince Vaughn at a gig that her friend’s band were headlining. Vince has no connection to this band, he’d just turned up to see the show. Daphne is watching the show from backstage. Halfway through the set, Vince wanders backstage, and demands that the owner/manager of the venue get the band to play a cover of some specific song, so that he, Vince Vaughn (a moviestar, in case the owner/manager hadn’t realised) can get on stage and sing with them.
The band are in no way excited about this plan. Ok, so having a moviestar sing with them might get them some publicity, but this is there first gig at a large venue, and they want people to remember their songs, not the fact that some movie star sang with them. There’s also the fact that none of them know if VV can actually, you know, sing well. Plus, they’re more than a little miffed about the fact that someone they’ve never met is ordering them around just because he’s famous.
Fame wins out, and the moviestar sings. After the show, VV comes up to Miss Daphne, a big smile on his face. ‘Next time you’re in a movie’, she says, ‘I’m going to come on set and demand that I stand in front of the camera and read a page of your lines. Because that’s what you’ve just done to the band’.
I love Daphne. There may be a lack of smart, opinionated girls in this town, but the few there are, they’re among the best in the world.
A few weeks ago, Scott and his good friend Richard walked down to the Dresden for a few quiet drinks. After taking only a few sips, the boys were disturbed by two men making a BIG SHOW of entering the unpretentious and non-showy bar. Dressed in smart black suits and sauntering Bar-ward were none other than Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau. They proceeded to take their drinks back to the exact same table that they had sat at in ‘Swingers’, and to have a nice drunken evening.
The questions is, is this action totally cool, or the saddest thing in the world, a symbol of all that is wrong with the state of celebrity in the modern world?
On the side of cool is the fact that it’s nice that these two men, although now proper Hollywood stars, are still hanging out at the same bar they (presumably – this is based on the assumption that they wrote Swingers based on real-life experiences) patronized when they are nobodies. How cool that they’re not letting fame change them.
On the side of depressing, there’s the fact that the actions of the two men could be seen as shouting:‘Hi everyone. We’re moviestars. Look at us. Did you see the film Swingers? Just in case you don’t remember it, we’re going to spend our Saturday night reenacting one of our favourite scenes. Then everyone will look at us! We’ll get to spend a whole evening pretending that our real lives are as cool and funny as those of the guys we played in a movie”.
One final anecdote before you make your decision. A week after the above events, my friend Daphne bumped into none other than Vince Vaughn at a gig that her friend’s band were headlining. Vince has no connection to this band, he’d just turned up to see the show. Daphne is watching the show from backstage. Halfway through the set, Vince wanders backstage, and demands that the owner/manager of the venue get the band to play a cover of some specific song, so that he, Vince Vaughn (a moviestar, in case the owner/manager hadn’t realised) can get on stage and sing with them.
The band are in no way excited about this plan. Ok, so having a moviestar sing with them might get them some publicity, but this is there first gig at a large venue, and they want people to remember their songs, not the fact that some movie star sang with them. There’s also the fact that none of them know if VV can actually, you know, sing well. Plus, they’re more than a little miffed about the fact that someone they’ve never met is ordering them around just because he’s famous.
Fame wins out, and the moviestar sings. After the show, VV comes up to Miss Daphne, a big smile on his face. ‘Next time you’re in a movie’, she says, ‘I’m going to come on set and demand that I stand in front of the camera and read a page of your lines. Because that’s what you’ve just done to the band’.
I love Daphne. There may be a lack of smart, opinionated girls in this town, but the few there are, they’re among the best in the world.
Friday, September 21, 2007
First Act
Since moving to Hollywood, I have been full of an amused-yet-horrifed pride that I am part of just 10% of the Hollwood population who is not either an actor or a wannabe actor. This may seem like a horrific stereotype, but I have met, literally, two people who have not at some point acted. I guess it makes seense, what with entertainment being the main industry. After all, if one lived in a fishing village, a large proportion of the population might reasonably be expected to make their living fishing.
I have just spent the morning as a paid actress.
Yes, this seems improbable to me to. I gave up drama at age 14, suffering from stage fright. I am not blonde and 17 and pretty (the norm for actresses here). I have no desire to act. What the hell is happening to me? Am I becoming Californicated?
Here's how it happened. Yesterday morning, Scott phoned me from work, told me that they needed an English actor/actress to do a voiceover for some cell-phone network that someone in his office building had the advertising account for. He said I should send in an audition tape, just for a laugh, if I had any spare time.
They send me a script, and question me on the phone about my acting experience. Which is obviously non-existent. I go downstairs to Jessie's and we spend all of 5 minutes recording me reading the script.
I was therefore somewhat surprised to discover they loved my "disinterested manner" (sadly, i thought I'd been doing upbeat) and that I had the job. So today I spent 45 minutes in a recording studio and was rewarded with $500. (To add some context to this, my rent is $600 a month.) That sounds like a lot of money for very little work, but I see it as being fair compensation for the hours of fear-induced nausea I endured this morning.
In the end, I actually really enjoyed the experience. Putting on a sexy voice and trying out different tones and inflections as directed. Sadly, they haven't actually paid me yet, as they didn't know how to cope with the fact that I wasn't SAG (screen actors guild) and didn't have an agent. They actually thought I was a real London girl come to LA to be a movie star. I'm not sure whether this is what I want people to think of me? Have I lost my integrity? Did I ever have any?
I doubt I shall be repeating this experience. When it comes down to it, I've always really hated the sound of my own voice, and even spending a morning being referred to as "the talent" (and what girl doesn't love that?) can't make up for that.
I have just spent the morning as a paid actress.
Yes, this seems improbable to me to. I gave up drama at age 14, suffering from stage fright. I am not blonde and 17 and pretty (the norm for actresses here). I have no desire to act. What the hell is happening to me? Am I becoming Californicated?
Here's how it happened. Yesterday morning, Scott phoned me from work, told me that they needed an English actor/actress to do a voiceover for some cell-phone network that someone in his office building had the advertising account for. He said I should send in an audition tape, just for a laugh, if I had any spare time.
They send me a script, and question me on the phone about my acting experience. Which is obviously non-existent. I go downstairs to Jessie's and we spend all of 5 minutes recording me reading the script.
I was therefore somewhat surprised to discover they loved my "disinterested manner" (sadly, i thought I'd been doing upbeat) and that I had the job. So today I spent 45 minutes in a recording studio and was rewarded with $500. (To add some context to this, my rent is $600 a month.) That sounds like a lot of money for very little work, but I see it as being fair compensation for the hours of fear-induced nausea I endured this morning.
In the end, I actually really enjoyed the experience. Putting on a sexy voice and trying out different tones and inflections as directed. Sadly, they haven't actually paid me yet, as they didn't know how to cope with the fact that I wasn't SAG (screen actors guild) and didn't have an agent. They actually thought I was a real London girl come to LA to be a movie star. I'm not sure whether this is what I want people to think of me? Have I lost my integrity? Did I ever have any?
I doubt I shall be repeating this experience. When it comes down to it, I've always really hated the sound of my own voice, and even spending a morning being referred to as "the talent" (and what girl doesn't love that?) can't make up for that.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Cost of Living
Although I am deeply saddened by the passing of Butch the cat, the situation was almost so much worse. We almost had two of our four cats die this week. Sorry for writing two cat posts in one day, I guess I am a crazy cat lady at heart.
We returned home form a weekend away to find that Squeaker the cat had developed a golf-ball sized lump on her rump. Various theories were raised as to how this had happened, the most popular being a stealth attack by mean-cat Loki that had gotten infected. This theory was vehemently denied by Elizabeth, owner of Loki, who, sweet as she is, seems incapable of realizing what a bastard her cat is.
Squeaker is clearly in a bad way. She’s hot to touch, lethargic, unhappy. So, we do what has to be done; Jessie and I trek over to Burbank to take her to the cat hospital.
They are very nice folks in Bastet cat hospital. They stroke Squeaks gently and shave the affected area. After a brief examination they pronounce that it is indeed an abscess caused by a fight. They leave Jess and I to fill in forms while they calculate how much the treatment will cost. Due to my not having a driving license to transcribe some number from, Jess fills her details in on one half of the form. We are now, officially, life-partners (and have since received welcome cards through the post from Bastet cat hospital addressing us as such).
The vet returns, and tells us that the required surgery will cost $800, and that there’s a large chance that Squeaker will die of the infection if we leave her untreated. After a brief discussion, Jess and I realize we have no choice but to refuse the surgery, and instead spend $50 on some antibiotics.
We sound callous, I know, but we literally do not have $800 to spare. I know this makes us irresponsible cat-owners but bear in mind these are cats we took in when their old owner died and his ‘friends’, after promising to look after them, abandoned them in our garden. And, yes, we should probably get pet-insurance to cover these eventualities, and one day if I actually earn some money, I will do just that. Bear in mind I only managed to finally afford health insurance for me a month ago.
So, Jess and I decide to take the DIY life in the ghetto option. We roll up the rug in my living room, pull out some clean towels and sterilize a scalpel with hydrogen peroxide. We attach a desk lamp to the table and point in down. Our operating room is ready.
We realize we could do with some more help with holding the patient, seeing as how we have no anesthetic at our disposal. A quick scout around the compound make it clear that, while sympathetic, everyone else is too grossed out to be any use to us (this includes Scott).
We wrap Squeaks up tightly in towels to constrict her movement. Her wailing is upsetting, but we have no choice. Jess makes the incision, and we begin to squeeze the puss out.
It is a stinky job, it has to be said, yellow pus with green and black touches. It’s pretty hard to make sure it’s all out whilst trying to also hold down a cat and keep everything sterile.
10 minutes and we’re done. Squeaker rushes away and we wash our hands more thoroughly than ever in our lives. 5 minutes later Squeaker returns and rubs up against me purring. She seems like herself again.
A month on and she’s fine. I maintain that our 10 minute surgery was actually a lot less invasive and distressing for her than being knocked out for hours and staying overnight in a strange vet’s would’ve been. Jess and I are quite annoyingly proud of our achievement, and get rather annoyed when we tell people about the death of Butch, and they presume that it must’ve been the cat we operated on that died. It’s nice that people have so much faith in us.
There are two things that I think are very LA about this story. Firstly, the fact that someone was going to charge us $800 for something we could do ourselves, with absolutely no training, within ten minutes. Secondly, that once we’d finished the surgery and sat back for a celebratory drink, Jess and I turned to each other to share identical thoughts – why on earth didn’t we film that?
We returned home form a weekend away to find that Squeaker the cat had developed a golf-ball sized lump on her rump. Various theories were raised as to how this had happened, the most popular being a stealth attack by mean-cat Loki that had gotten infected. This theory was vehemently denied by Elizabeth, owner of Loki, who, sweet as she is, seems incapable of realizing what a bastard her cat is.
Squeaker is clearly in a bad way. She’s hot to touch, lethargic, unhappy. So, we do what has to be done; Jessie and I trek over to Burbank to take her to the cat hospital.
They are very nice folks in Bastet cat hospital. They stroke Squeaks gently and shave the affected area. After a brief examination they pronounce that it is indeed an abscess caused by a fight. They leave Jess and I to fill in forms while they calculate how much the treatment will cost. Due to my not having a driving license to transcribe some number from, Jess fills her details in on one half of the form. We are now, officially, life-partners (and have since received welcome cards through the post from Bastet cat hospital addressing us as such).
The vet returns, and tells us that the required surgery will cost $800, and that there’s a large chance that Squeaker will die of the infection if we leave her untreated. After a brief discussion, Jess and I realize we have no choice but to refuse the surgery, and instead spend $50 on some antibiotics.
We sound callous, I know, but we literally do not have $800 to spare. I know this makes us irresponsible cat-owners but bear in mind these are cats we took in when their old owner died and his ‘friends’, after promising to look after them, abandoned them in our garden. And, yes, we should probably get pet-insurance to cover these eventualities, and one day if I actually earn some money, I will do just that. Bear in mind I only managed to finally afford health insurance for me a month ago.
So, Jess and I decide to take the DIY life in the ghetto option. We roll up the rug in my living room, pull out some clean towels and sterilize a scalpel with hydrogen peroxide. We attach a desk lamp to the table and point in down. Our operating room is ready.
We realize we could do with some more help with holding the patient, seeing as how we have no anesthetic at our disposal. A quick scout around the compound make it clear that, while sympathetic, everyone else is too grossed out to be any use to us (this includes Scott).
We wrap Squeaks up tightly in towels to constrict her movement. Her wailing is upsetting, but we have no choice. Jess makes the incision, and we begin to squeeze the puss out.
It is a stinky job, it has to be said, yellow pus with green and black touches. It’s pretty hard to make sure it’s all out whilst trying to also hold down a cat and keep everything sterile.
10 minutes and we’re done. Squeaker rushes away and we wash our hands more thoroughly than ever in our lives. 5 minutes later Squeaker returns and rubs up against me purring. She seems like herself again.
A month on and she’s fine. I maintain that our 10 minute surgery was actually a lot less invasive and distressing for her than being knocked out for hours and staying overnight in a strange vet’s would’ve been. Jess and I are quite annoyingly proud of our achievement, and get rather annoyed when we tell people about the death of Butch, and they presume that it must’ve been the cat we operated on that died. It’s nice that people have so much faith in us.
There are two things that I think are very LA about this story. Firstly, the fact that someone was going to charge us $800 for something we could do ourselves, with absolutely no training, within ten minutes. Secondly, that once we’d finished the surgery and sat back for a celebratory drink, Jess and I turned to each other to share identical thoughts – why on earth didn’t we film that?
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