Eat, Pray, Lunch

Let me make this quite clear, I am not aligning myself with the Tea Baggers. I was all for universal health care until I realized (once the law was passed and I had stopped clapping and cheering to read the small print) that the fundamental way of bringing this about is to make health insurance compulsory come 2014.

The reason I and 45 million other permanent residents don’t have health insurance is because we can’t afford it. And if we can’t afford it now, what makes the government believe we’ll be able to then? I shall watch with interest to see how Barry makes that one work. Barry, I learned from a man who went to college with him, is how Barack Obama’s fellow students addressed him.

Back to health care (mine). I have always believed that prevention is best. Rule number one if you want to up the chances of a long and healthy life: don’t smoke. My friend Dr. Suzanne Donovan told me years ago that she would never marry a smoker as she knew she would spend their last 20 years together looking after him as his health declined. I don’t smoke, drink plenty of water, alcohol in moderation, eat sensibly, take regular aerobic exercise, meditate and do yoga. And I’m fortunate enough to have good genes.

If I get cancer or a serious health issue (positive thinking, another good health tip), I’d go back to England for treatment. This will spare America the time, trouble and expense of taking care of me, or me going bankrupt to pay for it here.

While trawling the internet for confirmation that my theory to rinse your mouth with peroxide once a week is brilliant and far cheaper than using those hideous and expensive teeth whitening guards whose one ingredient is… peroxide, I found another health tip: oil pulling. The idea is to swill a gob full of sunflower oil around in your mouth (in and out of the teeth) for 10 to 20 minutes a day, as soon as you wake up, to ward off and supposedly cure all sorts of diseases, including cancer. While I am unable to do it (it makes me gag), Colin is oil pulling religiously every day, much to my revulsion. Seeing or hearing him in the process sends me rushing to the bathroom to vomit. Let’s see who lives the longest. It has certainly improved his tennis. He beat me yesterday for only the second time in our history.

A useful tip for Barry and Co. over in Washington to keep the nation happy and healthy: give everyone a job. My temporary job as a researcher/producer on a TV special has brought me joy, a feeling of purpose and a pay check that has made me feel so much better in general. I love being part of a community where people bring in cup cakes (not so good for the figure) and bagels on a Friday. There’s even wine on Friday afternoons, but I’ve had to stop partaking. After just one glass, I mistakenly deleted a column of important information on my Excel spreadsheet I had spent days working on and was unable to restore. It all worked out in the end, but the stress did nothing for my blood pressure.

It was my birthday earlier in the month. I had intended not to mention it to my colleagues what with me being so much older than everyone else, but then decided what the hell. I gave the game away by saying “birthday girl” every time I answered the phone.

My lovely lady colleagues took me out for a slap-up lunch and I got to wear the office birthday hat (see above). My Woman Child sent me flowers, my Man Child and husband bought me a massage from Burke Williams. No birthday party this year, but a check for Colin came in just in time to justify a dinner for two at Chaya Venice, one of our favorite restaurants. I didn’t have the heart to tell Colin I was still full from my late lunch at Tony’s Taverna in Malibu and had to force down the delicious blackened cod, but I was very happy.

Home thoughts from a broad

I had forgotten how hard work is. It’s been over ten years since I toiled in a hectic television newsroom and, while my new job as a producer/researcher on a TV show is nothing like as stressful, the hours are bloody long.

Up at seven every morning and not home until 9.30pm sometimes. One night, I asked out loud: “Haven’t you people got homes to go to?” To which Jason, the VT editor, replied: “Well you certainly haven’t.” It’s funny because it’s true.

I made the mistake of telling my co-worker that Colin and I have sub-let our apartment, and moved in with friends to re-group financially. But things are looking up as 2010 continues to bring good fortune.

Not least the fact that our Green Cards have arrived, and Colin and I are now proud permanent residents of the United States of America. Everyone is thrilled for us, apart from my mum who thinks this means I am no longer British and she will never see me again.

Colin has started saying elevator, ’erb and sidewalk, and can’t stop smiling. That may be because I have a proper job with pay. And he was offered three writing commissions yesterday. There has definitely been a cosmic shift. In a good way.

My boss said I could work from home for a few days, which made me very happy indeed. The downside is that I don’t get to hang around the water cooler with my colleagues and miss gems like this:

Jason: “I had a great time filming in New Orleans, went to a gay club…”
Tia: “Why did you go to a gay club?”
Jason: “A couple of reasons… one being I’M GAY!”
Tia: “Oh, I had no idea. Well, of course, that’s fine.”
Claire: “Are you in a relationship?”
Jason: ‘No, unfortunately.”
Claire: “What sort of guy are you attracted to? So I can keep my eyes and ears open.”
Jason: “I really fancy that guy in Prison Break.”
Tia: “He’s not gay, he’s British.”

I have a gift for saying the wrong thing myself. Our roomies were hosting a dinner party and I was busy chatting to a guest and her African-American (it’s relevant) boyfriend. I told them Colin and I were about to move to another friend’s fabulous place at the beach as he is away for a while, and how lucky we’ve been to have access to some incredible places rent-free. She suggested we carry on like this as long as possible. I said: “No, we want our own place again as soon as possible. I don’t want people to think we’re liggers.”

She was outraged and mortified and sidled up to comfort her boyfriend, convinced I had dropped the N-bomb. I managed to stop her putting on her coat and collecting her purse by apologizing profusely and explaining (stuttering) that, in England, a ligger is someone who sponges off other people.

Part of me is wishing I was in London so I could go and see the fabulous singer-songwriter Judith Owen at the Purcell Room on the South Bank on Friday, Feb 26th at 7.45pm. Special guests: Claire Martin, Ian Shaw, Harry Shearer and Danny Thompson. For tickets and more info www.southbankcentre.co.uk

My head is and always will be in England, because I know the proper way to spell color is colour, while theater and center should be spelled theatre and centre. And butter is not pronounced “budder.”