Big decisions, big mistakes

In my emotionally fragile and mentally unstable state I should not even leave my bed. Let alone make life-changing decisions. Such as applying for a job in Africa. Yet, that's exactly what I've done. 

EU has this Junior Professional Officer high level internship program and I applied for it. My first choice was Kenya, second one Geneva and third one Algeria. I figured I'll never be able to afford that safari in Kenya, so I might just as well make them pay for it. 

Though, as irony would have it, I'd probably end up in Geneva. Just imagine. After all this hassle, we'd finally wind up in the same city- and not together.

I have a friend who abandoned university studies and is pursuing a career in real estate instead. She keeps telling I have what it takes to make it in that industry which I don't get. I can't drive and I absolutely abhor sales and marketing. 

But I'm going to have to find something to do. NGO field is turning out to be a dead end. 

So, after a bit of soul searching I think I've finally got it. I'm going to become a food-blogging war photographer with a wildly successful accessory line on the side. And a style consultancy business geared for the transvestites.

Back to square one

The shock is starting to subside. The bravado is wearing thin and I'm beginning to realize I'm as much a mess I was 7 months ago. I can actually relate to Zsa Zsa Gabor, who's just realized she is missing a  leg. 18 months after the amputation. Bless her. They must be giving her the really good drugs. I wish I had something other than Merlot and eBay to get me through this.

I've changed the Facebook status. Ironically enough it has changed itself back into "in a relationship" twice now. My FB profile is every bit as much in denial as the person it belongs to. I've started telling people. And it makes me feel empty and nauseous. 

Every time the phone rings, my heart stops. I close my eyes before picking the phone because I'm still hoping it will be him. I keep checking my e-mail every 36 seconds to see if he's decided to get in touch. I keep imagining how upon returning from that trip to Asia he'll make a stop in my country, turns up at my doorstep and asks me to marry him. I'm such an idiot. I'm so out of touch with reality somebody should give me a Middle Eastern country to run.

I wish I didn't feel the way I do about marriage. I really do. Life would be so much easier, seeing how to most people my views are hopelessly dated. I should be on UNESCO's World Heritage list. 

But I just don't believe in just living together. The way Welsh don't believe in vowels. Or leaving those sheep alone.
                         
                                                 

For the past month or so I've been having weird dreams. They have now stopped and I just wake up feeling numb, in a Zombie-like state. In the last dream I can remember I was about to get married to The Man. For some reason I was the one waiting at the altar as he was making his way down the aisle. I remember looking at him and realizing everything about his persona said he didn't want to go through with it- he just couldn't bring himself to say it and I had to figure out by myself. When I told him about the dream that I had found so upsetting I actually woke up in tears he said he would never do such a thing to me.

Little did I know how little he'd be willing to do for me.

I once told The Man he was the love of my life. He laughed and said he knew that already. Maybe one day I'll get to be the love of someone's life...?

These boots are made for walking

I decided to return The Man's birthday present and use the money on myself instead. Like on...drum roll please... footwear.

I found the boots I've been looking for. Now if only I had someone to walk all over in them...

I have that weekend trip coming up. The hard work is done: I've managed to secure reservation in the restaurants that made the cut this time. Oh, I can't think of anything more therapeutic to look forward to than a dinner at a romantic wine bar. Alone. After a night at the ballet. Alone. 

When, in about 27 years time, I'm ready to start over, where am I even going to find suitable men? I'm not a big fan of divorcees (bitter divorces, alimonies, custody battles, kids who'll hate me, ex-wives who'll hate me even more) and the idea of widowers isn't much more appealing (ex-wives on pedestals, setting expectations I can never live up to and in worst case scenario, kids who'll hate me anyway). But what are the chances of finding someone of suitable age (late 30s to late 40s) who hasn't been married yet isn't pathologically against it?? After all, I have just wasted 7 years on a man who doesn't believe in marriage, yet had no problem proposing to 2 of his ex-girlfriends.

The way I see it I have four options: 

1. Marry an Amish. They believe in marriage. Though an obvious problem with this option is the fact that they are rarely Jews. And the only unmarried ones tend to be under 17.
2. Marry one of those asylum seekers. There aren't many aphrodisiacs stronger than a Schengen visa.

3. Find a man who has amicably divorced from ex-wife because she turned out to be lesbian. We'd all get along and get together for brunches and screenings for weird European films.

4. Find a man who's spent the last 2 decades in a coma. Provided he's made a full recovery and regained control of his bladder. 

Since I don't have too many years to invest in this project, I think I'll jump straight into option #4. Though wondering around the coma ward all dressed to the nines seems like a bizarre scenario.

Nurse: "Excuse me, Miss, but these premises are for staff only"

Me: "Oh,it's ok- I'm just on the pull"

From goodbyes to good buys

In a bid to get my spending (and drinking) under (some kind of ) control I spent a weekend home. Ok, I didn't drink but it sure didn't stop me from spending. I bought lovely cashmere blend coat for winter (this season my bank account isn't the only thing doing red), a belt to keep with the colour scheme AND another coat for the winter (this one for the military trend). 

And while I know I'm supposed to love all my shoes equally and not have any favourites but as any mother, whoops, shoelover knows, that just isn't true. My favourite snake skin heels just broke, so I just simply had to replace them!

And then... then there was the issue of The Man's birthday present.

Some years ago I bought him a Longchamp credit case case that he loved. Now it, much like the state of his finances, is a bit worse for wear, so I've been trying to find a new one. Longchamp has discontinued that particular item, but I finally managed to find one at Montblanc. And today it was delivered. It's just so bloody typical. The moment I dare to plan ahead, something like this happens. Just goes to show how little I could ever take our future for granted.

I'm staring at the box now, not sure what to do with it. I could keep it, be the bigger person and send it to him anyway because I know he'd love it. 

Or, I can return it, take the money and buy myself something I'd love? Like this little beauty from Lulu Guinness (that I had planned would be my 7-year-anniversary- present from The Man?)

Now I just need those boots. I might be facing another cold, long winter and I might be facing it alone but damn,I'm going to look fabulous doing it!

The break-up take 2

So... here we go again. Right back where we started. And none the wiser. 7 months since the last break-up and we're broken again. 

I look back, full of disbelief. In the past 7 months we've seen each other twice. TWICE! For a long weekend in Stockholm and then for a week and a half in Spain. And even after 7 years together, we were still in a place where I never even knew when I was going to see him again. And I'm unreasonable?

I never should have given The Man that second chance. I never should have settled for anything other than proposal. If he genuinely understood why we broke up the last time around; that I could not and would not give up on marriage... then he would have had the decency to propose. 

Even without the proposal I genuinely thought he understood me, that he had finally changed his mind about the big M? But no, for him it's still M for murder.

So...what if that's exactly what he thought about me? That I had changed mine?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!

I really thought this was it- otherwise I would have not put myself through this again. I honestly didn't think I'd survive another break-up with him. But here we go, limping along. Roadkill on the highway of love.

This time around though I'm not going to lock myself up for months. I've done that once already. This time it took me 2 hours to delete all his phone numbers, erase all his text messages and block his Skype profile. In the next 4 hours I'd already moved on to over-eating, over-shopping and anger.

HOW DARE HE DO THIS TO ME AGAIN? HOW DARE HE STRING ME ALONG LIKE THIS? HOW DARE HE SAY THINGS LIKE "IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH; FOR BETTER AND FOR WORSE- OF COURSE I WANT THAT WITH YOU" WHEN HE'S FULLY AWARE HE'S NEVER GOING TO COMMIT?

HOW DARE HE PROMISE WE'LL GET THROUGH THIS AND BE TOGETHER WHEN THE ONE PROMISE THAT WOULD COUNT HE'S NOT WILLING TO MAKE?

Right. So, that's sadness, cutting off, over-eating, over-shopping and fury done. Next stop: Oktoberfest.

Then I just might muster the strength to change the Facebook relationship status. Again.

Fool me twice...

I've been rambling about the injustice in the world and dabbled with the first 2 steps of those 12, both to keep me and you distracted. But buying time hasn't helped and time seems to have come to admit my defeat.

The Man and me got texting on Skype the other night. We we're talking about what a weird situation we have and how I just wanted to get through this and be together, for real. And he said we would. I told him how I was having difficulties trusting him and him being serious about the future when I didn't have anything tangible to base my belief in. I said I wished we did have something, trying to explain how it might also help us get through this- giving us something to focus on; something good to look forward to. 

And he said he understood. And that he'd promised to look after me. And that even without the words he knows would make the difference for me he still feels in his head it's the same. 

And as I stared at the conversation unfolding on the laptop screen I felt this cold flush rush through me. Nothing has changed after all. He still hasn't changed his mind about marriage. 

He doesn't want to address issue because he feels it just upsets us. I on the other had can't stand his ostrich approach. He feels "we're a strong couple" and "want a lot of the same things". But at the same time he makes me feel irrational and stubborn for "only accepting one solution". What he doesn't seem to get is that he's every bit as black and white. That his refusal rejects us too. 

I feel so stupid. I really thought we we're onto something. I've explained so many times why marriage is a deal-breaker to me and yet, here I am. Again.

Which begs the question: why did he beg for a second chance, knowing exactly where I stand?

Blog 2.0

Blogging (and tweeting ) are strange ventures. They are the two occasions when having followers is actually a good thing. Anywhere outside the blogosphere and twitterville it would be considered alarming and worthy of a restraining order. But not here- and I have just gotten another follower. 

And to honour that: Now new and improved! With pictures! And videos!

As the eagle-eyed readers have already noticed (well, readers with any eyes, I hope), I've finally introduced pictures (and videos) to the blog. Initially I decided on against them partly because of the anonymity of the blog and partly as I didn't expect the blog to really contain any material that might benefit from audiovisual aids. But wrong I was, and I have added some pictures posthumously as well. (It was either that or spending another day idly staring at my e-mail, waiting for something meaningful to pop up in my inbox. But more on that in a few days...)

So, feast you eyes!

Coming soon to computer screens everywhere:

Life of Jesus- the original purveyor of "I'll be back" IN HD! (to save you the trouble of actually reading the book)

Agony Aunt Muhammad's Advice- with colour pictures! Subscribe now, first 200 get a complimentary Kalashnikov to help celebrate those life's special moments!

S***t Moses says- now with never-before seen bonus material such 4590 years worth of deleted scenes to really guarantee lack of any enjoyment!

Together we'll put the "fun" back into fundamentalism!

Freedom of fooligion

Being so socially conscious and ethically aware I suppose I'll have to touch upon the touchy subject of the riots in the Arab world. 

I finally youtubed the Muhammad video. Judging by the headlines, news updates and all the internet forums boiling with disgust I was probably the last person in the world to do that. 

Though sometimes my retard-like slowness puzzles even me. While the rest of the world had already taken to Facebook and Twitter (no, I don't do that, even recreationally) and were busy making fun of the shamed footballer and the gagging order he had taken against English press in a bid to keep them quiet about the fact that he had been shagging his sister-in-law since, like, the creation of our planet, I was still oblivious and trying to figure out the identity of the "player famous for his wholesome, family man image". I just kept staring at the blanked out newspaper clippings about tweets going on about the attempts to "save ****'s privates". Yes, me. Famed for my quick wit and razor-sharp repartee. Me, a Manchester United fan.

Anywayyy... The video is poorly made and no doubt the story is equally poorly chosen. Yes, it portrays the Muslims as ignorant, bloodthirsty bullies, but I'm not sure if their attempt to prove it was wrong by taking to the streets, attacking Embassies and killing innocent people really is doing them or Muslims anywhere any favours...? 

And as far as ignorance goes, I must say I'm getting so tired of their antics. The video was made by (clearly mentally unstable) Egyptian Coptic Christian and the mob is attacking US Embassies? Carrying signs that blame Israel and/or Jews? Jesus (yes, blasphemy, right there. Come and get me, angry Christians)! When I was in Tunisia, France appointed a new Ambassador- a choice that proved to be very unpopular. And what did the people do? Started protesting, carrying signs blaming Israel. Erm... WTF? And now this? Erm... WTF?! 

Yes, Israel can be blamed for many things. But there are alarmingly many things that are actually not results of a Zionist conspiracy, no matter what the Iranian idiot Ahmadinejad tells the world. There's climate change, drought in Africa, starving children in the third world, political unrest in Caucasus, serious human rights violations in North Korea... the list just goes on. Then there are the honour killings, forced child marriages and wide-spread oppression in countries such as Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Whoops.

Setting out to deliberately upset people is wrong. And not conducive to any kind of peaceful coexistence of different people, cultures and religions. Freedom of religion is every bit as fundamental part of human rights as is freedom of speech. The latter is something with which also comes responsibility to exercise it wisely. And this dude clearly isn't doing that (perhaps he should have stuck to amateur porn?).

But you can't demand your religion to be protected from criticism or insults, not when you're going out if your way to persecute and slander other religions. You simply can't keep your halal cake and eat it.

Behind bars

The Man has finally admitted that he just might be battling a bit of a depression. He's been treated for it before and has been on medication. He doesn't want to start seeing anyone (well, most of the time I'm not sure he wants to keep seeing me either) and he doesn't want to go back on the drugs as apparently one of the side effects is "not being able to rise a smile". For those of you not familiar with pharmaceutical euphemisms, the body part he'd fail to rise is located between his legs. Though the smile that normal function on those regions normally rises is mine...Not that that would be an issue- seeing how being located in separate ends of Europe is a far more effective method of birth control than China's forced sterilizations. 

I've tried to be supportive but I have very little to go on myself. As pointed out, my situation is every bit as bad. He is determined that all he needs is a new job- that would give him the security he needs and would instantly solve everything. What he doesn't seem to understand that I'm after a similar security, though in a form of a commitment. I'm trying to find a job, fully aware that when he lands his, I'd be expected to quit mine and follow him to his next assignment in order to pursue our happy end. 

Oh, how Disney had it right. In that fairy tale world boys and girls meet, fall in love and get their happily ever after without depression, long-distance relationship, global recession and erectile dysfunction ever featuring...

At least in the meanwhile he has something to keep him busy. Like, right now he's in Texas, giving a Power point presentation (good news about that trip is that after the "everything is bigger there"- proportions of Texas I'm bound to look impossibly slim and slender. Me!). I on the other hand drink.

I drink too much. And too often. While in all 10 nights out of 10 I end up home (alone), in 8 nights out of 10, I don't really remember how I got there. I'm always the last one standing (until I'm not)- one who just wants to keep on drinking. A) because I don't have a job to go to in the morning and B) because it really doesn't matter if I get home at 7pm or 7am- there's no one waiting for me at home. 

And I really can't afford this. Remember those boots I was pining for? Well, that weekend I poured at least two pairs' worth of booze down my throat. And down those of random gay men. 

I wish he just got it. We're both looking for the same thing: long-term security. For him it comes in the form of 6-figure salary. For me in the form of 6ft tall man (with a 6-figure salary).

Under the weather

It's pissing down. Again. 

We are going through that peculiar time of the year when sartorially speaking it's impossible to get it right. The weather changes every two minutes and you're always either wearing too little or too much. Others are still stubbornly wearing shorts whereas others have already brought out the padded jackets. Though... those Italian tourists seem to wear those all year round when visiting my country.

I finally got to break in that lusciously lovely Banana Republic trench coat of mine. Only... it didn't look lovely on me at all. Trench coat is having a massive moment this season and they're everywhere. It's an absolute classic and looks good on everybody. Except me. It makes me look like a flasher. Or a hooker, with nothing underneath.

I don't get it. It's a phenomenon I'm all too familiar with though. I often see all these gorgeous outfits on the mannequins in shop windows but then, when I put them on they look...weird. I couldn't get my head around it until I realized that was exactly it. The head! Those mannequins don't have heads! I do! And somehow it spoils everything.

So, anyone need a  head? I could give one...

Period drama

No, this post isn't about menstrual monstrosity, but an homage to the quality drama BBC and lately also ITV do so well. Downton Abbey just made its long-awaited but equally triumphant return to the TV screens and the world (well, England anyway) got to witness Mary and Matthew finally tie the knot. Ahhhhh...

A couple of days after that I spent a day living the life of to the manor born. And my God, did  my life seem awfully small and mundane after that. I visited this spectacular manor and was given the grand tour by the lady of the manor herself. We surveyed the grounds and had lunch at her golf club (as you do). 

I simply cannot get over the fact that some people still lead that kind of life. She comes from a long line of nobility and has herself married the scion of another, equally traditional noble family. What chance do the rest of us have? I must move to Sweden where even the royalty marries commoners. Maybe then I'll land a manor, or better yet, a castle myself!

I hate that word "commoner"- it's just so... common. And I don't do common. 

My real estate envy has reached a totally unprecedented level. Even The Man's Spanish villa I loved so much fails to impress me now. I want a manor! With a ghost (all  self-respecting manors have one)! I want subjects! And I want minions. One simply must have minions. 

I can only imagine what kind of attention that kind of an advert would attract at the Job Centre. "Wanted: 3 subjects, a minion and a ghost. Only serious applicants, please".

And I'd get to wear a tiara every day- not just on Thursdays. And people wouldn't even think I'm crazy- with a manor comes the transition to eccentric!

Good Jew, bad jew

For Rosh hashanah dinner I was invited to a friend of mine. We met at the giur during which we both met our respective goy toys. Only she managed to hold on to her beliefs and kosher diet. I dropped out and sold out. And all for a man who won't make a respectable woman out of me. She on the other hand has been married for 4 years now. Just saying.

But come to think of it- I'm really not that bad a Jew after all. Jewish holidays are an integral part of my everyday life. These days I treat every day like Rosh hashana: assessing, reassessing and vowing to focus on self-improvement. Most of my nights on the other hand are like Purim. A fact neither my wallet or liver can sustain. One is supposed to drink until (s)he no longer can tell the difference between "cursed be Haman" and "blessed be Mordechai"- not until one no longer can tell the difference between the right and the left foot. The mornings after I sit shiva for both and then the vicious cycle of my Jewish micro-calendar starts all over again. 

And I eat bacon and these days only very rarely feel guilty about it.

And I never go to synagogue, not even during the High Holidays anymore.

To me foreskin is every bit as alien a concept as "savings account" or "cold fusion". 

Looking at the way my hands move when I talk they should live in Brooklyn. Or New Jersey. (But that we're not going to say out  loud)

I kvetch (My God how I kvetch! I'm such a kvetch bitch! ) and I kvell. 

How am I not a Jew?

Wait- what is that screeching sound? Oy vey. I do believe its's the sound of my name being written in the wrong book, isn't it?

The end is nigh

During this 10-period it is customary to seek forgiveness for all of our transgressions this past year. And if you really left it this late... dude. There aren't enough hours in the day.Bashar al-Assad, are you listening? I think you just might have some explaining to do...

Since God can only forgive the sins committed against him/her, for acts committed against our fellow man we must seek forgiveness from them. 

So, here's my list. In non-specific order.

I'm sorry for not being a better friend. I should have made more time for you (let's face it- that's one thing I do have) and called more often to let you know how special you are to me. And if I did call, I'm sorry for that too as it was probably at 3am.

I'm sorry for not being a better, more patient and supportive girlfriend. I know situation right now is bad to a point of gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, mind-blowing misery. But you know what, you could give us both something nice to look forward to. So get down on one knee while you still can. After that hip-replacement surgery it'll probably be too late.

I'm sorry for not being a better daughter. Often when I see you call, I text you I'm in a library and can't talk. Obviously that's not true. As a result of my late fees I'm blacklisted in every library I've ever been to. But really, I just couldn't bear the thought of being dragged into your mess again. My friends think you'd make for a great sit-com. I think you just do my head in. Every single one of you. And if I genuinely need to start reading to avoid your drama, I will. Unless it comes out on DVD. 

I'm sorry for hanging up on all you telesales people. I just really don't need a subscription to "World of Technology" and I really can't afford to join the "new socks delivered to your doorstep each week"- club. It's kind of ironic though, as soon I'll probably have to give in and try your job myself. How's that for karma, bitch?

I'm sorry for not giving money to all you Romanian beggars on the streets. I just have a horrible feeling it would end up in the pockets of your local mafiosos. I read Daily Mail, you know. I've seen how they live. Plus, even if I did, you wouldn't use it on toothpaste anyway. And trust me, you really should.

And to all you animals: I'm sorry I'm not a vegetarian. I know the world can't sustain this much carnivores, that the meat industry is bad for the environment and that meat is murder and a fundamental breach of their right to live happily ever after, skipping and hopping in the meadows and dating a man who won't propose. But if you guys weren't meant to eaten, how come you were made out of meat? And let's face it, you do taste best when you're dead. And really, I'm a huuuge fan of animals! I regularly wear then around my neck too! And as far as endangered, exotic species go, that snakeskin clutch of mine looks a lot better in my hand than I would have looked like in that snake's belly.

And I should probably apologize to the rain forests too. My smoking causes them to be cut down and they are the lungs of the world that I have no right to casually destroy in a process of destroying my own lungs. I mean, where would those half-naked indigenous midgets go then? It's not like JCrew ships there, so we can't just leave them schlepping in the nude! And without the rain forests, where on earth would the scientists discover all those exotic plants from which to extract all those amazing things for all those wonderful products on shopping network?

Oh how I feel like a better person already!

Happy New Year!

One of the beauties about Judaism is that you get to have 2 New Years. 2 parties. 2 sets of resolutions you have no willpower to keep. And we are currently in the middle of the first one. We have just rung in year 5773 which makes me... 3794 in Jewish years. AND still single. Oy. 

This is the time for contemplation and renewal. Time to reflect on the past year, evaluate ourselves and strive to do better next year. Like learning Arabic and giving that Pilates DVD a chance (poor DVD. It's getting so much airtime it really should have its own blog) And being a better girlfriend, sister, friend and an aunt. No, we'll take that back. This year I don't want to be a better girlfriend- this year I want to be an outstanding wife!

This self-assessment is all the more poignant in the light of the 10 days we have ahead of us. Rosh Hashanah (that's new year in Hebrew. A language I find to be the sexiest out there. Go figure. Maybe that last concussion I had as a child really was one too many.) starts a 10-day period that leads to the Big One: Yom Kippur.

Tradition has it that during those 10 days God surveys all of us and takes notes. He has 3 books (those archaic things that we all had to do with before iPads and Exel spreadsheets): the book of life, the book of death an then the third one. Ones (S)he feels have succeeded in their quest to be a better man will have their names written in the good book. The ones that failed will go into the other one. But since we are fickle little creatures and (S)he has mercy and wisdom beyond imagination, most people don't neatly fit into either one of those categories. For them, there's the third book. They will be given another year to, well, get their shit together. 

At the end of those 10 days, at the service that concludes the Yom Kippur service, shofar is blown as the sign of the jury being back with the verdict and the books being closed.

So, as is customary to say: May your names be written in the good book!

Oh la la

My niece's visit was cancelled so I had the whole weekend to myself after all. Apparently "she's not been behaving". Well, I did tell you she had a bit of a reputation... What really cracks me up though is her parents' decision to punish her by not allowing her to come over. I think spending time with me might have been an even worse punishment...

And while on the subject of bad behaviour...

Poor Duchess of Cambridge. While she's busy putting her best LK Bennet nude stiletto-clad foot forward and being the prim and proper princess that she is; donning veils and visiting mosques in Asia, the French press are busy shoving their feet so deep into their throats they're putting Linda Lovelace out of business.

While I'm sure Manchester United's annual Tour of Asia routinely features antics that are a lot racier (as is to be expected of the overpaid, overgrown, overindulged children that are today's football stars), this one we could have done without.

Mrs. Middleton has, throughout her rise from the ranks of the middle class to the highest echelons of royalty, conducted herself with remarkable poise,maturity and grace. And then, the moment she spends a well-deserved private holiday on a private villa in  the remote countryside and finally lets her hair, guard (and bikini-top down)... she's caught in the lenses of the most ruthless paparazzis on the planet.

While not wishing to draw any parallels to her late mother-in-law's unfortunate fate (but erm... French paparazzis, anyone?) or mocking the country that takes great pride in their privacy laws (erm... French paparazzis getting away with a meagre fine that makes mockery of the whole system, anyone? ) this is all very, very undignified. And strange. How on earth could the camera's viewfinder even locate boobs that small? 

One of the most phenomenal inventions of the mankind has without a doubt been the internet. A wonderful medium that enables information be distributed instantly across the world allowing people everywhere to stay up-to-date. AND one that grants access to a whole lot of porn. Most of it free. So, surely there are enough boobs to keep everyone satisfied without invading the privacy someone who chooses to maker her living in a classier way? 

Though, I suppose the country that likes to parade around as the source of all the sophistication in the world would find itself baffled. Can the French think of anything more absurd that a happily married couple, enjoying intimacy with each other? No tacky mistresses, no sordid extra-marital indiscretions, no poorly hidden love children?

Zut, alors! Perhaps the French lover skills aren't all what they're cracked up to be? Perhaps with the English  there really is more than meets the eye? 

Last man standing

Andy Murray, on top of his recent tennis-related triumphs is reportedly considering serving  yet another never-before-seen surprise: that of proposing to his girlfriend of 7 years. 

Prince William finally tied the knot to her Princess last year ending 8 years of speculation during which the delightful Miss Middleton was dubbed Waity-Katie; chastised for her apparent desire to keep her life on hold for the diamond ring she hoped/ knew was in the horizon. 

Justin Timberlake, the man who had no intention of marrying, happily changed his mind and recently got engaged to Jessica Biel.

What is noteworthy (for a delusional fool such as myself, anyway) is that every single one of these couples broke up at one point until the man got his shit together and realized exactly what he was missing. So... there's hope for me yet.

But lo and behold, even Liz Jones seems to have received and offer. Though we still don't know if she said yes as The Rock Star has yet to produce a ring (Cartier one, no less) that she feel if worthy of a response.

And a little while ago  friend of mine got married to her boyfriend. A former colleague´s 9-year-wait came to an end when her boyfriend finally popped the question. Even one of my football fan friends is getting married- and those guys, blessed with the social skills of a comatose donkey, never even find a girl to talk to! This means... I'm officially the only one I know who's in a relationship and has not been proposed to. 

I know it's technically not the end of the world. But it sure feels like it. 

I mean, it's been almost 7 years! One of the many challenges Judaism poses to me is the perseverance. While they survived their 40 long years of wandering around the desert (an activity I don't even have the appropriate footwear for!) all I can wonder is: how many more years of this I'm expected to put up with?

The only way I can see myself being patient is strapped to a hospital bed with a steady flow of opiats keeping me that way. 

I know me and The Man are not in a place where we could actually plan ahead and start preparing for a move that would enable us to start our life together but he could at least propose, right? I would imagine it's one of the questions girls like being asked. Unlike "are you sure you should finish that cake?" 

At least then I'd know that he, too,  is serious about the future and wants us to have one. Together!

And in any case, having something sparkly to stare would make the wait a lot easier. And  a lot more fun..

Another line crossed

We have just gone past 100 comments. A huge thank you for everyone, especially Karoliina, who's singlehandedly responsible for about 100 of them. On behalf of the entire blogosphere I'd therefore like to award her the honour of Supertrouperübercommentatorhauptbanhofgesundheitsführer. As a token of appreciation for all her undying love and unfaltering support a set of brand new Japanese will-cut-through-even-toughest-of-aluminium-buckets steak knives is in the mail. 

Prize subject to availability.

Cannot be transferred to another person. 

Cannot be traded in for monetary compensation.

Will not affect your statutory rights.

Terms and conditions apply.

Enjoy!

Supermodels drink champagne, role models on the other hand...

One thing that never ceases to amaze me (and leave me out of breath) is how different Saturdays are for families with kids. By the time I normally wake up, still wearing the make-up from the night before and getting ready to place the order with my pizza delivery people my sister's family have got up, watched childrens's programs, had the first fight about what to wear, packed everybody in the car, been to the library, purchased the musical instruments needed for the school, replaced a missing pair of Gore Tex- trousers, had another fight about why buying a dog is not a good idea and done the weekly shop. 

And now I have my niece coming over for her first sleep-over. I'm... excited looking forward to it petrified.

She can be a bit of a handful. But she will be the one to inherit all my handbags one day, so I'd better make sure they end in a good home. 

I've taken to spending more time with my sister's family of late and that's got me thinking. Many things. Like... what kind of a person I am. My vertically challenged nature means I was never going to be a supermodel. As meant the sheer size of my cheeks (it was supposed to be puppy fat! I'm a full-grown bitch now and the cheeks are still there!) But am I cut out to be a role model either?

Seeing how my niece and nephew are closest I'll ever get to children of my own, I'd like us to get along. No, I'd loooove for them to adore me. But there's a chance I'm the one who has to do some growing up first.

If I want to be someone they can look up to, I need to sort out my life. I must find a job, cut back on drinking and stop smoking. They deserve better. I want to be there for them, should they ever feel the need to rely on me and be able to offer advice that goes beyond "only wear one animal print item at a time" or "don't forget to floss".

What am I even going to with her? I have no toys (that are suitable for under 18-year-olds), I don't know any games (that are suitable for under 18-year-olds) and I have no fancy TV channels (that are suitable for under 18-year-olds). 

Can a child really be trusted in my care for even 48 hours without emerging severely traumatized?

Aspiring to inspire

Being politically correct has never been my forte, and therefore I have no qualms about saying this: I'd rather attend a fox hunt than this job hunt of mine. Especially with a Royal Family. Any Royal Family. Wearing tweed. Oh, how I love tweed. Like this limited edition Longchamp gem of mine.

In addition to all the other things I have been focusing my attention on there are the matinés. And not just because of the price of cinema tickets these days. Yes, I'm perfectly aware of how I'm starting to sound like my Dad, but back when I was a kid you could hire George Clooney for an entire day for the price you pay to see his film these days. And far too often these days he's not even worth the investment (the last one was a Descendant from hell. Though, it was lovely watching him pretend for 90 minutes that he can act a man who can commit.)

So, in a bid to get a break from this unemployment-inflicted anxiety I took myself to see Woody Allen's latest. I've never been a huge fan of his art entirely based on him rambling on non-stop for 3,5 hours but it was either that or Julie Delpy's latest. And let's face it, even the French aren't quite French enough to fully appreciate the funniness of rounding up your craziest relatives in a dilapitated villa in the middle of the French countryside to have them all drink too much and accuse each other of being communists.

Anyway, the Woody Allen one takes place in Rome. A city we visited last year. A city I was never in a any hurry to visit and not just because of my relatively low opinion on the Italians (seriously, is crime really the only thing they're capable of organizing?!) and the Catholic Church. And once you've removed the Italians and the Catholic Church... What are you left with? Well, the very ruins the Romans left behind in Tunis, where I was living at the time. 

But while love might not be eternal, I sort of hope Rome is. It was...rather special. Though my favourite moments were the amazing charcuteries and the food markets. And Trastevere... and all its quaint little restaurants. The American-Italian couple who meets in the film had dinner at the same adorable little restaurant we discovered there!

So, while I know should be feverishly looking for a job, I'm plagued with another fever altogether: travel fever. Which my sister's collection of Conde Nast Traveller does very little to control. I can't wait to explore new places -and start planning my holiday wardrobes!!!

And when one can't acquire, one must aspire. And so, this is what I'm currently aspiring to:

1. New York
(for obvious reasons. The Fashion Week, eating my way through Lower East Side's kosher delis, shopping myself sick on 5th Avenue and finding my Jewish husband)

2. Amalfi Coast 
(just about the most beautiful place on Earth. But nothing is perfect- this is located in Italy)

3. Kenya
(well, where else am I going to wear all the clothes I've already purchased for that safari campfire!)

4. Dubrovnik
(looks divine. Should go soon though, as any original charm will be ruined by the hoardes of tourists in about 15 minutes)

5. Albania
(scores of original charm, I'm sure, yet to be destroyed by any kind of civilization. And seeing how one of the things I have yet experienced on my travels is being kidnapped, this just might be a good place for that)

6.Afghanistan
(for the sheer joy of travelling light. No bikinis needed, no clubbing gear- just throw in a burqa and a toothbrush and you're good to go!)

Desperation, depression and dominatrix-boots

I've been a busy little bee sending out applications. Number of applications so far: 50. Number of interviews having resulted from them: 2. Latest one: 3 months ago. My strategy for the next interview is desperation. I'm thinking of hand-cuffing myself into the table and begging for a job. I figured the end result can't be any less successful than my current one of showing up in outfits fancier than those of the people interviewing me. 

Really, my situation isn't any better than The Man's. Quite a lot worse, actually: I've got a lot less money coming in and even less going on in my life to distract me from the fact that I don't have anything going on in my life. And there's only so much champagne you can drink with your GBFFs as you try to D-I-S-C-O your misery away. 

He on the other hand has a trip to Texas coming up. And then a trip to China. And/ or India. And then...then he just might find an opening in his schedule for his long-suffering girlfriend.

In the meanwhile it's getting darker and colder by the day. Time to finally admit that those yellow suede shoes were just about the silliest purchase ever in the current climate (economical and weatherwise) - I only ever got to wear them twice. So, it's time to invest in a pair of something for the winter. Nothing too sensible though- I'm thinking 4 inch-heels. To really lift my spirits. I've already found the perfect pair. And seeing how my monstrously large calves make boot-shopping an absolute nightmare, I just might have to snap them up as soon as I can. Find 200€ I can spare, that is...

The way I see it I have 3 choices. I can either go into

- exile (Congo is looking better by each passing day...)

- hibernation (just a one of many lessons we could learn from the bears)

- depression (seeing how I can't really afford either one of the 2 previous ones, this just might be the only viable solution)

So, shoe-shopping it is!

Humble pie

I often get thanked for my "funny and witty writing" that makes "people laugh even at the most heart-breaking of moments". Well, I'm glad to be of service. Though...sometimes I do wonder if I make stupid choices simply to have something to write about.

I do realize that writing a blog is potentially a very self-absorbed enterprise. It's all about "me, me, me, listen to the poor old me" and I do acknowledge that (occasionally) I might come across as a truly self-indulgent bitch. And yes, occasionally I am. (Crikey. Am I now going to have to wear sticker with my name on it, sit in a circle and be greeted by a group of total strangers offering me stale coffee and dried-up donuts?)

Luckily, as far as cunning restauranteurs go, Adrian Ferra's got nothing on God. Just as one is about to over-indulge on the self-indulgence, (S)he surprises you with a generous slice of humble pie. As was the case the other night.

I know how I've been raving about the North Korea, that elusive pearl of the East. I've seen them cheer their athletes with synchronized clapping with the kind of precision that gives Germans a run for their money. I've observed them grieve the loss of their beloved, heaven-sent leader with the kind of emotional voraciousness even the best of Bollywood films fail to reproduce. I've watched the North Korean football team take on the Brazilians with such unprecedented hunger that for a moment it looked like history was about to be made.

Beneath all this sarcasm,of course,lurks a very nasty reality. Those people clap with nanosecond-precision because if they failed to impress, they'd probably be shot. They produce those emotional outbursts not out of genuine, heart-breaking loss but out of fear. If they're not deemed credible enough, they'd be sent to a prison camp. And that North Korean team... The thing that was driving them was probably just that: hunger. Literally. As in will scout rubbish bins and will eat your  pet-sort of way. 

North Korea is far bigger mystery that The Man's murky psyche. And a far more sinister one too, seeing they have something he doesn't. No, not the proven ability to a life-long commitment, but The Bomb. And as a result they get away with the most heinous human rights violations imaginable. They don't even have oil, which makes it very undesirable target for the humanitarian interveners.

The other night I met the only man who's ever managed to escape from one of North Korea's notorious labour camps. North Korea vehemently denies their existence. Google Earth on the other hand has satellite pictures out there for the whole world to see. Born into a life of slavery, torture and systematic abuse he survived and mustered the courage to escape. Now he's slowly rebuilding his life and humanity in a world the existence of which he had no idea until 7 years ago. How a person finds the kind of inner strength needed for overcoming that kind of circumstances is beyond me. 

Then, later that night I watched Flight 93, where one of the planes hijacked by the 9/11 terrorists is taken over by the passengers and staff on that plane- risking their own lives but saving the lives of countless others. The bravery of those individuals is every bit as unfathomable.

Yes, we can bicker and back-stab and bad-mouth. We're good at scheming, screwing over and selling out. But we people have the capacity to do so much good. We have powers that we could afford to put to use in a much more constructive and productive way. 

So, how about we do just that. How about we all stand up and say: NO MORE. 

Mazel tov!

We've just gone past 6000 hits! (it was probably all that porn that made it happen...) Thank you! Pat yourselves on the shoulder and allow yourselves another piece of that chocolate cake! xxx

For the love of the game

Some say football is matter of life and death. Bill Shankly said it was more than that. Ok, let this be known as the first time when anything by anyone in anyway associated with Liverpool FC has had any real significance. 

No, that's not entirely true. As much as my team hates theirs I have to admit that the Champions League final in Istanbul was nothing short of phenomenal. As much as it kills me to say this (this is one of the reasons this blog is anonymous- my own lot would slaughter me for ever admitting this), they deserved to win. And I'm glad they did.

Hell, I once even tried to date a Liverpool fan! And my current is a City fan! Huntington could have written his book on the clash of civilizations about me! I clearly love a good class war!

You can say what you want but football is simply... magical. And no, it's not because they don't wear helmets and you can actually see their hair (Just look at Ji Sun Park). Or because occasionally they strip off their jerseys (these days most of them are overpaid primadonnas that are willing to strip off much more than that. Usually in the company of fame-hungry  kiss and tell- sluts desperate to do anything for their 15 minutes. That's how News of the World survived as long as it did)

While my female friends have managed to find a husband , a mortgage and kids I have ended up with an impressive collection of football jerseys and about 30 drunken football fans for friends. Apparently (in certain primitive cultures) being able to explain the offside rule makes you extremely desirable. A prerequisite I follow to a T (And occasionally to the G that comes before the T).

I'd like to think football merely provides me a socially acceptable outlet for being loud and obnoxious. 

Yes, there have been many wasted weekends. The operative word over here being wasted. That is the one reason why I could never be a Shabbat observing Jew. The English Premiership games always fall on Saturdays. Well, the good ones, anyway.  

My sole contribution for the upbringing of my niece and nephew has been the football jerseys and caps I bought for them the moment they were born. And today, at the ripe old ages of 5 and 9 ,they both play football.  (And support Barcelona FC).

But football is nothing if not magical. It has succeeded where religions and UN have failed. Every 4 years the entire world puts their differences aside and come together and for 90 minutes we all speak the same language. "Goaaaaaaaaaaaaaal!" 

Though, more often than that: "the referee's a wanker". 

And in England...every single time: "we were robbed".