Ramadan Kareem Abdul Jabbar

We're currently trying to get through the holy (to some) month of Ramadan. That means no eating, drinking, smoking or fornicating between the sunrise and sunset. Like, nothing. Like, at all.

Having suffered through it before, I can tell you it's not much of a diet after all. They more than make up for the lost calories through the 14-course meals that follow at sunset. Every day. Oh man. Many things can be said about the Middle East (and most of them not very flattering), but they do know their food. 

But, falafels and köftes aside I'm glad I'm not there now. This also happens to be the hottest time of the year,so the idea of not drinking is even less appealing. And there's nothing quite like the taxi drivers to prove my point. 

Even at their best (outside Ramadan) they're the most useless profession out there. They can't read, drive cars that are held together with elaborately placed duct tape, don't speak your language, won't follow instructions, don't know how to drive to where you're going and cheat you out of every dinar you have.

But during Ramadan, deprived of their dietary staples of cigarettes and coffee... Whoah. The wrath is unbelievable. 

The ever-changing nature of the Islamic calendar poses some serious challenges for Muslims outside Middle East as well. The fast starts at sunrise and ends at sunset. That, combined with the Scandinavian summer with its 20+ hours of sunshine makes for a very arduous fast indeed...

Coincidentally, last Sunday was also Tish b'Av, the other one of the big Jewish fast days commemorating all sorts of tragedies that throughout the history have managed to fall on that ominous date. Which means...that for that one day in a way that has not been seen since the Spanish inquisition the Jews and Muslims actually suffered together!

Going for gold

For the first time I've been trying to watch the Olympics. And I'm surprised by all the things they have there. 

That got me thinking. Perhaps I should try harder leaving my mark in history? Maybe there's something I could do to make my country proud of dishing out the dole, keeping me in my Louis Vuittons?

The next summer Games will be held in 4 years by which time I'll be 37. So, in case I really want to compete in the Olympics, that would probably be my last shot. Now I just need to find a sport where I can reach Olympian level in just 4 years without the total lack of any discernible athletic talent getting in the way.

So let's see... Any kind of running is out of the question. I don't like sweating. As is anything else that requires bouncing. There isn't a sport bra in the world that would provide the kind of industrial strength support needed for that (my bras could double as tents for little people's summer camps). 

Seeing how in addition to athletic talent I also lack the athletic physique, anything with skimpy outfits is a no-no. So that rules out gymnastics, swimming and beach volleyball. 

My anger management issues make me rather an undesirable candidate for martial arts. 

Basically I'm left with either equestrian sports or shooting. Considering I have the hand-eye-coordination and concentration span of a carrot, I should probably pursue equestrianism. And why not? Everything about the sport has an air of luxury; unparalleled upper class country pursuits. 

I could do that. I should do that! Now, does anyone have a spare horse just lying around?

Citius! Altius! Fortius!

Ah. What a night.

I'm referring to last night. (Yet another) Friday evening I spent home. Alone (again). Sober (well, almost). Glued to the TV screen (as always). This time with a legitimate excuse though: the opening night of the Olympics- that night when hundreds of countries no-one has ever even heard of parade their finest and fittest dressed like 70's stewardesses. Unless they're Italians, in which case it's Prada, daaaahhhhling, Prada. Or Mexicans- looking like a bad day at a Piñata factory. Or Egyptians in which case it's knock-off Nike all the way...

I'm normally not that bothered about the Games, but these are held in London, my adoptive home. And my, what a ceremony that was. Danny Boyle truly put "Great" back into "Britain". And even the most hard-core north Irish republicans must have warmed to Her Maj's parachute entry to the stadium in a true Bond manner. 

My heart was bursting with pride and judging by the Facebook updates I wasn't the only one. Even The Man had tears in his eyes. The Man! The man who doesn't do emotions!

The nations' march confirmed one thing though. Again.The more a country feels the need to assert their free nature and people's will- respecting governance in their name, the more spectacularly they tend to fail at actually exercising any of those. Take the (Un)democratic (Oppressed) People's (Non-existent) Republic of Korea, for instance. 

Out of the current tyrants (oh, that dying breed...damn those uprisings!) that Kim dude must be one of my favourites. Could do with a bit of makeover the Queer Eye For The Straight Guy sort of way though. Surprisingly enough that dreadful Terylene coat he likes to cover his tank-like-torso with doesn't seem to cramp his style too much: the man just got married! Although... the poor girl probably would have been shot had she had the audacity to turn down the Beloved Leader's advances...?

But, in the name of the noble Olympic spirit let's all pretend we truly are one. For the next 14 days anyway. And let's pretend we can all be heroes and that it really is a case of  the best man winning - and not the Chinese having superior drugs...

Things can only get better

8 days until my holiday!!! (You didn't seriously think I wouldn't be rubbing this in every chance I get? Of course I will! ) I'm so looking forward to it. These days I have to keep track of the countries The Man is jet-setting in (for work) by the language the woman in his voicemail speaks. I can't wait to be with him in the same country again, even if it comes with a hefty dose of (s)mothering....

I feel so happy it's stupid. Ever since I got back from Stockholm I've been immersed in this cloud that has acted as a buffer against everything that normally would leave me heaving with expletives. I know it is just about the rudest word possible, but it's the only one I can think of that would capture this feeling in all its abhorrence. I actually feel blissful. 

I've even dared to change my Facebook status to read I'm in a relationship.

Even financially things are looking up, which is fantastic, seeing how I've (once again) maxed out my credit card shopping for flights to Spain, sourcing a holiday new wardrobe and splashing out on highlights. 

I got a call from friend of a friend for whom I auditioned for some voiceover jobs earlier this year. Now he's working on a documentary on an English rock band and asked me to join the crew. Exactly what I'm expected to do is still open, but basically I'm liaising between the band, their manager and the rest of the film crew. 

Seeing how I don't have any previous experience of this kind of a job and had absolutely no idea how much an authorized translator would charge I ended up grossly overpricing myself. Luckily they seem even more hapless than me and actually went for it!

Then I had to think of a price for the 5 days I'll be spending with the band for the filming of the actual documentary after my return from Spain. That was like Julia Roberts trying to calculate her weekly rate in Pretty Woman. 

In the end I too went for 4-digits which means that the salary for those few days will pay off my entire Visa bill! I'm so relieved to know I'll finally be rid of that burden (and at the back of my mind I'm already planning a massive shopping spree to celebrate that freedom...) 

That got me thinking though... If they're that ignorantly willing to pay me just about what ever I demand... what exactly is expected of me? Perhaps my gig isn't too dissimilar to that of Julia Roberts'...?!

The painters are in

I just got my period. Exclamation mark.

It's the first one I've had since coming off the Pill. Which means two things:
1) I'm not pregnant (which means no immaculate conception that I could turn into another bestselling sequel to the Bible)
2) now I can go back on the Pill. 


Not that I'd really want to.

I somehow thought I'd finally get rid of the bloating which I naturally blamed on my body being messed up by the hormonal changes. But no. Turned out I'm  not bloated. I'm just fat. 


And what's the point of not having sex if you still end up looking pregnant? And where's the sense in not being on the Pill when you're still bloated?


I've often wondered about those women with their amazing weight loss success stories who tell how it was seeing their holiday snaps that prompted them into taking action. I've been looking at the photos of us from Stockholm. Well, photos of me, really. My cheeks are so big there's no room for anybody else's head on the pictures. I look like a hamster, getting ready for winter. Perhaps this is my wake-up call?


Seeing how I intend to spend my holiday lounging by the pool in my new bikini and engaging in other activities revolving around equally minuscule attires I have 9 days until I need to look fabulous good tolerable naked. So, nuts and seeds and goji berries and low calorie-soups and Ryvita it is. 


I just might even have a go at that infamous Pilates DVD...

A happy hundredth

We're officially in three-digits now. This post marks my 100th blog entry. I feel I should come up with something legendary... but apart from a burp I can't feel anything coming. One thing is for sure though: one way or another I've probably managed to offend just about everything and everyone out there...

The blog started out as a way to vent my anger and frustration after yet another break-up and yet, now, several months later (and none the wiser) here I am, building a relationship with the very man who broke my heart.

In that light I wish I could at least share something momentous, like pictures of a tennis ball- sized diamond adorning my finger, but that, like Messiah, is yet to come.

I never saw myself as a blogger to begin with. First of all, I don't even look the part. I wear pearls, for crying out loud! I'm such an embodiment of conventional, middle class boring  old fartness that my gay friends have wanted to throw theme parties where "everyone would dress in pearls and something checkered". 

I don't wear those geek glasses that all those freelancing ADs that write blogs wear. In that charmingly post-ironic hipster way, obviously. There's depressingly little anything post-ironic hipster about me. I'm not even sure I know what that means.

I don't wear skinny jeans. Well, I do- they just fail to look skinny on me. I don't drive around on an old bike wearing a funny hat (yet another display of their post-ironic hipsterism, without a doubt) with a camera the size of my flat carelessly slung over a shoulder.

I don't own anything by any designer labelled "up and coming" in those magazines so underground and cool that I couldn't even name one.  I don't even live in a trendy neighbourhood where I could ask someone.


My flat isn't decorated with painstakingly minimalist Scandinavian elegance. And I AM Scandinavian!


I don't Instagram. And I don't tweet.

So, I really am grateful for all you thousands (yes, over 4000!) of readers out there who have made do with me. Or who simply didn't have anything better to do. 

Meanwhile a couple of dilemmas do riddle me, now that (I think) we're starting something new, me and The Man. I hate the idea of keeping secrets from him. And I hate the idea of somehow going behind his back and betraying his trust by treating this relationship as anthropological field research for more material to write about.

So...will I continue this blog? And more importantly... do I tell The Man about this? 

The witch and the wardrobe

Apparently women spend more money getting ready for the holiday than they do on the actual holiday. There's waxing, the pre-holiday spray tans, highlights, firming anti-cellulite treatments and... the new wardrobe. 


Just as I am gididly in the middle of shopping for a holiday wardrobe (theme colours: blue, white, green. Stripes, lots of stripes. And gold. Can't get enough of gold!) I'm struck by a couple of realizations. We're at the end of July and I don't have any imminent holiday plans. Apparently we're at the end of the summer as well - every day I'm greeted by another autumn/ winter catalogue perched at my doorstep.

Most of my holiday wardrobe hasn't even turned up yet! I still haven't worn my bikini (though I'm sure my neighbours appreciate that...)! I'm not ready to tackle the winter wardrobe dilemmas yet! 

The thing that makes online shopping so great is its easiness. Which, coincidentally, is also what makes it so dangerous. But at least I've got something to keep me busy as I'm waiting for the holiday to materialize: the deliveries. Every day is like Hanukkah! On steroids!


Though... September is one of my favourite months. That's when all the glossies bring out their September issues. And I just loooove them. They're so thick it takes an entire to finish them. By which time your shopping list is every bit as thick. Who knew one couldn't possibly survive without cashmere socks with pompoms? Or tartan underwear? Or a shoulderless blouse in mustard?

Perhaps that's what I'll do. Browse through Instyle, Marie Claire and Glamour... while lounging on a lilo... with a bucket of sangria firmly attached to my hand. In Spain. Where I just purchased flights to.


The countdown has begun. 12 days until holiday!!!

Open wide, opeeen wiiiide

My thoroughly-documented sentiments about the medical professionals extend to dentists too. The most prominent emotion here is fear.

Debilitating fear to be precise. Dialling their number alone reduces me to tears. Entering the office makes me shake and stutter. Remember that scene from Exorcist? That's how my eyes start rolling in my head as they're desperately trying to scan the quickest way out.

So, it doesn't come as a surprise that it's been over that recommended year since my last check-up. It's been 2. That's a lie. It's been 3. OK, that's not true either. It's been 4. Fine, 5.

In my defence I do have a rigorous brush-floss-mouthwash-eat gum after every meal- routine that I stick to with devotion that makes Tom Cruise look lightweight. So, on dental terms my life should be ok.

My fear isn't helped by the horror stories of my friends and family. My dad had most of his back teeth pulled out in his youth as apparently that was the cure for tooth ache at the time (in the middle ages?). My cousin had to have her wisdom teeth extracted and they had to cut her cheek open to get it out. The Man had root canal a couple of years back and for weeks afterwards I was tweezing out pieces of the bone that they had forgotten there. FORGOTTEN? I know they've passed a law in Spain that bans driving drunk but surely there's something similar for operating dentistry machinery too??

I did encounter rather a novel approach to dentist visits on 10 Years Younger the other day. There was a woman (a doctor no less!) who, about 30 years ago, had had all her teeth pulled out and dentures made to save her the trouble of ever having to go see dentist again.

Drastic? Crazy even? Sure. But undeniably efficient. But since taking that kind of measures would actually require a trip to dentist, I think I'll have to come up with something else.

So... if an Apple a day keeps the doctor at bay... Perhaps investing in an iPad and iPhone to complement my iPod will do the same for the dentist...?

Note to self

Now that I've spent a day with my niece and nephew I am once again reminded of how adorable kids can actually be. Yes, I just voluntarily wrote that sentence. No CIA or waterboarding required. They are adorable. As long as they go back to their homes at the end of the day. And the exposure to them is monitored every bit as vigilantly as the sunbeds.

I'm 33. The day when my biological clock finally decided to kick into action is probably not very far. Soon I'll be completely at the mercy of my raging hormones (well, nothing's really about to change in that front...) that tell me I'll want to be fruitful and multiply. My ovaries will start conspiring and scheming, leaving me thinking my life won't be complete without a child. So, perhaps I should draw up some kind of a contingency plan?

Since I'm not on the pill... I should probably convince The Man to have the snip. He doesn't want to have kids anyway. Which is very noble of him. I can't imagine what torture it would be for any child to grow up with that nose. It seems to take 52 years for the rest of the body to catch up and grow into it...

I can hardly be held accountable for my actions once the baby fever kicks in. Women have been acquitted of murders based on their actions having been driven by their hormones like Schumacher in a Ferrari. And if he seriously wants to avoid a one-night-stand luring him into a lengthy, costly legal battle about alimony... then surely swelling, bruising and the occasional erectile dysfunction is a small price to pay?

But I suppose I should also write myself a memo I can refer myself to once I start going ga-ga over goo-goo.


Dear raging hormonal bull,

You're reading this letter because your biological clock has staged a mutiny and your sense has abandoned the ship. So read carefully, preferably with a large G&T in your hand. Which, by the way, is something you wouldn't be doing for over a year. Hah.


You can't afford to get any fatter. The last one of your sister's kids was born almost 6 years ago and you still haven't lost all the weight! And you definitely can't afford yet another new wardrobe that would accommodate all 100 kilos of you. And I've heard it's not just the hips that get bigger, it's everything. Including one's feet. Which would mean saying goodbye to all your fabulous (albeit impractical) shoes. 

Ok, babies are cute. But once you've been up non-stop for 2 years because of teething and diarrhea and colic, you won't be. And you will want to stay cute. And puking, shitting, spitting, carrot-mash-throwing babies are not compatible with your penchant for white, dry-clean only garments. With babies one can always get another one. That is not the case with carefully sourced, limited edition Stella McCartney blouse.

Anyway, they grow out of the chubby cuteness. Into cantankerous kids. And tempestuous teenagers. And arrogant adults. And before you know it, you're living with a 30-something with no job, no prospects of actually finding one, no meaningful relationship, no mortgage- basically none of the anchors of adulthood that would securely moor them somewhere other than in front of my TV.


And let's face it: the world does not need more people like that. Well, people like you.


                    
Love,
You (the sensible and by now a slightly tipsy version of you anyway)

                                                

Commute from hell

Because of my phlegm-filled lungs I've missed out of several social occasions, such as a luxurious kosher-dinner (yes, they exist), annual piss-up with my old colleagues, a-wedding-that-never-was-cum-barbecue and a weekend with my family. 

The last one I almost managed to salvage by catching up with my brother while still house-bound over a beer ("but you did say the doctor told you to drink plenty!") and by journeying to see my sister who was visiting another sister.

I love my sister's family dearly, I do. It's the visiting them- bit that takes some talking into. And it's not like she lives on the Moon. She lives in a neighbouring municipality that together with a couple of equally peculiar municipalities form the greater capital area. So, it's not really that far. Many people manage the daily commute just fine. It's me who has a problem with the Twilight Zone.

It's a transition many of my friends have made too. The move away from the city centre , flats conveniently located close to the after work drinks and spur of the moment dinners; late nights and late mornings that "everything within walking distance"- city life enables. In their search for "better quality of life" they seek asylum in places where one has to take public transport - occasionally several of them - to get to. The cost of living is lower, the areas are quieter and more residential, there are playgrounds and schools and nurseries and the money that pays the rent in my studio pays their mortgage.  In a house. 

I know living in the centre has spoiled me. I love that my commute has never been more than 10 minutes (no matter how high the heels I'm running in) and how rather than the last bus home, I get to be more concerned about catching syphilis.

Yet, in case I intend to keep these matrimonial migrants in my life, occasionally I have to give in and take that tram to get to the train station to catch a train that will transport me to a bus stop for the bus that will take me to my sister's.

Usually I end up making a weekend out of it. I simply can't bear the thought of  making that trip more than once a day.  Frankly, I don't understand how anyone can. 

I understand the parks and the playgrounds bit but not how spending 3 hours of one's day in a packed bus, squeezed in with strangers adds to the quality of anyone's life. 


Fat people with their arses spilling onto your seat (should you even manage to get one)? Standing up, desperately trying to hold onto the ceiling bar with your head buried in someone's hairy armpit? The BO, the ill-mannered teenagers, the know-it-all senior citizens, the frustrated mothers with prams and shopping bags and 14 toddlers in tow? 


Bus pass? I'll pass.

An apple a day

I cannot believe this sickness. Almost two weeks on I'm still coughing. My voice could still pass for Rod Stewarts' and my lungs are still producing materia that even James Cameron would have the decency NOT to feature on his films. 

Yet, when a week ago I had to drag myself out of the bed to see a doctor I was referred to a cheerful nurse who couldn't have been more than 12. All he did was to send me home with an extension on my sick leave. No drugs, no tests, NOTHING. I would have done a better job staying in and diagnosing myself!

I'm no stranger to that- after years of ER and Chicago Hope and Grey's Anatomy I have fooled myself into thinking that I have some kind of an understanding of this field. I'm dying to have someone collapse next to me on a bus stop just so that I can cut their throat open and stick that tube from inside a pen into there, you know, as emergency tracheotomy. I've seen people do it on TV, so how hard can it be?

After all, that is how I learn how to cook. No, not by slitting people's throats open (I'm fairly certain that sort of behaviour would get you in trouble everywhere in the world. Well, Spain anyway. In Iran, Yemen, Afghanistan it seems to be a national sport) but by watching those cheffy people do it on TV. Now I could clean a squid with my eyes closed.

Real life medics on the other hand have always failed to impress me. I tend to get bronchitis at least once a year (and yet it isn't enough for me to quit smoking!). They do nothing and always just send me home with a week's sick leave. Once I had it for three weeks and it had pretty much infected everything it could find in my chest. I was coughing blood and unable to speak. And what did they do? NOTHING. They just kept sending me home week after week with another week added on my sick leave. 

Eventually I had to throw a tantrum to convince them to actually treat me. And let me tell you, that is a hard one to stage when you're deprived of your most lethal weapon of mass destruction: voice and the verbal arsenal that comes with it. When you're there, mute, throwing your arms around, looking angry... Really. You just end up looking like an idiot.  I mean, imagine Gilmore Girls and their machine gun-like dialogue delivery in a  silent film? You wouldn't buy tickets to go see that one, even if it had Madonna doing a special guest appearance. But hey ho, drugs I got and the voice was back in 3 days.


Other encounters have left me reeling too. I've yet to find a gynaecologist I'd actually like. One of the ones I've tried to like went to... places even people I did like didn't dare to venture- not even after years of dating.

The discomfort extends to other areas of health care professionals too.  Having to make my way to a pharmacy for that morning after pill I decided to get just in case for that weekend trip was such an embarrassing experience.  First I searched for it through every single aisle in vain. On the other hand- now I know exactly where to go for incontinence pads. And lube. (I did not even know they sell that kind of things in pharmacies. I mean, what kind of a perv goes to a place like that to get lube? Why can't they shop at a seedy sex shop like normal people?!)

Anyway... there was me, thinking I was doing the responsible thing but no. Eventually I had to seek assistance from one of those white jackets just loitering there and I was told to go to the prescriptions department. They look I got (or was it just in my head? No it couldn't have. That would just make me neurotic. And I'm not one. I mean, would you be reading a neurotic blog? What do you think it says about you?) instantly reduced me feeling like a skanky ho.

It was like having a spotlight projected on me with a circus director following me around with a loud-speaker. "There goes a hussy! She sleeps around! Doesn't take any precautions! She has diseases even Channel 4- documentaries won't tell you about! She probably just had sex! Probably with your husband!" 

Then, at the counter I was given a speech by another 12-year-old pharmaceutical professional.

And after all this hassle, did I even need the pill? Hah.

And they say romance is dead...

My faith in romance has once again been restored. Not as a result of the weekend break with The Man though. I mean, I love him but his approach to romance is very much like his view on piercings. Sure there are people out there doing it, but it's unnecessary pain and should be avoided.

Check this man out. In order to commemorate the death of his wife, this devoted farmer planted a forest with a heart-shaped field in the middle. Try reading that story without a tear in your eye. I'm sure he too had his darker moments (like wearing his wife's lingerie and parading in them in front of the cows) but for something like that one is willing to look the other way.

Tears were not far as I came back home yesterday either. A man has plastered every door in the neighbourhood with posters in which he is looking for a girl he met at a foam party and spent a night with (and clearly can't forget). And before you let out a collective "owwwww", no, it's not me. Based on evidence (photos on my favourite gay bar's website) I've not been to one since early noughties. And even then I wouldn't have gone home with someone who is trying to refresh the poor girls' memory by telling he "drove a white kids' bicycle". At least that's my story  and I'm sticking to it. Until new evidence surfaces.

Even Kim Jong Dung - or what ever the latest installment of the North Korean dynasty is called- has a girlfriend! Yep, the Pyongyang boy wonder is getting it on with a local pop star, famous for her hit song "Excellent Horse-Like Lady". What more could a man ask for...! 

Love truly is all around.

And as I float around in love-induced pink bubblegum haze I can't help but wonder. Am I ... wait for it... mellowing? Have I exhausted my sarcasm reserves and become... happy? Well, happy might be overdoing it but "content" sounds equally brutal. What will become of me? And the blog? Am I going to have to start a new one, titled contentgirlfriendhappyhousewife.blogspot.com and start sharing cupcake recipes and posting smug photos and me and the puppies that people like that inevitably have?

Out of it

I've just made the painful return to the real world having spent a week cooped up in my 20 sq meters with nothing but reality TV to keep me company. Even my voice is slowly returning so soon I'll be able to whole-heartedly contribute to making the world a better place keeping the world a loud and obnoxious place again. 

As thrilled as I am about being out in the world, surrounded by people who are not characters on Bravo, I'm also puzzled. The entire pubic transport is in shambles. In my country the arrival of summer is traditionally honoured by digging the streets open in the name of maintenance, so now the tram tracks are being serviced and the streets are being restored and the metro is being renovated. All this basically means it's impossible to get anywhere so I have to walk around. And that means sensible flat shoes. Which means pissed off yours truly.

I check out for one week and this is what happens? Can the world seriously not survive without me banging some sense into it??

Fly me to the moon

Air travel. Once the lap of heavenly luxury, now...not so much.

Yet, even the no-frills budget airlines can take away all of life's little mysteries flying has to offer for the simple minds. How is it that the plane can stay up in the air, even with all the fat people on board, spilling over their arm rests? How magical is it that you can get on a plane at 9am, spend 6 hours in the air and land at 9am local time, as if those sweaty, muscle-cramping hours never even took place? And how is it that I always end up sitting next to that token screaming kid (though that does explain something else: the lack of proper cutlery on planes, with their sharp prongs and serrated edges...)?

As a result of my dysfunctional taste in relationships I've spent a lot of time at airports. Waiting for flights, waiting to be served at the grossly overpriced crap chain restaurants, waiting for my luggage to arrive, waiting to be reunited with my loved one. Not a fan.


But neither am I fan of this climate change phenomenon. It's just really panning out the way I was expecting. We're halfway through July and it's either raining, storming, flooding or thundering. This is not why I allowed myself to be talked out of using hairspray and effectively ruined every photo taken of me in the last half of the 90's! I signed up for heatwaves and desertification!!! Now every day is like Glastonbury! Wellies and brollies galore!


Normally I wouldn't be this affected but this is the first summer in years I've spent in these parts of the world. Normally I'd be sleeping off a hangover in Tel Aviv. Or crusading God knows what cause somewhere else in Middle East. Or at the very least accelerating skin cancer in Spain.


Instead I'm stuck here. With 3 more weeks of my internship to go. I've been directing my attention to shopping for the ultimate holiday wardrobe instead. So far I have a fresh nautical top for lunching at the marina, a perfect summer dress to be doing some sightseeing in and a Grecian maxidress for lounging around the pool for pre-dinner cocktails. Me and my wardrobe are in a dire need of a holiday in the sun. But enough to spend it in Spain, with The Man's Mum? Remains to be seen...

For richer, for poorer

I'm still not better so had to go see a doctor. It was either that or pursuing a career in porn film voice overs. For once I've actually been ordered to drink loads. Unfortunately I don't think he meant rosé... And my, right now I could actually  use some.

I know my budget management skills are on par with Tom Cruise's sanity (read: non-existent) but never before have I gotten it this royally wrong. I got paid last Friday and by Sunday I'd spent it all. On wining and dining and shopping...macaroons. And books on... macaroons. Yes, you read it right: those little round cakes from heaven a.k.a. Ladurée. They have opened a shop in Stockholm. And I sure have been making the most  of it.

I found myself staring at my reflection in a window display in disbelief after the cash point  had notified me of my sad state. I can't be poor! Not with my just-the-right-shade-of-cool -blonde-highlighted hair, Pucci scarf, Hermés bracelet and Fendi belt!

It's been two years since I quit that well-paid job of mine. Yet even two years haven't been enough to realize that it also means I can't keep spending like this. 

In this light it probably makes no sense to be flitting around buying wedding dresses for a wedding that so far only exists in my head. But even if it all backfires (erm...again...) at least I'll get a pretty dress out of this. And I'll be ready when P Diddy invites me to one of those White Parties of his! 

Financially speaking things are not too swell for The Man either. He's Spain to my Greece. So we decided to save what was left of the Italian economy and resorted to a therapeutic shopping session at Prada. See? How can he not be my soul mate? I am dating/ might be dating/ am about to start dating a man who wears Prada! Ok, the movie joke is not entirely lost on me...

And yet...not a job interview in sight for me. The Man just had his and they seem impressed- he's still in the running. Towards the end of the summer there will be yet another interview and then... if he does get the job... we'll apparently try to merge our lives together. Oh, how I  (and the dress) can't wait for that to happen...!

Say yes to the dress

Ahh... the dress. I love it already. I had been eyeing it already before but as it went on sale, I just couldn't say no. Even the fact that technically I don't even have a wedding to get ready for couldn't stop me. As didn't the fact that I'd probably have to lose about a stone to prevent myself looking like a massive condom.

bIt's a knee-length, sleeveless number with a nod to the dress Swedish Crown Princess wore to her wedding. One that showcases the legs (as long as I lose that stone) and the "Something blue" Manolos I have idly sitting in my closet (that I can't walk in sober). 

I personally do want to  keep the wedding small and intimate. No churches, no bridesmaids in matching gaudy dresses, no rehearsal dinners. Why anybody would need to practice eating  is beyond me. Or drinking too much and starting a fight with one of the parents? Better leave some room for surprises on the actual day...

Gathering our respective parents there with their bitter divorces and new partners sure sounds like a recipe for a night to remember. Perhaps eloping isn't such a bad option after all...?

But true enough- the parents (well, 75 per cent of them) would skin us alive for doing that.  Mind you, in the past 6,5 years I've never even met The Man's father. The again, neither has his mum in the 30 years since their less than amicable divorce... Not sure I'd like our wedding to play the arena for the showdown that would inevitably follow...

And after the way my friends have unfalteringly stood by a) my irresponsible choices ("But I'm sure he loves me! He's just confused about his feelings! He never sets out to deliberately break my heart!") and b) me after all hell has broken loose ("Of course he doesn't love me- this is no way to treat someone you love! Confused? Even at half a century he can't manage to grow up! That sadistic bastard must love knowing he's free to break my heart when ever he feels like it- always getting away with it!") it would feel not to include them in that big day (and the open bar). 

In the end I don't really care. I just want to be married to him. I can't wait to be Mrs. The Man. Maybe then those overtly familiar breakfast ladies at the hotels he frequents through his work will finally start paying some attention to me too, realizing I'm not by the hour- I'm for life.

Between engagements

Sooo... I'm not entirely sure where that phone call leaves me. Practically engaged? Almost married? Mind you- I haven't even had the courage to update my Facebook relationship status. Complicated? In a relationship? Uhh uhh. Decisions, decisions...

As hopeful as I (once again) feel, I'd better not get too giddy just yet. I've been known to do that before... Even then I was convinced we we're finally on the same page until turned out that we we're not even reading the same book!

We've been (again) talking a lot about marriage and why it's so important to me. And I have (again) been pointing out that I don't want to force him into it; that I want to do it with someone who wants it too. I swear- occasionally this feels like trying to educate a special needs kid!

And then he revealed something. It's not the marriage bit apparently that he has a problem. It's the wedding. 

He says he feels uncomfortable about the idea of seeing his side of the church being so empty. He's ashamed that he, at this point in his life, simply has no friends left. That either their lives have taken such drastically different turns that they no longer have much in common or his incessant travelling simply won't allow him the time to nurture those relationships.

Who would have thought. 

Better not get too excited though. I'm not going to believe anything until he makes a total ass out of himself by getting down one knee. God knows I'm not going to do that again...

But just to be on the safe side... And because it was half price off and made financial sense which in my situation is of utmost importance and there's a chance it's one size too small which at last might be the incentive I need to lose some weight...I did order a new dress. 

In sickness and in health

I'm back. Have been for a couple of days now. Been mulling over the weekend while coughing my lungs out. Somehow I've managed to both burn myself in the Swedish sun and catch a bronchitis from the hotel's air-condition system. I feel soooo rotten. And if possible, look even worse. My head hurts as do my eyes, chest and muscles I never even knew I had. Hell, even my fingers ache! Ok, enough with the epicrisis and more about the relationship crisis.

The hotel was nice. I've come to realize there are those who first date well. And then there are those who job interview well. Then there are those who hotel breakfast well. That's my lot. I LOVE hotel breakfasts. 

I appreciate you probably don't want to hear about the breakfasts either. It's just... I don't know what to say. Somehow I feel... strangely protective over The Man and feel I need to choose my words very carefully. After all, you've all spent the past days trying to come up with the right way of saying "told you so", haven't you?

The trip started out well. There was the banter, the verbal sparring we do so well. Everything was... nice and easy. I felt very cautious though and had built a wall around me that effectively thwarted his attempts to actually communicate and establish the future course of the relationship.

He'd look at me, with this never-before-seen hopeful vulnerability in his eyes and open up. I'd kill the moment by bluntly blurting out something not quite as romantic. Like this:

The Man: "Why is it that I still want to be with him 20 years from now, pushing my wheelchair?"
Me:"Oh, you mean off a cliff and into the sea?" 
The Man: "Well... I'd rather you didn't..."
Me: "Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't harm the wheelchair- I'd flog it on eBay!"

It was strange. On the other hand  it was like we'd never been apart all these months and on the other... I couldn't quite allow myself to be myself again. It's always taken me a while to get back into normal after we're reunited and time is something we've never had enough. Sure enough by the time I finally stopped panicking and started feeling normal it was time for me to fly back home. But not before we had one of those days that are perfect to a point of stupidity.

We took a boat and sailed through the Swedish archipelago before getting off at a place that can only be described as the Scandinavian summer paradise. Colourful wooden houses straight out of storybook surrounded by leafy little gardens bushing over picket fence next to cobbled streets leading to the piers where they keep their boats... The sun was shining and if you looked really hard, you could actually see the pink unicorns leaping through rainbow-coloured clouds. Blissful. We found this gorgeous Italian deli where we picked our lunch and a couple of bottles of rosé and settled for a picnic by the sea. 

And we talked. And wished the day would never end. Which it did. All too soon.

I didn't want to leave, but I had a plane (and a bronchitis) to catch. I cried all the way to the airport. None of that sophisticated sniffling for me but the good old "Noah, get those animals ready and build that boat- there's another flood coming up"-sort of an episode.

And then he called. "Of course I want to do that with you" he said. "In sickness and in health, for richer and poorer- of course I want to be with you!"

And with that... The Stockholm Syndrome acquired its latest victim.

Run-down in the run-up

I'm soooo nervous. It's been a while since I've been on a date. Let alone on a date with a man who broke my heart. On a date that pretty much determines my future. 

I've managed to sort out the perfect capsule wardrobe for the weekend. Smart, sleek, city-chic, understated. Black and white with the occasional pop of regal blue. It was too late to have my roots done but I just might be able to squeeze in a fresh French pedicure.

Now if only I could sort myself out... 

In the run-up to this make or break- city break I've already driven myself mad with the latest additions to the already existing array of body issues. I have fat earlobes! I have cankles! I have a jiggly stomach! I have flabby arms! And I can't have flabby arms since that blue French Connection pussy bow blouse that the entire weekend wardrobe is built around is sleeveless!!! 

The stress (and coming off the Pill) has also caused me to break out in spots which is not good either since I'm hoping to be spending majority of the weekend in bed, looking sexy and impossibly dewy-skinned, causing him to agonize over his decision to turn down my proposal. 

I know, I know. I mustn't sleep with him. That would just ruin everything. We must focus on talking and openly communicating our hopes for our immediate future instead.

But just in case... I'll be bringing a morning after pill.

Science matters

They (not entirely sure they are but I'm guessing scientists of some sort. Probably the worthy winners of this year's Nobel in physics?) have discovered the "God particle". You know, the mysterious thing in that Dan Brown adaptation film that wasn't the Da Vinci Code?  Where that dark matter was threatening to wipe away the entire Vatican (I've been there. Trust me, we'd survive without it)?

A huge discovery, apparently. The most significant one in decades. The guy who first suggested its existence did so 40 years ago. Perhaps good things really do come to those who wait...

And the sad bit? I don't understand one bit. Not even Daily Mail's coverage of this momentous occasion. (Who would have thought DM even has a science section!) And let's face it, that paper caters for retards. Scandal-seeking, Kim Kardashian's-bum-obsessed, poorly educated, TOWIE-watching, spectacularly misguided, right wing- voting retards. 

Me? I just buy it for the crossword.

Because everyone knows someone that fell in love on JDate

By accident I found some hidden message folder on Facebook. In there were 2 messages from "decent, Christian men" who were very taken with my profile and "my passion". My passion? Perhaps they didn't realize that's quite different from that of the Christ...

My passions include football and food and fashion and fu... well, suffice to say that the letter "f" features heavily on that list. Jesus had quite different ideas for fun...

I don't understand what it is with these Christians. Is this how they meet people? By approaching strangers online? Why can't they just leave that to serial-killing rapist-pervs ! That's how they prey! I thought the Christian way was way more wholesome! And what is it about me? Do I give out wrong kind of signals? I'm not looking for a good Christian, I'm looking for a bad Jew (that way I'd get to keep my bacon and eat it) !

I once joined JDate. That's where Jewish singles meet, fall in love and marry. I was instantly approached by a London-based divorcé. He was HOT. And upon learning I was into football offered to take me to a match. Of Chelsea FC. So, that was pretty much the end of that.

I was also contacted by 2 men from my own country. This I didn't expect, seeing how impossible it is to find Jewish men there. The first one was a single dad in his forties with "passion for trains". Unless there's a new kinky sub-culture in town, I'm fairly sure he was actually referring to locomotives and such. Which is fine. If that's what you're into. Which I'm not. 

The other was looking for someone who was "willing to dedicate her life to Jesus". What on earth did he think the "J" in the JDate stood for???

According some surveys approximately 12 per cent of the people on JDate are not actually Jewish- they're just looking for a Jewish mate. Who would have thought "Jewish" was going to become the new "tall, dark and handsome with GSOH"! Even more surprising are the results of a recent survey on the New York Jewry. Apparently  5 per cent of the people who identified themselves as Jewish had not been born to Jewish parents or even converted. That means that in addition to the kreplach-consuming, Woody Allen- worshipping, Saks-shopping actual Jews there are are whopping 77 000 pseudo-Jewish New Yorkers out there! 

New York, New York. The veritable pot of gold at the end of the dating rainbow. If I were a rich man, that's where I too would  go.

"Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find and catch me a catch..."

Fool me once shame on you...

I know, I know. I know some of you firmly disapprove of my recent choice to agree to meet The Man, but please understand that it's something I have to do. 

He might make me miserable, but being without him makes me even more so. Together we might drive each other crazy, but alone we drive ourselves crazy.

I don't know what to expect, but I trust I'll be wiser next week. And you'll be the first ones to know exactly how much wiser. 

I need this rendez-vous, if only to figure out if there really is something there. And to see if he has figured out...well, anything.

I do realize that even if this situation might be new and even if this might be the beginning of something new, we as persons are still the same old. As are our respective needs. And of course that worries me. Do we really have what it takes to make a fresh start? 

And here's something I've been thinking about: if we do manage to start anew should I tell The Man about this blog? Would he understand this is my way of processing things or would this, to him, just be a verbal equivalent of public flogging in Kabul football stadium?

As this anticipation and anxiety was already making me nauseous, I decided to try not smoking for a while as that only seemed to aggravate things. If he's ready to try new things, perhaps so should I...

So, fingers crossed. Let's hope for the best and... stop it right there.

You've got male

Nora Ephron is dead. She is the woman who made millions by writing films that made millions of women cry their eyes out and believe in happy ends. Me they made hate Meg Ryan. 

Anyway... the death wasn't entirely unexpected as she had terminal cancer. Now various newspapers have been publishing her notes regarding the imminent date with the Grim Reaper. She was funny. And she could have done so much better than that floppy-haired, perpetually perplexed-looking Meg Ryan with her incessant disbelieving head-shaking. And she could have done better than a philandering husband who she deemed would "have sex even with Venetian blinds".

She writes about regrets and things she would have like to have done. Which apparently include running around in a bikini, every day. 

So, in order to ensure there are no regrets... the plane tickets have been bought. I made him him pay for them of course. God only knows how I'm going to make him pay for everything else...

My mind has been made up. I'm going ahead with this. I'll continue pursuing my own happy ending.

Stockholm, give me your best shot.

Should I stay or should I go

I've come to realize that in all its mundane morosity my life does not, in any way, resemble the glamorous, effervescently sexy and very happening life of Carrie Bradshaw. Time has come to acknowledge that I might have turned into Liz Jones. Crap.

My fabulous friends on the other hand have provided some balance (and a glimpse of the life I too might have, should I ever find a job that pays. Preferably well). Over posh afternoon teas (insert squeals of delight here) and buckets of Piper Heidsieck (yes, my friends drink champagne. The good stuff. I did tell you they were fabulous...) we've been pondering and discussing and analyzing the dilemma that has now taken over my life: should I take a chance and fly to see The Man?

I hate being this girl who bores her friends (the most valuable only asset I currently have) to death with endless ramblings of "he said she said". I want to either have or not have a relationship, not wallow and analyze whether I might, after all, actually have a relationship. But that I have become. Crap.

Turned out that The Man planned this trip back in December, thinking that by now we'd be living together in the city where he's been trying to close that deal for 2 years now and wanted to surprise me with a weekend break in a city from which we have such lovely memories. 

But let's face it: this is not going to be just another weekend break anymore. This whole trip comes with so much baggage and worries. I'm terrified to point of nausea. Yes, he literally makes me sick.

I tried the rational approach and a pros and cons- spreadsheet. And this is how it turned out: 

pros: it is a weekend in a city from which we have such lovely memories

cons: it is a weekend in a city from which we have such lovely memories.

So... no help there.

What I was hoping to see (one day) was The Grand Gesture; The Man going the distance and making the effort. Now part of me (and not a very small part) can't help but feel that this is yet another case of him clicking his fingers and me coming running like a starving puppy. 

So I asked him how he envisioned the weekend to turn out. ""Awkward" he said. If that's his best shot at selling this genuinely ridiculous idea to me, it's probably a good thing he's not trying to carve himself a lucrative career in marketing. I asked if he thought that it would be worth it. "Can't think why not", was his response. As you can see, we're not dealing with Shakespeare here.

I feel the overwhelming need to protect my heart from any more heartache and am trying to figure out what this weekend is supposed to be about. I've been trying to put my foot down in the past. I've thought I'd made myself clear. Yet, this relationship is a logistical nightmare and any kind of attempts to wrap things up have invariably taken place over phone, text messages, Messenger and Skype. So... is this just a way to end things in a civilized manner (his country did give the world Hyacinth Bucket); to get that much needed closure face to face? Or is this just a random dirty weekend away (can't deny, won't deny- could do with a bit of that too) ? Or is this, lo and behold, the start of something new? 

I had to ask him as I figured that this disaster-in-the making might be even more disastrous if we enter that hotel room with completely different expectations. 

And this is what he said: "I see it as a possibility for a new beginning".