What do you know!

So. The food blog is going from strength to strength. Really happy about that one - do check it out. And I have flights booked for my next Spanish escapade- even happier about that one. I'll be there for 3 weeks, just cooking and tanning and focusing on producing new material for the blog. And then, when I come back, I'll start a new job.

YES YOU READ CORRECT- A NEW JOB!

I got a call this morning about a measly assistant-level position I had applied for at the legal aid office, working as an assistant for a lawyer defending asylum seekers. That job went for someone else (like, months ago) but for reasons only known to Universe (yes, I just used the U-word, without a hint of irony) today they called me about another job. As I explained that while I am still interested, I'm out of the country for the rest of the month,  they invited me over straight away. Luckily my overpriced shoebox of a flat is close to the office, so 40 minutes later I was being interviewed for the position. I literally grabbed whatever clothes were clean and didn't have any time to prepare. Or panic. 7 minutes I walked out with a job. All 3 people interviewing me gave thumbs up. Literally. Like in Britain's Got Talent- episode. 

It's a strange life...

It's a 6-month contract and without a doubt the pay is shit. As, probably, is the job. But it's more than I make now and at  least for the next 6 months I won't need to fret over how to pay the bills. And I have solemn intention of making wiser, more sustainable choices with my finances. Such as finally paying off my VISA bill. 

And then, after 6 months... who knows? With any luck The Man and I can finally start planning the next chapter!

I'll start the job right after I get back from Spain. And since I'm technically not expected to be wise and financially savvy just yet... What did I do? Engaged in a bit of celebratory shopping, that's what! 

This is what I'll be rocking in the Spanish sun! 

Radiosilence

I know I've been a bit sloppy with this blog lately...But I have a good reason- or so I'd like to think. I have not abandoned you in cold blood, I've just been playing away a bit.

It's not you, it's me. I have another blog.

Yes- another blog. I finally got cracking with that food blog and here are the results: undertheandalusiansun.blogspot.com.

Do visit. Do enjoy. Do like. And do share/follow/spread the word. 

I will try to keep that blog somewhat civilized, so I'll probably need this one for venting my frustration too :-) Stay tuned!

Wedding planners Inc.

People keep asking me about the wedding. About the location. And the guest list. And save the dates.

I'm so not bothered about the wedding. (NOOOOOOOOO! Why do I keep hearing myself say these things? With an alarmingly increasing rate? "I really don't want anything for Hanukkah- as long as I get to spend it with you". "It's really not about the ring- I just want to hear you say those words". "I don't care about the wedding, I just want to spend the rest of my life making sure you know how loved you are".) 

My friends on the other hand are. So far at least 7 of them have volunteered their services as bridesmaids. The rest are urging me to find a venue for the engagement party (More parties? More theme colours? More panic and anxiety-fuelled planning?)

Turned out that only 9 percent of women and 2 percent of man have reported having found love in a bar. And where did we meet? In a bar. See? This was never supposed to work. Yet... somehow it seems to have.

We're officially one in a million. Well, close enough...

Hat in the hand, tail between the legs

This post is my 250th. 250th! That's one quarter of a thousand, people!

I never expected to be writing this blog for this long. And I definitely hoped there'd be some happier news to share with you guys by now. You know, to make this momentous day count. But no. 

I think I've just applied for a job in Yemen. A place where 2 of my countrymen were recently abducted.

If there's always someone out there with even more international experience and even more suitable work experience... How the hell can I compete when I'll never get a job?

I'm getting tired of this bullshit. I'm tired of feeling my skills are only appreciated and in demand as long as I'm willing to do an unpaid internship and no-one has to pay me. I'm sick of volunteering to demonstrate my commitment to human rights and all the other bullshit values. I'm fed up with following the world politics, researching and writing articles in an attempt to prove I'm knowledgeable and up-to-date and haven't just been idly sitting on my arse at home.

If the competition for these jobs really is this tough, then screw that. Clearly the future of the world is in good hands and won't need my saving.

And if I'm only good as an unpaid intern or a volunteer sacrificing my own free time... bollocks. Then they can find someone else.

It's time I got myself a job where the salary actually reflects the hours and  efforts I've put in. One that allows me to focus on me, my life, paying my bills and being a contributing member of the society.

I think it just might be time to start begging for my old job back.

Epiphany

Since I'm not drinking (how many days until February?! Too many!!! )  I tried to seek solace from somewhere else. Like faith. But I don't know... I think I might prefer a G&T. 

As much as I'm trying to stay positive and believe, I just can't help but question whether God/ Universe has simply forgotten about me.

And to top it all off I look like an episode of Channel 4´s Embarrassing Bodies. My scalp got dry and then it got so itchy I was up half the night scratching it and then it got so damaged it started bleeding and then it got so bad I had to go see a doctor. 

Oh, crikey. It just hit me (the revelation, that is, not Chris Brown). Here I am, in the face of adversity, questioning my faith, destitute and covered in boils (well, for added dramatic impact we'll call it that)... I'm living a Biblical nightmare.

No, I don't have a job- I am Job!

Crap, crap, crap. CRAP!

Well. I had an e-mail informing me of the successful candidate that was hired for the EU project. Needless to say it wasn't me. That's fine though, honestly. I can't sort out my own, somewhat meagre finances so I would hate to think what colossal damage I would do with a budget of 1,3 million. 

(Though, ever the optimist that I am- ending in jail would take care of many of my problems. I wouldn't have to worry about finding a job, I'd have all the meals catered for, I'd have a roof over my head without exorbitant rent to pay and something tells me I wouldn't have to worry about dry spells either: I'd be snapped up as someone's bitch in no time...)

But then I got a phone call from the NGO I was so excited about. And sure enough it was one of those Miss Universe pageant moments... I had great background, knowledge of the job itself, right qualifications yada yada yada. The decision was tough and they wish they had more resources to hire us all blah blah blah. But in the end they had to choose one and it wasn't me. The job went for someone with a foreign name and even more international experience and background in working with refugees.

I was gutted. absolutely devastated. I still am. I just couldn't understand it. I was supposed to have everything- I was supposed to be the whole package! I had the degrees, proven commitment to the NGOs values (as demonstrated through my volunteering with them), relevant work experience in their field... I even did an internship in this very job! But hah. Turned out so did every single one of the candidates they interviewed. 

Did you hear that bang? That was my newly-found faith in Universe. It just keeled over and died.

Engaged to be married... one day

News of my engagement have been met with mixed reactions. 

Some are happy as it means they can either go ahead with their elaborate wedding planning (my girlfriends) or continue holidaying in Spain (my niece). Some are jubilant as it seems to prove them that putting your faith in treasure maps and universe boxes really works. Some are just excited about having a party to attend- and my brother to ogle (my gay friends). 

Some don't know what to make. And I'm starting to realize they've been vying for The Man's position for a while now. Some simply refuse to believe anything will come out of this (my football friends). 

I personally just feel... knackered. It's been such a long and arduous journey. I know how Arsene Wenger would feel, should he ever get to lift Premier league trophy again. And as a result of the anti-climax that was the hapless proposal I mainly feel like I've proposed to myself. Knackered, yes. Elated? No.

"But you should!" exclaimed The Man- still seemingly oblivious as to how he failed to live up to the expectations of The Grand Gesture. Considering how he'd talked about proposing before and clearly had put some thought into it I just had to know why he'd executed it when he did and the way he did. "Mmwellyaknowmmssrp" is pretty much what I got out of him. 

"C'mon!" I cried, exasperated. "You're going to have to give me something over here! Exactly how long then you have been thinking about proposing to me?

"Since I met you" he said. Awww. That must be the sweetest lie he's ever told me.

Waiting game

I'm still waiting to hear about the jobs I was interviewed last week. Though... exactly how literate in MS Office environment I actually am is becoming painfully clear.

I've been editing my photos and take take up a looooooot of space. I noticed my laptop was running really slow, so even though The Man is the go-to resident IT support, I figured I could take care of this myself. "How hard can it be?" syndrome striked again...

I deleted everything I figured I didn't need, you know, to free more space. Then I ended up recycling the recycling bin itself. 

Even that didn't seem to have the desired effect, so I proceeded to delete more space-taking stuff. Such as Internet.

And then I wonder why people won't give me a job... Seriously- would you? 

Hope is in the air

My, my. I had completely forgotten what it's like to interview for a job you genuinely feel you

- are qualified for

- have the relevant experience and knowhow

- actually want

I had that NGO interview yesterday. I think it went well. I can't read people anymore. Though the other interviewer shook my hand with two hands. That's... weird, right? I didn't know whether she felt sorry for me or whether she was just really happy to see me. And then she followed me to the door and did it again. So, maybe she was just really happy to see me go...?

I should know more next week as they want the successful candidate to start as soon as possible. So... fingers crossed. Though... if I don't get this job either... then I just don't know what to do. There are no jobs out there. Well, technically that's not true since this job wasn't out there either- it was never openly advertized and I only found out about it "through the networks". Whoah. So I actually have managed to network just a little bit after all?

The only hiccup I think was my salary request... so, we'll see...

Date with destiny

The interview a couple of days ago went well, I think. Though I think it's fairly safe to say  that while it would be a paying job and one that, without a doubt, would teach me some useful skills such as spending my days filling EU-regulated spreadsheets, I'm not dying for the job. And not least because of the 1,5 hour commute I'd have to endure daily.

But when universe gives, it gives with both hands. I have another job interview today- for that NGO I told you about. I'm really, really excited about this one, though it turned out that my salary expectations might be overly optimistic- my request was almost €1000 euros more that the starting salary for the position... Well, here's to hoping!

As I floated in the air, giddy with prospects, universe delivered news that swiftly yanked me back to the ground. Remember the guy whose gig I went to see? Well, the following day at the airport, right before boarding his plane back home he collapsed, having suffered a massive heart attack. He's been in intensive care since and the doctors are still trying to assess the magnitude of the damage the cardiac arrest has caused.

See, universe is sending me another message: don't stay teetotal and do go out with your friends - you really never know which night is going to be their last...

A very dry January

My favourite bartender at the Bollywood bar has managed to keep her January dry. And she's managed to lose 5 kilos in the process. How much have I lost? Well, I wouldn't know since I don't own a scale! But my guess is... none.

Remember the documentary I was working in, about that legendary rock band? Well, the fan club had a meeting in which the main character's brother was playing. An absolute sweetheart whom I met during last summer's festival, too.

The drummer had a gig with his new band and I even had tickets. But what did I do? I showed up at the brother's gig and sat through it clutching a Diet Coke. The gig was great  (even without the booze-fuelled buzz) and he even dedicated a song for me- man, I felt smug!

Some of the people recognized me from last summer and commented on how "professional" and "dignified" I had come across as. Crikey! They all seem very excited about seeing the actual documentary too... and they're not the only ones. I still haven't seen a single clip myself. I talked with some of the organizers of the festival and they, too, seem to have grown somewhat disillusioned with The Director and his ability to deliver any of his lofty promises.

Being sober might be the responsible thing to do, but it sure ain't fun. So, after the brother's gig I sold my tickets, opted out of a night on the town with them and headed home. Sober and so bored.

This responsible lifestyle just isn't me.

(Almost) dry January

About that diet... I sat down and thought about how I intend to go about it and detected a pattern.

When I drink, I don't pay attention to regular, well- balanced meal times.

When I don't eat the night before, I feel even more woozy the day after.

The woozier I feel, the more likely I am to order a pizza.

The more pizza I eat, the less in control of my eating I feel.

When I already feel I've lost the battle I resort to consoling myself with chocolate. 

Chocolate picks me up and makes me want to go out again.

When I go out, I drink.

See- a pattern! Devising a strategy to overcome that was easy: I should just quit drinking. The reality, however, was something else...

I caught up with a friend at this fabulous little cafe that does an all you can eat- cake buffet (seriously!). I turned it down and sat there drinking tea instead. Did I feel triumphant over my choice? No. Did I instantly feel skinnier? NO.

The real test came when I met with another friend at the Bollywood bar. I was determined to stick to fizzy water and Diet Coke, but as soon as I sat down, a bottle of Champagne appeared from the bar. "He proposed to you at last- congratulations!"

And so, two bottles later I made my way home. Once again not very triumphant. Once again not skinnier...

And the diet starts...now!

I just saw pictures of me, taken during the holiday season. My god. I look like a body double for Kim Kardashian. No, that's too nice. Make it 7 months pregnant Kim Kardashian after a Pizza Hut's all you can eat- binge.  

The Man (ever the gentleman) pointed out that I might want to lose some weight "for the photos". 10 kilos, to be precise. When I pointed out that "through the thick and thin" were sort of the key points of the commitment he's just made he just laughed and pointed that so were "for richer and for poorer". Touché. 

I glanced at his rather well-developed waistline stating that in that case he could afford to lose at least twice that. That shut him up...

Even The Pool Boy commented on my appearance in a way I'm not sure is altogether flattering. "When I first saw you", he started, "you were just a baby". (This was 5 years and about 10 kilos ago) "Now you're a Woman." (Standing next to him I feel like a giant) Crikey. Time has come to admit that perhaps I could afford to be a little less of a woman...

Remember the wedding dress vol.3? Well, I tried it on. And as long as I don't zip it up, wear it in public or even imagine breathing in it I guess it's fine. The shoes on the other are every bit as fab as I remembered- the sight of them was enough to reduce my brother to tears (of happiness, I can only hope...). But unless I intend to marry at the naked beach wearing nothing but those shoes (and endure the sight of The Man's mum, naked...) I'd better get cracking. 

I'm the biggest I've ever been. I'm not comfortable in my skin anymore. Damn- I'm fairly sure my skin isn't too comfortable either, trying to contain the ever-expanding me... 

Now, I have nothing against diets as such. But they are so bloody all-consuming. What to eat, how much to eat, what to eat it with, when to eat... But after the Spanish overindulgences I really can't afford any more mañana- mentality.

So... I've got a stone to lose (and another one for my finger to gain). New, portion size- controlled, wheat and sugar-free life starts now.

Can work, will travel

Though emotionally in a better condition, financially my life is still very much in ruins. I need to find a job. I need to make money so I can go crazy and indulge in life's little luxuries such as electricity bill, food and a bus fare. 

I can't even remember all the jobs I've applied for (as for the number of applications, we're in three-digits now...). Some of them even I don't think I'm qualified for. But hey presto, I have a job interview for one of those this afternoon- so fingers crossed. It's another EU- funded 13-month project, exporting my country's vocational training expertise to North Africa. That's something I know nothing about to a region I don't like. What do you know. But hey ho, fingers crossed. There's also an opening at one of the NGOs where I did one of those internships so on all accounts I should be more than ideal choice. Fingers crossed for that one too then!

I am feeling a little more hopeful now. We might only be halfway through the winter, but there's a definite spring in my steps...!

And as far as the job market goes... maybe I have hidden talents I've yet to capitalize on the way these individuals have done. Perhaps I have what it takes to be the next great MILF commander, bride kidnapping expert or shredded cheese authority? 

Desperate times call for desperate measures... But... how desperate? How much longer before I have to resort to something like this?

                           

    

Post-holiday blues

The rational voice at the back of my head tells me how I'm feeling right now is all down to the notorious post-holiday blues. The other voices try to muffle it as I keep staring out of the window wondering what the hell I'm doing in -20 when I could be in +20.

I try to console myself with juice squeezed out of Spanish oranges that I lugged back home, but with no vodka it fails to lift my spirits.

Apparently I could go to another EU country, register as a jobseeker there and collect the benefits for 3 months. Not that there are any jobs to seek in Southern Spain - especially for a overqualified, underexperienced non-Spanish speaker.

But Dios mios, how I just want to live in Spain- explore the markets, sample the restaurants, cook and blog about it. I would do it. I could do it! I should do it! But unless I find a way to make some money out of it, that's not going to happen. 

       

I was thinking about finding a mundane secretarial job to keep me going. At least then I could stay in the sun and keep the cooking and blogging going. But... is it really a leap I'm ready to take at this point of my life? Sure, I'm tired of this race, but after trying to forge a career in the NGO field for so long, am I really ready to  give up and drop out now? Because if I do it, there's no going back and I'm out of the competition for good as new candidates and trainees and graduates enter the rat race armed with experience and degrees and internships and proficiency in exotic languages and Excel.

And anyway, the only careers to be had in the sunny Spain are telesales and prostitution. My aversion to telephones rules out telesales but the recent engagement and my insistence on monogamy sort of do get in the way of having sex with strangers.

Simply out of interest I have studied the ads in the local papers though. Turned out I'm not really qualified for a career in prostitution either. Each ad lists the girl's areas of...ahem... expertise. "Double-jointed. No gag reflex. Will do couples. Turkish, Greek, French, Black kisses".

I'd like to think I'm fairly open-minded but my catalogue of party tricks does not look like UN summit. What are those anyway? They can't all be euphemisms for anal, can they? And if they're not... and even if I intend to keep just one man happy...How much is there out there for me to learn?

"Freedom" you say...?

Today I'll take a break from gushing about love and shall engage (couldn't resist that one..) in another one of my favourite activities: French-bashing. One perceptive, intellectual and analytical individual in particular: Monsieur Gerard Depardieu.

While I totally agree that taxes are a total pain in the arse (though the magnitude of that problem is somewhat less acute for me- seeing how my income is zero and his has about 7 zeros) and I can't blame him for quitting France... I can't get my head around his decision to relocate to Russia of all the places. And I definitely can't get my head around his misguided comments about the country in the press.

So Gerry, do hear me out, s'il vous plaît.

"Russia is a great democracy" you say? HOW ABOUT YOU LOOK THE WORD "DEMOCRACY" UP IN A DICTIONARY? I'm sure that these days they are being published even in your language- seeing how more and more people are starting to realize that the rest of the world really can't be forced to speak your language (a helpful tip though: next time try it with a language that actually makes sense). Some of the key components of democracy are such frivolous things as freedom of speech, legal and viable opposition and active civil society keeping the check and balance. What do they have in Russia? They have Putin.

"Russia has great respect for artists" you say? You're right- they are reserved a special treatment alright. THEY PUT THEM IN PRISON! For exercising the very democratic values and artistic freedom of expression you hold in such great value.

"In Russia the prime minister doesn't call its own citizens bad names", you say. First let me insert some sad violin music over here to really sympathise with your plight...

Then let me get to the point: no, he probably doesn't. Because he doesn't need to - HE HAS THEM KILLED INSTEAD! And this hunting season is not limited to Russia - they do it all over the sovereign world!

Depardieu, you're a blithering oaf (been making most of the Jeeves and Wooster- boxset Santa got me as you can see. From now on I shall only insult in the manner that is appropriate for the 1920's gentry) But hey, at least you chose Russia as opposed to ruining some other , perfectly ok country...

Bitter bitch went from being "single" to "engaged"

As far as cringe-worthily awkward declarations of undying love go... That proposal takes the cake. Worthy of  an award for the Worst Proposal Ever if there ever was one. 

On the way to the airport I actually felt compelled to check (3 times) if it had, in fact, just been another one his jokes. Apparently no. "Well, will there at least be a ring at some point?" I asked. "Sure," he answered, with the same half-hearted excitement that was the key part of the whole act. Oh, lucky me...

Though, I suppose it's only fair we continue our chosen path of love in the way we have done so far: in the clumsiest, silliest, most painstakingly embarrassing way. And not with creativity, finesse and flare so typical for this couple.

I guess this is as good as it's ever going to get. So, now I have. I'm officially engaged. 

Now, if only I had something to show for it... 

Like this little gem:

Though I probably wouldn't say no to this one either...

And for this one I'd even take his Mum to live with us.

Yet... with the current financial hardships such as him losing out on last year's bonus... Kinder surprise is probably exactly what I'll end up with.

The Big Issue

All week The Man had been making strange, out-of-place comments without really following them through. Like about my smoking: "well, you'd better quit that- it will look bad in the photos".

"What photos?" I'd ask. "The wedding photos".

I chose to ignore them and instead wait for him to stop beating around the bush and put his thoughts into less ambiguous and obscure sentences. 

It was the last day. The morning of my departure. We were getting ready to leave for the airport. The mood was strange. And so was he.

He kept talking about how he was scared of asking me The Question- having asked that twice before with those relationships changing for the worse, eventually ending. "I don't want things to end with you," he said. I rolled my eyes pointing out that in overwhelming majority of cases that sort of an expression of love and commitment means change, yes,  BUT FOR THE BETTER.

He said how he was worried; worried that he could never meet my expectations. I told him he'd better man up and make a decision to be worthy of those expectations. (This was clearly no time for sympathy and lenience...)

I walked to the kitchen to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. He followed. He looked at me with a strange expression on his face. "So, I guess you'll just have to become Mrs. Man then", he said. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Aren't you supposed to ask me something first?"

"So, will you?" he asked.

I stared at him in disbelief. As far as bad proposals go, this was taking the first prize. "That's it? This is what I've been waiting for?"

"Well, you know I'm not good at this kind of things", he tried to defend himself.

"Well I think you'd better try!" I cried. "This is not the story I intend to remember. Aren't you even going to go down on one knee? I did. And where's the build-up?"

"What build-up?" he asked, puzzled.

"The big speech! You've seen enough Richard Curtis films to know how it's supposed to be done! You're supposed to say how I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you and..."

Before I could continue he got down on one knee. And seeing how everything was already going all wrong, hurt his knee. 

"So, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me..." he started.

Sure enough, by this time I was crying. But not out of happiness. He pointed to the corner of his eye and claimed there were tears there too. Not that I could see any.

He held my face in his hands, looked at me softly and asked: "Will you do the honour of marrying me?"

"So this is it? Your proposal?" I asked. He smiled and nodded. 

"Yeah, well...ok then," I replied, equally enthusiastically. 

We just stared each other silently. "So... what... we're like... engaged now?" I asked. "Yep," he smiled. "We are."

Happy days

You know how sometimes you feel that every song you hear is speaking directly to you? Well, that's how I felt - ridiculed by every single tune in the 15 000- strong database of the high end hi fi- system we have in the villa (oh, do tune in for tomorrow's blog about how I hear voices, how the government has tapped the radiators to keep an eye on us and how I was once abducted by the aliens...)

Still, we largely ignored the events of the intervention or the need to reach any kind of a conclusion. Things were...ok. And I was... ok with it. We even hosted another dinner party for The Man's colleague who had just purchased property 20 minutes from us. The evening was another success, confirming that I'd probably be willing to hold on to this dysfunctional excuse of a relationship for that kitchen alone.

The last days of our time together are always marred by sadness; clouded by the swiftly approaching separation. I didn't know what to make of the trip. I didn't know what the future would hold. Then the last day turned our to be another one of those ridiculously perfect days.

We drove along the coast and parked the car somewhere neither one of us remembered. We walked along the beach, barefoot in the sand with the sun in our face. The smell of sea, the warmth of the sun and the scent  of food being cooked on the barbecue wafting from the seaside restaurant filled me with such sadness. I remembered all the numerous times I'd been doing just that, before stopping for a nice lunch in small seafood restaurant tucked away on a beaches of Israel, Tunisia and so many other places. Always alone. I'm through with that. I don't want to be alone anymore.

We sat down for drinks in one of the cafes, our feet covered in sand and our faces glowing from all the sun. I was studying the view; the sea glistening in the sunshine, people walking hand in hand and the thought of having to leave it all behind filled me with such frustration. More so than 3rd degree equasions. Luckily the service was crap, we were flocked by Africans selling counterfeit Casios and a street performer playing accordion so badly it made me laugh- totally ruining my pity party.

We then made our way to a nearby village and settled for a 3-hour lunch in a small restaurant. The food was great, simple, unpretentious and the rosé was sheer happiness in a bottle. We talked, we laughed, we were happy. Rest of the day we spent in bed and were, if possible, even happier. 

All the concerns and uncertainties aside... I knew that it was exactly where I was supposed to be. In  his arms.

Lord of the rings

Ah. The Tiffany key ring. What can I say. Remember last Valentine's Day? When he got me that scarf ring from Hermés? I guess my life as the harmonica-playing monkey in his puppet theatre of evil has conditioned me to find that funny, actually. That it wasn't for my friends though. "Cruel", was their unanimous verdict. "Doesn't he have any idea of just how cruel that is?!" they asked. 

Clearly not. 

It is a nice key ring though. And it is from Tiffany's. But would I have thrown a tantrum had it turned out to be a diamond-studded engagement ring? Probably not.

One friend in particular didn't feel any need to mince his words. "How much longer are you going to keep on humiliating yourself?" he asked me over drinks. And so, spurred on by approximately 10 more of them (mind you, last time I went out with him I ended up proposing The Man) he decided to stage an impromptu interfriendtion. 

Poor Man, he never saw the ambush coming as he came over to pick me up from the bar...

Needless to say, it didn't go too well. Initially my friend's "bad cop, horrendously bad cop"- performance did get The Man talking. But the words that came out of him were the same ones we've heard so many times before. Usually about 15 minutes before yet another break-up. "What I don't want is to feel cornered", he said. "What I don't need is this constant pressure reminding me how you'll only settle for one solution", he continued. At this point I was in tears. But even that didn't stop my friend. "Sort this out, you two", he ordered. "Either get married or go your separate ways. But don't go stringing her along like that- can't you see that she loves you and just wants to be yours? What are you waiting for?!"

"Well, I'm not going to start defending myself to a drunken idiot like that, now am I?" The Man asked on the way home. No, I suppose not. But he didn't even attempt to defend himself to me...

Getting ham-mered

Flying for 10 hours is never a treat- even if you're flying premium. Without even realizing it. And therefore missing out on all the free booze that just might make the journey bearable. Though life has a way of evening these things out for you by placing the fattest man with the most liberal attitude to personal grooming next to you...

As the battery on your laptop (along with rest of the entertainment) inevitably and all too soon runs out, one has to find other ways to keep herself from boredom that just might result in a sharp lecture on personal hygiene. Such as studying the in-flight magazine. Wonderful sources of education, those. I, for one, have learnt that iberico pigs, that lovely breed that provides us that scrumptious Serrano ham, are free from trichina. The finest of them are only fed acorns, mind you (those asylum seekers on the other hand are left to fend for themselves...)

As the meat is cured and left to dry and age and mature and hang, over the following months (the best ones go through years of maturing process- not unlike men...) they lose about half of their mass. The fat that seeps out means that the fat that is left is actually the good kind. How about that. I was so fascinated by these nuggets of information that my solemn intention to go back to kosher went right out the window. The moment I got to my supermercado I went crazy with the ham and shellfish selection and emerged with a lobster. 

And as we were grilling it (and our noses) in the sun on one of our terraces with a glass of chilled Albariño in our hand my destitute, tinned tuna-filled existence seemed like a bad dream...

Happy New Year 2013

The bitter bitch is back. In the cold, dark, depressing home country of hers with only 13 new freckles to remind her of the Spanish sun she only 24 hours ago was enjoying. We're already a week into the new year and I haven't even wished you a good one! So, to each and everyone of you- may it be a happy one!

That's one week down and a mere 51 more to go. What a year last year was: full of heartbreak, financial worries, professional angst...I suppose this year can only be better, eh? Not going to make any promises I know my feeble will power can't keep though. I was planning on keeping a dry January but that flew out the window on the first day as we found ourselves having lunch at one of our favourite restaurants after a stroll in the sun...

The New Year celebrations went well, though terribly glamorous and elegant they were not. This time though, through no fault of mine...!

The man who built The Man's Spanish villa still lives there, in the self-contained flat in the third floor of the compound, looking after the premises when we're not there. Though his wiry, 70-something frame isn't much of a security unless we're being burgled by an army of stuffed toys. He's also supposed to keep things running (taking care of the maintenance such as cleaning the pool)- hence the nickname Pool boy. He doesn't really do that though as he seems too busy entertaining. He's a bit of an aging lothario, trawling the net for South American 30-something supermodels.

He brought his latest conquest over for New Years Eve dinner. Lovely enough girl. And seemed to genuinely appreciate the spread I'd been slaving in the kitchen all day for. The dinner was a veritable culinary around the world cruise: I made duck gyozas, coconut prawns with mango-chili dip, carpaccio, caprese salad with home made foccaccia, köfte with tzatziki and pomegranate seed tabbouleh and serrano-wrapped panga with grilled asparagus. By the time we got to the piece de resistance (the gyozas, hand crimped by yours truly) she seemed... well, overwhelmed by it all. OK, to put it bluntly, she'd passed out face down on her plate.

So as the clock hit midnight and the rest of the Spain was swigging Champagne, consuming those grapes, feeling joyous and marvelling the fireworks I was stuck in the loo, holding her hair while she was being sick.

I don't think we'll be hearing from her again...!

So, things can only get better from here, right?

Viva España!

Christmas was goooood. And Santa was generous- more so than my behaviour probably would have warranted. All the family members survived too, and are, for most part, still talking to each other.

I wasn't impressed with the Downton Abbey's long-awaited Christmas special though. After all the build-up it was probably the most mind-numbing 2 hours of all festive season. And that includes watching my French pedicure dry.

I ate a lot. I look like I'm a bout to give birth to an ostrich. I went through so much sweets it would sent an elephant to a diabetic coma. I'm surprised I have any teeth left...

And there's no end to the Christmas/ Hanukkah/ Kwanzaa miracles. Yesterday, after 10 hours and 4 European airports I AND my luggage arrived in Spain, where the holiday season continues. The Man's mum is still around, but is leaving shortly for one of her around the world in 80 bottles of tax-free gin- cruises.Or so I have been promised anyway...

We even have that dreaded tree. Judging by the colours this year we are going for the whorehouse in Harajuku- theme. But most importantly, there were even more presents under it. Including a small box from Tiffany's...

(yes, dear readers, do get your hopes up- only for me to crush them)

With trembling hands I opened the box, all ready to squeal with delight and look oh, so surprised that my 7 years of gentle hints finally paid off.

And surprised I was alright-it was a key chain.

Happy Holidays

Bitter bitch is currently taking a brief break from blogging and enjoying some family time. The previously mentioned personalities would, without a doubt, provide more than enough material for a sequel for Samuel P. Huntington's Clash of Civilizations.

Add to that one on Atkins', another one healf-heartedly trying to keep kosher and 5 extremely picky eaters... if those don't make for a conflictless Christmas, fuss-free festivities and memorable mealtimes... I don't know what does.

See you soon- hopefully with more to share!

I come bearing gifts

Warning: The following blog post contains blasphemic elements along with possible copyright violations. Reader/ viewer discretion is adviced if not damn right encouraged.

I have many fond memories of my time in ulpan, a Hebrew language school I attended on a couple of occasions in Israel. Some, not so heart-warmingly fuzzy ones include war, evacuation and sitting in the bomb shelters for hours on end (though, fuelled with the cheapest Russian vodka the campus supermarket stocked and the choreography to Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" that room went from panic room to fun room in no time...)

I had always wanted to visit Lebanon (not crazy about their politics, but even more so about their food). So far I've not been able to go there (turned out they're not too crazy about Israeli policies either which means no entry into the country for anyone with Israeli stamp on their passport), but Hezbollah paid Israel a visit when I was studying there. There's nothing to nurture one's sense of politically incorrect humour than war. One night I was at my friend's balcony, drinking tea (Guess his nationality- the world around is crumbling down and what does he do? Offers to "make a cuppa") with the sound of bombings on the background. 

"Oh, daaahhhling, what is that dreadful noise?" I asked him. 

"Oh, I do believe it is the war", he replied, equally unruffled.

"Oh, how very tedious", I commented, "couldn't they conduct their warfare in a more civilized manner- we're trying to have tea over here after all!"

But I have very fond memories about trading Jesus jokes to Jewish American Princess jokes. That is always good fun, until you reduce the token hard core Christian from Midwest to tears...

But in the spirit of Christmas- here you go! My gift to you is my gift of gab.

Jesus loves you. How much?

(now the narrator spreads her/ his arms out straight and says:) "This much".

Why do girls love Jesus?

(now the narrator spreads her/ his arms out straight and says:) "Because he's hung like this."

What's the difference between a picture of Jesus and the actual Crucufixion? It only takes a day to hang the picture.

Politically incorrect, yes. 

Appropriate for this hallowed time of year? Probably not.

But funny? Hell, yes!

Happy Christmas everyone (and May Santa bring you better gifts than this post...)!!!

Love, actually

As my own love life is busy being a tangled mess of unresolved issues, lack of communication and incompatible needs I'm busy trying to play a match-maker for others ("Those who can't, teach"...)

Can't say I've had much success in this field in the past, but I need something to distract me. Plus, the traditional Love Actually marathon in the run-up to Christmas along with all the mulled wine has managed to convince me that love, actually, is all around...

Match-making has time-honoured traditions in Judaism and it is considered to be a very holy enterprise indeed. There's even a saying that once you make 3 matches, you're guaranteed a place in the world to come. I have one down, so two more to go (though, while the first couple is happily married, they're neither Jewish or straight...)

So instead of moaning about my own love life I decided to focus on others. I tried to set the Chef who wants to shag me together with this girl I befriended in Tunisia- seeing how they both live in the same city in England. Turned out that sometimes it takes a bit more than  logistics to make it work. And that being born over 2 decades apart doesn't help...

Buoyed by drinks named after India's leprosy capital, I tried to set my brother up with an opera fan (you know what they say about the quiet ones...) we met on a night out at the Bollywood bar.  The jury is still out on that one but I'm loving the cocktail.  I'm telling you- had Mother Teresa tasted that one she would have abandoned the poor and those covered in boils in favour of dancing on tables. Topless.

Ah, love. Exciting and new. Come aboard- we're expecting you!

End of the world as we know it...and I feel fine

So... the world did not, in fact come to an end. Damn.

I spent the evening at the Bollywood bar with my brother and some friends- downing wine like... well, like there was no tomorrow. How am I going to explain that to the lovely, obliging people at VISA who probably expect me to come up with money to pay for last night's shenanigans? 

Uhh, uhh. Just as well, I suppose. The only place that was supposed to be safe from the annihilation was in France. FRANCE? As if. Ask any English, Belgian or American- that's the first place God would destroy...