Coming of Age

I love Spring, especially in California where it's in the 80's in March!

I love Easter, chocolate, of course.

I love April. Why do I love April so much?

Because it's my Birthday!!!!!!!!

I know, you'd think after forty two of them I'd have gotten over the excitement, but no, April 2nd is still my absolutely favorite day of the year. I know I should probably love my kid's birthdays more, that Christmas should be the day I cherish the most 'cos that savior fellow was born, but I have to be honest (a truly Arien trait) nothing beats a day that's all about me!

I love being an Aries, something that everyone born under the sign does too. Why? Because we're the first sun sign, the pioneers of the zodiac and therefore the best...just ask any Arien!

Really though, we do have some good stuff going on; we're adventurous, energetic, courageous, enthusiastic, confident, dynamic, and quick-witted. On the dud end we are quick tempered impulsive, impatient, daredevils, and....clumsy.

Clumsy, as a word, doesn't quite cut it; I don't think there's a word in the English language that can give my clutsy, non-space-oriented, lack of awareness justice. So in my forty third year I am going to conquer this disability that I have lived with for far too long.

No more dropping the milk every time I take it out of the fridge door, no more falling in the canal when disembarking a canal boat...three times in a row!!!! No more showing a client a property on the side of a mountain, approaching the edge of the lot and sliding down fifty feet on my bottom, no more tripping waiters, or cameramen, or fire-eaters, and absolutely no more missing my mouth...I'll be forty three, time to take control.

Clumsy you're gone!

A Life on the Ocean Wave

On the weekend I drove myself and the kids down to San Diego to visit an old French friend of mine who is currently working on a cruise ship and was docked in the beautiful Port of SD for the day.

When my son was a baby, a ten month old baby, Tweedle Dumb and I had the brilliant idea of going to work on a cruise ship. Only catch was, we wanted to be together and also take our baby boy with us. Although this seemed like a ridiculous dream to many, and outrageously ambitious to others, we were incredibly fortunate to get hired by a production company in Miami who were willing to send us out on to the big blue with our baby, they didn't even require us to smuggle him on in a shoe box as we had planned if all else failed.

We spent three wonderful years on ships performing and raising our son (with the help of a crew of eight hundred) until we decided to add to our brood and got pregnant with our baby girl.

It had been thirteen years since I'd actually set foot on a ship so I was excited to see how things had changed and show the kids around. The day was doubly exciting as I got to speak French all day with my old buddy. I'm a bit of a Francophone, love the language, the food, the culture, and yes, even the Parisians.

Technology, 9/11, and H1N1 have changed the way cruise ships operate almost beyond recognition. You practically get cavity searched and fingerprinted to get on board these days as one little slip in security could bring the highly profitable industry to its knees. There are hand sanitizing machines at every restaurant and bar entrance, at every elevator entrance, and probably in your life vest!

But the biggest change is that cell phones and the Internet work even when you're out at sea. Fantastic! Unless of course, you were trying to get away from everything on vacation Hmmm...

Well it's good for the crew anyway. I remember when we were on ships we'd desperately run to the calling centre and line up to contact our loved ones every time we touched down in port or when leaving Miami we'd stay on our brick sized cell phones until we reached the mouth of the dock and lost signal completely...the only way we could contact home was by fax and even that had it's dodgy days!

Our visit was a lovely trip down memory lane and a great day was had by all. The kids, of course, wanted to see the photo albums of when we worked on ships when we got home, so I dragged them out for them...isn't it funny that pictures that were taken in your twenties that you absolutely loathed and thought you looked hideous in at the time, when you look at them fifteen years later you think you looked bloody marvelous...so whatever your age and how ever old you think you look today...take loads of pictures 'cos in twenty years time you'll think you looked absolutely fabulous!

Fitting in...

It's not as easy as you might think going through life at a towering 5'11" not least because to stand up when you're that long you have to have fair sized feet!

I've got big feet, not ridiculously huge, but suffice to say I hold my own on a gusty day and I never lost sight of my toes during pregnancy! Having big feet, as a girl can be quite tricky. I went through my teens with blisters and bumps from shoes that were too small I lived in countries where the general population was...smaller than me and spent many a tearful moment in shoe shops.

If you are a long tall Sally, or Jane, or Cat, a good portion of your body is likely to be leg. More problems! Finding trousers long enough to cover one's ankles (and some of one's lengthy feet) can be quite a challenge. I spent years in Charlie Chaplin Jeans until I discovered Lucky brand jeans in extra long (fellow giants if you do not yet know of this miracle working brand of denim please check them out at www.LuckyBrand.com)

I'm personally silly long in the leg; I look quite normal when I'm sitting down so when people first meet me if I'm seated they get the shock of their lives when I stand up and reveal my towering height. Sitting in theatre seats or airplane seats can be quite a challenge and even driving a car presents the question of where to store my legs. I can't sneak in to a room unnoticed and I'm crap at hiding.

There are good things about being tall...you become very popular with short people and grannies as you can reach things on the top shelf at the grocery store. You can walk really fast. You will always be seen in ANY group photo...head and shoulders above everyone else.

But by far the most comforting thing to have happened to me as an amazonian was finding a home in a show that housed a showgirl tribe. In a showgirl line there are other long legged lanky ladies with big feet and issues fitting into spaces provided for an average size society...and it feels great to finally fit in.

Put some clothes on!

I'm a very lucky girl generally, but every now and then my luck monitor goes on the blink and I find myself in all sorts of trouble.

A couple of years ago, after selling my Hummer and while I was waiting on my new car, I borrowed a friends car to drive from Vegas to LA. My son's passport had not arrived and we were leaving for Australia two days later so I had to go to the Passport and Immigration offices in Los Angeles to see what was going on. My appointment was at 7am so I had to leave Vegas at 3am to have a chance of getting there on time. On a side note; yes, my life really is this complicated ALL the time!

Anyway, my friend's car was a Mitsubishi Spider, it goes fast, really fast, there was no-one on the road, and I didn't see the speedometer creep up to ....brace yourself...109mph!!!!!

Of course I got a ticket. A big one. From a cop who scared me silly...so silly that I now always drive within the speed limit and am terrified every time I hear a siren that they're coming to take me away...Ha ha!

So this morning after dropping the kids at school, imagine my panic when I not only heard a siren but saw flashing lights in my rear view mirror and heard the law enforcement officer boom in to his megaphone "pull over to your right, pull over to your right"

What did I do wrong? I didn't jump a light, turned left on the green arrow, stayed in lane, under the speed limit. I pulled over and the lovely little (isn't there a height requirement to be a cop?) man approached my window. I had my licence and registration all ready for him, but he didn't want to see it. "Step outside of the vehicle please Ma'am" he said. Blimey I was in big trouble! Not least because I was in bright pink stripey pyjamas, with a granny sweater over them, turquoise crocs and my hair in a banana clip. "Errrm, do I really need to?" I asked him. I did.

Lovely, standing on the pavement looking like a circus clown with a cop in front of my kids friends parents is always the way I like to start my day!

Turns out, now that I'm a California girl, I need to put a plate on the front of my Ladybug as well as on the back...only trouble is, I bought my car in Nevada, which is a State that only requires plates on the back of a vehicle so there's nowhere to attach a plate on the front.

The cop must have felt sorry for me...or embarrassed by me...he tried really hard to keep a straight face when I stepped out of the vehicle, could barely contain his mirth, especially when he realized I was English, from Nevada, and eight feet taller than him. I stood there as pink as my PJs watching him struggle to get his words out without surrendering to hysteria.

He let me go with just a warning. Well, two warnings actually;

1. Go to a dealership and get a plate put on the front

2. Get dressed before driving your kids to school

I jumped back in the car thankful my luck meter was up and running and tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that I'd only been outside the vehicle for three minutes...no-one could have seen me in three minutes, right? Wrong. I just saw my daughter's headmistress in the Post Office, with an unusually bright smile on her face, she said "Mrs. Mayer, how lovely to see you again! Saw you this morning talking to my son-in-law, Officer Johnson, nice pyjamas!"

Horse and Carriage

In most families the birds and the bees talk is a conversation dreaded by parents and offspring alike, but as is often the case, my slightly unconventional brood had no struggle with the traditional and sailed through addressing reproduction issues. Being of the "divorced" status, marriage was our tabooboo subject...

Out of the blue one day my daughter looked me squarely in the eyes and asked, "Mum, is marriage something I should try?" I didn't think it'd be addressed quite like that!

Did I "try" marriage? What happened to the fairytale fantasy of all little girls to grow up and get betrothed in a big white cloud of meringue?

Oh that's right...I destroyed it.

Marriage, I can't quite decide if I'm for it or against it...I've done it twice already so I must like it right? Well I think I did once anyway.

I did some research to try and help me decide on how I felt about marriage now that I'd got a couple under my belt, and my daughter needed to plan her future.

The statistics don't look great in the good old US of A...50% divorce rate on first marriages, 67% on seconds, and a whopping 74% if you're brave enough to try the "third time lucky!" claim.

I wonder if I count in those statistics, having married Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb (a French man and a Hungarian) in England.

If anything else had a failure rate of 50% it'd be banned...if cigarettes killed 50% of smokers they'd be off the market in a flash, if anti-depressant drugs rendered 50% of users suicidal, there'd be lawsuit after lawsuit, if Toyota accelerators got stuck 50% of the time...well you get it! So why then is marriage still legal? Why do we keep on trying to get it right?

Love, love, love, and health insurance.

Seriously though, a lifetime union based on love? Pretty fragile tie I'd say. Such a union based on financial support, or health coverage, or a death threat, might work but that flimsy unpredictable thing called love? I don't know!

Could I look my baby in the eyes and tell her no? Of course not! Life is a journey, filled with dreams, some of them turn out to be nightmares, but all hearts need exercise and the best way to get a heart pumping is a good old dose of love, followed by as long of a transfusion of marriage as we can possibly bear...until we get it right...or accept that it's OK if we don't.

So I told her yes darling...it's worth a try...or two!

Miss Piggy

I like to think of myself as green....not alien green, or kermit green, but I love the planet green. I've raised my kids to recycle since they were wee sprogs and try to make very earth friendly, energy saving choices.

I unfortunately have a conflicting condition; I'm a car addict. I loooove cars, especially big, loaded, fast, gas guzzling, American cars. Until a couple of years ago I thought that my two conditions could co-exist side by side, that my recycling would make up for my smog contribution. But I didn't take in to account just how smart my kids are, or how well they were listening to me preach emerald.

We were watching Top Gear (can't possibly live without BBC America!) and they were explaining carbon footprints and how different vehicles emitted different smog levels and had variable gas mileage. Being British, they of course slammed American cars for their flatulence, particularly big 4wheel drive type cars like the...Hummer!!!

At this time I was the proud owner of a stunning white H3 (couldn't find it in Miss Piggy pink). I loved this car more than any man, more than the cash it cost me to fill, more than chocolate, more than my dishwasher, but not more than the planet and certainly not more than my kids...who glared at me across the lounge, realizing that horror of horrors their mother was a hypocrite! Busted!!!

I sold it the next day. I cried. I now drive a tiny little red Nissan Versa, that I love...OK like, that loves the planet, but that will never replace my Hummer. Every time I get in my pump passing, petrol sipping, runs on fresh air, ridiculously uncool, ladybuggy I close my eyes and think of slipping behind the wheel of my H3 tank blinking back the tears ...stupid Jeremy Clarkson.

When I win the lottery I will have another Hummer, this time it'll be pink and to make up for the dreadful mess it makes of our O2 I will donate vast amounts of dosh to Greenpeace...only thing is I just worked out that my chances of winning the California Lottery are 1 in 13,983,816...so for now, I'll stay green.

Breaking up is never easy

In some cases I would have to agree that "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" but not in the case of a kitchen.

I wish I'd never known how it felt to fall in love with my upgraded self closing maple cabinets, to feel the smooth coolness of a solid granite countertop beneath my fingertips, to hear the dulcet tones of a garbage disposal, but most of all I wish I didn't know how it felt to be loved by a dishwasher. Having a dishwasher is something I wish I'd never taken for granted when I was in my last relationship with a kitchen.

You see, I'm now dishwasherless, and I miss my better half more than I can say. I've given up using the word "hate" so I shall just say that I have an intense dislike of washing up. There is nothing nice about leaning over a sink ( especially when you're 5'11" and your sink was installed in the 40s) up to the elbow in bubbles scrubbing away the food you just cooked from the dishes it seems like you only just washed. I've tried to improve the situation by buying delicately scented fancy looking dish soap, I wear frilly blue rubber gloves, and have a rather lovely drainer, but nothing can heal the emptiness I feel in my heart when I think of my old DW.

It's not like I can even replace the special little scrubbing machine either as my tiny little 1946 Burbank bungalow has yet to have a plumbing update and the kitchen has no allocated space for such a luxury. The other missing luxuries such as a garbage disposal, or a fridge with an ice maker, or tile that was...let's just leave it at tile, I can live without but I shall always be desperately seeking a kitchen with a dishwasher.

So people, learn to appreciate that little machine that without complaint loves and cherishes you and your dishes, in fact, go give yours a hug for me right now!

I'll take Manhattan...

To mark the official last day of our Spring Break 2010, I decided to take the kids to our very favorite discovery so far in LA; Manhattan Beach!

It's a little bit further away from Burbank than Santa Monica beach but as traffic is much more family drive friendly on the weekend we made it there in about 30 minutes. I wasn't driving very fast either, as I had my exciting new purchase strapped to the back of my little red compact (that's what they call a teeny car here in America; it's actually a normal sized family vehicle in Europe).

So what was my fantastic new purchase???? A bike rack! I bought a strappy metally barry sort of a structure thingy that hooks on to the back of my hatchback and permits us to transport our three bikes with us when we go on a beach venture. I must admit I felt somewhat nervous as the bikes bounced around in my rear view mirror; the thought of them falling off in the middle of a seven lane freeway had me sweating all the way to the beach.

We made it safely though, and went immediately to the wonderful "Uncle Bill's Pancake house" on Highland Avenue. We always go to this adorable breakfast/lunch restaurant whenever we go to Manhattan Beach for the day. The very best, must try, item on the menu is the Potatoes Stroganoff or the deluxe version (with avocado) the Potatoes Del Riego. My kids love the chocolate chip pancakes and the banana buckwheat pancakes make you feel like you're making a somewhat healthy choice! The view from this hillside terraced restaurant is of the ocean on one side and some of the most beautiful beach side real estate I've ever seen on the other. You can check it out here www.unclebills.net

After brunch we retrieved the bikes from the car and rode up and down the beach, dreaming of one day calling this gorgeous south bay town home. Unlike Santa Monica Beach, you can ride any direction at Manhattan and be greeted by gorgeous people and their stunning homes. Everyone at this beach looks ecstatically happy; either because they're the luckiest people in the world and get to live there or they're just thrilled to have discovered such a gorgeous spot.


Volleyball is big at Manhattan Beach; it's a bit like the Wimbledon of beach volleyball, and if you're not too intimidated by the six packs on legs there are plenty of nets for everyone to get some practice. Don't miss the pier too (well you can't miss it...it's that big structure built out in to the ocean) you get a bird's eye view of the surfers from the end, and then can polish off the day at the cafe with some funnel cake; a specialty that deserves a blog spot all of it's own, and a frothy coffee worthy of Blackpool pier.

Give me a break!

My kids are on Spring Break this week. In England we usually call this interruption of instruction half-term or Easter Holiday, but as school is divided in to two semesters here and we're not constitutionally permitted to celebrate Easter in schools unless we celebrate every holiday in every religion, we call it Spring Break. It does usually fall conveniently right before Easter, but as the Burbank Unified school district likes to do things a little differently (and is a predominantly Jewish community) we break two weeks earlier than everyone else!

It's really rather nice as most other schools are not out so the usual over crowding on this break is conveniently avoided. I think living in Burbank makes Spring Break even better; it's typically in the high 70's every day, the beach is a mere thirty minute drive away, Universal Studios is ten minutes away, and Disneyland only 45 minutes away. So we've had a near perfect week with the exception of one little blemish...my daughter has a science project to complete!

I'm allergic to science projects. Now don't get me wrong; I love to be involved in my children's education and truly enjoy helping them with their studies, but this Science Project enigma is enough to ruin any spring break.

For those of you who have yet to encounter the joys of science projects; they are "at home" projects that start appearing in third or fourth grade and don't go away until high school. The project is supposed to be completed entirely by the child, but as any involved parent knows; that's a sure recipe for disaster...especially when everyone else's parents are helping them out! They're really just a parental competition to see who can be the most creative and put together the best presentation. Burbank is populated by the majority of television techies that work in the near by studios...so you can imagine the creations they dream up; some of them need trailers to get their projects to school!

Being an all or nothing type of gal....I find myself getting a little too involved with my kids science projects. So far this year we've had the exploding volcano, which completely ruined the dining room table on it's practice run, we've experimented as to whether or not our pets are affected by different types of music, which has resulted in a tremendous amount of howling anytime we turn on any type of classical music, and most recently we had a multi colored meal of blue chicken, scarlet potatoes, and green cupcakes, to see if color is directly related to how we perceive taste...it does.

I wasn't warned about this parental responsibility! When I write my parenting handbook, I shall reserve a whole chapter on how to teach your child to relentlessly compete against it's peers, cheat wholeheartedly, and rely on one's parents to win, win, win!

The Luck of the Irish...

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! That's right we have a day in America where one actually celebrates being Irish! Who knew?

It's quite an event here in the US of A; there are parades of green laden people in almost every state on March 17th and Chicago even dyes its river green! There are lines outside every Irish pub in the country from about 11am and absolutely everyone wears green.

Kids have leprechaun catching projects in school and school systems who constitutionally cannot permit the study of religious holidays, embrace St. Patrick's day in the classroom to teach about this beloved race.

If you don't abide by tradition the rest of the Irish loving population gets to pinch you! People actually purchase shamrock covered T-shirts that they save to wear just on March 17th every year.

Yet another benefit; if you say you're Irish, on March 17th you'll get a snog from many a passing stranger...something to do with the blarney stone???

It's interesting to me how Americans hold on so tightly to their heritage. When I first moved here I'd ask people where they were from, expecting them to tell me where they were born in this enormous country. Rarely did I get the response I was expecting; instead I'd get a break down of their Scottish, Irish, British, Polish, or Italian genetic input.

So, I'd ask, were you very young when you moved to America? Only to be told they were born here. Why don't they just say that? How confusing! I don't want to know where your Grandad was from...I want to know where you're from!

Anyway, no one likes to be pinched right? so, in another desperate attempt to fit in and become an American, I've spent my day dressed head to toe in a fine shade of emerald, dropping shamrocks in conversation, and am off to the pub now for some green beer...may the wind at your back always be your own...wherever you think you're from!

"Cheese!"

We all grow up with some level of fear of dentists. But this particular fear is truly unfounded until you have visited a dentist in the United States of America.



Anyone who finds themselves in this nation of blindingly white, unfalteringly straight, teeth may feel the urge to never again open one's mouth to reveal anything less than perfection.

I have always admired the American smile but had no idea of the physical anguish inflicted on these poor people until I had the misfortune to spend an hour in an American dentist's chair.



Everything seemed innocent enough on arrival for my first "check-up". Friendly receptionist, scrupulously clean surgery, tasteful and relaxing music tinkling in the background, bright shiny dentist tools, delightful disinfectant smell, glossy magazine to read while waiting for sparkly smiley dentist to come in...



This white coated parody drifted around on a cloud of clean and spoke very gently and smiled often, flashing his pearly whites at me as frequently as possible between syllables. He deftly lulled me in to a sense of security and subtly developed my longing for brighter and whiter as he gently tilted his chair back to commence my "cleaning."



Now a cleaning at the dentist in England or maybe France (home of the cavity) is a lovely experience with a high powered spinning brush and a bunch of foamy stuff. So I closed my eyes in anticipation as he said "open wide"...



And in that moment my dreams of a smile that blinded faded off in to the spit bowl.



You see, in America a cleaning involves the use of a pneumatic drill and an ice pick. I kid not. They actually drill the plaque and some of the unsightly yellow enamel off your offending little european toothie-pegs. But it doesn't stop there!



Having slashed your gums and revealed every nerve ending in your poor decaying mouth they then spray huge volumes of ice cold water over your gob then, just as you're certain you're going to drown, they suck it, and your tongue, out with a vacuum that resembles a plumbing router. Only then do they start with the swirly brushy thingy and the toothpaste that now stings so terribly you feel tingly clean for a fortnight. Before you can say "Bob's your Uncle" you find yourself shoved neatly out the door with a list as long as your leg on how to take better care of your smile, and a tool box for home maintenance.



Imagine how terrified I was to go to my first gynaecological appointment this side of the pond!

Oh bum!

"Blimey my bum's got big!" I exclaimed mortified as I inspected the seat of my jeans and folded them tonight. What could have happened, what has caused my rear end to...well...spread!

It must be the LA traffic, or maybe it's the amount of time I'm spending on the computer writing that blasted blog, or it's sitting on my bum for eight hours driving back and forth to Vegas once a month, or maybe, just maybe it's the annoying fact that after you turn forty you actively lose control over certain areas of your body that you felt sure would never fail you!

I'm a pretty determined creature (I hear my parents sigh on both sides of the planet) and there's not much that I'll allow to get the better of me so I ran head long in to my forties with the defiant air of a four year old and the fearless attitude that nothing was going to change when the big four ooooh hit.

Hard as this may be to believe... I was wrong! First it was my eyesight; I've always been proud of my 20/20 vision but almost like clockwork about four days after my fortieth birthday I felt the change...a slight blurring when I adjusted my view from something near by to something far away. I, of course, ignored it until it became so bad I had to give in to the truth and was rewarded for my brave honesty with bi-focals...what the heck!!

Next were the spider veins...not going to tell you too much about those just in case it stops you from passing my info. on to old Prince C (Charming not Charles!)...suffice to say I wear skirts that hit the knee or below now.

The most annoying change though has been my memory loss. Sometimes I walk in to a room and don't know what I'm doing there and if you dare to pause in conversation for more than ten seconds I'll completely forget what we were talking about.

I am still putting up a bloody good fight against gravity though...the headstands give me a bit of a headache and duct tape really hurts when you strip it off your eyelids...but I'm winning!

And now, the dreaded bum enlargement...how can this be happening?

Growing up is tough, getting old inevitable, staying young at heart the great secret of life...and having a big bottom, well, it provides us with greater laurels to rest on...right?

Is it a bird?...Is it a plane???

Traffic is, so far, the only BAAAAD thing I've discovered about living in LA. There are really only four hours during the day when you have a chance at getting anywhere fast. If you miss the 10am-2pm window of opportunity, be warned, you'll forget all the great stuff about being a Californian and wish yourself somewhere else...anywhere else!

I hit traffic this evening when I went to drop my dogs off for a sleepover at a friends house. I spent most of the journey wishing for superpowers. I wish I could teleport...I wish I could fly...I wish I could fly and was strong enough to pick up the car and the dogs...and looked like a female version of superman! I'll be having similar delusions tomorrow when I'm driving the kids to Vegas on their monthly visit to their father (the crazy Hungarian I refer to sometimes).

Cali to Vegas is without a doubt the most monotonous, jaw slacking, bum numbing, drive, you will ever have to face.I'm pretty sure it's a deliberate ploy by the casinos to dull the minds of all arriving from the Golden State so that when they eventually see the lights of Sin City on the horizon they are suitably brain dead and believe they're really in with a chance of winning at the tables!

So my pups have gone away for the weekend. I took them to the groomers this afternoon and packed them off smelling faintly of apple and coconut with bows in their hair. I always make sure my pets and my kids smell wonderful if they're going to be taken care of by someone else...it's a fail safe plan that their minder will give them love. No-one likes a smelly ward!

There's this fantastic hair potion from Holland called Zwitsal and when the kids were little I'd spend a fortune getting it sent over so I could sprinkle it on their heads to ensure their special treatment. No, I'm not completely bonkers, try it. I'll bet your babes start getting better grades in school, and are immediately embraced as the most popular kids on the playground!

Come to the Cabaret!

Living in LA can be likened to belonging to a very large Amateur Dramatic Society.

For those of you who weren't lucky enough to grow up with amateur dramatics in your hometown...it's a convenient way for lay people to gain acting and stage experience for pleasure and amusement. "Amateur" technically means someone who does not accept or is not offered money for their services...yes we have an awful lot of pleasant and amusing amateur actors here in LA!

Now don't get me wrong...I grew up in a very loving and inspirational amdram family and many of my fellow limelight dreamers have gone on to become stars of both stage and screen...some of them have even become patron saints of theatres!

Anyway...the celebrities living here are, of course, the leading ladies and leading men, causing the usual rumours about who's sleeping with who, whose baby is whose, and who's the biggest box office pull. The rest of us are chorus, or dancers, all vying desperately for an opportunity to show the audition panel what we're made of...there are also some very talented overworked and under thanked costumiers, stage hands and set builders, our Treasurer is doing a dreadful job right now, and Arnie Schwarzenegger is our Chairman! Hmmm who's directing? Well right now I'd have to say Harvey Levin of TMZ...

There are many tiny box room theatres throughout LA, created to accommodate those not being "offered pay" for their talents, to "showcase" themselves, and then there's Karaoke.
In the rest of the world Karaoke is a bit of a laugh but here in LA it's super serious business and the playground for many an amateur celebrity. The best one I've been to is Sardo's, it's just down the road between Warner Bros. and Disney, there's a line out the door on weekends, and the talent is quite remarkable. It's also a great fun night out with wonderful bar food and reasonably priced beverages.

Check it out here http://www.sardosbar.com/

Everyone I've met since moving here has at one time been an "Actor", and in just eight months my kids have gone from wanting to be a graphic designer and a school teacher, to an actor and Broadway star! Even the dogs have started rescuing the neighbors in hopes of becoming the next Lassie.

"What are you doing there????" I hear you screech...well, I told you, once a showgirl always a showgirl. Despite being on the other side of the camera now, and only missing the unmistakable warmth of the spotlight and the uplifting sound of applause a teensy weensy bit (please hold on while I wipe away the tears) life here is a full on cabaret and I feel right at home!

Tiddely-om-pom-pom!

After living in the desert for nine years, there's nothing I like more than a day at the beach. Wherever you live in California the beach is never far away and I make it a priority to get my weekly paddle.

The beach that's easiest for me to get to is Santa Monica; it's a rather unusual seaside town as there's a freeway that runs parallel to the beach...don't worry you'll hardly notice it's there! Aim to park by the pier. The best (and cheapest) spots are where Pecos meets the ocean and are monitored by meters that eat anything silver.

Now when you get down to the seafront you have to make a big decision....do you want to see pretty people, the beach oddities in Venice, or both? Venice is to your left and Santa Monica to your right(toward the pier) I usually opt for both and head down to the bike rental shop at the joint of the pier. It's $7.50 for two hours on a bike.

In front of the bike store there are some gymnasticy hoopy ringy things which are loads of fun if you're willing to look like a complete plonker beside the beautiful beach bods that glide effortlessly from ring to ring. By now you should be feeling energized by the frenzied activity of the beach bunch...you can't miss them, they're super fit, freakishly tanned, and are frantically running from exercise to exercise in fear of stopping and gaining a pound...no,I'm not bitter...they're actually very inspiring!

Anyway, once on yer bike, keep pedaling past the pier to the end and then go back on yourself and pump through Venice Beach. The bike path has been fantastically designed to keep you about twenty feet away from the disturbed folks squatting on the pavement, and as long as you don't stop, you'll be fine!

So when your thighs are burning from the lightning speed you achieved to get away from the guy trying to sell you marijuana in Venice and you've torn your hands to bits showing off on the rings...head over to Shutters...the hotel made of ummm... shutters

This beachfront hotel is beautiful and has a lovely restaurant with fantastic ocean views. Although it looks ridiculously expensive from the outside it is actually very competitive with the other restaurants down at the beach. I usually have fish and chips and a beer, which puts me back about twenty bucks. You'll be served by an array of pretty boys in flowery shirts and stripey ties, near worthy of the Kelly Boy line at the Lido de Paris,who give us all another reason to be eternally thankful that some men were born without their macho.

Check them out (the hotel not the boys!) at: www.shuttersonthebeach.com

Do be sure to leave the beach before 2pm on a week day though, as any later than that you risk entering the dark and torturous gridlock of traffic that torments LA and will ruin your day out at the seaside...oh I do like to be beside the seaside oh I do like to be beside the sea!

Hollyolia!

I moved to Burbank about eight months ago and I absolutely love it! Most of California is stunningly beautiful, Burbank isn't...and it's in the part of the city that the beach dwellers snootily call "The Valley"...but it's charmingly quirky with it's little bungalows and after living in Las Vegas for nine years I'll live anywhere that I don't have fake grass and cacti in my backyard.

I stumbled upon this lovely LA suburb as I was looking for good schools for my kids; education is not much of a priority in a city where you make your money rolling dice, or counting cards, so I felt I owed my kids a few years of really decent schooling. I haven't been disappointed; the catching up period for the kids was tough but now they've re-hydrated and got the sand out of their brains they're doing brilliantly.

There are many things I love about Burbank, aside from the wonderful school district, but the top two things have to be; Porto's Bakery and the fact that there are almost no McCain/ Palin bumper stickers!

Porto's Bakery is heaven on earth; it's right on the corner of Hollywood and Magnolia and is as phenomenal as it's address. This family owned Cuban restaurant appears to be busy every hour that it is open; the staff are always jolly and efficient, the food is glorious and the coffee unbeatable. Things to try include potato balls, chicken empanadas, croquettes, and their mango mousse! I highly recommend a vacation to Burbank if only to sample the delicacies served in this paradisaical pastry parlor every day

You can check them out here www.portosbakery.com

To avoid upsetting the ignorant I shan't say too much about Ms. Palin and her ridiculously named, delusional daughter Bristol, who has now become some sort of an advocate for abstinence; suffice to say I don't like them. If you've come this far in my blogs, you probably don't either....but if you do, you might want to stop reading my blog...as the chances of me ever saying something nice about them are far slimmer than the chances of Bristol keeping her nickers on.

Look, a new day has begun...

Saturday is my absolute favorite day of the week, but it's even better if it's a Saturday when I have my kids and don't have to let my ex husband borrow them for the weekend. Divorce brings many wonderful things , but sharing your kids ain't one of'em!

I love going to bed late on a Friday knowing that I don't have to set an alarm clock for school the following day, and that you can do the same thing again Saturday night. Oh the luxury of uninterrupted sleep.


Sleep has become unusually important in my life, as any fishnet fearing showgirl worth her weight in feathers who was crazy enough to have kids while still working knows, and I will move mountains to make sure I get eight hours every night...I can honestly say I was tired for about six years straight in my attempt at reviving Superwoman.


Anyway, back to my Saturday. It was beautiful when I woke up...but then two hours in to "Seventeen again" on HBO ( my favorite movie of the moment; I may have to seek help soon for my Zac Efron crush) and it started to rain...yes rain! in California! on a Saturday!

I'm allergic to rain. I think it was the overexposure I had to it growing up in England. But rather than give in to the nasty gray (or is it grey?) wetness I decided to get outside and go on a food hunt because Saturday is my one day off my diet. My theory is that when on a diet you should shock your metabolism once a week and feed it as many fat calories as you can so it bumps itself up in to acceleration mode.

I've managed to get my children addicted to Taco Bell, which in my opinion is the most amazing fast food on the planet...so Saturday lunch is usually there. It is the most satisfying disgustingly unhealthy excuse for food that I have come across...and it's cheap too!

Anyway, on arrival home, arms laden with my exotic Mexican goodies, I opened the door, only to smell cat piss. There are two things that have the ability to send me into a frantic rage; cat piss and computer problems.

We've had a manky cat (think Grizabella from Cats) hanging around the house for several days and my zoo (3 cats and 2 dogs) have been acting rather strangely, so I'm not sure who's to blame for the pungent smell. Until now I'd been torn between taking Grizabella in or shoo-ing her off, but that she pissed on my doorstep has ruined all of her chances at joining the Mayer zoo...even if every time I see her it conjures up images of Elaine Paige singing Memories...

A desperate hour of cleaning followed as I really can't sit and eat Taco Bell with that smell....when I was satisfied that I'd drowned out the smell with floor cleaner and scented candles, I sat down to eat my now cold Burrito and glancing at the screen of the computer saw it flashing dramatic virus warnings...had the cat peed on that too?

Thirty six hours later, here I am, in a house smelling so bleachy it'd turn your hair blond, with a computer that my lovely sixteen year old eventually fixed...with the help of his Dad...one of the benefits of divorce!

M Day

I absolutely promise that this is not going to become a Mum blog , but I am a Mum and sometimes I'm just gonna have to preach on about it.

I heard someone today call Mother's Day a "Hallmark Holiday". Well, I thought, they've obviously never given birth! Don't I deserve a card? Is it really that hard to understand?

Shouldn't Mother's Day be a National Holiday anyway? Does someone really begrudge their good old Mum a card? I think we should have medals, and free cars, and lower interest mortgage rates, and free vacations to Hawaii every year, and, and...

OK so I'm getting a little carried away but really does it mean nothing that to become a member of the Mum club many of us must first grow a human being in our stomach until it reaches the size of a basketball, then squeeze it through a hole the size of a ping pong ball ( I'll leave out the gas, enema, panting and screaming for those of you who are squeamish)...then, after it's messed up our bits, and changed the look of our boobs and navel beyond recognition, fall in love with it and care for it for all of our remaining years?

Does society only see what us Mums do because a card shop tells them to? I refuse to believe it! We make people for goodness sake! Beat that! We rock!

Being Mum to my two amazing kids (yes, I know everyone says that...but mine really are!) is the best job anyone could ever hope for, but despite being fulfilling and paying dividends in personal rewards; it does not pay the bills. How can that be asks Mister Martian from Mars? You do a full time job and there is no monetary compensation? Why not?

Good point Mister Martian! Seriously though, I get it, how could we possibly get paid for raising wonderful human beings who go on to advance and enrich society? Human beings who go on to defend and empower this wonderful country?

I just want my card.

Oh please...

It's not easy being English...please note that I don't say British! Only in America are we really believed to unite as one kingdom...we can't possibly have come up with "Great Britain" ourselves "Great" seems so American, we'd surely have named ourselves something like; "Absolutely Fabulous Britain" or "Jolly Good Britain"...believe me if you're English , you're English, Welsh you're Welsh, Scottish you're Scottish, and Irish you're round the bloody bend.

But back to my point...it's hard living up to the crazy standards we set ourselves.
First off there are manners; we constantly say "Sorry" even for things that aren't our fault! I once had someone rear-end my car, I jumped out fuming , yet the first words to leave my lips were "I'm so sorry" what???
Please and thank you are a bind too. I get blood drawn "Which arm would you like me to stick this six inch needle in?" asks the nurse "Ooooh the right one please!" I respond brightly not wishing to appear impolite or, the Queen forbid, emotional.

Yes, stiff upper lip is another standard we're bred to uphold in "Great Britain". We pull ourselves together head held high bravely marching on without even the whiff of a whimper. It's such a relief to show emotion living in America; my wildest tantrums aren't a scratch on even the most inhibited of American outbursts. That's why we love McEnroe so much in England; he was the secret envy of every Brit watching when he had his fantastic meltdowns on the court.

Then there's table etiquette; no elbows on the table, fork in left hand, knife in right hand, don't start until everyone is served, only put on your fork what fits in your mouth (thankfully mine is huge), don't talk with your mouth full and, as my mother would say "No sound effects!"...spaghetti is a nightmare!

I can't write this without addressing our blasted accents! If I get compared to Mary Poppins one more time, I might shove more than just a spoon full of sugar down someone's throat. I'm adjusting though...I say band-aid instead of plaster, trash instead of rubbish, and use both "Shure" and "Whadeverrrr" accordingly. After many a muddled order I have to do the drive through in American. My kids friends beg to share this apparently hilarious experience with me as my attempt at an American accent is, so I've been told, highly amusing and sounds like a cross between John Wayne and Minnie Mouse.

Anyway, as much as I tease, I love being English, but I love being English in America much more than being English in England.
Thank you so much for having me.

...but you can't take the show outta the girl!

So before I proceed, I should probably explain the title of my page. I was a showgirl for 21 years and, despite the uncontrollable changes to my outer self, my inner self still is. I should clarify that when I say showgirl, I don't mean stripper, there is a difference...which I will try desperately hard to justify! Despite being scantily clad, showgirls are well trained dancers who perform choreographed routines. Most of us had dreams of becoming ballerinas but grew too tall and had to give up on Swan Lake...oh yes...and we just happened to not wear tops...sort of a traditiony thingy...


Anyway, once a showgirl always a showgirl. How to spot a real one? Take out a camera and aim it in their direction...if they're true showgirls they'll jump to attention, feet in beville (classic showgirl stance) hands on hips, bright sparkly smile, eyebrows very slightly raised. If you're still unsure then follow this checklist

• Over 5'10"



• Huge unsightly feet



• Bizarrely scarred eyelids from over use of false eyelashes



• Unusual criss cross callouses on knees and hips from fishnets



• Large bump on crown of head used to attach headdresses.



• Gets teary when hears applause



• Cues life with a 5,6,7,8



• Knows who Miss Bluebell was



• Has dated a waiter at least once



• Only wears thongs



• Knows all the words to "A pretty girl is like a melody"...in English & French



• Can work a hat and cane



• Knows that feather fans have a right and a left



• Wears three inch heels like they're sneakers



• Never looks down when descending a flight of stairs

• Chugs champagne like it's water

• Can balance a fifty pound weight on her head a twenty pound weight on each wrist whilst jump kicking in four inch strappy sandals...without so much as a jiggle (oh come on... think topless)

Yes, showgirls are rare birds so if you come across a flock put on a Gershwin song, pop open some champagne, and grab the camera.

Letting it all out!

Write a blog!, I thought...brilliant...has to go down in history with some of my other brilliant ideas such as; marry a Hungarian, buy a house just as the market reaches a peak and the economy crashes, and my all time favorite, fill the void of divorce with three cats and two dogs.


It seemed like such a good idea when I first thought of it; I love to write, enjoy communication, and have far too much to say for myself...should be easy, I thought...until about five minutes ago when reality hit, my mind went blank, and my creativity double timed it back across the pond.


Yes, I may have made some controversial decisions in my time, but I'm nothing if not determined! March 1st 2010 is the first day of my first ever blog post. It's also the first day of my raw foods diet and a promise to exercise (my ever-honest kids are forcing me to confess that I make those commitments every month).


What kind of a blog should I write? A personal blog? Nah, too egotistical. Corporate blog? Yaaaawn boring!, Travel blog?, Mom blog?, Absolutely not! Besides I'm a Mum not a Mom! How about we just call it a "What do I want to say today blog?" and see where it takes us.


Hmmmm....what do I want to say today?


Well, despite having lived in this wonderful country for almost ten years and having changed much of my vocabulary to avoid having the same conversation about my British differences twenty times a day, there are some things that I will simply never get used to.


Public toilets in America need re-thinking! That's right I said toilets, and yes I know this is my first post and probably not the best place to start, but as we've already established...I'm full of brilliant ideas!


Why on earth is there no need for privacy in this country? It's the home of the brave and the land of the free, but free and brave are not attributes I wish to carry with me in to a public loo. For such an anti-nudity nation I'm surprised that there hasn't been a civil revolution! Public toilets here barely have doors! You can see your neighbor over the top of the stall and analyze the complete contents of her handbag as well as the underwear linking her ankles under the stall. You can actually see your co-loo users, as they squat scantily clad, through the vast gap either side of the flimsy door. As one wouldn't want to embarrass one's fellow poopers one of course learns to avert one's gaze when entering a public toilet, whilst avoiding eye contact with any other occupants, and without bumping in to the less than sturdy cubicle....and of course holding one's breath or taking tiny yoga sips of air.


The acoustics are particularly wonderful in these open-plan lavvies too! It's no wonder we're a constipated nation, we have no privacy to let it out! And don't get me started on the smell in the men's room and the flasher standing at the urinal that we all get to delight in every time the door to the men's room opens!


There, I think today's title will have to be "Letting it all out"