Lots o' the Londish

Eddie Izzard says he is from England, "You know, where the history comes from." He's right. It's not that the United States doesn't have history. We have it, but it's kinda nouveau. Yesterday, I went here:

The U.S doesn't have bridges like that. That is the Tower Bridge, which leads to the Tower of London, which has lots of history. Before I got there, I stopped on the bridge and did this:

I had to because a dozen years ago I came here with students and some of us did handstands together on this bridge, and I wanted to pay tribute to that day long ago and to the fact that it inspired a line in my book about the students doing handstands on the Tower Bridge. This is for you, Matt and Drew. (I gotta say, my form is pretty good for an old broad. Yoga pays off.) Here is just one view of the Tower of London:

The place creeps me out a little due to the executions that happened there and also the lions who once guarded the gates. I am getting better about dealing with dogs. Big cats, not so much... not even their memories. The Tower is old London, for sure. Here are some shots of new London:

The above is an area under a bridge near The National Theatre where kids skate, bike ride, and skateboard and do all their crazy tricks. If you walk a little further, you come across an outdoor market on the Thames, which sells things like this:

Gone are the days of just meat pies. OMG but the butternut squash/bean pie and the spinach/mushroom pie--to die for. And, of course, if you really want to experience the quintessential outdoor London market, then you must go to Notting Hill and walk around the Portobello Market. Here it is:

It was super crowded and made me a bit cranky. (I know...I have no right to be cranky in Notting Hill, the poshest place on the planet, but I was. All I bought at the market was a t-shirt of The Dude. I mean it; that is what I got. Because it was only 5 pounds and it is cool. You will see it when I wear it at my book signing party this spring.) When I finally made it home today, one of the dogs was up on the table. It made me laugh. Here he is:

Greatness thrust upon me

"Be not afraid of greatness: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them" (Twelfth Night).  I prefer to have "greatness thrust upon me." Don't all ladies?
      In the last few days, I have been to some great arenas in London. The first was The Clink, for which all prisons were thereafter named.

Next, I was lucky enough to attend a British football match. (British football=American soccer.) My hosts are huge Chelsea fans. Chelsea are the champions...world champions, European Champions--I don't know. I am not schooled enough in this sport yet to know how to classify them, but I am getting there. I watched a documentary about how this Chelsea team defied all odds, came from behind and won the European Cup in May 2012. I cried watching the film because it contained all the elements of a great story: heart (all the players so human and passionate); pain (the team started the season losing five games, their coach was fired; they had to start anew); diverse characters (players from all over the world, most were uneducated but managed to "achieve greatness" due to their skill); defeat (during a final playoff match their team captain, John Terry, was sent off early on in the game for bad behavior and Chelsea had to play with one less player...against  Barcelona, a super duper great team, in the Spanish side's home stadium--and Chelsea still won!!! Their fate cried out!). Anyway, I went to the match as a new fan and was amazed at the level of crowd enthusiasm. They yelled and screamed and taunted and sang out the strangest chants like "John Terry, he shags who he wants!" Seriously, tens of thousands of fans sing that out during the game, and also, seriously, John Terry shags who he wants. Like other players' wives. "Greatness thrust upon them"...that kind of thing. John Terry is a naughty boy, but he is beloved on "the pitch," which is what they call the football field. I had to purchase a Chelsea scarf and show my support.

       Finally, as if I haven't had enough greatness, last evening, I saw Twelfth Night at the Globe. Mark Rylance (super famous great Shakespearean actor) played Olivia; he was AMAZING. Think, Ken Branagh (who makes my knees weak from his ability and more so now that one is injured) but even more grown-up and British-ized. The Globe is a tourist venue to be sure, an iconic symbol of London's great past, but it exceeds expectations. It is a truly beautiful, well designed space that both the audience and the actors join in reverence over. There was a palpable feeling of sacredness despite the Disneyland draw of it.  During the second act of the show, I  looked up at the moon, whose natural light glowed above and upon the ceiling--less theatre, and then I looked below at the crowds standing on floor level; it's all as it would have been in Shakespeare's day...except for the fact that this theatre was a completely rebuilt version and people drank hot tea not beer in the penny seats, which are now way more than a penny...but nonetheless, by the end of this comedy, despite all the laughing I did, I was choked up. Like all of Shakespeare's plays, there were some stunning lines: "If music be the food of love, play on." And, for my fellow vegetarians: "I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit." And, finally, for those trying to ABIDE as I am, "Oh, Time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie."

My dogs are barking

These are the dogs I am living with, and anyone who knows me (which is all of you), knows that it is a huge event for me to be living with three dogs. I actually really like them.

These are not the barking dogs to which I refer in my blog title. I meant my sore feet! I went to Paris this weekend and walked all over the city. Yes, poor me. I stayed at the same hotel where I stayed when I went with students six years ago, so I could get my bearings easier. I have the faculties to remember the name of the Parisian hotel where I stayed years ago, but I can rarely find my keys each morning. Figure that one out. Here are the views from my hotel window.

I also apparently cannot dress myself properly. Now, granted, I was really tired at this point; however, in the photo below, my jacket is on upside down. Again, let's review: am able to pull the name of the hotel where I stayed in Paris six years ago out of my ass but am unable to dress myself properly. Yes, that is correct.

I wanted to send you all a postcard. To save on postage, here it is:

We did every iconic thing you can think of in Paris. Of course, I loved the Eiffel Tower. Instead of showing you an up-close picture of that since you all already have the image in your mind, I am going to show you a picture of the scene below the tower on the grass. I think you will agree that it is very French!

Not one, not two, but three random couples making out in a row on this one section of grass by the tower. There were more couples, but I couldn't get them all in the photo and didn't think it would be fair to ask them to get up and move for my shot.
        We went to the Louvre and spent hours there, which is what you have to do. It is huge. Thousands upon thousands of pieces of art live there. I don't want you to judge me too harshly for what I am about to ask, but why is the Mona Lisa the hands-down winner of "most popular art piece" in the Louvre? Did she hire a publicist? Don't get me wrong. I love her. But I loved a lot of the art in the place and just thought it was a little Lady Gaga-ish that the Mona Lisa was the only piece that had a million signs with arrows pointing you in her direction. The picture below captures the constant crowds that surround her. There should have been a red carpet. I asked one of the four guards surrounding the Mona Lisa if he was just sick of this painting. In very charming French fashion, he said, "No, madame, it is for you."

I loved Paris for all the obvious reasons. You can't help but love this city even though every nook and cranny smells like an ashtray; the waiters are rude; the metro smells of unbathed bodies and bodily excretions; thieves abound, and the cost of everything is ungodly. You even have to pay to go to the bathroom. My weekend in Paris will probably mean I have to take out a second mortgage on my condo. But if given another chance, I'd go back again.

Food, gluttonous food!!

      I used to think the food in England was terrible. I think maybe it used to be. When I was here in college and then again a dozen years ago, the choices for vegetarians were limited. However, look at my lunch today:

      At this restaurant (whose name I can't remember because like most of the restaurants  here it just seemed like two random words thrown on an awning) there were beautiful ceramic bowls filled with a dizzying array of vegetable dishes all laid out on this long table. The lovely British serving girl asked if I wanted a large or small box for "take away." Well, large, of course!! Then I made my 4 selections. What I got in return is pictured above; it seemed to weigh 5 pounds and it cost 15 pounds. Holy garden goddess! Running perpendicular to the veggie table was this table:

      I nearly passed out from over stimulation. I managed to leave the facility without purchasing anything sweet but that was only because I knew we were having cake after tonight’s dinner. Thank God I am walking all over London and taking a million yoga classes. Every block in this city has some eatery or pub that is difficult to pass up. The open markets have displays like this: 

      I wanted to stick my face in that pile of powered sugared treats but there was a sneeze guard and also I was afraid I would be arrested...but, I am sure it would have been a very civil and friendly arrest. The bobbies are all lovely. I didn't upload the picture I took of a chocolate whiskey bomb cake because it is obscene. Obscenely chocolaty, caloric, and too rich to stare at without lusting after it. I am saving you from it. 

      Below is the place for the world's greatest fish and chips and a very British food item called a chip butty. Everyone loves them here. A chip butty is a french fry sandwich. Literally. Thick cut fries right out of the fryer and placed on a warm bun. You can put any condiment you want on it: ketchup, mustard, mayo, vinegar. The locals go mad for it. 

Below are the fish and chips. We didn't get the chip butty; that would have been madness.

      At the end of the day, if you just aren't done consuming all the British treats available, but you feel guilty about your culinary urges, you can purchase a seat on a peddle-powered roving bar and work off some of the calories and maybe stay sober longer. That's right. The people in the picture below are drinking and working off the effects by peddling the vehicle around the streets of Borough Market. Genius. 

I have kinda figured out how to paste pictures

Look what came in the mail for me: (Thank you, Penguin!!)

Okay, I have no idea why the picture of my book looks like that. I don't think I took a picture of a video stream and then emailed that, but who knows. Look, it is pretty miraculous that I just pasted it here. Like a real miracle. This is the advanced reader copy of my book; it is used for advertising purposes and such. The real thing will not come out until March 21, 2013. Here is the back cover:

So, of course, this morning, I had to take my book to breakfast. We had some coffee together:

Oh, and this:

I had to remove my book from the table at that point because I am messy and was afraid I would defile my book. Those are pancakes with Greek yogurt on the side. Better than any U.S yogurt, very tasty and swallow-able; I mean I could actually eat it without gagging, which is generally what happens to me when I eat U.S. yogurt. Also, there are baked pears and pecans on top of it. Scrumptious. I sat there and read my book like I was a proper author or something.

Mind the Gap

             I love the disembodied voice that tells me to “mind the gap” when I step off the tube. This kind of support prevents me from  falling through the cracks of the underground, literally (read blog entitled “Double-decker Smackdown” to fully understand) and figuratively. Mind the gap, the space between (worlds, events, moments, thoughts etc…) so as to not fall through life’s cracks and meet with despair, panic. terror and anxiety. A friendly reminder to “mind the gap” during times of high stress is a lifesaver; it keeps us on track. We should all get an app for that.

             “The gap” is the space between or the God space, the space of possibility. And we should “mind it,” as in “pay attention to it.” We should mind the space between one moment and the next, and mind the space between all transitions in our lives (big and small). The space between here and there is miraculous because it is the nowhere space, which we all know means “now here.” I so often forget to be now here and end up nowhere (in the idiomatic sense—“that got me nowhere”—) because I perseverate on the past or the future or all the what-ifs in my life. Instead of minding the gap, I try to control it and in doing that, I fall right in instead of stepping right over. The gap becomes a hole that swallows me instead of a bridge to what’s next. Mind the gap—pay attention to it, be present, so you don’t fall and get lost—in the past, in the future, in the bullshit of whatever is happening to you; but, don’t mind the gap like “the Dude minds, man.”  When you “mind” things in that way, when you let “your thinking get too uptight,” then you forget to mind the gap in the correct fashion, and you fall in and down the rabbit hole into the land of crazy. So mind the gap and stay healthy, present, and happily moving along.

            Also, I love that the tube station right near where I am staying is called Angel.  Brilliant…as the Brits would say. 

Double-decker Smackdown

     If you come to London and think it might perhaps be thrilling to ride a double-decker bus, especially on the second floor, be sure you are well aware of the safety hazards. For example, DO NOT assume that you know when the bus is coming to a stop. Wait until the locals stand up (and hope some do) when you come near your stop. You want to follow their lead. Otherwise, you may end up like me: tumbling down the stairs and slamming your knee violently against the metal banister, leaving the tame, local Brits in a state of deer-caught-in-head-light shock not knowing what to do to help the thoroughly clumsy, briefly shrieking, wounded American. I hope you don’t end up limping all over the area near Westminster Abbey looking like a woman who arrived to receive a holy healing; that was embarrassing. And no miraculous healing was to be found. Walking on flat ground was okay—doable, but still pretty damn painful. I said Jesus’ name on several occasions. In Westminster, that seemed okay. I thought I might be thrown out of Harrods because I looked so unfortunate and couldn't keep up with the crowds, but that didn't happen. Walking up and down the stairs of the tube was “OMG I see a white light and Jesus is coming for me” painful. I can bend the thing; it’s not broken. But it is bruised and will be more purple tomorrow. Of that, I am sure. 

 Above is the area I hobbled about.

Above are my very unsexy knees. The one on the right is the one I injured. It doesn't nearly look hideous enough for the amount of pain I was in. The whole thing should be black and blue and bloody!

Tino Seghal is way cool

     Last night we went to the Tino Seghal exhibit at the Tate Modern. I understand why people might see some modern art and think it’s bullox. In the case of this exhibit, I am not one of those people. I will describe it to you, and you can decide for yourself.

     “These Experiences” by Tino Seghal takes up the entire bottom floor entrance of the museum in a space reminiscent of a warehouse. Depending on when you arrive, various things may be going on within the exhibit because this piece is not possessed of things or paintings or objects of any kind. It is all people. When I arrived, all the “artists” or “participants” or whatever Tino calls them, were at the far end of the room walking backwards slowly and zombie-like. The people were very diverse looking—men, women, young, old, and many ethnic groups were represented. They were dressed in everyday clothes, all normal people you wouldn’t look twice at on the street. I am sure their sartorial choices and general aesthetic were all directorial decisions. Suddenly, they all started chanting. When the chanting stopped they moved slowly forward while staring straight ahead. Eventually, they broke from their trances, and each participant told a personal story to an audience member of their choice.

     A woman came up to me and spoke about her life in Poland and how there had been a time during her childhood when she was forced to lie about her Catholicism (to pretend to be one) even though she and her sister were atheists. This woman was about my age and very articulate but soft-spoken. I felt as if she were sharing a very poignant piece of her history with me. I commented and discussed some things with her and then when she was done, she said to me, “This piece is called ‘These Experiences’ and it is by the artist Tino Seghal.” Then, she walked away.

     I sat on the cement floor for a bit and watched the artists mingle with the spectators. Eventually, a man in the piece sat down next to me and started talking. He told me a story involving his “first step mom” and her influence in his life. It, too, was poignant and personal. Neither conversation I had was too vulnerable nor was it emotional; they were simply personal. Even though we talk to people every day, there was something very powerful about connecting with these strangers through dialogue in this art piece. For me, “These Experiences” is an artistic representation of the human experience. Many things separate us (space, time, labels, language etc…) but we come together, too. Our experiences of life are both individual and collective, and we are changed by all our experiences.

           

     I have thought about this exhibit all day as I traveled through London. I found myself admiring all the people I saw on the tube just because they were human and were unique and were occupying the same space with me. I remember very few people from this day in  specific terms. However, I remember very vividly the two people from the Seghal piece who were brave enough to just start talking to me about their lives. I consciously listened to them, and a piece of them is now with me forever. That, to me, is the impact of and the reflection of good art. 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are NOT dead

…because we saw them, thrice in one night, as they engaged in their typical tomfoolery. I always felt sorry for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in the play Hamlet because they never realize what imbeciles they are, and I felt sorry for them when I saw them in person for the same reason. The first time we saw them was when we rounded a corner after finishing a pint of Guinness at a local pub. (I am so happy that they serve Guinness cold here now. Delicious.) R & G stood on the corner in disheveled dress, and one, with head down clinging to a knapnack as if for comfort, looked completely forlorn. He whined, “Bu' eye don wan dem tew fink eye’m ‘omophobic.” That was what he said syllable for syllable. In America, it would have read, “But, I don’t want them to think I am homophobic.” He went on: “Now, dey jus’ fink eye’m an ig-nor-in ‘omophobe. Eye don' wan dem tew fink dat. Fuck.” (You gotta give him some credit here. He’s an enlightened ignorant. Oxymoronic, as that might be.) We moved past them, giggled a bit as we said we just saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in the flesh.               

            We walked around the city for another two hours or so and covered a lot of ground. As we came out of a shop after buying some gum, we ran right into Rosencrantz and Guildenstern again. This time, the other one was speaking (the one that wasn’t worried about being mistook for an ignorant homophobe). He was furious about something, rabid, and really getting in the face of his doppelganger, spitting as he spoke. His greasy hair was flitting about and the other one used his knapsack to keep some distance between him and his foaming-at-the-mouth friend.

             We walked in another direction and visited some more pubs and restaurants with live music; we walked down cute alleyways and along the streets of some adorable neighborhoods. Finally, exhausted and with sore feet, we headed home. It was well after midnight and as we reached the block of our flat, there were Rosencrantz and Guildenstern--again. (I was beginning to think this was some kind of live theatre performance that secretly stayed a few steps ahead of us.) In this vignette, they both looked exhausted, like they had been through a lot that night. This time as we walked past, we heard one say to the other, “In awl fair (barely pronounce the ‘r’)ness, we waz boff a li’le drunk.” And I am pretty sure at that point, they gave each other a hug.

They make the flowers bloom

     I am sure, like me, you have known jerky, cruel, mean, arse-holey people. You know, the kind of people who walk by and flowers wilt or whose very essences make puppies cry and shame the sun into hiding behind clouds. I know you know these kinds of people—IF, that is, you live in the United States, or, more specifically, Los Angeles. The thing is, these suck-the-life-out-of-all-that-is-good kind of people do not exist in London. So far, every “Londish” I’ve met makes the flowers bloom, makes puppies leap and calls the sun forth—really. Until this morning it has been very sunny and warm. (I didn’t pack for this weather, so I hope some darker-souled Los Angelenos get off the plane soon to cool down the weather.) 
      Everyone we’ve met here has been so friendly and helpful. A driver tapped his car horn ever so slightly as he anticipated that I was about to step off the curb and into a very bloody death. I was about to step out into traffic but hadn't made the move yet. The driver's benevolence was so ingrained in him that he could literally sense when a pedestrian was about to even think of stepping off the curb in front of him. Saintly. Perhaps the locals feel sorry for us because we are from America, and, if that is the case, I understand. London has so much we don’t have: cool accents, actual history, and civility to name just three. We had a pint of Guinness and a ploughman’s lunch the other day at a pub called Filthy McNasty’s—the height of irony. The food was yummy; the server was sweet and gregarious, and everything was clean, even the people. In the United States we employ our irony in dubious ways. Case in point: The Clean Air Act. We could really take a lesson or two from The Londish. Their irony, just like everything else, is charming and gentile, making life a little more enjoyable all around. As I suspected I might be, I am a big fan of the Londish!    

It is wrong to drown babies

             Is it wrong to drown babies?…I mean, IT IS wrong to drown babies. It’s just that on the ten-hour flight, babies were crying non-stop (literally, like at least one baby was crying every second of the flight) and I imagined them being dunked under water. Not to kill them. They were all really cute; they just couldn’t stop crying. I don’t think drowning them temporarily in my imagination is a terrible thing to do under these circumstances. Because while they were under water in my imagination, they were silent.

             It is also wrong to punch old men in the face. But, I did envision doing that, too, because the old man behind me was playing games on the interactive screen attached to the back of my seat. Pound, pound, pound went his fingers and pound, pound, pound went the seat on the back of my head…the entire flight. It F’d up my neck. Along with pounding the screen and shaking my head, he was singing Cat Stevens songs aloud—“Moonshadow” and “Morning has Broken.” Aloud, I tell you, even though he had headphones plugged into his ears, which is generally universally done so that NO ONE ELSE BUT YOU can hear the music playing in your own head. (I could not hear the actual beauty of the tune; I could only hear his horrible off-key a cappella version.) He did not understand the full purpose of headphones. And, he apparently thought we would all enjoy his singing. I did not, but it is really weird that he thought he could sing Cat Stevens songs off-key in his Spanish accent for our entire section of the plane to hear. Except no one said anything, so I guess he could.

            It is also wrong to put pencils in the butt crack of grown men who wear their shorts halfway down their backside and lean over right next to you and stick half their hairy asses right in your face. However, I still really wanted to put a pencil in the crack of the man’s arse who did that to me. I mean, come on, couldn’t he feel the breeze when he bent over? If he couldn’t feel the breeze, I thought he should feel the pencil. 
           So, our flight was very colorful. But our stay so far has been spectacular. Our hosts are fabulous, just lovely, the weather is divine and the pints and the wine are delicious. So far, so fabulously good! 

         

Oh God, my suitcase is too big and other worries

Well, I cleaned my house, just fyi. Now the thing I am obsessing about is my suitcase. It is rather large. It does not flaunt the rules of size for the airlines, but it is still awfully big. If I knew how to take a picture of it and upload (or is it download?) it to this blog I would show you and you would agree.  But I am going to be in England for a month. There is stuff to consider. And shoes. The suitcase is bright pink, which is also ridiculous. I am, right now, visualizing rolling this behemoth through the tube system. I am sure all the cool Londoners (or the Londish, as one of my students calls them) will know I am a foolish American. Okay, Laur, breathe. I will gain strength and tenacity hauling my giant pink luggage along. Everything is a metaphor, isn't it? After 45 years of living, I am bound to be carting around some junk, some of it ridiculous and some of it screaming pink for all the world to see and laugh at. Hey, I am feeling better about this. The world needs clowns!

Defying all logic and sense

           I have no business sitting here writing. It’s not that I don’t have a right to; it’s more that I REALLY SHOULD BE doing something else.  “Something else” is an understatement, an expression that represents the tiniest part of a much larger whole, an unimaginative synecdoche, if you will. Because “something else” should really read “a bazillion tasks to get me ready for my trip to London tomorrow.” Not only am I avoiding all my tasks and engaging in this self-absorbed act of expression, but I also took a break from THAT to look up the word “synecdoche” to see if it was the figure of speech I was looking for. It was. What is wrong with me? I will focus my attention on a mother load of minutia—that’s an oxymoron—rather than clean my house or pack. I also had to Google “oxymoron.” Not to check the meaning of that word but to try to retrieve that word because it would not rise from my middle-aged-should-be-focused-on-cleaning-and-packing brain. Once I Googled “literary term for two opposing ideas like ‘lost in a crowd’” and saw “oxymoron,” I said to myself, “Right, ‘oxymoron,’ that is the word I was looking for." I probably would have eventually thought of the word “oxymoron” if I just sat here long enough, but why do that? I have things to do…eventually. And, the greater point is we never have to not know anything because of the gift of the Internet. However, I did Google “What is wrong with me?” and I did not get a definitive response. I stopped writing for a bit to ask Surrey, too, but she was no help at all.

            I grew up in a household where we were taught you must scrub the house to sparkling clean before a trip. This was nonsensical to me as a child because I thought what was the point of cleaning the house when no one would be there to enjoy the clean? But we HAD to do it. We became sweaty nut-jobs scrubbing the place; we fought like cats and dogs and ran around like maniacs packing, dusting, putting away clutter, vacuuming, doing dishes, etc…By the time we left together on vacation, we hated our lives and each other. BUT, the house was clean.

            I am currently making a mockery of this sacred family tradition. My house is a shit storm right now and even though it makes me really uncomfortable, because of all the years of clean-your-house-before-vacation conditioning, I am going to leave it this way for five weeks. It really does make me nervous, and I am not sure why. This is a huge act of defiance on my part. However, lately, defying old traditions seems to be what my soul is asking of me. More on that in a later blog.

            I got a pedicure today. (I wasn’t spending my time cleaning, so why not get a pedicure? Even though my toes will likely rarely be seen because the weather in London calls for closed shoes. ) What I am about to tell you is 100% true. No embellishment, I swear. A young adult with curly red hair and a few extra pounds, which looked smashing on her, came in the nail salon, looked at me for a while and then said, “Are you famous in London?” (A reminder: I am not making this up.) I said, “Not that I know of.” She said, “You look like you are.” She had no idea I was leaving for London tomorrow. I am pretty sure I am not famous there, but, still, the statement was bizarre. Also, this girl looked exactly like the heroine of my novel, Danielle. Nail salon girl was named Kim, but I am telling you, if her name were Danielle, I would have freaked. Danielle’s image is on the cover of OCD, THE DUDE AND ME; although, her face is covered up with a purple bowling ball. But, that’s okay because I got to see her face in the flesh right there in the nail salon. She was beautiful. It was as if I created this character and she became real and got her nails done with me. She had a cosmic connection to me somehow, for sure; I mean she read the London vibe off of me without me even opening my mouth. In the course of conversation, Kim told me about her love of JANE EYRE. Shut up! Danielle loves JANE EYRE too. And…wait for it…Kim is OCD and ADD just like Danielle! We had to exchange email info.

            I wrote a book and I met my heroine. I am going to London for a month instead of beginning a new school year with a fresh batch of seniors in high school. I am sitting in my messy house writing instead of cleaning and thinking about all the weird coincidences and life changes that have happened to me in the last six months. Everything that was my life is changing. Even my locale for an extended bit. Fictional characters are presenting themselves to me as real live human beings.  It is all probably necessary and par for the course for a middle-aged American broad.