ME, ME, ME

My blog just celebrated her one-week-anniversary. I even have two followers! 9 more and I can start my own football team. About 20 more and I can start my own cult and stage the biggest mass suicide the Spinsterville has ever seen...

I have readers in Australia, Brazil, Russia, UK, Germany, USA, Italy, South Africa and Finland. I'm feeling rather content, running this little Evil Empire of mine. The blog has even been indexed which means, that these days when you google bitter bitch... I come up!

While this verbal crucifixion has proved to be cathartic, perhaps I should give this boyfriend- bashing a break and tell you about myself? We've already established that The Man was definitely  a man of many Guinness- like qualities (stout, yes, but "an acquired taste" is what I really meant) so maybe you deserve to know a little more about the saddo tapping the keyboard?

This would also serve to distract us all from the fact that I have not heard from The Man since his reply to my e-mail which he said he was trying to read but couldn't from his tears (tears! TEARS! Tears equal emotions! Only...which emotions? Joy? Happiness? Love? Sadness? Frustration? Rage?)

So... if in the movie of our lives he'd be played by... Anthony Hopkins, I'd be played by... Oh, how I'd like to mentally cast Gwyneth Paltrow as me, but in reality the correct choice would probably be Drew Barrymore. Now, I'm sure she is a delightful personality in many ways and has gotten to play opposite some seriously hot men, but let's face it: they were all movies she wrote, directed and produced herself. 

But yes,  I'm just about as far from a show-stopping beauty as Russia is from any real democracy (sorry Putin, in case you are indeed my token Russian reader but you just can't keep on having people killed like that! ) I've never been able to lose the chipmunk-cheeks, not even in the throes of anorexia. My GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever) at the time tried,in his own special way, to console me. "You just can't help it- you have a fat person's head". Yeah. Well, what I could help was choosing his boyfriend over him after their inevitable and rather acrimonious break-up.

The contaminated gene pool I come from, laced with a heavy dose of Northern and Eastern European sturdy stock means serious shortcomings in the supermodel-physique stakes too. My legs don't go on for miles- they barely reach my feet. My hair that was never a cascade of lustrous locks tumbling down my back to begin with never seems to have recovered from the shock of turning 30. A combination of hormones, stress... and a curling-iron-related incident the night of my big party as a result of which I had to cut the iron (and along with it hefty quantity of my hair) off my hair for three times. 

I know - the eye of the beholder right? Well let's hope my next blind date will be just that: blind. 

But what I might be missing in the external beauty I vigorously try to make up with my internal one. I'm fiercely loyal and protective of those I let close to me. Even in the relationships I've been in, with some seriously unfavourable circumstances, I've never cheated on anyone. I can't even imagine how being cheated on would rip me apart, so I could never,EVER inflict that on somebody else. I'm a firm believer of doing unto others. 

I love to cook and over the years (and no doubt courtesy of the dream kitchen The Man built me in that Spanish villa) I've actually become pretty good at it. I love having people over and feeding them. Because The Man didn't have any social skills essential in making friends the only person we ever had over was his Mum. And she exists on a diet of G&T and Silk Cuts. 

I am knowledgeable, cultured even, and can carry a conversation. I'm smart. Occasionally even funny. My underwear always matches. I have a good personal hygiene- I tend to every hair growing out of my body with attention bordering on neurotic. I floss. 

I understand the offside rule. Which, of course was a talent completely wasted on The Man who, even after having worked for the greatest football team the world has ever seen, couldn't give a toss about it. What a tosser...

I don't nag. Or won't confess to it, anyway. I don't want to be anyone's ball and chain - I want my man to go out and spend time with his friends and enjoy his own life. Even if it comes with ogling the barmaids and awkward attempts at flirting (or wait- maybe that's just me?)

Considering that majority of my social life revolves around football-related binge drinking, I know I'm a bit of a lad. But I can be a lady too. I dress nicely. I might not understand the cold fusion, but I. Can. Accessorize. I should set up a consultancy business geared at the post-op transsexuals! I have a gift and they need it. Fishnet stockings do not a woman maketh...

And since a lady never kisses and tells, nor will I. But I'll tell you this- I look after my man and every single sordid need of his.

In my own way... I am a catch. I am worth being pursued. I do deserve being treated with respect. I do deserve to come first, even outside the bedroom. Why then, is it so difficult to hold on those beliefs when a man comes along? Perhaps The Man isn't the only one who needs to work at himself- maybe I'm the real construction site... ?

Old dogs, even older tricks

Is it too late to introduce a new equestrian sport for this summer's Olympics? Such as showjumping into hasty conclusions? As it turned out, he did not forget my birthday. Oh no...

I found his message in my voicemail. He misses me and regrets not having called sooner. A "huge part of his life is missing"(Ok, yes, I've put on some weight but  I'm hardly huge! ) There was also another message, from a flower delivery guy. He had sent me flowers. Yellow flowers. Nice flowers. Certainly nice enough to warrant some kind of a reaction.

So,  I broke off the one-month-long radio silence and wrote him an e-mail. A very articulate one in which I, in a calm, collected, coherent and concise manner, explained to him that while my feelings for him have not changed, neither have my feelings about a commitment. But that I don't want it with someone who doesn't want it too. I know what I want and need. I know what I'm ready for and what it is that I have to offer. I'm just not sure he, even at 52, does. And that does worry me. What ever they say about old dogs, they rarely master the new tricks.

So... now I just wait and see? (oh yes,because THAT'S something I haven't been doing enough so far? I've been waiting! Hell, I've been waiting on him hand and foot!) 

Should I get my skates out in case the hell freezes over? Invest in a pair of binoculars to get a better view of the pigs that might start flying? Might we be actually getting somewhere? Could he...perhaps finally be on his way to a breakthrough? Or am I headed for yet another heartbreak?

Read 'em and weep

I took me hours to finish reading the card. Not simply because of my impaired vision resulting from the flood pouring out of my eyes but because of his illegible handwriting (doctors have nothing on him...)

Remember how I was torturing myself by wondering if he ever thinks of me? Yes he does, every day apparently. He just hasn't been able to pluck up the courage to call me. The courage?? I had to pick myself up from the floor after he turned down my offer to spend the rest of my life with him but he can't pick up the phone??

He also wants to know if there still might be a chance of a life together. According to him these have been the best years  of his life. And why wouldn't they have?! I served him breakfast in bed every Sunday! I gave him weekly facials! I cooked him a three-course dinner every night ( how dare he not want to marry me- I'd marry me for my croquetas alone!) ! I put up with his obsession with Scottish hi-fi! I surprised him with a ticket to see The Who when he didn't even know they were touring again! I tolerated his mother invading our holidays! I baked him bread (and I make a mean foccaccia...)! Once I actually ironed his shirts! And I never had a headache!

So now what? Is this his Grand Gesture that's supposed to make it all better? Doesn't he have any idea how badly he's hurt me? I'm an emotional wreck. Screw Titanic- James Cameron should make a film about me!

I don't know what to do. But I do know I don't want to end up in this same place in another year. I couldn't even sleep as my mind kept going through the card over and over again. Something about it really bothered me. In the morning it came to me. He never, not once mentioned my birthday. After everything he's already done he forgot my birthday???

Many happy (and some not so happy) returns

I just had my birthday.Went out with my friends and boy,did I make a night of it. I wore my favourite butterfly fascinator and looked every bit the part. I know I've been a whiny, moany bitch lately but last night reminded me (once again) that things could be a lot, LOT worse.I might not have a job, love or any of the other things I've been bitching about but my god,do I have friends- fabulous friends that make the life extremely tolerable. 

Yesterday was also the first day in 2,5 months I didn't cry.Until I stumbled back home,being greeted by a thick white envelope with Spanish stamp. All the bravado went out the window as I studied the handwriting I knew all too well. It was The Man.

Deadly sins part 1 : Envy

Jealousy,envy and bitterness make a terrible threesome. Yet there they are, on my speed-dial.


As much as I love my friends (and I do) and how they've been there for me through the thick and thin (no, I'm not referring to my waistline) I'm not sure anyone fully understands exactly how hard I try to be happy for them (as they truly deserve all the happiness they can get). I just can't seem to be able to shake off that nasty creature eating its way through me: the Enormous Envy. They all have something I thought I'd have by now. Like jobs- jobs that they trained for. Ones with responsibility, prospects and pay rises. Meanwhile I'm loading the dish washer and fighting with the printer as an unpaid intern.

And then there are the husbands.Their lovely, handsome, loving husbands.

Let me tell you: there aren't many things that make as much obnoxious noise as yet another wedding invitation falling through the letterbox reminding you that yes, you are indeed the only one still left on the shelf. I've missed every single one of the nuptials.  I've dodged the bullet by making a habit of  hiding somewhere in Middle East; literally dodging bullets at times. The lengths one is willing to go just to avoid a free bar and groom's still single, rugby-playing friends...

Real estate is another. While my friends and their brand new husbands are sorting out mortgages and buying spacious dreamy flats and renovating kitchens where they host dinner parties for other friends with husbands I rent a tiny flat that I can't afford and that isn't even big enough for my shoes, let alone for me. The only events hosted there are after parties at 6am when all the respectable people are already fast asleep next to their significant others, worn out by marital bliss and not tequila slammers. They live close to good schools and have views overlooking luscious parks. I live across the street from a 24/7 petrol station that supplies the 6am party essentials and have a view overlooking the crematory chimney. 

When they come home after a hard day at the office, they see people they love. I see dead people, going up in smoke. My friends have neighbours who invite them over for wine and gossip. In the 7 years I've lived in my building, I've only ever met three of the neighbours. One mistook my gorgeous vintage brocade evening jacket for a role playing outfit ( no, not the "oh, what seems to be the problem, officer?"- kind or role playing. Think of papiermache-sword-wielding nerds running around in the woods) . Another is a creepy poet that once took part in one of those tacky dating shows ( the first one to be booted off) . Third goes to bed every night wishing she didn't wake up in the morning (well, at least I know where to go for mentoring once my own drama queen engine runs out of steam...) And, judging by the way my career is panning out, there's a good chance I'll never get on the property ladder. 

Apparently envy and bitterness truly are bad for you- they actually dramatically decrease one's life expectancy. Happy people live, like, 10 years longer! So, when you factor that into my current life expectancy, already cut back by another smoking-related 10 years... I just might make it to 50. Which , apparently, is the new 30 anyway.

Whoops. I completely forgot: envy is also one of the deadly sins. Maybe God will smite me? Let's just hope it won't happen tonight as I have a dinner reservation. 

Blacklist

In the name of hanging on to the last shreds of my sanity the following things are now out of bounds:

Spain, Pizza Hut, Stockholm, Hilton (the hotel chain, not Paris. I doubt she's out of bounds to anybody,mind you...), Lamb lies down on Broadway by Genesis, police officers, nurses, anything else made of latex, Rome, The Who, crosswords, TV series featuring Martin Shaw or John Thaw (a.k.a.anything featuring a socially challenged boozy workaholic trying to solve murders while running away from anything that has potential to develop into a meaningful relationship), churros, Panama hats,Tiffany & Co, Yorkshire, king prawns, G&T, Jerusalem the hymn, Mulberry bags, mince pies, Peter Kay, Danish detective series, Veuve Clicquot, Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, Sideways, Chelsea boots, Paul Smith, the catch phrase "there's been a murder" in the most horrific mock-Glaswegian accent, Scandinavian design, beef dripping, Pink Floyd (shit,that's going to be a tough one...), the colour pink, Branston's pickle, Grand Hotel, hardware stores. 

On the other hand, just think of all the time I'll save not having to shave, seeing how NO-ONE will EVER see me naked AGAIN, and how I can eat as much mussels as I want, not having to worry about anyone accidentally dying after kissing me. Yeah, that sounds like a fair deal..

MENtal problems

I can decipher hieroglyphs written 4000 years ago but I can't figure out the male psyche. And that just doesn't make any sense- they're were supposed to be the simpler sex, with their brains far too occupied with ball games, booze and birds (not the actual fowls- that's a somewhat common expression for the female sex) to actually come up with anything too elaborate. Yet... I just can't get them. I annually binge-drink my way through 10 months of Premier League and Champions League and FA Cup and Carling Cup and STILL manage to produce opinions, emotions and... well you know, stuff. 

What on earth is so revolting about someone wanting to spend the rest of her life with you? What the hell is so scary about someone wanting to take care of you; wanting to make you happy? I'm getting so bloody sick at shouting on this soap box of mine but do you people not get it?! That is the most important thing there is; the most notable achievement in anyone's life- having found someone who wants to be there for you- no matter what garbage life throws your way!!!

While it's undoubtedly a good thing that I now have a reason to crawl out of my bed in the morning, I still hate it. I dread leaving my home and facing the outside world with spring in its steps. I feel so fragile, so vulnerable- even in my new"happy-break-up-to-me-he-wasn't-worthy-of-me-anyway"- bag 

and "well-if-I-don't-think-I'm-fabulous-then-why-would-anybody-else"- earrings. 

Even my usual security blankets won't disguise the fact that I'm an empty shell. I'm scared that any random look my way might shatter that shell and reveal the full, ugly extent of my brokenness to the innocent bystanders. I suppose it's a good thing they did build that halfway-house around the corner- in the morning the only bystanders would be the halfway-comatose drunks making their way back from a night of merriment.

Is he feeling anywhere near this bad? Is he thinking of me? Does he even remember me (insert senility-related joke of your choice here)? Have I already been outsourced (that would be ironic, considering that's what he does for living) and replaced by a sulky Russian 8ft tall lingerie model with no gag reflex?

I have fantastic friends. One imports wine and another works for a chocolate manufacturer (with my post-break-up- dietary choices I'm surprised I still produce tears instead of just extracting Merlot-infused Snickers-bars out of my eye sockets). And my fantastic friends (who I should give more credit to) have done a wonderful job looking after me. Yet, even on a good day when I can almost crack jokes about my future as a crocheting, cat-collecting spinster the mere sight of his name instantly reduces me to a teary mess. Why,WHY do I wear my heart on my sleeve??? Can anyone recommend a dry cleaner who could get rid of it?

Charity starts at home

I’ve started (yet another unpaid) internship. At (yet another) NGO. See, I’m a good, charitable person!

I genuinely want to do my bit in making the world a better place. And world, let’s face it, is a dreadful place. Just about everywhere you look, children are being kidnapped and drugged up to their eyeballs and recruited into rebel armies. Girls are being mutilated in the name of misogynist ignorance. People’s life savings are being swindled by overweight bankers with monogrammed slippers. Homes are being washed into the sea because of tsunamis and hurricanes and other Oprah-mobilizing forces of nature. A third of the world is starving to death and instead of evoking sympathy, they are perversely evoking new looks for the Fashion Weeks.

And then there are the global warming and euro-zone crisis. (Everyone’s talking about them, so I guess they must be true even though I don’t really understand either. I mean, the weather isn’t getting any warmer- I still have to travel to Spain for a tan. And as for the euro crisis, why did they let a nation of poor, lazy tax-evaders into the EU to begin with?!) World is a bloody awful place.

But I’m trying. I do voluntary work!  I do advocacy! I give to charity, and not just money but also unworn clothes from Burberry! I recycle! (well, I don’t actually, but at least I know I should!) I force-feed homeless drunks (too cold for pigeons here) ! And I give people, who practically qualify for a free bus pas ( that means they’re like, really old), experiences they’d otherwise have to read about on Penthouse Letters! See, I’M A GOOD PERSON!

The guy who played Mr. Big just got married. Even Justin Timberlake got over his “not-ready-for-commitment” phase and is getting married. Hell, even Hitler found someone to marry him! Why not then me? Did you know that last year alone I accidentally found myself on the scene of 4 proposals? Four! The one on the Roman Holiday with TMWSMHAETDMP (The Man Who Stole My Heart And Eventually Turned Down My Proposal- I really must come up with something catchier… from now on I’ll just refer to him as The Man) was the most painful one. Until I saw the ring, that is. It came from Argos.

While I’m truly worried about the future of the world, I’m also puzzled by the way happiness gets scattered around in a lottery-like manner. I deserve better, right? I deserve some of that happiness! That’s what all my friends tell me and I’m sure they are only saying it because they genuinely mean it- not in the way those contestant on all those talent show have been told by their parents they can sing when their lack of talent is heart-breakingly obvious to everybody else within earshot.

I do feel guilty about being this consumed by bitterness- it’s like sticking one's finger to God. I want to be patient and I want to keep on believing that He has a plan for me too. I’m just getting a bit tired of all this waiting and hoping…

So, here goes.

Dear God, it’s me.

I know creating an entire world in just six days is a Herculean task and all the respect for that. But you might want to look into a couple of things...

Please stop the wars. They’re nasty and tend to kill exactly the wrong people.

Give shelter to the homeless and feed the poor. (Also give them deodorant and make sure that the food is ecologically sustainable, organic and low in carbs. I mean, they're not going to want to get fat, are they?)

Keep all the children safe from all the Gary Glitters out there.

Show people the way to feel grateful for everything they have instead of wallowing in everything they don’t. Feel free to start from me.

Oh,and please make sure that the next girl The Man shags has syphilis.

Good night, God. 

Love, cockroaches and other fuzzy little creatures

So… how about that Man Who Stole My Heart And Eventually Turned Down My Proposal? The One Who Kept Stringing Me Along For Years And Got Away With It? What a man he must have been, right? The stunning looks of George Clooney, the gentle nature of Colin Firth, the athletic abilities of David Beckham, the wit of Sasha Baron Cohen… Well, you’d be wrong.

This is what was outside that box outside of which I decided to venture.

He was a workaholic. He had absolutely no identity outside his work. Almost a shame he wasn’t Japanese- they could have really used someone like him…

He was a budding alcoholic. Now, I’m no stranger to football-related-binge drinking myself and I do enjoy a nice Pinot. Or Gewürtztraminer. Or Viognier. And so did he. As long as it came in a 3 litre box.

He was commitment-phobic. He didn’t want to marry, ever, he said. Yet… he had proposed to two of his ex-girlfriends?? Hell, the night we met he was supposed to be in Reunion on a honeymoon!!!

He was balding. As in, there was an actual, sizeable bald patch on the top of his head. Too bad he didn’t find the thought of converting into Judaism tempting- yarmulke would have covered the spot so nicely…

What little was left of his hair was grey. And not in a distinguished “a grey streak here, another one there”- sort of way. But grey. In parts, white even.

He was nowhere near that magical 6 ft mark. And as a result of thorough scientific research I’ve established that I need a tall man. And I mean TALL. 11 ft would be ideal. See, the bigger the man, the more petit and feminine I (= my bum) look.

On the other hand: what he lacked in vertical dimensions he more than made up in the horizontal ones. He himself confessed he was classified as “morbidly obese”. Yet, he felt compelled to tell me I needed to lose weight. Ah, the delusional complex thing that is the male ego... No matter what they look like or how old they are , they all think they can walk into any bar and be flooded with leggy supermodel-lookalikes just throwing themselves at  them. Could we please have somebody bottle that infinite impertinence on time for the bikini season, please?

This is minor, but I’m really getting into mood now. He had hairy toes. And virtually no social skills. And he snored. Louder than jet engines (I should know, I checked) . And…brace yourselves: He supported Manchester City. Coming from Manchester. Having worked for Manchester United. I know. There. Are. No. Words.

But here’s the real kicker: He was older. By 19 years. Yes, you got your numbers right: that would make him 52. So, even in the case of happily ever after it would have only lasted a good…20 years? Out of which the last 10 would have been plagued by the holy trinity of impotence, incontinence and incompetence? Who would have changed his nappies, I ask you? Who??? And yet HE had the audacity not to want to be with me????

Oh c’mon! Everybody knows that had we married and made that commitment for “the rest of our lives”, it would have been for “what ever is left of the rest of his life”! After that I would have collected my inheritance and (still surprisingly firm) bum and moved to Florida in search of that right, Jewish husband!

What really bugs me is that when, eventually, inshallah we hit our respective dating scenes, which one do you think will be considered the catch? Me, a bright 30-something with the future ahead of her (a.k.a. bitter, unemployed spinster clearly desperate to settle) or him (wordly, wealthy, sophisticated, mature single gentleman)?

When we met I could think of a hundred reasons why we shouldn’t date. I’d never been attracted to anyone like him before. And now, even as I stare at this list…I can’t think of anyone else I’d want. He might be all those things but he's also sweet, generous, hard-working, loyal to his friends, good with his hands ( I mean DIY! DIY!!! Or so I'm telling you...) ,  funny, smart, handsome, circumcised, well-read, great cook and has the softest, silkiest skin in the world. And a three-story villa in Spain. To which I still have the keys...

In the persistence stakes my love for him seems to rival even the cockroaches in the nuclear destruction. Oh, bugger. This is really going to a while, isn’t it? 

You only get one chance to make the first mistake

During my heady dating days I have been swept off my feet. I’ve also been blown away by that magical instant connection that leaves one’s head spinning. I have been pursued and wooed with limousines, dinners and dates at the opera. But The Man Who Stole My Heart And Eventually Turned Down My Proposal was none of these. His opening line in a crowded bar after having quietly listened to me winding up another potential suitor (Italian with a not very good command of English) was: “Oi. You, behave.”

                    

See, there’s a reason why Romeo and Juliet wasn’t set in Northern England. Somehow the Yorkshire twang would have failed to deliver the kind of  immortal professions of undying love that leave generation after generation in tears. Somehow, though, I was mesmerised. As soon as those words managed to sink in through the Cosmopolitan-induced haze I launched into a tirade that would have given Loose Women (the English equivalent of the delightful ladies of the View) a run for their money. The word "chutzpah" came up a lot. He listened. And then asked when I was going to give him my phone number so that he could take me out for dinner. I asked if he was circumcised.

Not sure what I was thinking (definitely not playing it cool, judging by that comment). I could think of a hundred reasons why we weren't a good match. Thousands. But it was the first time in a while anyone had asked me out. And while there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the 6ft tall, dark, handsome investment bankers with six-packs, I thought… let’s give this a go. Let’s date outside the box. It’s just a dinner, right?

Oh, he didn’t expect anything to come out of us either. He was just after a bit of … fun, shall we say?  Yet… somehow, once all that pressure had been removed and nobody was expecting it… that dinner turned into several dinners and films and art galleries and weekends away and…an actual relationship.

He’d never been married. At his age I should have found this alarming. But no- I applauded it. No bitter feuds with ex-wives! No alimony! No bratty, jealous children! No baggage! Hah. Turned out there was- and a lot more than my frequent dater points allowed…

Wicked ways of a warped mind

Although only 3 posts in, this blogging just might have saved my sanity. My heart does feel slightly lighter as I pour my heart out here instead of staring at his pictures and wailing out loud. (I did hide his pictures for a while, but recovered them after realizing that talking to him out loud was even more alarming without the pictures to address all my talking to).

As far as sanity goes though-I must say I’m starting to understand some of those certifiably crazy people who hear voices and see signs everywhere. So do I. Lines in films bring back the conversations we had, pictures in magazines remind me of the places we went to… literally everything I see or hear just reminds me of him. Even seemingly innocent newspaper headlines somehow magically tie into my own life.

Here’s an example of the ways my warped mind interpreted today’s Guardian:

Iran 'builds copy of US spy drone'

Drone is an unmanned aerial vehicle. My life too, is unmanned, since the man in my life decided to turn down my proposal.

Afghanistan and US agree on strategic partnership document

All I wanted was our own strategic partnership document - namely a marriage certificate. But that failed since the man (whose heart is clearly dominated by something even more sinister and misogynist than the Talebans) decided to turn down my proposal.

Aung San Suu Kyi sticks to Burma parliament boycott

Much like Suu Kyi’s repeated protests against the tyranny of the Burmese junta have gone unanswered, so too have mine against the tyranny of the commitment phobe who was calling all the shots in the relationship and eventually rejected any reconciliation by turning down my proposal.

Jacob Zuma marries for the sixth time

This South African leader clearly believes in the commitment that marriage entails, unlike my man who also used to live in South Africa but still, after sixth year together, turned down my proposal.

Washington keeps distance from China's power struggle

My man liked to keep his distance from me and my struggle to keep understanding him. Even our mutual love of Chinese food didn’t convince him to understand his fortune, ultimately leading him to turn down my proposal.

Plane carrying 127 passengers crashes in Pakistan

During this long-distance relationship I’ve spent a lot of time travelling on planes. And while none of them have ever crashed, my hopes of building a life and a home together did as the cricket-loving object of my affections turned down my proposal.

See? I'm nothing if not consistent...

No prospects- none whatsoever

So, I’m sad. And I’m clearly bitter. Not exactly the most attractive of combinations… At least if this was the mid 90´s and I could sing I’d be able to carve out a wildly successful career as yet another angry young woman with a guitar. Oops, singer-songwriter, I meant. But this being early 21^st century and me being completely devoid of any discernible musical talent (and I mean it: my neighbour has actually asked me not to sing in the shower. Repeatedly. ) I also find myself out of job. And broke.

Bitter, sad, unemployed and broke. Now, THAT’S attractive. No wonder I’m still left on the shelf- even I wouldn’t want to date me!

Growing up I wanted to become a choreographer (Remember, this was the 80's and Paula Abdul was one of the coolest things out there). The fact that I or any of the nursery teachers couldn't even pronounce the word was irrelevant. I also wanted to marry Richard Dean Anderson. (Again, this was the 80's and MacGyver was one of the coolest things out there...)

However,back in university I ended up studying all those dreadfully frivolous humanitarian subjects that the Tories (that’s English Conservative Party for all non-English readers) find so abhorrent . Eventually I even graduated, with student loans equivalent to the GNP of a small African country. Against all odds I even found a job. A permanent one. With a couple of promotions thrown in. And a good paycheck. And what did I do, in the middle of the global recession? I quit my job after being offered a stint in the Middle East saving the world. ( I did tell you: frivolous humanitarian. Absolutely abhorrent.)

In hindsight I might have wanted to pay attention to a couple of things. When your friends (who actually studied something useful AND subscribe to Financial Times’ podcasts) tell you economical recession is THE worst time in the world to quit a job, there’s a chance you should listen to them. Another is that when your income is severely cut back, so should be your spending. Ahh. Failed both. Miserably.

Budget management, schmudget scmanagement- but I have managed to amass a collection of accessories that both my 8-year-old niece and 30-something girlfriends find irresistible and love to play with. Gorgeous shoes with no-one to walk all over in… Beautiful bags with nowhere to take them to…

Unfortunately turned out that that recession isn’t like Paris Hilton’s IQ or a free lunch- it actually exists. And continues. And since the return from the Middle East (which still remains largely unsaved as any news will tell you…) I’ve been reduced to doing a string of unpaid internships, with the noble aim of getting my well-heeled, snake-skinned foot in the door. And at this point I mean any door. So far no such luck.

Now, job hunting is hard, even without a broken heart that tells you to stay in bed willing his e-mail to appear in your inbox and convincing you that if only you stay in bed long enough, he’s going to show up at your doorstep, having finally realized that you truly are his first, his last, his everything (Yes, that broken heart also tells you to listen to Barry White- lots of it.) Job hunting is also not made any easier by my resumé with all its frivolousities. Somehow I’m capable of representing my country in a meeting with another country’s ministry of foreign affairs, trying to convince them to partner with mine in a project aiming at saving their nature, yet I’m not even considered for jobs where main duties revolve around answering phones? I don’t get it. I can write stories that get picked up by CNN but nobody trusts me to be able to write an e-mail? I can write! In 5 languages! With my eyes closed!

I’m trying to remain hopeful (well, not really, but nobody wants to read pessimistic posts, right?) but it’s hard when rejections keep coming like Biblical plagues. It’s so bloody hard to keep believing in yourself and what you have to offer when your abilities are only really appreciated and needed when nobody needs to pay you for them. Unpaid internships- right there with the locusts, I’ll tell you…

Breaking up in the 21st century

It's been a while since I’ve broken up with anyone. Such a long while that I’d almost forgotten the pain I had to crawl through to get over that guy. But not long enough for me to come in terms with the fact that part of me will always be just a little bit in love with him too. Oh, boy. Oy, vey.

And now even he has a girlfriend. How do I know this? Because after half a bottle of my new best Riojan friend I found myself ogling his Facebook profile. Luckily after another half a bottle I had the decency to remove him from my Facebook friends, to save myself from any future hurt and humiliation brought on by comments one tends to leave (drunk) on people-you-should-not-even-be-ogling’s profiles only to forget you-ever-left-them-to-begin-with. Let me just tell you this: the new girlfriend (Yes, of course I ogled her as well- what did you expect?) doesn’t look like the kind of girl he’d take home to meet his twinset-clad, Hermés- accessorized mother…not with her penchant for ghetto earrings...

What I do remember, however, is that last time the breaking up was nowhere near this technologically demanding. These days you have to block their Skype-names, erase their text messages, delete their phone numbers, file away their e-mails, unfriend them on Facebook, change your FB relationship status… the list just goes on. That’s bloody hard work, I’ll tell you, even if you’re  not quite as computerally challenged as I am. (Seriously. Think of a blind-folded retarded Korean-speaking illiterate fruit fly. THAT'S how useless I am.) Especially seeing how you’re uncontrollably sobbing and shaking throughout the process in a way that inevitably compromises your hand-eye coordination. And in the end you realize you’ve blocked your Nan and instead poured your heart out in an e-mail to The Very Bastard Who Turned Down Your Proposal.

All that is bound to give one a massive headache. Especially the sobbing bit. And you know what? After months of crying you’d expect the dehydration to have already resulted in a Kate Moss-like physique-but no... that too is something clearly yet to happen...

Moving on...but how?

The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It's one of those ridiculously perfect spring days- nothing there to remind of the devastation ripping through my insides. Apart from my apartment,that is, and my self-imposed exile from the world. The floor flooded with take away-boxes and clothes I don't even remember wearing.  Being on first-name basis with your local pizza delivery people. The window sill littered with cigarette boxes. Empty cigarette boxes. (No wonder then my throat feels like a marching band of cactuses (cactai?) has moved in...) The bed left crumpled by the fact that I haven't bothered to get up in days. 

Do you know how long it takes before your hair starts spontaneously turning into dreadlocks? I do,now. 3 days. For once, I'm happy I don't have a job to go to, to make myself presentable and pretend to be happy and sociable. On the other hand, it's yet another sad reminder of how I'm not wanted anywhere. How on earth did I get to this? No job, no love, no money and absolutely no prospects in life? My life was supposed to be gorgeous- not George Constanza! 

I did have a job once. But more on that later. And with it, money. (Just ask eBay and those lovely obliging people at Visa- their loss is no doubt greater than mine...) Most importantly,I used to have love. A man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. To the point that I, blinded by the feeling of all-conquering-love (and 3 Strongbows AND a triumphant victory over Liverpool) actually got down on one knee and tears bursting out everywhere proposed to him.

Now,you'd think that hearing "no" would be the most humiliating response. Or that nasty, prolonged, awkward pause which is usually followed by that very "no". Let me tell you kids: it isn't. It is that awkward silence followed by "what do you think you're doing?". Followed by equally charming "do get off the floor". 

So, now I'm supposed to move on? And like him, pretend none of that ever happened? The gut-wrenching fact is that I don't know how. If that classic theory on getting over taking half of the length of the actual relationship is true... Then this is what my life will be for the next 3 years and a few unfortunate months. And that's not a nice prospect. Not to my mental health OR my waistline.

So, stay tuned. Let's start that journey...