Kathmandon't

Much to everyone's surprise they guy finally paid me the money for the documentary. And we've already had a meeting about the next project. Not so sure about that one. I've clearly made a good impression on him, but... perhaps just a tad too good? I personally don't necessarily feel cut out for the role he seems to have planned for me.

The Man's job hunt is not going any better either. I've begged him to start looking for another job anywhere in the world. Anywhere. At this point I'm not too fussy. Obviously I'd love for it to be somewhere sunny and civilized (read: within eBay-shipping), where I can whole-heartedly embrace the expat-lifestyle, sitting in charity committees with a Martini-glass glued to my hand. I wouldn't mind continuing trying to work myself, but I can totally see how not doing Pilates in yet another country can be a full-time job in itself. And while I do love many French things (their kisses and fries for instance) the language is not one of them and the thought of finding myself in yet another French-speaking country fills me with le panic.

I know I should feel bad about not being more motivated about my own job hunt. Unfortunately that seems to be like genuine appreciation of Mongolian throat singing: something I'm just not capable of feeling. I know I treat this as something to do to pass the time as I'm waiting to hear from The Man's next assignment. And the subsequent proposal.

I know, I know- this is so not why the suffragists took to the streets or why the feminists burnt all those bras. 

Considering how, after almost 2 years, The Man's company is still chasing that Geneva deal, I told him he should start looking for another job asap- there are no guarantees how long that process would take. And I do not intend to be in this situation in 2 years. I'm so sick of the fact that our time together is even more tightly rationed than nylons during the recession!

I told The Man all this and about the job in Kathmandu. And what did he say? "Well, if that's what you really want, then maybe it's something you should apply for". DUH?! Of course it's not! And that's not what I want or need to her from him! I told him that too; that what I want  him to say is

- that he doesn't want me to go to Kathmandu

- that we'll get through this

- that we'll end up together forever 

- that at the end all this waiting and sacrifices will have been worth it. 

And what did The Man say? "But that's what I've always told you!" To which I had to point out that "no, that's something you've never told me". 

Honestly, his perception of reality seems even more distorted than mine.

But suffice to say, I've decided that Kathmandu - no can do.

Which is probably just as well. I mean,every time you see Nepalese people they're always so.... happy. They always smile. God. Can you just imagine what a country like that would do to my psyche; feeding off sarcasm like lions off those lost baby gnus. And there's no way I' be able to get my hair highlighted there...

Pervs Inc.

By the way, should I be concerned that according to the traffic source section of my blog statistics majority of the readers being directed here through recommendations/ mentions on other websites are introduced to this blog by a website that specializes in adult enterntainment?

Now, I'm grateful for all you readers out there, all 5883 of you (Go out! Mingle! Spread the word! Multiply- that's what they tell you in the Bible too!) I think I'd quite like to draw the line... somewehere. Not sure where, but I'm fairly sure people still wear trousers in public there. 

And while on the subject (I'd better give those poor pervs that were redirected here something for their effort) : in the most shameless agenda-pushing for BJ's I've ever seen a group of scientists (wanna bet they were all men?) has discovered that pregnant women who regularly consume their partner's sperm are less likely to suffer from morning sickness. (See how I had the decency to link this to a credible newspaper instead of that wretched Daily Mail - which, obviously, is where yours truly first read it...). 

Sure. Why on earth would you focus on say, curing cancer or AIDS or proving that homosexuality is every bit as innate as heterosexuality when you can make your wife go down on you instead!

The same medic also suggests that blow jobs might prevent depression (whose exactly? Though I have a pretty good idea...). Now there's food for thought, especially coming from someone sporting the kind of handlebar-mustache that is rarely seen outside 70's gay porn scene.

Oh world. Sorry for not giving head, but you're doing mine in. 

Working...my way through the TV

I know I'm supposed to be working hard, looking for work but how could I? There's just too much to distract me. There are the afternoon naps, emergency facials, turning down offers for affairs (well, technically just one offer but a very persistent one), the impromptu pedicures, lunches with friends, the after (somebody else's) work drinks... and all that cooking on TV.

There's Nigella, there's Masterchef Australia, there are the Cupcake Girls and then there's that delightful Swedish Leila, baking her way straight into my heart (and waistline). 

And as I watch them do their magic; looking so serene and stress-free I am once again reminded how there are people out there, doing that for living! Couldn't I, too,  do that instead? Just run my own little deli somewhere where the sun always shines and people are clamouring for my home-made foccaccia and the bagels, the recipe for which I actually inherited from my great aunts (see- there must be some Jewish blood in me!) Couldn't I?

The only place I've discovered so far where the sun always really seems to shine is Kinshasha (not in a metaphorical sense, but in the actual weather forecast sort of manner) And I'm not sure even I'm that desperate for foccaccias. 

That,by the way, will be the title of my autobiograpy, once I've achieved something worth writing about (though the lack of it doesn't seem to stop me now either...): "The Sun Always Shines In Kinshasha".

So, I keep half-heartedly penning application after application, hoping that those red jeans will get a call for a job interview. 

Provided I still fit in them- after all that Nigella-inspired chorizo- couscous-bake that was on the menu last night I'm not too sure...

Bridge over troubled waters

 Watched the infamous P.S. I Love You the other night. Again. Don't know why I voluntarily put myself through that over and over again. Even I know that in my current, fragile emotional state that's like the last thing I should be watching.

I went to see it at the cinema and by the time we were done with the movie trailers (think serial killers and genocides and fallen superheros and moon Nazis; all coming to a cinema near you- aren't you lucky!) I had already gone through all my tissues. By the time the actual film started I had to restore to blowing my nose on the seat next to mine...

Ah, the agony of having found your true love and then losing it. In such a cruel, unexpected manner! Though, are there any other ways...? I don't know what it is that gets my tear ducts working overtime; the fact that there are love stories like that out there and they stubbornly seem to evade me or the fact that I think I might have found mine (a very poor man's version, obviously- more like a Korean straight-to-DVD rendition of it...) and already dread the day I will lose it?

Uhh, uhh. 

Must say it does beat the Danish detective stories I've been busy losing my sleep over in Spain though. Don't get me wrong, they're absolutely brilliant, but what is wrong with that country? The continuously appear on the list of happiest countries in the world and they all love their chain-smoking Queen- when they're not busy chain-smoking those dreadful Princes (that's the local cigarette brand of choice, not a royal offspring. I would hate to see them go up in smoke- even the lesser members of the Royal Family seem so disgustingly... balanced and wholesome) themselves or stuffing their face with pølses, their beloved hotdogs.

 Apparently the Danes eat them so much that the average annual consumption comes to about 3 a day. Every day. Per each Dane. Which means... that when you exclude the mandatory vegetarians, token Hare Krishnas and random Muslims... you're still left with a portion that has got the concept of 5 a day tragically wrong.

Anyway, the Danes seem to be behind every decent detective story these days. First there was The Killing, all 234 episodes of it. Then there was the second season. And now there's The Bridge. I love them dearly, but what's with the women? They're perfect tens alright- on the Asperger's scale!

Social mobility scooter coming through

What is happening to my life? My neighbourhood is going downhill faster than you can say Alberto Tomba. Previously this part of town was occupied by distinguished pensioners, walking their well-educated pedigree dogs in pearl-necklaces (usually the pearls were seen on the dog-walkers, mind you). These days, ever since that horrid halfway house for homeless drunks and other rejects with no prospects in life was opened the demographics have changed completely. 

Just the other day I encountered 2 very suspicious-looking chaps at the bus stop. Now, I don't employ snobbery unless the situation absolutely warrants it as you know. I am subtlety personified. But toothless grins, unfocused eyes, tattoos reflecting the sort of poor craftmanship that is usually the domain of certain state facilities (average stay 3-4 years until eligible for parole), and open, infected sores down their legs? Tell me that's not suspicious? I didn't mean to eavesdrop (that would just be bad manners) but thanks to their  very audible and very incoherent dialogue I now know where to go for a methadone treatment. Should the mood ever strike.

My storage has been broken into 3 times. And just last week there was a robbery at my local bank! Things did not use to be like this. Even my brother, conveniently located just around the corner, is thinking of upping his sticks.

And last time in Spain The man emerged, from the pool, visibly shocked stating he'd just seen a rat. The size of a donkey. In the truest Hyacinth Bucket manner I try to stay positive and keep telling myself it must have been a pedigree rat with the highest executive standing, seeing how it had the audacity to invade our prestigious residential neighbourhood, but I think there's a chance it was just a filthy rodent. Which means we might not be so prestigious after all...

What is happening to my life? Slowly and surely my middle class trappings are coming undone, revealing a not so pleasant reality. 

And we are not amused.

Missing (in)action

I've been back from Spain for over a week now. I still have some tan left and lo and behold- all my skin is actually still attached to my body. 

I miss Spain. And I miss The Man. Not sure in which order.

I miss waking up and finding The Man next to me (well, preceded by me, unable to sleep from his snoring that penetrates through the ear plugs no matter how I've shoved them in so deep I'm practically brain-damaged, wandering off to another bedroom for the rest of the night and then in the morning making my way back to ours sleep-deprived, tired and cranky).

I miss the sunshine. This time the temperatures were so high, that even in the middle of the night  the wind was like walking inside a bloody hair dryer.

I even miss the lunatic bird in the neighbourhood that keeps singing the first six notes of the Bridge Over River Kwai (if that's what a mockingbird is, I'm not surprised she got killed.)

I miss my pool. I know this is not a very politically correct thing to say especially for someone who fancies herself a bit of a human rights crusader but I'm telling you, in a climate like that having your own pool is a human rights issue.

In fact I did manage to lose some weight before the holiday and actually looked ok in a bikini. I had the kind of bikini body that tabloids call fantastic (provided you're a 50-something mother of 4) . 

I want to go back. And have in fact been invited back by a guy who's been flirting outrageously with me ever since we first met in Spain 3 years ago. He fancies me. But claims he wants more than that.

Don't you worry though, I won't. And not just because his house doesn't have Mercedes, sauna and room for a pony the way The Man's has. But because he's not circumcised...

Relocation, relocation, relocation

Remember how I told you working on the documentary was so much fun I couldn't believe I was actually getting paid for it?Well, turned out I still can't. Seeing how I've not been paid. I talked to the guy through whom I met the guy behind this project and he told me I was an idiot for accepting the job to begin with as according to him the guy can't be trusted. Especially with such mundane things as money.

While I am definitely pro Bono (and the rest of U2, especially with the mid-90's part of their career), it's not my ideology of choice when it comes to work. At least not one I can afford right now.

I know I did a good job- everyone told me so. Including the band, according to whom I was extremely professional, considerate and maintained my positive attitude no matter what. Well, that positive attitude is starting to wear as thin as my bank account. I really want the project continue as smoothly as it has so far. I really want the end result to be every bit as amazing as the legends portrayed on it. 

The guy keeps promising he'll pay me the money and talking to me about the next projects. He has an idea that's going to revolutionize something he can't tell me about until I've signed a confidentiality agreement.I want to believe him, almost as badly as my VISA bill...

I wouldn't mind continuing in this field, it's just that without any actual qualifications, experience and/or contacts it's a hard industry to break into. And as charmingly carefree  as the "how hard can it be"- attitude can be, sometimes it will only get you so far, as becomes evident from this story about a DIY fresco restorer...

So, while I've been waiting to hear from him, I've been checking out other jobs out there. Not a whole lot of those out there either. So, I've decided to fork out almost 300€ for a certified translator examination. At least then I'd have yet another profession to be unemployed in.

I'm trying to stay motivated but there's nothing out there that makes me go wild with enthusiasm. There is one job in Bangkok and another one in Kathmandu, but is that really the right move to make right now? How can putting 3 continents and 10 more time zones between me and The Man be any good for the current situation? Can even more distance ever cure the already existing issues, mainly stemming from the distance (both geographical and emotional) we already have?

Having waited for his job situation to clear out in order for us to be able to plan a future together (on the same continent, in the same country, in the same household) for several years now, should I keep on waiting or should I just start planning my own life, focusing on my needs and my career?

I have sent out a couple of half-hearted applications for jobs that don't require relocation. And, after having read that wearing colours at job interviews is apparently a good thing (makes you stand out and appear even more confident) I've invested in a pair of red jeans. 

World, I'm ready. Start calling.

Too much of anything is a bad thing

Is there such a thing as too much honesty? Apparently yes. And I've got a bad case of it.

Remember how I was wondering whether I should tell The Man about this blog? Everyone told me not to. And what did I do? Did I listen to the advice from people so clearly better equipped to handle their lives? No. I told him. Luckily I had the brain to wait until after the second bottle of rosé. Which means that he probably doesn't remember a thing.

I've never cheated on him. Well, I've never cheated on anyone to be precise.Never even seriously thought of it, even though the situation has been everything but easy. Never until now. With The Manager. Not that the option ever even came up.I was professional all the way. Just not the kind of professional I would have wanted to be...

Perhaps because I'm such a Victorian prude with views on sex that are clearly more out of date than the milk that's lurking in my fridge I see that as a violation of something so profoundly intimate. I'm not sure if I could ever forgive someone for doing that to me- I'd be so hurt on such a fundamental level. The Man has always stated he's less black and white in that aspect and that he could see past that (well, the way he never used me dumping him for Junior against me is a testament to his maturity and integrity) but I'm sure he'd be hurt too, should I go all Kristen Stewart on his sorry ass. 

But lately I've got thinking about it. Perhaps there are more reasons for cheating than just a desire to be with someone other than your partner. What if the reason you cheat is wanting the other person to be your partner? Seriously, over those past days with the band, looking at The Manager I could barely contain myself. From behind he looked so much like The Man and it took every ounce of my sleep-deprived, over-worked, separation anxiety-ridden strength to stop myself from walking over to him, wrapping my arms around him and stroking his hair the way I would have done with The Man. My whole body ached for a touch.

And did I feel compelled to share this with The Man? Yes. 

I'm not just a groupie- I'm an idiot.

Me and Mrs. Jones

So... in a surreal twist that brings my sad and bitter existence even closer to that of Liz Jones, a rock star has entered my life too. Well, 3 in fact. For the past days I've been hanging out with 3 of the original members of a fairly legendary rock band.

And what is a girl to wear for an occasion like that? I figured I'd leave the usual groupie garments for the slim and slender twentysomethings (so that they in turn could leave them on the floor of the rock stars' hotel rooms) and decided to rock a Chanel jacket instead. With black skinny jeans.Which, again (as the pictures from that weekend prove) look anything but skinny on me...

I'm not going to name names, but trust me, it's a band you know. Even if you don't know you do. They are responsible for some of those iconic rock songs everybody knows. But let's face it- their heyday was round about the time I was born. Which means that my Dad was the only person who was starstruck by my new venture. They still have a bit of a cult status, and it quickly became obvious why (though anything with a cult status usually comes with lightsaber-wielding, cape-wearing saddos camping outside cinema in a bid to get the best seats for the next Star Wars film...). They truly are legends, on and off the stage.

Their fans on the other hand are a...special bunch. Greying ponytails and beer bellies galore. Greasy-haired, spectacle-wearing, overweight women that haven't had a boyfriend since...well, ever. And a couple of fairly fierce-looking Russian women, shamelessly throwing themselves at the band. Everywhere they went, they had people following them in a trance-like state. And there was me, with the press pass dangling from my neck, just hanging out with my new best friends- the world-famous rock stars. I know I must sound like a total groupie right now but I must say it was pretty cool. Even if my actual job description got stretched a bit: in addition to the interviews I did with the guys I also found myself booking tables, shopping for beans, negotiating bills and arranging for football matches to be shown. Liverpool's no less. Ok, I think I might be a bit of a groupie.

The guys themselves were brilliant and so much fun. We really got on and the banter never stopped. I can't believe I'm getting paid for something like that! And then there was the manager. Oooooh, The Manager...

I have such a crush on The Manager. He must be even older than The Man, but you know I like my men the way I like my wine (no, not French and pretentious, not anymore anyway): mature and full-bodied. And he's got this... something you can't quite put your finger on. Je ne sais quoi? Something he knows he has and isn't afraid to flaunt it. It's in that sparkle in his eyes, it's in the way he jokes, it's in the way he makes you feel special around him. Ok, so he is a Liverpool fan, but he's also Jewish!!! 

Even the crew picked up on the spark between us. But then again... how much of that was calculated? I mean, that's what he does for living, right? Making people like him and persuading them to do things his way? 

And he clearly does his work well: he's worked with like, everyone. The Man would have loved his stories from the road with all his idols. I would have loved to have him all to myself.

The days we spent with the band were so crazy intense and when the time came to say our thank yous and goodbyes it was strange realizing that most of them (any of them?) I'll never see again. 

Good job there's Facebook then.

Oh God, I am a groupie...

Knee deep in rock n'roll

As I said, about month ago I got a call from a guy I met through a friend of mine. I auditioned for a voiceover in a project that still to this day hasn't materialized. So, my scepticism was only to be expected. This time the guy had another project- a documentary about an English rock band. Would I be interested? Erm... yes. (Could I afford not to? UN isn't exactly banging on my door with job offers...)

I grossly overpriced my (not so discernible) talent and he was still willing to take me on.  My salary for the 5-day job would be enough to pay off my entire VISA bill. What's not to like? (Apart from the fact that I immediately decided to celebrate my good fortunes by planning my next shopping spree...)

Initially there was some translatory work and eventually we travelled to another town where a festival was held in their honour. 

We, the crew, stayed in a villa outside the town and had a pretty awesome time. I'd never met them before, but we hit it off and did a pretty good job. No, make that awesome. But let me just tell you- that rock n'roll lifestyle is not for me. On average we got about 4 hours of sleep each night. I'm still feeling frazzled. As are my lungs- the rock stars (which meant me too) smoke a lot. Like, even more than The Man's mum. And she's the least rock n' roll thing I know. I so should have listened to Bunny's advice... From now on my chosen drug will be Louis Vuitton, though the financial situation has reduced me to a mere recreational user.

The villa was located in a fairly isolated place in a camping site next to the sea. All very picturesque. All very... Blair Witch Project. Especially when they started unloading the van from all the equipment. A remote location, 5 guys, 1 girl and shitloads of cameras? You tell me. But seems a bit... dodgy, yes?

In the end it all went well. Though all that abundant nature made me realize exactly how disconnected I am from the nature girl I'm sure is lurking somewhere within, with her 4-inch-heels. And I'll have you know, in Spain I'm a naturist. Yes, exactly what it says on the tin. I prance around naked. Among total strangers. (Luckily it's confined to one particular beach) Initially when The Man suggested it I was petrified. Until I realized I was still allowed to bring all my accessories. And the people there were wonderful and welcoming. Until they asked us if we were naturist back home as well and I replied with a very horrified expression all over my face "what? you think we're some kind of pervs?!"

Anyway...It was bizarre. There was all this green stuff. And all these stars. And late at night the sea was steaming from the heat of the late summer's day. And there was this amazing silence. No neighbourhood drunks shouting obscenities, just... birds and...stuff. And that weird sound leaves make in the wind. All very strange and... downright unnatural. 

Then (yes, there's more) as we were making our way to the sauna I caught a glimpse of something even more terrifying. A creature. With 4 legs. And 2 long ears. Just sitting there. Staring at us. And what did I do? I panicked. Until my clearly warped mind came up with a  perfectly natural-seeming solution. "Ah," I heard myself saying (bizarrely relieved)"it must be a piñata". Seriously. You're in the middle of the woods and the most logical explanation you can think of is a Mexican party trick?! Note to self:  Woman- either get out more or drink less. 

And it wasn't until we were all back, having a beer (no, make that 15 beers) and we got talking about each other and I encountered the look. The look on every single face upon learning I'm with someone I've been with for almost 7 years; someone with whom months can go by without us seeing each other... And then the question, uttered in the most disbelieving of tones: "How can you keep going like that?" And I realized... I don't know if I can.

Back from the dead vol.2

Sorry I've been a bit sluggish of late but my grandmother died. No, really, this time she really did. So I guess this is officially the last time I get to use that excuse...

Feels I've been away forever. And not in a good way. After I got back from Spain I started my next work immediately after 4 hours of sleep and only got back home from that job a couple of days ago. But more on that later.

Feels like so much has happened. The Olympics ended (is it just me of did anyone else get a bit of a Third Reich vibe about the burning eagles and the ballet dancers..?), Jennifer Aniston finally got proposed to, this blog has reach more than 5000 hits AND we put something on Mars (the planet, not the chocolate bar). Now, if we have like 63984 trillion to spend on a real-life Lego vehicle to be dropped on another planet, surely we have enough money to feed the starving kids and cure Aids? And why are we so bothered about finding intelligent life on other planets when we still haven't established if we have any here on Planet Earth? 

I have one word: Kardashians. They are at the very rotten core of just about everything that's wrong in the world today. Them and that Syrian dictator sorry, president. The first 3 letters of his name spell ASS - he should really get of his and start making some changes. Now, I don't have much experience about running countries, but I'm thinking massacring your own nation can't be the right way to do it?

Anyway...I'll promise to get back on track. Starting tomorrow...

Back from the dead

I am back. Sun-burnt, sleep-deprived, hormonal, miserable and with a suitcase that smells like an abattoir. But with a fridge full of porky goodness. Chorizo, fuet, iberico ham, tapa negra paste...you name it. Those carnal pleasures Spain has to offer will well and truly be missed. Oh, what a fine Jew I make.

And no, he didn't propose. Luckily (this time) neither did I.

Once again the holiday was over far too quickly and followed the old pattern. First 3 days were wonderful, then things got weird as a result some completely pointless spat over chorizo (yes. We could have been having life-changing conversations about the future of our relationship but we chose to have a row about the size of a package of sausages) and then the holiday started to reach the end and I spent the last 3 days crying my eyes out over the 3 days we'd just wasted on a stupid fight. I never even got to wear the Greek goddess maxi dress as seen on Samantha Cameron! 

It's so frustrating trying to cram an entire relationship in just few stolen days. I'm so fed up with this temporariness. I want something more permanent. I want my final solution. I mean, even Hitler could think of one- why can't we?!

And now I'm mocking holocaust. Jesus. Jews don't come any worse than me...

Fortunately The Man's mother had the decency to stay away. She only turned up once, pointing out how he only got in touch with me because of her and how I should be grateful. I invited her for lunch and promised that this time I'd skip the cyanide. The chutzpah on that woman! Whatever happens she'll always have a special place in my heart (and eventually in Hell...)

Remember that job The Man was being interviewed for? The one that would have brought him back to Scandinavia? The one that was supposed to allow us to finally merge our lives together? The company has just introduced a hiring freeze. So... that isn't happening either.  I don't know how much longer I can take this.

Is the God conspiring to keep us away from each other? Is the universe seriously trying to tell me something?  Perhaps I should start listening?

For the first times ever I'm starting to question whether this relationship is worth all this hassle; whether there's a future for us after all. And let's face it: there are many reasons that say no. 

- I don't wan't to be changing nappies now- why would I want that in 20 years time?
- Doesn't everyone prefer a boyfriend that still grows more hair out of his head than say, his ears?
- By the time I reach my sexual peak, his libido will be dead. Mind you, so will probably he.

The Man and me- we're in a weird place right now. With no relief anywhere in sight...

Things to remember...another time

Having journeyed the world after my salt and pepper- lover, I consider myself fairly seasoned traveller (and potentially a stalker). It therefore puzzles me how I never seem to learn a thing.

Things to remember when travelling the next time:

1. Hangover is not the ideal state for many activities. Especially packing. Inevitably you end up making some poor choices. Such as forgetting to pack any knickers...

2. When intending to keep the keys safe, you better not lock them in the suitcase compartment that only opens with the very key you just stashed inside it (how is that even possible? Surely that defies all laws of physics?)

3. Taking great care in packing the leads, chargers, USB leads and batteries is all well and good, yet rather pointless when you forget to pack the camera.

4. Even though the sun screen bottle comes in SPF 20 (when did they even start going that high? Even the highest ones used to only to to about 8!) it only really works if you wear it. There's a reason why they tell you that. In the side of the bottle.

5. 44'C heat and 100% man-made fibers are not a good mix. 

6. People love it when you bring them presents form your trips. Provided you actually remember to take them with you.

Holidate

The bitter bitch is out of office. Sooooo out of office. For the next 10 days she's idly lounging by the pool in Spanish sun, having wild sex with her fabulous boyfriend and downing vino. By the bucket. 

With any luck she'll return all bronzed and fabulous with new material to bitch about. Hopefully about a proposal. Most likely, however, about the fabulous boyfriend's not so fabulous mother.

So, stay tuned...!

Blasts from the past

I just saw my ex-boyfriend on TV. He's a musician and fronting a big campaign for an insurance company. He was my first boyfriend. We went out when I was 16. That's 17 years ago! How can I be old enough to have a boyfriend from 17 years ago??? And more importantly: how come, 17 years on, I'm still dating???

A couple of days ago I was carelessly traipsing down the memory lane with a colleague until I heard myself casually start a sentence with the words "Oh, I remember this thing 20 years ago"... 20 YEARS? That's 2 decades! That's an entire Miley Cyrus! Christ. I'm old enough to be a mother to someone who's getting married.


No wonder my e-mail is being flooded by Viagra adverts. I'm old.

From reality TV to reality

2 days, people. 2 days.That's how long I have until my first sip of sangria. The first of many...

This break is much needed- and not just because it has been brought to my attention that I'm actually starting to sound like one of the Real Housewives. Of the New Jersey variety.   And trust me, it's not ooawwwwwsome. 


And I've said yes to the dress three times now. Somewhat excessive perhaps, seeing how  I still haven't even been proposed to yet.


I've also started having dreams about reviewing restaurants with Tom Colicchio. So, time has come to wean myself off reality TV and focus on the actual reality. Before I find myself having catfights outside nightclubs, pulling someone's hair extensions out or filing for bankruptcy...


Not sure I'm going to like reality though- it seems decidedly unglamorous. I just finished the latest internship and am back in the job-hunt. And it's not looking any better than it did 3 months go. 


I so did not expect myself to be in this situation at 33. And hearing about other people's success stories doesn't help. My country has a new Minister of Defence. He's my age. And married. With 2 kids. And a stint in the European Parliament under his Gucci belt. 


And then there's Tawakkul Karman, a Nobel peace prize winner. At 32. A woman. From Yemen of all the places. 


And then there's me. 33. Equipped with every advantage one of the best educational systems in the world has to offer, free to carve what ever career she chooses in one of the most progressive countries in regard to gender equality. Writing a blog about how my mission in life is to get married...

Out with the old and in with (even) older...

There's nothing quite as demoralizing as realizing that there's a chance we'll never grow out of this "will they won't they"- game. At least that's how it seems, watching my Dad's marital merry-go-round. One week it's trial separation, the next they're filling the house with books on tantric sex. (More than you needed to know? More that anyone needed to know...)

As I'm trying to convince The Man of the joys of the married life, my dad is headed for divorce no 2. Not the greatest of timings. And it has certainly got me thinking why I'm so hellbent on marrying myself. And why I'm Facebook friends with my Dad.

My Dad was in Bosnia as peacekeeper. Not sure he succeeded any better than he did at the same  task at home...When he came back from his mission he brought back a duty-free car and a brand new wife. Right on. Because dating in itself is soooo easy - why not spice it up a bit by throwing in gender-, generation-, language- and culture barriers!

I love my stepmum dearly, I do. The fact that she's less than a decade older than me has certainly helped us bond. I actually have friends older than her. Hell, my boyfriend is older than her! (See, I can't be held accountable for my mistakes- international and intergenerational dating run in the family!) But she comes with some serious baggage. Such as a crazy ex-husband. And a severely handicapped child. And a  weird family spread across South Eastern Europe.


In my Mum my Dad already has more than his share of crazy ex-spouses. And he has done his parenting and is at a point of his life when he's supposed to be enjoying his life. And retirement. Child -free and footloose. Instead he's working full-time in order to provide for family no 2 and can't afford to retire until he's 348. I know that's not a lot in Biblical terms (some of those dudes were still being fruitful and multiplying at 900) but I do feel for him. 


But I'm also feeling for myself. I'm supposed to be able to look up to my parents! I'm supposed to go to them for advice! They're supposed to have all this sussed out! But no, they're every bit as hapless as I am...


Is it too late to put me up for adoption? Brad and Ange, are you reading this? Madonna? Anyone?

London calling

Seeing the opening ceremony and the way London has put on its pretty face has once again made me fall in love with London. Looking at the views on TV fills me with immense pride and giddiness, even 8 years on. I used to live there! That phenomenal place used to be my home!

Obviously that pint of London pride is pulled from a tap of misguided loyalty and served with a hefty swig of nostalgy. The city is excruciatingly expensive for starters. As a student, even more so. I used to live in a bedsit which meant sharing toilets and bathrooms with total strangers, some of which were so scary-looking that for that entire year I never dared to use the loos in the middle of the night. But the location was wonderful- 7 minute-walk from Marble Arch and walking distance to Portobello Market. The bus to my school stopped right in front of  my building. When ever it felt like it. Which wasn't often. And anyway, London traffic was so horrendous that I walked to school quicker.

London is dirty. By the end of each day my nostrils were full of black gunk and my pores looked like they belonged to someone in Chernobyl. 


And it's dangerous. Unless you find "Metropolitan police seeks your assistance in solving a murder that took place here yesterday"- signs essential to the ambiance.


You'd think that in order to holiday in an English-speaking country, you'd go to an English-speaking-country, such as ... oh wait- England! That is, however, not the case. Appallingly large portion of customer service-related jobs are held by foreigners with appallingly poor command of English. 


And that NHS that according to the Olympics opening ceremony England is so proud of? I have particularly fond memories of an appointment with a Greek doctor who was supposed to tell me if I had cancer or not but instead spent in on the phone with her son, trying to talk him into coming out of an oven he had locked himself in...


Ohhh, London. In spite of everything you are a city quite like nothing else. You do have your moments- and they are glorious ones. The museums, the galleries, the shops, the restaurants, the markets, the diversity, the pubs, the parks, the Sound of Music Sing-a-Longs...


I do miss you. It's been a couple of years since my last visit and I think it just might be time to come see you again...