Feeling a bit of a donkey about local planetary politics

I’ve tried to ignore it for long enough but it’s time to face up to the elephant in the room – as well as the donkey.

It’s Election Year in Planet America and while we've already experienced the country going to the polls shortly after we first landed, with the usual complications moving involves, I was more concerned then about the state of our heads than our head of state.

   

This time around we have no excuse – and frankly we don’t need any as it’s impossible not to get caught up in the coverage of the race to the White House. Who wouldn’t be interested in a race that pits an elephant against a donkey? Who wouldn’t be interested in a political party that picks an elephant or a donkey as their symbol? So hence my first bit of cultural research – what was the story behind the pachyderm and the pack-ass?

Most of us would associate a donkey with (let’s just call a chad a chad) stubbornness and even stupidity and apparently, we’re not far wrong as to the original use. The Democratic Donkey evolved after opponents of Democrat Andrew Jackson called him a jackass in his 1828 presidential campaign. He in turn decided to adopt the image as meaning strong-willed in his election posters. Political cartoonist Thomas Nast then jumped on the donkey-pulled bandwagon and used the animal to represent the party, hence its existence today as the unofficial but accepted Democratic emblem.

Over to the Republicans who have the elephant as their official symbol. Nast is also accredited with this one after depicting a donkey hidden in a lion’s skin scaring away all the animals in the zoo. One of these was an elephant labeled “the Republican vote”. And that was all it took. That and a good memory.

Today’s Democrats apparently view their donkey as humble, hard-working and courageous while Republicans, far from seeing the elephant as slow and bumbling, believe it represents dignity and strength. Hope my subalien evolution turns out as well!

Another previous hurdle in my own race for local political wisdom was the constant use in political commentaries of the term GOP. I now know that this stands for the Republican nickname, the Grand Old Party. But 55% of Americans didn't when asked in a sample poll last August. Even more amazingly, only 51% of the Republicans polled got it right.

To confuse you even further, GOP was originally used to describe the Democrats before the Republican Party even existed. They would appear to have (stubbornly?) resisted any other acronym since so headline writers are forced to reduce them to Dems where necessary. Although (contrary to what many paleontologists say), apparently DINOs still exist (Democrats In Name Only). In the interests of fairness, I should of course add there are many humourous “alternative” versions of GOP, my current favourites being “Greedy One Percent” and “Grumpy Old Patriots”.

Then there’s the colour issue  - and I’m not talking about the “of color” issue here. In most other democracies, any party on the political left would usually be associated with the colour red and those parties more right-wing or conservative would see their leaders bedecked with blue ties (or skirts in the case of the UK’s Mrs Thatcher). Here, with the national flag a very convenient red, white and blue, and a clear political case of left versus right, an interplanetary visitor could be excused for assuming the same rules would apply.

Wrong – in fact it’s exactly the opposite. Red states are those where local aliens generally vote for a Republican president, blue for a Democratic one. It’s not always been that way. With the advent of colour television, networks all adopted their own system, some apparently alternating every four years between blue and red for the incumbent President’s party. This led to one famous comment by an anchorman when (Republican) Ronald Reagan won his 44-state landslide in 1980 that his electoral map looked like "a suburban swimming pool". Other commentators called it “Lake Reagan”.

It was only in 2000 that the accepted red/blue Republican/Democrat divide set in. This was the famous “chad” election when the viewing public were subjected to the electoral map for days after going to the polls thanks to the close contest between George W (did you know it stands for Walker?) Bush and Al Gore. Given the political shenanigans were confusing enough, it helped that at least all the TV stations were on the same page - or screen - as far as the political colours were concerned.

There is one other suggestion that the evolution of the colours is because donkeys can have a reddish coat and elephants a blue-ish hue but I'll not wait for the count to come in on that one....

Even intergalactic subaliens make New Year's resolutions - 'though doubt if many include first manicure and new underwear!

It’s that time of the year when Planet Big Apple literally becomes an urban jungle, with the pavements - sorry, sidewalks - strewn with abandoned Christmas trees. 

The holiday season is at an end and while the local aliens stretch it out at the other end, getting into the festive mood from Thanksgiving in November, they seem more than ready to draw a line under it all before the start of January.

So it’s time to move on and embrace the New Year, even if it pains me particularly this time around to enter 2012, the year Mini-Mum blasts off to her own little planet (exact galaxy still to be determined). 

And in keeping with tradition and with the final batch of ski socks washed (I’m sure they re-populate if left to their own devices in suitcases), I’ve forced myself to sit down and draw up the following resolutions, designed to make me a better subalien.

1.     Lose my nail virginity - in other words, have my first manicure. I realise this may not sound like much of a sacrifice to many of you but this is the girl who survived three years in Brazil without stepping foot in a beauty parlor ( I was also, according to my hairdresser, THE only girl in Rio with short hair). So this year, I am going to take the plunge. I appreciate that it will change me forever but am willing to make the sacrifice in the interests of total immersion in our current home.

2.    Be more cultural – by this, I don’t mean eat more bio-yoghurt but rather force Super and family to make a monthly outing to see something that does not involve a screen. Thought we might start off easy this month with Kevin Spacey in Shakespeare’s Richard III. Or perhaps the off-Broadway return of “Carrie”, the musical….

3.     Explore new corners of Planet New York. Over three years here and the "can't teach an old dog new tricks" syndrome has well and truly set in (as opposed to the "I could teach a new dog great tricks" campaign that is currently being waged by Male Mini-me). Believe it or not, a 30-minute subway ride which would take us to the other end of the island, opening up the cultural (there’s that word again) vistas of Chinatown, Greenwich Village and Washington Square now seems like a transatlantic voyage. In fact we are more likely to get in a taxi and head to the airport than head downtown. Shame on us, I know. Must do better.

4.   Visit new corners of Planet America. Does it count if we do get in that taxi and head to the airport in order to see aliens in other cities? Or do we still have to go downtown? Only kidding.

5. Learn the names of all of the united states. Very helpful when trying to fufill Resolution No 4 and also, I expect, in trying to keep up with this year's main topic of alien conversation. Plus brush up on essential election vocab such as pork barrel spending, wingnuts and dimples.

6. Discover why no matter what combination of groceries or the actual number of items, my bill at our local supermarket always comes within $2.56 cents either side of $50. Always.

7. Work up enough courage to one day actually walk into Bergdorf Goodman on 5th Avenue. Even the glass doors look too expensive for me to touch them. Put it this way, gift cards are only sold in $50 denominations - then again, that's only one trip to the supermarket!

8. NOT take up Pilates or Yoga. This way, I know I will be able to keep to one resolution at least.

9. Cross the final divide and start buying socks (and other essential undergarments) in our new planetary home. You may laugh but as an eternal traveller, one clings to certain things from one's homeland - even when they start to lose their cling, so to speak. Time to start talking DKNY instead of M&S.

10. And apparently I’ve got to be kinder in this blog to old Super. So probably shouldn’t have included the “old” then.

    So there they are - my 10 Self-Commandments for this year, in print so no excuses. I'll keep you posted. 

Getting into the spirit of Big Apple's extra planetary season

It’s time to get into the holiday spirit. At least I certainly felt that way yesterday after braving the crowds in Macy’s, allegedly the world’s largest department store. At the time 'though, I have to admit the spirit I was thinking of was the liquid kind that soothes aching feet and erases all lingering memories of the 25 versions of “I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus” I'd heard all day.

If you hadn't noticed, we've entered into the extra fifth season in Planet Big Apple, the one that runs from the last Thursday in November ie Thanksgiving until January 1. It's the holiday season, so-called to encompass all cultural festivities held over the period, be it Christmas, Hanukkah or Kwanzaa. Holiday season traditionally kicks off with Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when shops hold 24 to 72 hour sales designed to kick start the holiday present-buying bonanza. Please note, this is not to be confused with Blackout Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving, when everyone back home for the big day hits the local bars and well, you can guess the rest....

By all accounts this year, Team Retail’s kick start was a great success with record spending reported in excess of $52 billion over the holiday weekend. That should go a long way to allowing Black Friday to live up to its name (or at least one interpretation of it) as the point in the calendar when shop bank balances move out of the red and into the black.

After a day spent on one of the main shopping thoroughfares in Big Apple, I can vouch for the fact that nearly 2 weeks on, the shoppers are still there, the sales are still there but there is something still missing. To get into the holiday season, you need seasonal temperatures and if the discounts are in the double figures, so are the temperatures. November saw records broken, with temperatures at the end of the month hitting 21 degrees Celsius. That was warmer than New Orleans, Las Vegas and even New Delhi.

Things have cooled down a little since the start of December but we’re still in double digits – and summer jumpers and lightweight coats. The only gloves I’ve worn so far have been to lug home the Christmas tree, passing guys in shorts and T-shirts on the way.

But it takes more than balmy temperatures to keep me from getting into the Christmas spirit. As we said on our annual "holiday" drinks invitation, who needs the weather to turn cold to start serving the “vin chaud”? I’m also well into the Christmas list-ing (note the hyphen - as opposed to “listing” to one side or the other from too much “vin chaud”).

My lists are of course not what to get from Santa but rather what to give from “Santa”. If I really wanted to go native, apparently I’d be stocking up on gift cards which are set once again to be the most popular holiday present amongst local aliens. I suppose in the land of choice it makes sense the best present is deemed to be the one you choose yourself.

While I fully understand the concept behind such sophisticated thinking, I am evidently insufficiently evolved as a species to appreciate the concept and gift cards (unless they are of the “Choose one thing I can do for you today -  as in tidy my room” variety) are not be found under our tree. Plus there’s the whole “how much” issue – and even when I do decide on an amount, inevitably said card can be purchased in increments of $33.67 only.

Still there is some hope for the old-fashioned gift-givers amongst us. This holiday season, the U.S Senate is having its first “Secret Santa” gift exchange. More than half of the 100 members have signed up to take part although the total is unevenly split between the 2 parties, with 37 Democrats versus 21 Republicans. Presents must be wrapped and limited to $10 – so no gift cards then! Apparently likely offerings could include an Arkansas paper weight, New Mexico chili, a Nebraska coffee cup and a recycled pair of socks. Nothing like keeping to tradition.


But wonders will never cease - in the time that it's taken me to write this, the temperature outside has fallen to single figures with the longer-term forecast even showing a few minuses - a real plus for us. So here's hoping that the temperatures continue to drop so the needles on the Christmas tree don't, that the person who "doesn't want anything" sees the joke when presented with a beautifully-wrapped empty box and, most importantly, may you be filled with the holiday spirit - in every way.

The Movember challenge - forget Hallowe'en, this is the real hair-raising experience

We’re in the middle of a hairy situation – it’s November 15th and hence half–way through Movember, a great planetary tradition in which certain local aliens (as opposed to the alienettes) forgo facial harvesting for the month of November and put their money where their mouth is - or just above their mouth to be exact.

The point (or eventual points) of this forbearance is that said nurturing of hairy upper lip is a constant source of amusement for fellow alien and alienettes who, in gratitude for this moment of light relief in the darkening autumn days, donate to help raise awareness and funds for men’s health issues such as prostate cancer.

As you have probably gathered, Superalien has decided to go native and join his 'mo bros' as they are known. There are certain rules – there is to be no joining of the mo to side burns (that apparently is called a beard). Nor should any bristly handlebars connect to one’s chin (there goes the Johnny Depp/Captain Jack Sparrow goatee look!) Mo bros should “grow and groom” and lastly, conduct themselves like true country gentlemen.

I don’t know about a country gentleman or Captain Jack – we’re currently more at the Farmer Jack stage in our household. Still I have to say that I do feel closer to nature at the moment when Super is around - thanks to the giant hairy caterpillar permanently nesting on his upper lip.

There is a certain air of excitement in the house as to what the caterpillar is going to transform into – will it develop “wings” and transform Superalien into Super-Victorian-acrobat? Or will he dabble with a Dali, grapple with a Clark Gable or wrestle with a Wario? Personally I think he’s secretly going for the Sean Connery look, especially given they share the same hairstyle!

Of course it takes more than just the ability to grow facial hair to get through this experience. For the first two weeks you have to be able to withstand the side glances from complete strangers as they try to decide whether you were just feeling lazy that morning or going for, as one of our neighbours put it, that "weekend look". Then there's the repeated shocks you must suffer each time you look into the mirror and discover that you are more Charlie Chaplin than the mental image of Zorro you cherished in your mind.

And it's not just the mo bros who have to suffer. We mo sistas have to make our sacrifices as well and I haven't (as yet) started insisting on the use of hair conditioner - something Superalien has not had the need to apply for many years (see reference to Sean Connery's hairstyle for those who do not know him).

But we're proud of our Superhairy-one, so proud that when he first announced his intention to get involved in this worthy cause, we presented him with the ultimate mo bro accessory for his bike. A giant, attachable (can you see it coming) - handlebar moustache. Now that's a mo bro with mojo!

www.movember.com

Finding your pigeon hole in the Big Apple city grid

East, west, up, down – nothing says more about you to the local aliens on this planet than the geographical position of your chosen nesting place on this wee island which is just short of 24 square miles.

This of course is not unusual for me coming from another wee island where everything – and everyone - is divided into North and South.  But here, as with everything else, there are more options, variations and differentiations.

The first big decision you have to make is whether you are an Uptown or a Downtown kind of girl. It is probably fair to say that announcing that you live Downtown gives you a hipper, trendier image - although if you are blessed with Nor'n Iron intonations, that hipper, trendier image vanishes immediately you utter something which ostensibly sounds like "Dine-Tine".

Uptown invariably suggests that you are upper-everything – unless, that is, you are upper Uptown as in Harlem.  Just to confuse new aliens even further, there is also Midtown. I’m still undecided about the implications of that one – or perhaps that it is exactly it. If you are a Midtowner, you’re undecided, you’re looking to keep all options open and have a foot in both demographic and geographic camps, so to speak.  Either that or you’re someone who loves having the taxi-blasting, siren-wailing soundtrack that is Big Apple on at full volume 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

Once you’ve established your longitudinal preference, then it starts getting really interesting. Downtown, for example, specializes in hip, trendy (of course) acronyms. SoHo (not to be confused with its London counterpart Soho ) stands for South of Houston Street. Although here Houston is pronounced “How-ston” as opposed to “Hugh-ston” so if you’re really being pedantic, that little enclave of all that is cool should be pronounced “So-How”  (as in “So how pretentious can you get” maybe??)

There’s also NoHo – you got it, North of Houston, home apparently to some of the most desirable lofts in the city. So doubly appropriate as whoever lives there certainly has the “know how”.

Then there’s the well-known Tribeca (Triangle Below Canal Street) and the not so well-known Alphabet City. This is the clump of land that sticks out well east of First Avenue so instead of starting off a Negative First Avenue, Negative Second Avenue series, the city’s planners (rather sensibly I think) decided to go with Avenues A, B, C and D.

Now for the Uptowners – of which I am one, I hasten to admit. As I said before, we are deemed “upper” everything including uber-boring, uber-staid and guilty of upping our unit size to an average of 4 aliens as opposed to the trendy two-somes down below.

Here the division is simple – East or West with that great common denominator Central Park acting as the perfect no man’s land. Emotions run high as to which is better – when we were debating our allegiances, an Eastsider’s bewilderment that we would not immediately choose the side that had the best hospitals in the city only served to send me in the other direction – literally. In the end, for us, it came down to a gut decision – to me, Upper West Side feels more like the set from Friends, Upper East Side is more Gossip Girl.

After three years of living here, I've decided to give Uptown my own acronym – BOGOF (before you get offended, as in Buy One, Get One Free). This special deal would appear to have been running for quite some time for the many commercial establishments in the area. Because for all of the occasions one side lords it over the other about having X restaurant or Y shop,  if you look carefully enough, there’s undoubtedly a sister venture quietly doing business in enemy territory. Going from one side to the other feels like entering a parallel universe each time my taxi whizzes past yet another UWS favourite’s alter ego. Don’t tell anyone, but secretly I think UWS and UES are essentially the same place – which kind of confirms the Downtowner’s view of us as uber-boring, I suppose.

Crossing the divides can sometimes feel like interplanetary travel and it is not without reason that I carry my passport in my bag at all times. But all the nabe snobbery aside, one of the most endearing characteristics of our current planetary home is that even the most sub of subaliens, so long as they have parked their spaceship on the brightly-lit landing strip that is Manhattan, is entitled to call themselves a New Yorker - and how cool is that ! 

From store candy to eye candy: getting into the spirit of Halloween!

We saw our first vampire the other night. It was about 1030 pm on a quiet tree-lined street but we quickly decided that he – together with his 40ish vampiress companion – posed little danger, except perhaps to the laws of good taste (if you excuse the pun).

The sighting, chilling as it was (I’ve long decided that 40ish is too old to wear a vampiress outfit) did serve to warn us of the start of the Halloween party season. We had been aware of its imminent arrival thanks to the myriad of “pop-up” costume shops which had sprung up over Planet Big Apple, all of which seem to specialize in variations of “pop-out” outfits for women. Until we arrived here, I had not appreciated that to be a true celebrant, you have to take the  “wee” in Halloween  very seriously, especially when it comes to skirts and bodices!

This poses a dilemma for every parent with a teenage daughter, in fact forget the teenage, just a daughter.  Our first year here Mini-Mum was shocked when she turned up at school on October 31^st – it seemed some students like to keep up with certain Halloween traditions ie plenty of displays of flesh rather than blood and gore. Let's just say, for someone dressed up as a wicked witch, she looked positively saintlike.

Costumes are big business, no matter how skimpy they are. In total the US National Retail Federation anticipates Americans will spend $1.2 billion on adult costumes, $1 billion on children’s costumes and $310 million on pet costumes. Just to be clear here, we’re talking costumes FOR the pets. My favourite – the killer whale – doesn’t seem to have caught on as pumpkins and devils are apparently still the top two pet get-ups.

In total, spending on Halloween is expected to reach nearly $7 billion - now that’s a lot of candy. I know because I see it in the shops around me – bags and bags of it. Of course you don’t have to succumb to all this consumerism - I’ve never been so proud of Mini-Mum as when she manufactured wings for her Batgirl outfit from two “dead” umbrellas.  But at the same time you have to let go a little – having sugar-free treats only at the Halloween party at Male Mini-me’s first school was, to me, a little excessive (or should that be "not excessive enough").

Let’s face it – 90% of the sweets the children gather that one night just sit in a bag at the bottom of the wardrobe for the rest of the year. If you’re really into recycling you could just quietly bring them back out again 12 months later and stick them in the calling bowl by the door (only kidding – I know Halloween is all about mean, evil people but I’m not that mean and evil).

If I sound as if I don't get into the "spirit" of things, you couldn't be further from the truth. This is the alien who proudly discovered that she could see the Halloween lights in her Paris apartment from the top of the Eiffel Tower. But I have to admit this year, I reached a kind of a watershed. Now that both Alienettes are in the dizzy heights of Middle and Upper School, I wondered whether they would think it silly to have decorations gathered lovingly from three different planets sprinkled all over the apartment. In other words, I worried they had been weaned off Halloween.

The nudge I needed came from the most surprising source - old Killjoy himself, Superalien. He pointed out that just because the Alienettes didn't say anything, it didn't mean they wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't go to my usual lengths of getting the right planetary atmospheric mood.

Mind you, he also pointed out our local pop-up costume shop. Any messages there???

  

Discovering the secret agents in Planet Big Apple customer care centres

I’ve just spent the last three days on hold – literally. It’s medical plan renewal time and that means hours on the phone trying to find out details about new schemes and sorting out issues with the old one. Not to mention booking flights home to Planet Europe for Christmas and trying to get a plumber to fix our loo (I refuse to call it the “john”). Although you’ll be reassured to know we do have more than one loo so I haven’t been totally holding on, so to speak.

I shouldn’t complain overly. Even getting to the “on hold” stage is a major accomplishment over here, thanks to the mysteries of local call centres. With French automated customer care centres,  I used to take great pride in the fact that my Irish-French accent  - almost always - passed the voice recognition test. Not quite so for Superalien (or “Extraterrestre Extraordinaire” as I suppose I should have called him there). He would spend his time trying to say “oui” in fifteen different ways. It was as if the French language had more tones than Mandarin.  Poor old Double-Extra would get more and more frustrated, with his “oui”s ranging from sounding like someone who had just dipped an extremity into boiling water to John Wayne telling his horse to stop.

At least, I thought, this would be one less thing to have to contend with in Planet Big Apple. Mais non!  I quickly discovered that I was the one sounding like John Wayne as I attempted to give account numbers/flight reservations/my DNA code over the phone only to be greeted with “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Can you try that again?”

The number 8 is a particular problem – I keep forgetting over here it usually involves two whole syllables and the only way I can get it right is by pretending I’m a grande dame of English society describing what she had for lunch in full-bodied vowels (think Dame Judi Dench and the words “I ate” and you’ll get my drift).

My apparent subnormal ability to speak the language is only compounded by my subalien, socially insecure status with no 12-digits against my name. Too many times after finally negotiating the vocal hurdle, I would stumble at the ultimate numerical  challenge - being asked to key in the last 4 numbers of my (non-existent) social security number.  With no other alternatives or options offered, my failure to respond would result in calls disappearing into thin air. Eventually out of sheer frustration, I discovered the magic key. Forget 007 – my new secret agent identity in these instances is 0000 – and it seems to work.

Suddenly a whole new world opened up to me –  I actually got to speak to real, live people (not that it meant my reasons for calling were ever resolved of course) but still, it felt better. I became bolder. On one call, when faced with what seemed like 6 million numerical options to get through to the next stage, I pressed the one number not listed - 0 - and shock horror, I was put on hold to go straight through to a representative.

And then, after expressing my pleasure at managing to break through the system, one very helpful representative let slip the ultimate password, the magic key, the way to cut your on-hold time in half. You don’t need a secret agent, just a secret word – “agent”. Just say this at any time in any call to a customer care centre and the real people come on. Now if only they were as good at getting rid of problems as James Bond!