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...

                                            

End is nigh

Today is 21.12.2012. The day when the world as we know it will end. According to an ancient Mayan legend. Again.

I've lost track of how many times the world was supposed to come to an end- according to the Mayan, Nostradamian, Macadamian, David Koren's and Charles Manson's calculations. Let's get one thing straight. All of the above were maniacs. Mayans sacrificed and ate humans, didn't they? David Koren tried to kill his own supporters. Charles Manson is still in jail, suffering his life sentence- he would have time to come up with all sorts of crazy ideas, now wouldn't he? And Macadamians are nuts. Literally.

And anyway- what ever lead the Mayans to believe the world would end today? The fact that their calendar did? That's what happens to all of us at the end of each year. That's when we go to our local stationery shop and buy a new one!

I'm starting to think that Mayans weren't prophetic- they were just lazy. They weren't missing faith in the future- they were just missing another MA graduate doing yet another unpaid internship scribbling down some charts. For free. 

And if the world really comes to an end today?

In spite of all my efforts to be merry and lead a life of based on regretting things I haven't done as opposed to those I have I still have some things on my bucket list.

I've never eaten jellied eels. Though I'm sure there's a reason for that. Such as common sense.

I never got to go on that African safari. That I already have the perfect wardrobe for.

I haven't tried hummus in Lebanon. Maybe theirs really is good?

Oh, and then there's the tiny, little, insignificant detail of never getting married.

But hey-  if the world really comes to its end today, tomorrow I won't be broke and unemployed- I'll be dead! Weheeeey!

Will he, won't he?

As the trip to Spain gets closer, I get moodier.

It's a time-honoured tradition; a well-established pattern even I have come to recognize. This always happens in the run-up to the next encounter with The Man. I'm supposed to be giddy and full of excitement but the closer the D day gets, the more I start to panic and question my expectations. So I know I shouldn't put too much weight on this. But I do.

As has become evident to all of you by now, when it comes to The Man, my judgement (poor to begin with) cannot be trusted. I'd never advice anyone to give yet another chance to someone who has this blatantly strung the other person along, casually ignoring their innermost needs and desires.

The truth is, I'm terrified. Not about having to parade around in a bikini (it's going to be +20 after all) but him. I'm terrified of getting my hopes up, believing in him and once more allowing myself to harbour ideas of this actually going somewhere. I'm terrified of ending up as devastated and heart-broken as I have in the past.

And what really worries me is that I'm not sure he still understands how much he's hurt me; what hard work it's been for me, my family and my friends to pick up the pieces and put them together. I'm not sure he understands that after all that I need more than half-hearted promises about proposals to believe he is serious about our future together.

So right now even I don't know how much is about me falling into the usual panic mode and how much is genuine apprehension. So, I resort to passive aggressive evasiveness and avoid him. As any mature individual would.

This is most coherence I've mustered:

A) I'm not looking forward to the trip itself. As we left it so late, the only flight that was available in the 3-figure range was a 10-hour journey with two plane changes. I'll be travelling through every single Scandinavian airport. What are the chances my luggage will turn up on the same plane as I? Same day as I? Same country as I?

B) I can't help but wonder... What exactly do I expect to come out of this trip? A proposal? No proposal? How would I feel about either prospect? Bearing in mind that so far the Grandest Gesture he's been able to produce has been phoning me just to tell me he's not going to propose on the phone. 

C) In case he really, truly, finally, unequivocally was serious about a commitment...and understood why it was needed...surely he would have gotten on a plane, arrived at my door step and proposed? As opposed to paying me to fly there for another episode of "Talk is cheap"?

D) Even if he did propose, nothing would change. He still doesn't have a new job to relocate to. I'm desperately trying to find a job in my own country and trust me, after all this hassle it's taken, should I ever find one, I'm not in a rush to leave it.

I (might) have overworked myself into a frenzy over this whole "will he won't he"- scenario but still. I'm tired of his lukewarm attempts at romance. I'm tired of him skirting around the topic, not addressing the topic, refusing to have any actual conversation about the topic. I'm starting to think he really isn't so sure about the topic after all.

And all this... is just making me uneasy. I think about the proposal, I think about the wedding... and I don't feel excited. I just feel worn out. 

IT skills- none

Most recent research into the jobs out there reveal that  my joy over my foray into the exciting world of Powerpoint every bit as premature as my decision to start lying in (no, embellishing) my CV about my Photoshop proficiency was bad.

As far as IT skills go there's still so much out there I don't have any understanding of which is tragic, since those are the fields where jobs are actually available (along with a couple of openings for Pilates- instructors...). There's Java, Java EEE, Python, Android, Drupal, Ruby on Rails, Progress 4GL, Apache, My Sql, SAP, CAD, PHP and Windows to name a few (though with the last one I'm extremely familiar with- it's the thing through which I smoke 5 times a day- seeing how there's a mountain of snow preventing me from using the balcony in the hallway...)

Since job hunting in "my own field" is proving futile, I've tried branching out. The translating thing fell through so I'm trying to find new alternatives. Like becoming a pilot. Yes, the kind that flies planes.

The fact that I can't even drive a car didn't put me off. Nor the fact that my severely impaired hand-eye coordination means that even in those simulators found in arcades I crash the car in the first 5 seconds. Planes, you see, are totally different. I mean, there aren't brick walls up there  I could hit, right? Even my overall carelessness didn't deter me. I can't be trusted to look after a cactus, but having 237 people trust me with their lives- how hard can that be?

Though... in case my piloting skills sucked as much as my computer skills even the most devout bomb-carrying terrorists attempting to hijack the plane would be begging me to land the plane as opposed to risking flying with me all the way to Yemen. How's that for a silver lining- I just saved those 237 lives!

There's an airline looking to train and hire pilots, you see. It's not something I am interested in or have any real talent for but can I really afford to be that choosy? Perhaps it's time I just chucked all my dreams out the window and applied for... well, anything.

Turned out that the successful candidates are responsible for the pre-training medical. And the aptitude testing. And the cost of the training. Along with the accommodation and travel during the training. It didn't take me long to figure out that while I can't afford not to have a job (any job) much longer, I simply can't afford to apply for this job. How fucked up is that? 

                                                 

Money talks

I've tried to hone my budget management skills. I've gone through my bank accounts; attempting to figure out what's coming in (not a lot) and what's going out (a lot more) and how I could make those two more compatible (I can't.)

Here's what I realized. As long as I don't go anywhere, do anything or see anyone I should be fine. And I suppose I could stop eating as well- seeing how I can't really afford that one either and that is a diet that seems to be working so well for those Sudanese. I do only have a week to get into bikini shape after all...

I'm destitute. Without a job to steal my toilet paper and coffee from. Things have never, ever been this bad. I don't have any money to try and change my fortunes in the stock market so my only option is organ black market. Though I'm not sure my smoker's lungs, drinker's liver or already broken heart are in such high demand...

The only way I've survived this long is through the generosity of my friends. I owe money left and right. Probably even to Russian Mafia. And until I do find a job, there's no getting out of this hole. Oh well, who needs kneecaps anyway. And I suppose eventually the Russians will force me into prostitution so that's my debt AND my dry spell sorted.

Luckily my brother is visiting and cheering me up. Which was (finally) the excuse I needed to do something about the chaotic mess that is my flat. It genuinely looked worse than the Gaza strip. The thing is, the longer you spend cooped up alone in your flat, hiding from the world, wallowing in your worries... the higher the threshold becomes to actually leave. Literally- courtesy of all those empty pizza boxes and unopened bills blocking the door. 

He used to be the family charity case. Now he's studying at university and has a job. Bar tending in a gay bar, no less. Which means that I, the oldest one that everyone is supposed to be able to look up to... am the loser in the family. 

This is not how I planned my life to pan out- down the pan...

The curse of Ham

A week to go until Christmas. Those of strong religious disposition might want to turn their sensitive eyes somewhere else today- keeping with the Christmas preparations I'm about to engage in some blasphemy.

I know I might have painted a somewhat bleak picture of the festivities to come. But hey, it's all for the baby Jesus, right? 

About celebrating the arrival of yet another Jew with some serious identity issues? And a  mother so overbearing that she actually had the chutzpah to invent the poor sod a fictional father figure- God no less (no wonder no girl will ever be good enough for her golden boy...)? And on top of all these, delusions of grandeur about how his torture-related death can redeem the sins of all people, even those yet to come? 

Oh, if only he had arrived after the birth of modern psychoanalysis and the creation of Geneva Conventions...

But what I find particularly fascinating is the fact that in Scandinavia, traditional enclave of homogeneous societies based on Christianity, this celebration  is centered around eating massive hams. The event that kicks off the New Testament is celebrated by eating the very animal banning of which  most of the Old Testament revolves around? How is that just not... plane  weird (Haha. A joke. Referring to the picture below. Haha)?

                                          

And anyway. I really struggle with this whole Jesus guy. He's supposed to be the fulfilment of all the prophesies of the Old Testament; the redeemer of all promises made in the original Book. Yet, once the sequel (a.k.a. New Testament) is out, so is all the stuff listed in the original. All of a sudden people don't need to worry about kosher and Shabbat and mixing fibres and keeping niddah. 

I mean, I just don't get it. Those two books are so totally different it's like they were written by two completely different authors. You know, the way they did with the Bourne franchise. All of a sudden the runaway agent isn't even Matt Damon anymore! That is just so totally uncool...

Family times, fun times

Syrian regime is still busy killing its own people, children are still starving in Sudan, there's still no cure for AIDS and no-one seems even remotely interested in finding a way to pray stupidity away.  Which is strange, considering the other, by far more popular campaign involves "gay", which, unlike stupidity, ignorance and bigotry, only affects about 6 % of the population. So, there's plenty of flaws to be fixed in the world. I, however, have one less thing to worry about.

We have, at last, finalized the plans and travel arrangements for the holiday season. Hanukkah I'll be spending home, Christmas at my sister's with the rest of the siblings and their appendixes and New Year - celebration of all things that were and for all things yet to come - in Spain.  

Yes, Spain as in that unemployment- ridden Southern European country plagued with out-of-control public spending and spiralling debt. Spain, as in the current country of residence of The Man. 

Yes- I have a date! I have someone to kiss some midnight! I have someone to perform Heimlich manoeuvre on me when that peculiar Spanish tradition of consuming 12 grapes at midnight inevitably goes horrendously wrong! I HAVE A DATE!

And it only gets better- The Man's Mum is starting her traditional around the world cruise before New Year which means I get to have him all to myself! In any room I want! Any time of the day! ANY given day! (Yes, I know. Too much information.)

So far I've managed to complete the Christmas present shopping spree. Nothing to get you in the festive mood like shopping presents with money you don't have for people you don't like to commemorate a holiday you don't celebrate... Now there's Christmas to get through. 

When you pack 7 people in a 3-bedroom flat for 4 days... add alcohol and board games... and when 4 of those people share the same, contaminated genes that make them insufferable even to each other... Yeah, fun times ahead.

Because we can

With the new laptop the quality of my life has improved exponentially. Since this one doesn't overheat, those first degree burns, previously permanent features on my thighs have actually disappeared. I have 2 more hours a day since this one doesn't require 45 minutes to power up, only to encounter a problem as a result of which it will need to close- "sorry for the inconvenience". 

Now that I have a laptop that actually does what it's supposed to (fully functional keyboard, working mouse, glitch-free Internet connection, programs that actually work - allowing me to dabble with such previously exotic features such as PDF and Powerpoint) I've finally been able to rejoin the splendid world of Skype. With sound and all! 

This means that I can talk to The Man. And see him too! So far I've managed to find an excuse not to plug in my webcam. See, since we last saw each other, he's lost,like, 6 kilos. Nothing for him to worry about though, I've found them. Every single kilo... And have, instead, lost most of my confidence and dignity.

While I know I've been having some serious doubts about the future of this so called relationship and have been trying to recruit the right side of my brain to cooperate with me in finding a sensible solution, the moment I saw his sorry mug on my computer screen I was grinning from ear to ear like a right retard (all the more reason not to use the webcam- there's no way the even the entire laptop screen could accommodate all of my squirrel-like cheeks). 

I can't wait to see him. To touch him. To hold him. To laugh with him. And at him. To wind him up. To be his.

But now, with Skype, comes yet another etiquette dilemma courtesy of era of digital communication. Remember when I told you how The Man and Junior, the Liverpool fan I once left The Man for, shared the same first name?  Now I've been contacted on the Skype by yet another guy by the same name. He's about The Man's age and is apparently Welsh, like Junior. Judging by the fancily decorated uniform he's wearing in his profile picture he's also an army officer, like my Dad.

I don't know how these people find me. But no matter how tempting it might be (maybe he'd combine the best qualities of both of the previous two namesakes?) I think I'll ignore his contact request. I mean, in reality he's probably one of the following:

1. yet another Nigerian gold-digger, posing as a wounded US marine, conning gullible women out of their life savings (whoah- wouldn't he be in for a nasty surprise- seeing how I don't have any...!)
2. a 13-year-old socially awkward horny nerd with nothing better to do, desperate to see any boobs, even if just on Skype
3. a cross-dressing serial killing rapist stalking for his (her?)  next victim...?

Can't work, won't work

So... applications 80-88 sent out. Number of job interviews to come out of them- zero. Which is convenient since that's how I feel. A big, fat zero.

I am trying to remain positive- after all, if Anna Wintour, notorious for her total lack of interpersonal skills (seriously, it's as if she's had them surgically removed along with her varicose veins- the woman once reportedly made her staff carry her down the stairs in order to avoid having to share a lift...) can be nominated as a US ambassador, then surely I, too, must stand a chance at... well, something.

My sisters are rallying up and trying to find me anything. And I mean anything. The latest link my sister sent me was looking for a "good for nothing bum". And even for that I lacked the vital skills. 

Whereas she clearly has already figured out what I'm good for (erm... nothing),  the other one, along with the rest of the world, is still trying to figure out what that is. She can't even figure out which section on the Job Centre's website to start looking for. Then again, neither do I at this point.

Scientific and humanistic field?

Business and commerce?

Fishing and agricultural industry?

Administration and IT?

Transportation and logistics?

"Well, surely it's not Building and mining industry?" she asked me, exasperated. And then it hit me. Perhaps that's it. Where else am I going to find openings for gold-diggers?

But even that didn't work out. With my lack of previous knowledge on drilling oil (Hey, I watched Dallas! The original series!) or extensive engineering experience (What?! I've engineered an entire relationship in my head!) my skills are not in particular demand in that department either...

Spin that dreidl!

It's Hanukkah. A celebration of 8 days of presents, eating all things fried in fat, spending time with your loved ones and gambling (and obviously, that of miraculous survival and God's mercy, of course...)! What's there not to like!

And to counteract any future posts that might/will upset some of the most devout Christian readers (shouldn't you be reading Bible instead of this, anyway?): Here is a selection of Jewish American Princess jokes.

Now, for those of you not in the know, JAP is a very particular breed of Jewish women. It also has its European, if somewhat diluted, version. The special characteristics of this special creature will, however, probably become evident from the following captions...

First one doesn't really work written, does it? But here goes.

What is the Jewish American Princess' favourite wine? 

(preferably to be delivered in a suitably nasal tone:) "I wanna go to Miaaamiiii."

What's Jewish American Princess' favourite position? 

Facing Tiffany's.

Why does a Jewish American Princess close her eyes when she's having sex with her husband?

Because she can't stand the sight of her husband having any pleasure.

Where does the husband hide the money from the Jewish American Princess?

Under the vacuum cleaner.

Have a happy Hanukkah everyone!

                                                     

(a little language joke- the Hebrew portion means "life" or "God". It is pronounced as "Chai". I trust you can take it from there...)

Who's that girl?

This year I've spent more time with my family than ever before. When I was at my sister's, we went through photos from the years gone by and I ended up pointing to a slender redhead, puzzled, asking my sister who it was. She gave me a strange look and told me it was me. No, this is not going to be a lecture about the effects on long-term memory by long-term drinking or a chronicle about the VERY early onset of Alzheimer. I genuinely didn't recognize myself- that's how much I've changed.

The Christmas party season and the numerous get-togethers with my friends have provided plenty of new material for all sorts of dubious Facebook pages. And I've looked at them with equal amount of disbelief. Who is that girl? That's not how I remembered/ thought/ hoped I looked. Luckily (?) in some snaps the attention is immediately drawn to my ample cleavage that my GBFF cant't get enough of. But in the rest there's nothing to disguise the fact that where other people by now have finally lost puppy fat, I on the other hand seems to have acquired a whole new layer of fully-grown bitch fat.

                                        

My head simply looks enormous. You know the mysteries that have riddled mankind , generation after generation? The treasure of Atlantis? Jimmy Hoffa's body? Whether or not Osama bin Laden actually is dead? Well, have I got news for you! There's a good chance they're all hiding in my cheeks.

Is this what it's going to be from now on? Endless, ever accelerating downhill? I never thought I had looks but it's getting increasingly evident that I'm definitely losing them! And if even Kylie Minogue has admitted she's struggling with the gravity taking over and is afraid of looking in the mirror... Dear me. Then again, equally reliable sources tell that she's also afraid of coat hangers. At least my phobias are rational ones- such as the fear of clowns, balloons, rubber bands and midgets.

Going back up North is always strange in other ways as well. In a way I regress to the person I was when living there- with the same cliques, hangups and insecurities. Therefore it's so weird to go to bars and bump into people I went to school with; people I haven't seen since- people who never left. They come up to me and start chatting me up and I don't even remember them. We always moved in different circles and I therefore had to ask how come they remembered me. And then to see the baffled look in their face when they utter "well, of course we do- you were always the hot one". 

When I look back I felt everything but. And now I especially don't feel hot. I suppose it's what I've been telling The Man all along- that instead of looking back at his old pictures (Crikey-he was smoking!) and wishing he could be that person again he should celebrate the person and the looks he has today as in 20 years time he'll be looking back at the pictures taken now, wishing he'd been grateful now as the person he'll be then would give anything to have his looks today.

Perhaps that's the same approach I, too, should employ. That, and maybe a little bit of Pilates...

Winter Wonderland

Even after 33 years on this planet, most of which I've spent in a country famous for its Winter Wonderland status (Hell, I was born at the Arctic Circle!) I'm still not used to snow. As, clearly, isn't the public transportation either.

Since my return from up North I've been cooped up indoors. Mostly sleeping. Not having left the flat for days on end. I've lost track of time, dates and weekdays. I accidentally missed a friends daughter's graduation and the Shabbat service at the synagogue. I have the pizza delivery people to feed me and Jeremy Kyle to keep me company. 

(For the non-British readers - and I've seen the stats, you're out there!- that's like... Jerry Springer. Only without the big black single mothers with bizzarrely spelled names like Laeteezieah or Tefalonee with 16 illegitimate kids from 24 different baby daddies. Jeremy has  toothless white trash scrawny losers with too much hair gel taking lie detector tests to prove their ex-girlfriend-who-got-pregnant-by-her-own-cousin-while-working-in-a-circus that he did in fact not have sex with the dog of the neighbour's grandmother although the video someone's mother accidentally found on her mobile so shows.)

I have scales where my skin used to be. My eyes are so dry they spontaneously weep (could I pass this off as some kind of a divine miracle and start charging poor religious fools for a visit to a real life Madonna? I'm currently having as little sex as the Virgin Mary and that would solve my money problems...).

I'm not cut out for this weather. A couple of days ago I made the responsible, sensible, grown-up decision to leave the Christmas party early so I'd still be able to catch the tram. And sure enough, I did. After a 45-minute wait. Which is ridiculous, considering it would have taken me 15 minutes to walk home. But in the blizzard it seemed like the responsible, sensible, grown-up thing to do. And the city centre was awash with masses of fellow Christmas party- revellers I didn't particularly feel like shoving my way through.

I'm telling you, there aren't many things quite as unattractive as the office monkeys, chained to their desktops for 364 days a year, only to be given free booze and let loose for one night of a year. When you've seen the desperate middle aged, spandex-clad divorceés dancing on the table on their only night off, trying to pull everything that moves (I'm fairly certain I was at the receiving end on a couple of occasions)... you really only just want to get home. As fast as you can.

With friends like this...

Going back up North was great in a sense that it gave me the chance to get together with some dear friends. There's something so comforting about sharing your woes with people who've known you for almost all your life. I'm very privileged to have people like that in my life- at this age (she said, with the disillusioned rawness in her voice, in a way only 33 years can provide...) you just don't make friends like that anymore.

While one lot was busy planning my wedding to The Man, another friend wasn't quite as... accommodating. As is expected after a couple of bottles of Cab Sauv, some home truths also started flowing. But I wasn't prepared for the extent of her dislike of The Man.

Somehow I always imagined that once we meet The One, he'll love our friends and the feeling will be mutual. But the thing is- very few of my friends have ever actually even met him. Most of the time he's been living abroad and even our meetings have been scheduled around his work- taking place in hotels all over Europe. He doesn't come see me, which I sort of understand. I have a tiny flat which means there's nowhere for me to escape in the middle of the night once he starts with his snoring. But it does bother me that my friends and him- the two most important parts of my life are virtual strangers to each other.

                                       

And leave it to my friend not to stop there. She even tried to set me up with other guys. I've never cheated and actually feel quite proud of that. I can't even imagine how hurt I'd be should I ever be cheated on, so I'd never inflict that kind of pain on anyone else. But I'm increasingly starting to see exactly how outdated my views are. Pathetic, even?

As much as I tried to write it all off as them just not knowing The Man well enough I couldn't help but wonder if I do either? I'm social, he's socially autistic. And it's not even an age thing, as he's always been that withdrawn, but is he really too old for me? The age difference is not going to disappear, quite the opposite. It's only going to magnify as years go by. And that's not the way things are supposed to go, right? Me abandoning my friends in favour of the reclusive world of just the two of us- surely he's supposed to make the effort to come out of his shell and embrace having so many new people welcoming him into their lives?

After all- his Mum finds me "delightful" and after all the time I've spent with her, that's only appropriate. Shouldn't my family and friends have the same chance- actually spend time with him and then decide he's an obnoxious, insufferable git who doesn't deserve me?

You can't go home again

I'm slowly recovering from my trip up North. With feelings almost as mixed as the drinks menu for the Christmas party season...

Going there always fills me with sadness. It doesn't feel like going home. It isn't my home. Not sure it ever really was. But it definitely isn't that now. Though I'm not sure it really is my Dad's either...

Since he came back from his peacekeeping mission, along with that duty free car he also brought a brand new wife. And slowly but surely since then he's been squeezed out of his money and his home. Even when the real estate market has suffered, their agent has made a killing, seeing how they've changed homes for, like 4 times since. Their latest one has even seen a € 50 000 sauna department renovation. How that is even possible is beyond me. Did they decide tiles were so 80's and decide to cover their walls with ivory instead? Are their faucets made out of gold and hand-crafted by Peruvian virgins?!

The latest one also features a separate granny flat. That was originally intended as the living quarters of my Step mum's severely handicapped child. And guess who's living there now? Yep, my Dad. And guess who my Step mum shares her bedroom with? Yep, her daughter. Even a psychologist (an actual one, not the Dr. Phil that I have lecturing in my head, labelling people as "enablers" and using words like "unequivocal".) have pointed out how the relationship is an unhealthy one; a one my Step Mum will have to learn to let go of.

She, obviously, doesn't see it. She doesn't get that she's practically married to her own child and my Dad is left to fend for himself in this worst threesome any heterosexual man could think of. Their entire lives revolve around her and her kid. And she's the only one who doesn't see it. And on the other hand- why would she? My Dad has enabled this unequivocally sick scenario.

He cuts such a sad figure, living in his flat, a life completely separate from the wife he though would be his chance at happiness at last. He's an outsider in his own life; a stranger in his own marriage.

I only had to put up with the set-up for a couple of days. And even most of those I was either drunk, MIA or both. I can't even imagine what it must be liken for him to live his life like that, day in, day out.

I'm so glad I'm not going there for Christmas; that I'm not expected to take part in this charade. Though if I did- this would be the one I'd do:

Song. 4 words. First one, 1 syllable. Smack? Slap? No, it's HIT!

Second word. Definite article... THE.

Third word. What's that she's doing- walking? Erm... street? No... ROAD! 

Fourth word. Sounds like...smack? Crack? No, I think I've got it: JACK!

HIT THE ROAD JACK!

Hear, hear

While I've been hiding from the real world in my self-imposed exile the reader count for this blog has gone over 10 000. 10 591, to be precise. And since I only have two sisters, it's a scientifically proven fact that there are people out there who are reading this blog because they genuinely enjoy it, not because I make them. Crikey!

In the past week alone there have been readers from US, Russia, Finland, UK, Norway, Canada, Denmark, Sweden, Brazil, France, Poland, Israel and South Korea. Crikey again! 

Thank you! Each and every single one of you! Except maybe the ones with poor personal hygiene. But then again- nobody likes the likes of you.

I say we get together, overthrow the current UN and form another multinational enterprise, bringing forth a New World Order! One that actually makes sense. One where proposing to your girlfriend after... say, 2 years is mandatory! Where pizza is exempt from VAT! Where Pilates is outlawed! Where nutritionists recommend that those 8 glasses you're supposed to consume daily consist of wine! 

Oh yeah, and one where genocides, rapes, religious persecution, tyranny, female genital mutilation, forced marriages, hate-mongering, gay-bashing and any kind of "my dick is smaller than yours"- threats with nuclear weapons are, like, totally frowned upon.

No... wait. So, when I don't write I get more readers than when I do? What am I- Picasso? One of those geniuses that will never truly be appreciated in their own time? Am I going to have to die before I find my validation, a book deal AND that proposal?

Thank you for you interest, support, messages and comments so far. Keep them coming- and the word going around!

Christmas is all around

Christmas. Not the most pleasant time of the year once you

a) don't believe in baby Jesus being the Christ to redeem all mankind

b) are broke, even your VISA maxed out and rendered unusable and therefore unable to show your nearest and dearest your appreciation for all their unfaltering support in a way they understand- through expensive gifts

c) dwelling in all your misery are physically (and financially and emotionally) unable to get into the festive spirits even though everyone around you is.

Well, technically the last bit isn't entirely true. Christmas might (thank the Lord) only come once a year, but Christmas parties on the other hand come along like, 4 times a week, so I have been necking serious quantities of spirits. Which, no doubt, has something to do with the b) as well.

Last night I attended the VIP invitation only- Christmas party of my favourite sports bar. Part of the moderated and structured fun that was scheduled for the evening ( unlimited free booze is apparently sooo last, pre-global recession- season) was a game called Crucifix. And I, always game for blasphemy, took part. 

     

The game consists of holding a 1 litre pint, filled to the brim in each hand and holding arms out straight for as long as you can (crucifixion position, geddit?). I didn't make it to the final. My opponent did. She, a heavily built girl in sequins (how can something that drag queeney look so butch?) , employed some psyching techniques normally used pre-game by boxers. You know, those sporting world super heros who make their living out having what ever is left of their brains whacked to mash?

I held on for as long as I could. And wore her out to some extent as come final, she came second. So, today, instead of the usual sore head, I have sore arms. This is what people must feel like when they work out. You know, like, do that infamous Pilates (regular readers know this blog is every bit as much about me trying to sort out this relationship with The Man as it is about my increasingly elaborate attempts to avoid Pilates). Perhaps I really should give it a go...?

FAQ

As some of you have already noticed, I've taken a bit of a hiatus. Thank you for all your messages and clearly, concern. 

No, I'm not dead. 

No, I've not sought asylum in a third world country where they don't yet have electricity. 

No, I've not been hospitalized as a result of severe morning sickness. 
No, I've not gone into hibernation.

No, I've not ended up homeless and living on the street. 
No, I've not been abducted by a paedophile serial killer/ Moon nazis/aliens and am not being used as a sex slave/ Aryan ambassador/ incubator for an entire new generation of ETs.

No, I've not joined a cult that bans computers as satanic plague of the modern era. 

No, I've not lost the use of my hands as a strain inflicted by lugging around a massive engagement ring. 

Looking at that list of answers to your queries I almost wish I had something as dramatic to offer as an explanation for my sudden sabbatical. But no. Since I got back from up north, revisiting my childhood, I've just been feeling a bit... sluggish. 

But fear not, I will be back. Soon. Ish. Every bit as tragic as you'd expect!

8 days of great

As the gift-giving season is upon us I (once again) find myself reflecting on the year gone by. Was I good girl (not in particular)? Do I deserve any presents (probably not)? Do I still expect them (hell yes!)?

See, Hanukkah means 8 days of gifts instead of just one measly day at Christmas. Though presents are not what the holiday is all about, of course. Or so we tell ourselves, anyway.

So... what am I hoping to find under the tree this year? Yes, there will be a tree. Courtesy of The Man's Mum. There'd be 3 if she'd have her way (if I had my way, there'd be no trees. And she'd be dead). And most importantly... what do I not want to find?

Dear gift-bringing Maccabean Hanukkah miracle,

Please, no onesies. I know New Look claims to sell one every 3 seconds or so, but I'm so not one of those people. Not only do I not want anything from New Look, but I definitely don't want anything I used to wear on regular basis 32 years ago. Really. I understand they might be a huge hit over in UK, but let's not forget- there's something profoundly wrong with those people and their desire to play adult babies and get spanked by school mistresses. While I totally appreciate comfort in my sleepwear, I want it in classy way. Classy, crotchless, see-through, nipple tassled way.

Nothing from the household-item family either. And in case you're a man, let me elaborate this for you. That means no vacuums, pans, pots, kettles, thermometers, blenders, toaster ovens or fully automated, electric garlic presses with stainless steel finish and touch screen control panel.  And to make sure you're really getting the point: not even if they come from Alessi.

Nothing that in any way corresponds to the following descriptions:

funny, just a little something silly, novelty, joke, kitsch. There's surprisingly little fun about a monkey- key fob that opens up to a glow in the dark, banana-shaped shopping bag. 

While I fancy myself a bit of a humanitarian angel with a huge heart of gold and would, under normal circumstances be delighted for any donations to charity, this year's financial hardships mean I just might have grown out of that one (and my skinny jeans). Any spare cash will find a loving, welcoming home on my bank account. No need to ship it to Africa. I mean, they don't even take euros there. I on the other hand do. And dollars. And pounds. And Norwegian crowns. 

In the name of greater good, I'd also appreciate ban on all sorts of living organisms. Such as plants, puppies, kittens, tarantulas, adopted kids in countries I can't even pronounce and yeast infections. 

So, I trust I've made myself clear. I'll go light some candles, fry some latkes and focus on what the festival is all about: marvel at the oil that never ran out. Bet the Saudis are really jealous of that one!

You'll meet a tall, dark stranger

Gabrielle the Psychic just won't let go. In her latest e-mail she has news. The power of the card of cups (brimming with vodka, perhaps?) has revealed to her that someone out there (I do love the way she doesn't feel the need to narrow it down to a gender, age group or even a continent) secretly loves me. Well, I'll be damned. I wonder if this particular person is aware of these feelings or if they are a secret to him/her too?

According to her I should have felt this in the past few days too. Not so sure myself. I'm sure that Le Frenchie's sudden interest is only passing and a purely professional one. I'm sure there's no  better aphrodisiac than the smugness induced by ogling exes resumés and the subsequent gloating at the realization of how far they themselves have come. I should know. I do it too.

Though the best friend of the fiancé of one of my best friends ( I know, it's all very Gossip Girl) has taken an active interest in me on Facebook. We've met once. I was drunk and called him "a drunken penis" (possibly in Yiddish) And that encounter, along with my changed relationship status (I'm not going to change it again until I can do it in the middle of the night, with nothing but the sparkle of my massive engagement ring to provide me the light required )has prompted him to pursue me in a more deep and meaningful manner. 

He says he's impressed with me and has been waiting for someone like me to come along for 10 years. He's even brought up the subject of taking me out on a date. So far I've been able to politely guide the conversation to less touchy subjects. Though he has offered to keep kosher and Shabbat for me. Awwww, I can hear you say. I, too, would probably find that endearing. If only he didn't look like a Serbian war criminal.

But I think the scenario I'd prefer is that my secret admirer is my not so secretly admired one. Though I wouldn't mind finally seeing some action instead of words. Actions and carats.

Connecting people

As a result of a free 1 month- trial I upgraded my LinkedIn- account. Can't see any massive improvements. Apart from the fact that now I see, who that "anonymous member" who viewed my profile 2 days ago was. It was the Le Frenchie. 

Not sure what to make of the whole LinkedIn. Even less so when it comes to being viewed by the Artist Formerly Known As The Love Of Your Life that you've later on decided to unfriend even on Facebook. Especially seeing how his career is going from strength to strength and I'm... well, unemployed with nothing but a string of unimpressive internships under my belt.

I'm familiar with the Facebook etiquette and know not to accept just any idiot as my friend, allowing them  access to all my photos and life events. Yet that doesn't stop the idiots from finding me. I have, again, been contacted by a bunch of men who aren't in any way connected to any people I know. They all have English names, yet their spelling of their God and Queen-given English is simply abhorrent. Really. A drunken, 3-year-old, blind Chinese kid could write better.

I honestly don't know which I find more offensive- the fact that they think I look desperate enough to friend just anyone or the fact that they, as the native speakers of that glorious language clearly still think punctuation is an urban legend.

I am not yet, however, as knowledgeable about the LinkedIn etiquette. Am I, in the name of career advancement, expected to accept all the connection requests? Such as the Saudi Arabian plumber and a Uzbekistani lawyer I just have? Or is this just a slightly more grown-up version of Facebook's cattle market, poorly disguised as "professional networking"?

'Tis the season to be...fuming

The Man has finally gotten off his arse and done something. He's invited me over to Spain for the holidays. Remember, we haven't seen each other since the (latest) break-up 4 months ago and especially not since he started talking about proposing to me. As I'm still hoping to land an interview and possibly even a job, I've not been able to confirm any dates yet. And there's also the unfortunate task of having to break the news to all those I won't be spending holidays with. Like my Dad.

I'm off to spend some (I'm not even going to bother with the word quality over here) time with him this weekend. Him and the Step Mum. Who, judging by the latest conversations, are going through one of their not-talking-to-each-other- phases. Which is a nice addition to the not-living-together-phase. I sure hope his wine cellar is fully stocked. If only I could afford the air fare, I'd outsource them both to India myself.

Then there's my sister. She's already in full swing, organizing a Christmas à la Famille (though conveniently sans les parents). All my siblings are getting together and it would be so much fun.

But in case I ever intend to extract that bloody proposal out of the verbally constipated git, I need to see him, right? 

So, I had a look at the flights. Mary, Joseph and fucking baby Jesus the prices have gone through the roof! And the thing is, it's the same thing every bloody year.

See, Holidays are very much like winter, snow, monsoons and your significant other's birthday. An annual occurrence that still never fails to take us by surprise. The older we get, the less prepared we are - every year. Even with the combined experience of 85 Christmases, we still don't know any better. Remember when I said that with him I've never been able to plan ahead? Well this is no exception.

By the time he realizes that hey, Christmas/ Hanukkah/ Kwanzaa/ Festivus is just around the corner the rest of the world's Christian/ Jewish/ Black/ Weird population have already made their arrangements and snapped up all the available flights.

I'm furious. If were really serious about getting his shit together and doing the honourable thing, surely he would have started making some plans? Sure, I'm still willing to fly over but it's going on his credit card. And let's not forget: the more money he's going to need to fork out for the flights... the less there is to spend it on the ring.