Humanitarian interventions

I just bought a skirt on eBay I'd been stalking for a year. That must be my personal record. I once stalked a Banana Republic wrap dress but even that ended in my closet in less than 8 months. 

That's determination alright. I know what I want and I go after it. I am a committer.

I guess I've always been like that: the first crush I ever had, I had a crush on all through school. After 9 years (!) I finally managed to pluck up the courage to actually kiss him. 

Even I don't know what to make of those examples. Yes, I want to commit, but maybe I really should just be committed. Is this kind of level of dedication even healthy anymore?

I know I've been miserable. To a point that people around me have started to genuinely worry. Remember how I thought I might be in for an intervention? And how I expected this blog might prove therapeutic, at least  preventing me from actually calling and talking to The Man? Apparently it hasn't. It might be time to bring out Xanax. 

I feel guilty for having caused this much concern for those who have helped me the most. What a loser they must think I am! Take my sister. Who clearly reads my blog. Remember, the sister who was as puzzled as I am? I'm not sure whether it's anger towards The Man or concern over my well-being but something prompted her to take action. She has wrote an e-mail to The Man.

It was a beautiful, heartfelt e-mail. C.S. Lewis has nothing on her (and I thought I was the verbal wonder in this family!). I don't know what to think. Gratitude for her concern and efforts to mend this? Shame for not being able to get through my own life? Embarrassment about knowing that even if The Man did react to it in a constructive way I'd always know he didn't take that leap because of me?

Why can't I be stronger? More sensible? More... over him? I once read about a woman who'd devised a 3-week plan to get over her ex-husband. Ok, it did involve smashing a house, but still. I too need to find a way to release myself from this. Because the thing is, even though there never was a wedding... in that proposal I did give myself to him. My heart has already made that promise.

And as I watch the life I never got to have flash before my eyes... I can't help but wonder. What if I'll never be the love of anyone's life?

I need to do something. Even the seagulls outside my window are displaying suicidal tendencies with their kamikaze-dives. Maybe "Secret" isn't such a bad way to after all...?

Gifts that keep giving

In another (failed) bid to get a closure I figured I could take everything The Man got me and flog it on eBay. That way I'd have less to remind me of him and subsequently also more money to either pay off the Visa bill or...buy more stuff!

I started by listing a scarf he bought from Tiffany's. Yes, that breakfast place Audrey Hepburn's Holly Golightly so loved. And yes, they also sell scarves. And no, I don't know what kind of a man goes to Tiffany's to buy a scarf. Oh wait, a man who doesn't like engagement rings?

Then I started regretting it. I did like the scarf. And I'm sure there was a reason The Man got it for me, not that I should be wasting any more of my time trying to decipher the going-ons of his murky little mind. But the scarf sold before I could cancel the listing.

Many things can be said about The Man but he did shop well.

The haul of the gifts he got me over the years include another Tiffany scarf, a Hermés belt and a matching bracelet, scarf, bag and make-up pouch from Louis Vuitton, a vintage Lancel bag to match the Pucci scarf I got for one Hanukkah, a limited edition Longchamp bag that no-one else in my country has and Mulberry Bayswater I'd been dying for for years.

Last Valentine's Day (the first Valentine's Day we actually ever spent together- reeling from my proposal...) I even got a ring. A scarf ring. But it did some from Hermés...

Call me shallow, but how could I ever part with those?

Those who say stuff doesn't make you happy are simply not shopping at the right places. Less is never more; too much of the good thing is never enough.

He also once flew me to Manchester to see my first ever live game. For someone who hates United, that's pretty big.  That had been my lifelong dream and he made it come true.

The ones left one my list are seeing U2 perform and finding my beshert.

There's a Jewish legend according to which 40 days before each soul is born, God and his angels (the Yentas to end all Yentas!) whisper into their ears "this boy for this girls" and "that girl for that boy". And once those souls have been united in Heaven, nothing can stop them from being reunited on Earth.

Silly jibberjabber you might say. But I think it's beautiful. And I'd like to think something was whispered into my ear as well (something other that "didn't I tell you not to stick anything smaller than your elbow into your ear? Didn't I? Now it's stuck and we'll never get it out!").

Love (and chlamydia). Life's gifts that truly keep on giving. 

New passport, new destinations

Oh, and while on the subject of holidays: I finally got that new passport. Which means I can now go anywhere in the world! If only it didn't involve border crossings and passport inspections...


I took this whole process very seriously. Remember, this was the one with the new name! Planning the right outfit alone took a week. Aware that this is going to be my calling card for the next five years, I really wanted to avoid that passport photo curse that I (and everyone else) am usually plagued by. That one picture where you need to look good... is always the one that fails to look anything like you.

Eventually I decided on the "well-if-I-don't-think-I'm-fabulous-then-why-would-anybody-else"- earrings, thinking they were blingy enough to distract anyone's attention from what ever might be going on with my face. I decided to go for hair down in loose curls. I even wore my favourite snakeskin heels (yes I know you can't see them but...) I looked good. Until I got caught in the rainstorm. 

I ran into the photo booth drenched and feeling nowhere near as glamorous I had felt when I left the house. And boy does it show. The earrings? You can't even see them behind my cheeks (if camera adds 5 kilos, then those booths add at least 15!). The hair?  So big it doesn't even fit in the picture. Basically the entire photo is occupied by my massive face. The kind of face you'd expect to be plastered on the front page of Daily Mail under the headline: "Crystal meth- it could happen to you."

If I can help it- no-one will ever get to see this...

Holiday- it would be so fine...

Now that we've been pampered with this summery weather, I hate my internship even more. As I drag myself home after yet another day of answering the phones and shuffling papers, I really don't need to see people sunbathing and picnicing in parks. 

Plus everyone around me is talking about holidays. Should we go island hopping in Croatia? Surfing in Thailand? Scuba diving in Tel Aviv? You're asking me? What you should do is shut the %#*! up!

I won't have one this year because A) I'm stuck with the internship that doesn't come with any holiday time and B) I'm stuck with an unpaid internship so I don't even have money to go anywhere. 

My internship finishes at the end of July, so unless I actually find a real job, I'll have August off. And at one point I was actually thinking of telling The Man to stay away from Southern Europe and invading the villa that I still have the keys to. I figured I deserved some sort of a partial custody. Plus there is the fact that a couple of his ex-girlfriends got to holiday there while we were still together. So...surely I too warrant a couple of unsupervised visits?

I love that place. And the more I thought about it, the better the idea sounded. (don't remind me on the ideas others had for the house...) And having the locks changed seemed like an even better idea. But I know I couldn't. Everything about that house is just so him. I know I make fun of it as the place where the Scandinavian design goes to die (like Florida to the Jews) but I do love that place. And it's got him written all over it.

So... I sent the keys back. With a note thanking for all the wonderful memories there (manners, people! Hasn't Bree van der Kamp taught you anything?). Hasta la vista, my Spanish dream.

They say if you love someone, set them free. What I want to know is who "they" are. They just seem to have a smug answer for absolutely everything. But... if I really love him, then I should want him to be happy. And if he isn't that with me...then I should let him go so that he can meet that elusive person with whom he is. And be happy when he does, right? 

Well, as far as personal growth goes, I'm not quite there yet. But perhaps a holiday away would give me the distance to process that one too. So, where will it be? Hitchhiking in Hungary?  Kicking back in Kosovo? Slumming it in Serbia? Backpacking through Bosnia? 

If I sell one of my kidneys, those just might be within my budget. But as a woman, travelling alone, many of those places would probably be best avoided. See, if anything were to happen... whose name do you think is listed as the beneficiary on my insurances? Yep. The Man.

Human interests

As these numerous internships have rarely actually provided me with much to do, I've had plenty of time to follow what's going on in the world. Like job adverts, royal weddings, eBay offers and the world news. As I knew The Man was busy I always wanted to make sure that he too would get the daily digest. Mostly of the human interest variety in the hopes of cheering him up.

Here's a selection of what I might have sent him today.

It's only understandable that in the throes of passionate love and wedding-planning some crucial details might escape your attention. Such as the compatibility of your names. Though Mr. and Mrs Jaeger-Meister does have class to it. Much more than say, the Rump-Orefices.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2150705/Jaeger-Meister-Rather-Grim-Partee-Moore-Hilarious-wedding-announcements-couples-unfortunate-surnames.html

I'm a huge fan of exploring new culinary delights. And I'm a fan of the good old schmeckie. Just not quite sure I'd combine those two great passions like this Japanese chef... How do I like my steak? Bloody. How do I like my schmeckie? Inside me please, not on my plate...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/24/asexual-mao-sugiyama-cooks-serves-own-genitals_n_1543307.html

The English team is impressed by the English language skills of an English manager. Only in England...

http://gulfnews.com/sport/football/hodgson-speaking-sense-to-england-stars-already-1.1027587

Our garage door in Spain has been vandalized anyway- so this might make a nice change. Plus the chance for him to finally get that Mercedes convertible...! I might use this too- by painting a picture of a Hermes Birkin on a Tesco carrier bag...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-18001779

What were they thinking? What were their overpaid brand consultants, marketing managers and graphic designers thinking? Erm... pretty much the as me most of the time these days, it would seem...

http://www.funnymos.com/logos-gone-terribly-wrong.html

Oh, because breaking up is so complicated and demanding. Meddling with the national security on the other hand...

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1351937/Immigration-officer-fired-putting-wife-list-terrorists-stop-flying-home.html

Those Asians take everything seriously don't they? I mean, when was the last time anybody even heard about a Japanese football team? Though... maybe that's where the English side is going wrong- they're practicing with footballs, not with steak and kidney pies!

http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/05/21/us-olympics-soccer-japan-rice-idUSBRE84K05Y20120521

Now this is a novel idea. Perhaps one that should be launched in countries like Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan where they're so concerned about issues such as preserving women's chastity. Women could be driving cars and attending schools and what ever it is that those crazy kids these days do since their chastity was safe. What would the clerics then come up with...? Would they be forced to look into mirror and realize that if they really want to preserve women's chastity THEY'D BETTER KEEP THEIR SCHMECKIES IN THEIR PANTS!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1082707/Outrage-chastity-belt-lingerie-fitted-GPS-tracking-system.html

Let them eat cheesecake!

Marie Antoinette was probably the most brutally misunderstood humanitarian in the history of humanity. Why shouldn't they eat cake? Cake is goooooooood!

We just celebrated a Jewish holiday called Shavuot. Feel free to google it but these are the two things that you really need to know about this festival: cheesecake and Ruth.

Cheesecake because it's customary to eat dairy products during Shavuot (and any holiday of cheesecakes- count me in!) Ruth because hers is the book read in the synagogues during the holiday.

Ruth is my homegirl (coming from a Caucasian that just doesn't sound right), so I think I'll dedicate this blog to her. 

Ruth was a Moabite who married a son of Jewish woman called Naomi (I can practically hear yiddishe mame wailing: "Oy! Vey! What have I done to deserve this! Why can't you marry a nice Jewish girl instead?") 

Anyway, the son died and Naomi encouraged Ruth to return to her own people as she didn't want her to feel obliged to stay with her (A good lesson for another Naomi -  Mrs. Campbell could learn a thing or two  from this Naomi's people skills...). Ruth on the other hand has different ideas and she goes on to say the most beautiful verses in the Bible:

“Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you.” (Ruth 1:16-17)

That's commitment. That's love. That's Ruth.

But Ruth was special in so many other ways too. She is the first known convert to Judaism. This is especially poignant to me, as I know how difficult it is to gain legitimacy as a Jew when you're a convert; both in the eyes of your fellow Jews and the rest of the world. I can't even imagine what hassle Ruth would face today, only to probably have the conversion nullified by the Israel Chief Rabbinate anyway. "Where did you convert? Who converted you? Which denomination?"

But lo and behold: Ruth eventually becomes one of the ancestresses of David. Yes, David of "David and Goliath" fame. Yes, David as in King David.

And whoaah, there's more. The Messiah too will come from David's lineage. Which means... that this stubborn little Moabite convert holds rather a crucial place in all this. Yes, the world without her would indeed be... a ruthless place.

So, no matter how others might treat us, let's take a moment to feel proud of who we are. And to eat cake. Lots of cake.

Bread and circuses

Continuing my desperate attempts to introduce/ force some joy into my life, I went to an amusement park. The sun was shining, I rode my favourite roller coaster, I was with friends -  perfect setting for a perfectly amusing day. Yet being among people seems like such a struggle. 

I used to be a happy, positive, upbeat person. Now it's an act I put on; a role I need to get into every time I'm out and about to make myself more tolerable for those around me. And one I don't think I'm performing in an Academy Award-worthy way. I think everyone can see through it. 


I feel bad. I have such wonderful friends that have helped me get through all this - a fact that even strangers point out to me. Even the people at work have turned out to be pretty fantastic. But I just can't bring myself to break out of my shell and join the world. Everywhere I go, I carry a 176 cm hole in my heart. That hurts. And not just because there are only 167 cms of me. Everything I do, I'd rather be doing with him.

I just want to stay home, alone, without having to explain why I'm still such a miserable git.  I even skipped St. Patrick's Day AND the Eurovision song contest- I simply didn't have in me to get excited about them. And those are my favourite holidays!


I've gone from the life and soul of any party to a housebound hermit. I spend Saturday evening at home, watching Lewis and drinking HP brown sauce straight from the bottle. The only person I want to spend time with is the man who doesn't want to be with me. And the irony? He is probably at home too, doing the same thing (with Chenin Blanc in place of that brown sauce).

What is happening to me? Am I really losing it? Is this blog just a verbal equivalent of those shrines you see on Criminal Minds on the walls of those delusional women, dedicated to that guy next door they're obsessed with? What's next? Voodoo dolls? Moving countries just so I can take up stalking? 


Even my friends are starting to worry. I think one of them is about to stage an intervention. You know, vision boards, universe boxes, laws of attraction- the whole "Secret" shebang. Apparently if you give the Universe, the Universe will give back to you. Well, I've given. And so far the only thing Universe gave me was 10 extra kilos and anger management issues of John McEnroe calibre.

Golden oldies

As we took the ferry to our mini break destination we very quickly realized we represented the wrong end of demographics. We were the only ones with our own teeth and hair. We could walk unaided- even after the Syrah-Viognier.

The whiff of Eau d'Oldie was more pungent than the breath of the Russian ice hockey-fans getting ready for the final later that night. Everywhere you looked there were hunch-backed old people fussing over bingo, the price of a cup of coffee and the extent of their dental work. As I looked at the sea of ill-fitting trousers with elasticated waistbands my head was buzzing with the mysteries of the golden years. 

Why do they all smell so bad? What makes their teeth fall out? How old do you have to be before you genuinely start thinking that purple hair really is the way to go? Do they all have their curls pressed and ironed on by the same hair-dresser? Do orthopedic sandals become mandatory at some point? 

And I knew exactly what The Man would have said at that point. It was exactly what I too was thinking. I don't want to get old.

And the things is, there seems to be very little we can do about it. Sure we can shoot heroine into our eye balls and live that sex and drugs-fuelled life of a rock star and die at 27. And then there's Joan Rivers. 

But apart from those fine examples, getting older is an unpleasantly inevitable fact of life.

I don't feel 33. I know The Man didn't feel 52. As I looked at one of the carbon copy grannies in tight white perm nagging to one of the plaid-clad grandpas in those elasticated trousers I got thinking: is that how they feel too? Do they still feel young inside, in spite of their incontinence- and impotence-filled geriatric reality?

But at least they still had each other.

I don't want to end up alone. I want to have someone whose hand to hold; someone whose bowel movements to monitor; someone who'll sneak off for a beer the moment I go attend the afternoon bingo. 

A couple of years ago, in the middle of a July heat wave one of my neighbours died. He lived alone and clearly didn't have much social life either. He just lay there, dead, without anybody missing him.  Nobody even noticed until he'd been lying there for weeks and the stench of his rotting corpse in the building got so bad we had to sleep with the windows open. 

Who's to say I won't end like him? Without the blue overalls and that perv gaze, obviously, but alone? The terms of my lease forbid me from having pets (ok, they also forbid smoking inside, disturbing neighbours with 4am after parties and installing a washing machine without a trained professional) so my neighbours are not even going to be alerted by the screeching of my cat after she's halfway through eating my dead face. It's just going to be me. All. By. Myself.

Come what may

I have repeatedly said how I need to learn to find more happiness in life; that I need to give myself the chance to find beauty and joy even in the midst of the most mundane Mondays. Talk is cheap (and I am not) so I finally decided to do something about it.

I took a mini break in one of the most beautiful Old Towns in Europe. I had  a lovely lunch at a restaurant currently ranked #1 in the city, followed by a delightful evening at the opera and a relaxing night at a wonderful little hotel just oozing that Old Word glamour. The following day was spent leisurely strolling down the narrow cobble-stone streets, shopping and lunching. So wonderful, so soul-nurturing. I soooo didn't want to come back.

It was something I had initially planned to do with The Man. But part of me always felt terrified. I never booked the tickets as I feared something horrible would happen. I could never completely count on us still being together. And if the uncertainty of your situation means you can't plan even 2 months ahead... that speaks in volumes.

I decided to go anyway; it all seemed too wonderful to miss. I went with a friend and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Until I got back home and had another epic melt-down. 

I've always travelled alone, choosing the road less travelled. I've explored places people in their right minds wouldn't. I've journeyed on planes, night buses, camels and donkeys and slummed it in cheap hostels. 

Travelling with The Man couldn't have been different. It was about exploring places that dazzle you with their beauty, staying in luxurious hotels where you don't have to worry having all your socks stolen, enjoying fantastic food in lovely restaurants and spending quality time with someone who isn't a Norwegian pot head/ rastafari/ member of the lost tribe/ make-believe-Ethiopian (only in Tel Aviv...)

We had a lovely time on our mini break. It was everything that a holiday should be. And everything that holidays with The Man always were. And no matter how much I enjoyed it all... I couldn't help but wonder just how much more I would have enjoyed it with The Man. 

The dreamy fairytaleness of the city, the romantic atmosphere of the hotel, the dimly-lit restaurant, those tortured hearts of La Bohéme... How I miss him. How I miss the life we had. 

I too want to have my true love. One that doesn't fear declaring how "come what may, I will live you until my dying day". But if La Bohéme and Moulin Rouge are anything to go by... true love always seems to come with a hefty dose of tuberculosis? 

They say that time is a healer

Time is supposed to heal. Time is supposed to make it better. Time is something I should give  myself, I'm told. That "time" seems like quite a hard-working, multitasking son of a bitch. But I can tell you, none of those are happening. I still find myself sitting shiva, barefoot and bereft.

When will this pain subside? When will I stop crying? 

It's been over 3 months since that ill-fated proposal. Something has happened with about one month intervals since. After the first month we got talking again and I thought we were going somewhere with it. Only to be burned again. Then there were the flowers and the card. And again I got my hopes up. Only for nothing to come out of that one either. Now it's been a month since that. And having clearly learnt nothing, I still find myself hoping this might not be it. I'm such a retard. When it comes to love I'm Helen Keller. I'm those three monkeys. I see no evil, I hear no evil, I can't help but proposing to evil.

My friend says these are all mind games; that this is how he keeps toying with me.But the thing is... I really don't think he's evil. I don't think he deliberately sets out to hurt me. But I can't really think any alternatives either. 

I'm an emotional roller coaster. I feel sad, betrayed, hurt, anxious, confused, frustrated, redundant, disappointed and ashamed. Ashamed for not being good enough. And I feel angry. But not at him. At myself.

I feel angry I couldn't see this. I feel angry for not being able to let go. I feel angry for not knowing how much I've made up in my own head. My friends say I lit up when I talked about him. Did I just imagine we had something special? 

But... I don't think I did. I just talked with my sister. And she's equally puzzled. I think she actually liked him. And she doesn't like anyone. The only men she gets along with are Ben and Jerry. She can't believe all this as she says that based on talking with him, she really thought we'd last. And that impression is also echoed by a friend's sentiments. She too got the impression from The Man that he was in it for the long-haul.

And I wonder what he is feeling (as has already been established, he was so gifted in that department)?  Has he moved on; having met someone who's happy being just a girlfriend? Is there already someone else; another woman who gets to see him, make him laugh and keep him happy?

Do remember, that night we met he was supposed to be on his honeymoon. Yes, honeymoon.  The man who doesn't want to marry me was supposed to be married to somebody else...

Deadly sins part 5: Vanity

This is apparently Devil's favourite sin. 

I never thought of myself particularly vain, as the perhaps overtly self-deprecating way I describe myself shows. Fine, so I can't have phone-sex if my hair is dirty, but that's just good manners, right?

However, I've just discovered something that has made me question this perception. Remember how I noticed how my shoes had started rejecting my feet? I thought that maybe that was a sign of my feet getting fat too. Turned out it wasn't. I'm developing a "deformity characterized by lateral deviation of the great toe". Yes, dear readers. That's a ...deep breaths... even deeper breaths... bunion. 

This is what Google has to say about it: "Tight-fitting shoes, especially high-heel and narrow-toed shoes increase the risk for bunion formation". AAAAAAAARGH! That description covers every single pair of my 56 best friends. Wait.. is this some kind of a divine revenge for my borderline-blasphemic blog entries? Is God smiting me?

According to medical sources bunions are also "reported to be more prevalent in people who wear shoes than in barefoot people". So...I'm being punished for not being a Kenyan bushman? I live in Europe! I need shoes!

Apparently since it's still early days, I might make a difference. By a change in footwear. That's sensible, flat, wide-fitting shoes. The kind that nuns, traffic police and Rosie O'Donnell wear. 

So, what did I do? Did I prioritize my health and well-being? Of course not. I bought a pair of narrow, pointy-toed shoes I obviously couldn't really even afford. But they're yellow, have a bow and are just about the prettiest shoes I've ever seen. 

I might be headed for a very painful future, but at least I'll be pretty when doing it. 

Ah, vanity. My favourite sin...

Suicide blonde

I do hope the last entry didn't completely freak you out. I have had my share of mental dysfunctionality and have indeed contemplated just ending it all. But have no fear, turned out I'm just too lazy for that (too).

Everyday is a struggle to keep myself together, I'll give you that. And Chelsea winning that Champions League trophy didn't exactly increase the quality of my life. And I am soooo tired of trying. Trying to stay positive, trying to get over The Man, trying to stay motivated in the job hunt, trying to focus on improving myself by learning new languages, doing research for articles no-one pays for and volunteering for people who disrespect me. But really, how would I even go about it?

I always assumed that slitting my wrists open would be my method of choice, seeing how I have a history of self-harming anyway. But I could never cut deep enough. And I don't even have a bath tub where to do it in; not just for the theatrical effect but for the tidiness. Just imagine the mess! No, that's not for me.

Hanging myself somehow seems so.. 1800's. And I'm too short to even tie the noose  anywhere near high enough. And I heard somewhere that people being hung tend to... well... go on themselves before they die. And I can't be found dead AND covered in shit. I can't have my neighbours think I'm some kind of a slob! Oh, no.

And here's the irony: I used to be a girl-scout. You know, a bona fide knot-tying, camping , star-navigating girl scout. But I wouldn't even know how to tie a noose...

Then there's poison. As much as I have flair for drama, that might be a tad too Disney's evil step-motherish. And anyway, where would I even get poison? I don't think you can just walk into your local pharmacy in search of it. Just imagine the dialogue:

.......

Me: What kind of poisons do you stock?

The pharmacist: A rather extensive variety indeed. Do you prefer European varieties or the New World ones? We also have some interesting South African ones that are now in season; simply wonderful bouquet!

Me: erm... I'd prefer some lethal kind.

The pharmacist: Ah, I see. May I inquire what you had intended to consume the poison with? Fish or meat?

Me: I'm thinking of killing myself.

.......

I suppose I could throw myself under a bus. But that's somehow so...common. I mean, never even take the bus! And there's a chance you'll survive. Paralyzed from the neck down. That would be even nastier than the life I have now. At least now I'm capable of making sure my toes are always kitted out with French pedicure.

And sometimes you escape unscathed. One of the drunks in my neighbourhood fell under the tram. Somehow he only managed to get his foot lodged between the rail and the pavement and actually walked away, in one piece. Only to find his sorry mug plastered all over the morning papers (those damn camera phones...). Now, that's just plain embarrassing...

The most effective way would probably be the good old gun. But obviously I don't just happen to have a spare one idly lying around. I'd have to apply for a license first. And along with the application I should submit a thorough account explaining exactly why I need a gun. Somehow I don't think "in order to kill myself" would fly with them.

So there you have it. I might be struggling to stay afloat in this endless sea of depression, but I'm not ready to drown just yet...

Deadly sins part 4: Sloth

I should quit cut back on smoking. I should drink a lot less. I should focus less on blogospheric blasphemy and try to get more articles published advocating social awareness.

I should start stick to a diet and stay on it for longer than a day,  only to reward myself with a pizza. I should start exercising find a form of exercising I might learn to like. Otherwise no-one's going to want to see me naked. Me included.


I should try to reconnect with religion.  Keeping shabbat is so much easier now with the football season out of the way. But in all honesty... I'm not sure I can ever go back to kosher. I really can't imagine my life without... here it comes... bacon. Damn you, Man. 

I should work on my French. And Arabic. And Hebrew.And Yiddish. After all, I might have lied on a couple of job applications that I speak those languages... And I should brush up on learn some computer skills. For the same reason.

I should read the classic literary masterpieces. I'm not sure I've read any of them. Though...Bridget Jones is a bit of a classic, yes? And I suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn to play chess either.

I should find a job that pays well, that I'm qualified for and that I find meaningful (me and 5 billion others...) And I need to learn budget management. And break off my co-dependent relationship with VISA. And start a pension fund for when I can afford to retire (from that job that I've yet to find), around year 2087.

I should learn to find happiness in life. And learn to manage my anger. (But then what would I write about?)

I should start recycling. I mean, the future of this planet depends on it, right? I should also learn to plan ahead and stock up on toilet rolls and batteries. And tinned food too I guess, you know, for a nuclear destruction.

I should do a lot of things. But just going over this exhaustive list exhausts me. Right now not killing myself seems arduous enough.

Deadly sins part 3: Lust

The Man has gone from a one-off cameo to a regular special guest star in my dreams. And my, what sort of dreams they are! 

This dry spell is doing my head in. I'm starting to understand those dogs you see trying to hump lamp posts. I'm about a week away from reaching that point myself. I don't understand how Mother Teresa could go on like  this all her life! I don't even have those lepers in my neighbourhood to divert my attention to. I do have those homeless drunks but they smell. And they are known to get rather unpleasantly forward at times. One day a man who was clearly using his trousers as his personal toilet, propositioned me on the tram. By asking If I was into anal sex.

Now, I'm an old-fashioned girl. I like to be wooed first. Over dinners. By people who don't think shower is just another urban legend. 

My friend say I should shag that doorman I told you about. Another friend says I should shag him. More specifically, I should shag him  in every single room of The Man's Spanish mansion I still have the keys to. 

But as much as I crave all the acts that the carnal circus has to offer... I can't even imagine doing anything with anybody other The Man. 

We were a really good match. It's so bloody unfair. Sex is like mascara. You find a really good  one that does it all; lifts, separates, opens your eyes... and then they go and discontinue it! 

Art imitating life imitating art

Ours was a love story that mirrored that of Carrie and Mr. Big. Though in a much more modest, poor-man's phone sex and the small city-sort of way. But a classic case of Mr. Hard to Get meeting Miss Hard to Get Rid Of nonetheless. An older, successful businessman with a crippling fear of commitment. A blonde, aspiring writer-woman with a crippling credit card debt.

Instead of a New York-based sex column I wrote a West Bank-based column about the plight of the Palestinians. While we (and all the other women) share the love of footwear, I only have one pair of Manolos. That came from an online auction. And are, with alarming likelihood, fake.  Unless Manolo actually writes his name in Chinese? (Remember when I said I had already bought shoes for the wedding that never was? Yup. Those very shoes Carrie wore at theirs: Manolo Blahnik's "Something blue")

Now as I try to make sense out of everything that's happened, I seek solace (and further distance myself from the grips of the grim reality) from the Sex and the City-DVD box set (that The Man got for me). (And endless re-runs of Say Yes To The Dress. Not sure which one is damaging my psyche more...) I wonder where we stand. Is he about to move countries and come back with a fiancée? Are we going to keep coming back together? Will my retarded devotion to him pay off in the end? Is he going to change his mind about marrying me after all? 

Like Mr. Big, The Man never wrote me a love letter. But perhaps this blog is one, continuous love letter to him; my immortal beloved?

Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours. 

The 4 Cs

My desire to get married was never about the diamond. Though, like any other aspiring drag queen, I do like my bling...

But perhaps relationships, like diamonds, are all about the 4 Cs. Compatibility, communication, companionship and compromise?

But how do you compromise on something like marriage? When it's something the other one believes in while the other equally vehemently doesn't? Much like the issue of having children: how do you compromise on that? You only have few of them, for a short period of time? 

No, it just doesn't work like that.

And marriage is something too big, precious and rare (much like the diamonds) to compromise on. No-one should be forced into it (Yemen, Afghanistan- are you listening??). If it's not something both parties enter with whole-hearted commitment and joy... then it's not going to provide either person that happy end it's supposed to stand for.

And yet... yet I'm trying to figure out if a compromise with The Man might be achievable.

Shit people say

I'm trying to complete one of those psychological aptitude evaluation tests. I'm struggling. 


I know I'm supposed to go with my instinct and be honest. I just can't seem to decide which kind of honest: a raging, perfection-demanding dictator- honest  or the indecisive, hard-working, hair-splitting doormat-  honest? And the thing is, the test results will pretty much determine whether or not I'll make the next round of the screening process. It's daunting. They'll analyze me based on those answers. What if they too will decide they don't  like me?

It's like in relationships. You open up and show yourself to the other person, warts and all, just so that he can decide that he didn't really like what he saw after all. And I'm soooo not ready for another "it's not you,  it's me" talks.

The amount of shit people say and don't mean is ridiculous. And the things is, those things fail to provide any consolation since we all know they're bullshit.


"It's not you, it's me". OF COURSE IT'S YOU AND YOU KNOW IT! If it wasn't you he'd still want to go out with you!

"Size really doesn't matter". Bollocks. Everybody knows it does. Be it paycheck, steak, diamond, bottle of shampoo you get for free or schmeckie (that's Yiddische-Frigidische for penis). Bigger is always better. And if you don't quite measure up, you'd better be able to compensate it with the size of your wallet (and again, bigger is better).

"I've inherited my mother's quick metabolism- no matter how many cheeseburgers I eat, I just never seem to put on any weight!" It's called eating disorder, darling, not metabolism. The last time you were anywhere near a cheeseburger was when you drove past the McD drive-through on your pilates, yoga, yogilates or what ever it is you're doing this week. Let's face it: you maintain your figure with a  diet of  "not eating anything" with a a hefty side order of "lying". As did your mum.

"It's the inner beauty that counts". Sure. That's why we buy those over-priced glossies:  for the pictures of airbrushed personalities. That's why we pluck and tweeze and wax and shave and deodorize and scrub and peel and tone and moisturize and tint and dye and highlight and lipo-suck - because we want our personalities to look good in those jeans that always get us noticed even from across a crowded bar.

"It's about the joy of participating, not about winning"? Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Tell that to any English football fan and expect to get shot. You choose which gives more joy: travelling to the World Cup every 4 years just to be humiliated by getting kicked out of the tournament by the Dutch or the Swedes OR winning that trophy for the first time since 1966? Yeah, you choose...

Unsafety in numbers

I just read that the company The Man works for is letting go 30 000 people. That's like, the entire population of Andorra! (Or one of those other minuscule make-believe countries nobody can place on the map) I wonder if he's safe...? I wonder if he's finalized the details concerning the next deal and the next relocation...? I wonder how he's feeling about it all...?

And I wonder why, after such a long time of hating his work and how he doesn't have any difficulties committing to something that so obviously drains him I even care. Perhaps because I care about him. And know how much his work means to him.

I've even tried to explain my feelings in a way that he'd understand. Would he be ready to move halfway across the world for a job that might eventually be offered to him? Would he, year after year, agree to work  on a temporary contract; on part-time basis, not being able to plan ahead? Would he, after having given so much for the company, be happy having no job security, no pension plan?

And even he agreed "no". I'm getting so tired  of this recession- both in the world and in my love life.

Crazy is all around

Before you all write me off as a psycho, I'd like to point out that there are some veritable freaks out there that make me seem like a poster girl for nuptially-challenged sanity.

Like the woman I saw in a documentary a little while back. She was married to the Eiffel Tower. With conjugal visits and all. A man was having an affair with his car. Another had a doll for a girlfriend. The things we do in search for love...

I also recently read about a man who'd  broken into a farm, engaging in amorous activities with a female horse. Breaking and entering indeed... (Actually... What the hell was he thinking? The saying "hung like a horse" exists for a reason! How on earth did he think he was going to measure up?!)

See? Love makes people do crazy things!

I know, I know. So does advanced syphilis. 

What's in a name

I took one step towards a new life. I changed my name. Now the name I've been called is officially part of my name. (no, it's not "bitch", you bitches.) My new name means "lioness of God". How very appropriate. So, no need to expect me to get any more sedate in the future...

Changing the name was something I always thought I'd eventually do, but figured I'd tie it in with getting a new  passport. My old one's about to expire and I'll have to get a new one. I  just always thought that by now I'd be getting it with a new last name too...

I know, I know. Here I go again, rambling about marriage. I know even the herpes virus has a longer life expectancy that marriages these days, but I really wanted it. And mourning that loss is going to take time. (Actually,  now that I think of it, herpes really is for life...)

I know I said I wasn't really too bothered about the wedding bit; that what I was really after was the marriage- that life-long partnership. Erm... there's a chance that's not entirely true.

I already had the shoes for the wedding. And a dress. OK,  two dresses. And I had the party venue picked out. And the flowers decided on. And the song for the first dance. And the guest list finalized. And the menu selected. Even I know that's...well, insane. I'm a ticking time-bomb. A Bridezilla in the making. Even I'm a little scared of myself now.

But my new passport will finally -  in all its validity period and lack of stamps from the Jewish state everybody so likes to dislike - provide me a carte blanche enabling me to explore parts of the world that were previously off the limits. Oooh... just imagine what wonderful adventures are waiting for me in Yemen. And Sudan. And Albania...

(Hmmm. I wonder if they do destination weddings in Yemen...?)

I just didn't call to say...

The blog has just gone past the first 1000 views. I'm humbled by the fact that there are people out there taking time to read my ramblings. ("Why?" asked a friend of mine. A FRIEND. "Don't they have jobs to go to?")

I'm also grateful for all the comments and messages I've had. They've been wonderful and supportive. Just wish I could occasionally write about happier events, but no. I haven't magically lost 20 kilos overnight and Sasha Baron Cohen is still happily married and not returning my calls (I just know we belong together).

Workwise I'm feeling a little bit more hopeful. I've applied for a couple of promising jobs, so now I'll just hope for the best - until that awkward e-mail lands in my inbox to crush those dreams. I've had about three of those e-mails this week alone. On a more positive note, I've been informed that I've made the second round of the selection process of a notoriously difficult-to-get-to training. One phase down, 3 more to go...

They advised the candidates to prepare for the next round by staying up-to-date on current affairs;domestic and international. And that means bringing out the big guns. Out with Daily Mail and in with the Daily Telegraph. I'm knackered. Turned out I have no interest in the economy, science, technology, environment, sports or culture. There's a chance I might be a bit of a retard.Which sort of begs the question- Why did I apply to begin with?

I just wish I could share all the good news with The Man. He always believed in me. If things finally start working out (knock, knock) and I finally get to start building a life... it's saddening to know that I'll be building it alone.

Initially I thought this blog might enable me to write him out of my head and at the very least stop me from writing to him. Well, the latter is true, but occasionally I still find myself ravaged by doubt. Should you allow something like ego or pride (or dignity or sense of self-worth?) get in the way of pursuing something as precious as love? Am I going to look back (old, wrinkly and saggy all over) one day and wish I'd done more to stop him from slipping away? When should one stop and, in the words of that guy in love with Keira Knightley on Love Actually, sigh and acknowledge: that's enough.

The fact is that I'm still not ready to accept that this really might be it; that he is never going to make any kind of gesture (big or small, 2,5- carat or not...) towards bringing our lives back together. I wonder: is this blog even about letting go of him? Or am I just erecting a cenotaph on the still smoking ruins of our relationship? Merely resuscitating a corpse that has already died ?

Never change

In all honesty, The Man is right. I have changed. How could I not have? 

When we met I was fluttering around in the night life, in no any rush to graduate and occasionally temping in offices to keep those Cosmopolitans coming. Happy-go-lucky, carefree and not really planning ahead. In the next 6,5 years I found a steady but stressful job that I later on quit and moved to West Bank to work as a human rights observer. No stress there- there weren't much human rights to observe...

The experience was tough. Even my studies or years of anti-occupation-lobbying didn't prepare me for the conflict that rampantly raged inside me. The settlers harassing school children and throwing rocks and eggs at me, people being deprived of their most fundamental human rights... that wasn't the Judaism I'd come to know and love. That stint made me question many things. There were almost as much tears as there was tear gas.

After my return I couldn't find a job. My friends had been right- quitting your job in the midst of a global recession was a very silly thing indeed. So once again I upped my sticks and moved to Tunisia for an internship. Just in time for the Arab spring... Being away from The Man is always hard, but when your everyday life consists of curfews, running away from even more tear gas and witnessing demonstrators getting shot... that just makes it even harder.

Ever since my return I've been job-hunting, fighting for unpaid internships, trying to make the ends meet and struggling to come in terms with the fact that my entire life is all about waiting. Waiting for a job to materialize, waiting for the money problems to fade away,  waiting for all the volunteering to translate into marketable experience, waiting for feeling useful again... And waiting for The Man to figure out what he wants from me. I've had absolutely no control over my life.

Does all that sound like makings of a care-free, happy existence? Well no it bloody well doesn't. 

As determined as I have been to do my bit in making the world just a little better place, I'm sort of fed up with the way I still get treated by those local men. Why would I quit my job, leave my friends behind and choose to live in a developing world just so that I can be treated as a prostitute?! I'm still committed to campaigning for the human rights but have unfortunately become very disillusioned with the entities who'd have the real power to make a change. Yes, UN, I'm talking about you. You keep passing resolutions like diarrhea patients pass shit. They're worth as much as the resolutions I make each New Year; you know, the ones about me quitting smoking, drinking less, losing weight and learning farsi. Even I don't believe them!

So, yes- I've changed. Or maybe...evolved? Grown up? Essentially I'd like to think I'm still the same. That's not how relationships work anyway, is it? You don't make a pledge to stay exactly the way you were- you make a pledge to support the other person's growth and grow together, right? But even I know that I need to find some kind of a balance in my life. My current life doesn't give much reason for jubilance. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is working out the way it should. I find it difficult to be in the moment and struggle to find things to be happy about right now. I just don't know how to tackle that- all by myself.


At least before I still had The Man balancing my attempts to give to the world. He was the one thing in my life that was just for me, helping me maintain some happiness; enabling me to recharge. Now... now I don't even have that.

They think it's all over... it is now

If exercising and burning calories are all about getting your heart rate up, then for 90 minutes yesterday I put in an effort equivalent of a marathon. Crikey! What a way to finish a season. The historical 20th Premier League championship was sooooo unbelievably close and then it was snatched away, literally at the last minute. What can I say? City were the worthy winners. Just goes to show: you can never afford to get too smug.

But we certainly put up a good fight. Both on the pitch and at home. My head hurts. My liver will be burning off the alcohol well into next week. My tongue feels like it's made of sand paper. I have the lung capacity of an 80-year-old miner with asbestosis.Thank God the football season is over for a bit- not sure my health could take any more. Well, for 3 weeks anyway. Then it's time for the Euro Cup...

When am I going to learn? I'm not a teenager anymore. I can't keep on recklessly abusing my vital organs like this...

Somewhere out there there's one very happy Mancunian. He used to work for Manchester United. He's seen Eric Cantona play. He even used to occupy Sir Matt Busby's old office. And yet... yet he supports Manchester City. I really must love him.