Balls of fire

Men are strange. Well, their relationship with their private parts specifically is strange. Apparently men these days are queuing up to have surgery to get bigger balls. Literally. Why? Why do they care? It's not like they're continuously out there for everyone to see, you know, like boobs. And even in the situations when they do make an appearance... do women really care? Really?

We're really just bothered about the actual star. Balls are like.. the trailers of bad (well, are there any other kind?) Jean Claude van Damme films you have to suffer through before the romantic comedy featuring Hugh Grant. (BTW, have you noticed how he seems to recycle the same wardrobe in every single one of his films?). Really, that's how little we care.

They're not even particularly pretty. Of all the men I've had intimate moments with I've never really established any kind of meaningful relationship with their scrotum. Unlike their schmeckies, I could not identify their testicles in a line-up.

Yet (and without a doubt a direct result of my dry spell that shows no signs of ending) I keep seeing them everywhere. My brother works in the army and one night we got talking about hand grenades. We were probably talking about some kind of a devastating incident that had claimed innocent human lives but all I could think about how hand grenade looks like scrotum. 

Someone I know had a pet turtle. In my eyes it just looked like a massive scrotum.

I decided to up my Omega fatty acid intake (apparently it's good for your hair) and went to the health shop to buy some walnuts. And, as the name, too, suggests, they just looked like scrotums. I decided to do without.

Not sure how much longer I can do without the real deal though...

Abstaining

I'm late. I don't even bother to keep track how much late. It's not like I'm pregnant anyway...

Now that I'm not having sex I don't need to freak out about that kind of things. And my nerves are not the only thing I'm saving.

I don't need to shave regularly- just think how much time I'm saving! And money- seeing how the cost of blades has skyrocketed. I'm sure even cocaine is cheaper.

And since I don't even bother leaving the house most days I don't even shower as much as I used to. So, that saves time and natural resources! As does not having to as much laundry as I did back when I still wanted to look pretty for someone and didn't live in PJs. (OK, I admit, that does sound a bit gross.)

I've also stopped buying nice lingerie to surprise that special someone with, so again I'm saving time and money. 

I only have my highlights done every 8-10 weeks which, again, saves time and money.

I'm not on the Pill which saves money. 

And what do I do with all this time and money I'm saving by not having sex? Netflix. I signed up for a month's free trial and have, for the next 26 days officially no reason to leave my flat. I just sit there, glued to the laptop screen, determined to make the most of the offer.

I'm a bit slow, but I've finally (about 4 years after the rest of the world) discovered How I Met Your Mother. Hilarious. But that, combined with Friends, Gossip Girl and the likes are, with their unrealistic portrayals of life, doing my head in.

How can people be unemployed and yet be able to afford living in sprawling loft conversions? Still be able to afford going out every night? And most importantly, how come they never seem to have hangover? 

How come these people have time to hang out with their friends all the time? And even at 16, be so wordly and knowledgeable and free to live their lives without any kind of parental or financial restrictions? And why exactly are we expected to find 30-year-old actors playing 16-year-olds credible?

I'm not too impressed with my own life. But I'm even less impressed with this.

Daylight savings

I hate Ally McBeal. I hate her pretentious pouting and desperate, pathetic attempts to ooze sexiness. I hate her flat, mousy hair. I even hate those mid-90's business suits. I hate how completely lost and neurotic she is. And I hate her need to turn everything into larger-than-life-drama. But... remember when she was seeing that homeless guy? How she was consumed with some kind of weird misguided desire to change his life around? That bizarre need to see something in him that wasn't there?

I was on my way home the other night from yet another night out at the Bollywood bar. I decided not to grant custody to the Lewd Old Man With The Dog. I stopped at the 24/7 petrol station and got some tea. After that I found myself at the tram stop, smoking, waiting for The Homeless Man to appear. What a saddo am I? He never showed up.

It was one of those perfect, crisp late autumn nights. I just sat there and decided to take a moment to enjoy it. It was so quiet and you could actually hear the leaves falling from the trees and dancing in the breeze. The streets were covered with a thick layer of golden leaves that just begged for a joyous run through them, sending them to fly all over. (Oh my God. I'm starting to sound like Nigella. I hate the way she waxes lyrical about "delightfully golden flecks scattered on billowy creaminess". Wow.There doesn't seem to much on TV I wouldn't hate.) 

The following morning I woke up to see white everywhere. The streets were covered with the first snow. And we've turned clocks back an hour and moved to the winter time. Great. Yet another reason to get depressed over.

Tower of Power

Even if all else fails I have someone who refuses to give up on me. To a point that I'm not sure even court order would stop her. Gabrielle, the psychic. My indefatigable sidekick.

She's been sending me messages- having sensed that I'm in a need of a boost. One she'd be happy to give. For 5 €. But her latest one has left me a bit uneasy. She's done another reading. Remember, I've never asked for one. I've never paid for one. But even that isn't enough to stop her.

She sees me wrapped in black cloud. And apparently in some sort of a tower. (I'm in bed. Wrapped in a jumper.) 

The astral powers, you see,  are angry with me (erm...anything to do with the fact that I've refused to take up on her offers?). According to her and her trusty cards I'm in danger and should avoid making any important decisions until 6.30 today. Only... 6.30 am? Or 6.30 pm?

Today is The Man's birthday. In a bid to ignore the whole thing and keep me as far from computers and phones as possible I've decided to keep myself busy all day. By voting, going to movies, seeing friends, watching football and attending a drag bingo. But what exactly constitutes an important decision? Because of clashing schedules I will have to choose between football and drag bingo. What happens if I'll don a tiara and join all my gay friends? Will the astral wrath make Chelsea win? Can't take that chance. But what happens if I'll go see the game? Something worse than missing out of the bitchiness of the bingo host(ess) called Turkey (with the same warped political correctness as his/her namesake country?)

And whose time zone are we talking about? My 6.30 pm? Hers? Or the Kenyan 6.30 pm? 

But apparently in just 2 days I'll meet someone who will allow me to solve a problem I've been dealing with for a long time. So, watch this space..!

Another one bites the dust

This might come as a surprise, but there was a time when my social life didn't revolve around characters on Bravo's reality shows. I used to have friends. Real, 3D ones. Quite a few, actually.

I lost all my girlfriends to the Bermuda triangle of marriage, children and mortgages. But I still had my tripod: an unholy trinity of my two closest guy friends. We'd get together and put the world to right. There wasn't anything we couldn't talk about. There wasn't anything we agreed on. Our verbal Wimbledon was impossible for anyone else to follow. I loved us.

Then one of them slept with the other one's ex-girlfriend. Even I'm familiar enough with the BroDe (Geddit? Bro+code!) of Honour to know you just don't do that. So that was the end of that one.

Now I've had to share the custody of them. One on Friday and the other one on Saturday. Every other Wednesday and major holidays. We've yet to reach a settlement on the Premiership games. 

I met the other one a couple of days ago. Completely out of the blue he told me he and his girlfriend are adding to the family. They've been living together for a while now but I was still surprised to see the nesting had gone that far. "Dog or a cat?" I asked. An awkward silence ensued. And it sunk in. They're having a baby. I've just lost another one. 

I didn't even know they were trying. According to him guys don't really talk about that kind of things. And apparently that's not the only thing guys don't talk about... I knew he was serious about the girlfriend, so for a while now I've been pestering him into proposing to her. He on the other hand "doesn't see the point of marriage". Oh, where have we heard those words before!

But now he revealed that he already has. 4 months into the relationship. Like, almost 2 years ago. I was baffled. "But you've never been bothered about marriage!" I said. "I knew you wanted kids one day but you never wanted to marry!" And before he could see the ambush he was walking into he just smiled. "She just ticked all the boxes. Crossed all the T's. Dotted all the I's."

A man who, even in his 40s, doesn't believe in marriage can be convinced into the exact opposite in just 4 months. Simply because "she's the one." 

All this time I've been waiting for something. Something to help me move on; to make me stop hoping that one day The Man will stand at  my door, having finally changed his mind. I think I've finally got that something. 

That's not going to happen. He's not going to come. I just didn't tick his boxes. I just really wasn't the one.

We are family

I just returned home having spent 5 days at my sister's. She lives in a town 6 hours on a train to north. People there actually have to wear ugly, practical clothes made of Gore Tex just to keep safe from the elements. My equestrian chic outerwear just looked pathetic there. Without a horse in tow, anyway. Next time (should there ever be one), I'm bringing a horse.

By the time I got there I had made two new friends on the train. One was Moroccan and the other one from Cameroon. They couldn't get over how "atypical for my countrymen" I was. It's something I've heard before and I guess it's right as according to my sister it was a grave violation of cardinal rules. Her survival guide in life is very much like travelling on New York subway: don't talk to anyone, don't make eye-contact.

She's my little sister but acts as if she were my Mum. Then again- she does have the goods to back it up. She's the responsible one, the one with her life sorted out. She has a steady job she was trained for. She has a pension plan. She owns her flat. She even does Pilates!

She's a very particular type, my sister. None of the mushy emotional mess that I specialize in life. Think of Charles Manson. The early years.

Her ultimate Christmas movie is Die Hard. Any Die Hard. Which literally kicks my Love Actually's arse. But in those 5 days I didn't cry, not once. And I didn't talk to The Man's picture. Probably because I was too scared of what she would do to me if I did. But the moment we said goodbye at the train station the tears came. 

It was nice to have someone around, even if for just a couple of days. I look at the people going through the most mundane of motions: shopping for groceries, driving in their car and I can't help but feel envy. I stand outside in the cold having a cigarette and watch the daily life playing out through the neighbours' softly lit windows and I feel so empty inside (no, I'm not stalking! My sister won't let me smoke at the balcony!) They all have homes to go to. Yes, I know I have the overpriced shoebox I rent but that's just a flat. They have homes, full of life; full of love.

I don't know if I can face a life alone. Has the time come for me to get a cat?

Game is on

Bringing the A-game. Stepping up the game. Putting the game face on. Those are just few of the statements continuously made on the camera by the idiot contestants in fake overly  enthusiastic manner that would be so totally inappropriate anywhere outside the American reality TV.

Yet, I find myself in need of a similar approach. I'm still out of work. Still without interviews. I'm running out of money and strategies. So, perhaps those island survivors and fat campers are as good mentors as any..?

Yes, job hunt is every bit as hard work as the fox hunt. Both suckers are equally elusive. Though apparently the appropriate attire for the former is not tweed- it's PJs. What a bore... But it seems to be time to bring out the big guns, nonetheless.

It's been a week since the application closing date for that dream job as a campaign assistant at my favourite NGO. The woman in charge of the recruitment process is someone whom I've sent an open application before and she said she was impressed. I've volunteered for this organization for years. I've done research and written articles on issues relevant to them for free. Lately I've started asking people I know there about jobs-you know, to let them know I'm interested (my very wobbly attempt at networking). I've signed up for a 2-day course on campaign planning and lobbying. In a bid to prove that "social media is a natural working environment" for me I've even  opened a Twitter account. Though without a smart phone with internet connection that too is pretty pointless... (my previous one out-smarted me).

And I still haven't heard anything. I don't know what more to do to make a more desirable candidate. My Job Centre hasn't been much help either. The branch that I deal with is specialized in academically trained unemployed. They should be able to help me find a job that is suitable for my qualifications and previous experience. So far they've offered me one job: as Santa's secretary. Yep, true story. This is what they think I'm good for. Christ. 

And the thing with NGO jobs is that the circles are so small. Even my own country is full of people who speak 5 languages, have the right qualifications, contacts and experience from years of volunteering and internships from places like UN. And we're all battling for the same jobs. Even for this particular job I'm fairly certain at least 3 people I know have applied for the job. Two of them are currently doing some kind of an internship there and so have one foot in through the door already.

I need a job. I want that job. 

Lucy in the sky with diamonds

The scientists have finally used their fancy degrees and exorbitant research funding for something useful: they have discovered a new planet. Ok, I am swiftly running out of things to write about but that alone wouldn't get me this giddy about astrophysics. But this planet is MADE OUT OF DIAMONDS!

How fabulous is that? Practically endless supply of bling! No need to worry about the ethical concerns such as the conditions in those mines, child labour, blood diamonds used to pay for war-fare and human rights violations of massive scale!

Now if only I could find someone to propose to me...

I was, in fact,  a while back proposed to by a Cameroonian man. It was in a sports bar, so I'm not sure how serious it was. Travelling in Arab countries I (and every single Western woman) have become used to being made all sorts of propositions, usually involving a hefty number of camels. So, naturally I was curious to find out what my current going rate is in that part of the world. In Arab world the widely quoted rate is 30 000 camels. The Cameroonian said I would be treated like a Queen. I would even get to live with his mum. 

Ah. Now there's an arrangement I could do without in my next relationship... And as for the  going rate in the local livestockmarket? He promised me 4 cows. I have to say I wasn't too impressed. 

I know beggars can't be choosers but I think I'd rather stick to diamonds...? 

Electile dysfunction

An annual "night of the homeless is coming up". The point is to raise awareness about the plight of the homeless and to show people that the problem is real and out there. Politicians swarm among the crowds making promises that according to The Homeless Man are as pointless as that proverbial chocolate teapot.

The municipal elections are just around the corner which means even more politicians and  even more promises. How does one then choose one candidate to have faith in?

They all want to improve the public transport, quality of life, safety, peaceful coexistence between different cultures and religions and access to health care. 

And the things is... it's municipal elections. What real power do they even have? And if they all were after the same things- how come those issues haven't been put to right yet?

Do I vote for someone I know? Or someone someone I know is campaigning for? Or do I continue voting for the most dateable-looking people, in their smart, well-cut suits? I like conservatives. And they believe in marriage. When they're not busy being spanked by dominatrixes, anyway. Ah, the heyday of English politics in the late 80's... When a week was  considered scandalous if an MP was not found dressed in women's lingerie, strangled with stockings?

Part of me is tempted to make a drastic departure from my previous electoral behaviour and vote for one of those communists. There are always the token few, their bushy bearded faces plastered on low-budget posters. Now, I understand the need to have ideals and hang onto them year after year, but would it hurt to pay some attention on the habitus? They all look like they haven't showered since the fall of the Soviet! Have they been in mourning since? Be a communist if you must- just don't be ugly. Nobody likes an unkempt slob.

That's one of the issues I really struggle with in Israel. In their political sphere my views are considered extreme left. Me! With my disparaging remarks about communists! Me! With my love of high-end accessories!

Though, apparently I fall into a very particular category; one whose electoral behaviour can be predicted with the precision of Swiss time piece. Women my age, my educational level and my neighbourhood vote for a Green party, gay, female candidate of immigrant background.

And what do you know: I'm down to 2 candidates. The other one ticks 2 of the 4 boxes, the other one 3. Both green, both immigrants. The other one though writes politically inccorrect cartoons.  And that just might be the way to my heart- and the ballot box.

No place like home

I have previously shared one of my more peculiar hobbies: force-feeding the homeless drunks of my neighbourhood.

Lately I've been running into one particular one. One night I'd actually already gone home, but went out again in search for him. He refuses to accept a free meal, he never tries to bum a cigarette off me. Over endless cups of tea and coffee and numerous cigarettes we talk about politics, dumb people and football. He's knowledgeable and articulate. And obnoxiously sarcastic.

At the end of the night I go back home and he... I don't know where he goes. I'd like to write about him. I think it just might be the kind of piece I'd even manage to sell. None of those "this is the face of homelessness" reportages, but his story. And not just because I'd like to know it. But I do. I  really want to know how he ended up like that. 

He isn't too keen. But I'm hoping to wear him down one day. (My chosen strategy with men everywhere...)

I hate myself for saying this but he just seems... too good for that kind of life. He could do better. He should do better. 

Encounters like that really make you question stuff. Some years ago I read that most Americans are 2 paychecks away from homelessness. That's how close. I don't even have a paycheck.

So... how far  am I from ending up like that? What does it take? Not finding a job, not having enough money coming in, not being able to keep up with the rent, not having a job to wake up to, having nothing to give life some structure, finding booze just a little too comforting... Perhaps none of us are too good or that kind of life? Perhaps that could happen to all of us?

My place might be small and cost more than I can afford. Technically it's not even mine. But at least I have a place to go to. To store all my shoes and bags in. Somewhere warm and dry to sleep in. Somewhere I don't need to worry about being assaulted, mugged or raped.

And that's how I want to keep it. 

Ne me quitte pas

We had a meeting about the Jacques Brel DVD we plan to get out in time for Christmas/ Hanukkah/ Kwanzaa shopping season. The guy is one of the most popular actors in the country so it's actually pretty cool- hanging out with stars again.

I'll be in charge of the photography (I'd better learn to operate that fancy camera The Man got me for Hanukkah 2 years ago...) and the interviews. Been doing some research into Monsieur Brel and am feeling a bit defeated.

Now, I love all things French (except the people). To me French culture is light, sparkly, frilly... basically a frivolous quest for joie de vivre. Not Brel's France. His France shows the other, uglier side of the country that takes such great pride in its finesse. His songs tell the story of sailors, prostitutes, drunks, unemployed, vagrants... A far cry from my world of macarons and afternoon champagne.

The songs are raw. Brutal even. And on more that one occasion soul-wrenchingly emotional. Exactly what I should NOT be listening to right now...

Culture and country pursuits

Another day as a movie extra under my belt. This time I was one of the PM's minions. The house was magnificent and had The Man written all over it. That, and "CCTV in operation".

I was asked for another scene later this year- this time in my most glamorous evening wear. Count me in- I finally get to break in that Grecian maxi dress as seen on Samantha Cameron!  Or this black beauty from Zara?

Accessorized with my Swarowski "Bella" earrings as seen on Carrie Bradshaw!

It's such a bizarre experience though: getting dressed up ( in your own clothes) in order to play someone (you used to be). 

Then I spent another day at the manor, this time looking every bit the part, dressed in my  new chic country pursuits wardrobe. We were filming a segment of the city that played the host with the most for the festival dedicated for the rock band we're making that documentary of. I wrote the script but what I didn't expect was finding myself on the camera. 

We did 2 versions, one in our native language and one in English as the DVD is going to be distributed and sold globally. Turned out in English I'm animated, witty, funny even. In my own...not so much. I am as engaging as a loaf of moldy bread. 

The director seemed pleased with the results though, but this is the same guy who only a week ago professed his love for me... He got talking about the next project so at the end of the day I found myself invited to an intimate club gig of a band performing Jacques Brel's music.

I only had time to quickly get changed. I had no idea what to wear, but I figured in an all-black ensemble I might pass for an intellectual, cultured individual. And I suppose I did. But I sure as hell didn't feel like one. Even after the token red wine (because that's what intellectual, cultured individuals dressed in black do at intimate club gigs like that).

Turned out there's a chance culture for me is just an excuse to eat in fancy restaurants and get all dolled up so I can slag everybody else off...

One size does not fit all

A survey has shown that apparently the size does matter after all. I'm sure that the funds allocated for this study that could have been used to find a cure for cancer were well spent, because... yeah, because why exactly? Did somebody ever believe anything else? This blog sure didn't.

Apparently men are also increasingly worried about not measuring up down there. As they should, I say. That's nothing compared to the scrutiny women everywhere are subjected to. The size of our boobs, bums, thighs, noses, legs, bellies... all that seems to be public property and open for everyone's criticism.

Karl Lagerfeld's for one. 

The man is a genius and I love what he did with Chanel. But let's face it- the man has social skills of a yeast infection. The skinnier he gets, the more obnoxious he gets. He should just keep his mouth shut and stick to throwing enticing looks from behind those plasma screen TV-sized sun glasses of his into the direction of 20-something male prostitutes. And anyway- how come he's still even around? Has he been embalmed alive? I mean, how old is he? Surely in 3-digits? Maybe it's all down to senility?

Or maybe it's the accent? Maybe in that Austro-German accent it's impossible to get anything right? Just imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger lecturing on quantum physics. You just couldn't take it seriously.

Road to hell is paved with good intentions

I know an essential part of this letting go business I'm supposed to be break into is coming to terms with the fact that The Man's well-being is no longer my responsibility; that it's not my job to try to make him see the light. But it's just one of the many businesses I don't have the nose for... 

And speaking of noses- I hate mine. I am probably the only girl in the world dreaming of rhinoplasty in order to acquire a more Semitic-looking nose. 

So far I haven't ordered that DVD. I figured even he isn't stupid enough to not realize it was me who did it. That I've found yet another way to nag him about getting his priorities straight. I'm relying on my sister to talk some sense into me, so I'll be spending the weekend at her's. She should knock some sense into me. Though, even she admitted that she still secretly wishes we'd get back together. But has no immediate plans to start brokering another truce. That I know of.

Gabrielle the psychic has been quiet for a couple of days now. I have, however, been contacted by Julie who has sensed I need help and Tara, who is convinced that "her unrivaled superpowers" (again, her words, not mine) are just what I need right now. I feel so privileged, having all these people genuinely concerned about me my credit card. I know now how Hugh Hefner must feel like.

I have decided to get through this without an army of psychics. Though I'm not sure what to make of my dreams these days. Maybe someone somewhere is trying to get me through this through my dreams? After that very upsetting one where The Man was making those lofty promises I had another very real one.

This time I was somewhere in Africa. I lived there, but have no idea why. Anyway, I found myself on a ranch of some sort in the company of a guy who owned it. He was Caucasian with dark hair, that much I think I remember. And he spoke English. After having spent some time together he just wouldn't let me leave. Not in a threatening, "gagged, bound and locked in a cupboard"- sort of way, but in a "now that I've found you I'm not going to let you slip away"- sort of way. Which felt nice. It was...refreshing to have someone else be so sure they wanted to be with me.

And even nicer was the frisson that was so tangible between us. Oh, which reminds me of something else: he had a very nice, toned torso...

If only I could remember what his accent was like I'd know which plane to board. I have a sneaky suspicion it might have been South African. I'm not thrilled about that: to me Australians sound like retarded Brits and South Africans take it even further- they sound like retarded Australians! 

Though... the dream did provide me with plenty of moments to get thrilled about...! I wonder what's to come. Will I get that internship in Kenya? Or will I win the first prize (flights to Africa) in the competition I found in my inbox the following morning? Or am I just really losing it by reading too much into these dreams...?

Buckets and buckets of lists

Well, turned out my resolve is very much like Nicholas Sarkozy. Occasionally convincing, but always short. I know I made all these bold statements how I don't have enough maturity and wisdom for the both of us... but that was before The Bucket List.

It's a film I watched the other night. It's essentially about two old men who befriend each other at cancer ward, their diagnosis having reminded them of life's fragility. Staring death in the face they decide to finally fulfill their dreams; do all those things they always wanted to. The fact that one of them is a multi-millioner does help. Especially with minor details such as chartering a private jet from Paris to Tanzania. On a whim. 

We all remember my bucket list. Short, but to the point. And one of the two things still missing is a husband.

I cried my eyes out- not that I need an excuse for that these days. Wailing seems to be the staple around which the rest of the daily activities are planned. And then it hit me: this is the sort of film The Man should see. These are the lessons he should learn, preferably before he has his first heart-attack which in all likelihood will finally force him to re-evaluate his life (I am the Queen of positive thinking...) 

Mind you- I've already forked out a significant lump of money to have somebody push him out of a plane. And often I was grateful that the parachute did open. 

And I have surprised him with once-in-a-lifetime chance to see The Who. 

In the aftermath of my friend's death, I've been more concerned about the shelf life of our existence than he has. And he is the one 20 years closer the expiration date! 

So...what if I order him a copy on Amazon? If I do it it now, it will arrive on time for his birthday. And if I order it anonymously, as a gift,  he'll never know it was me! Right?

Don't dream it's over

I got chatting with the chef who's been outrageously flirty over the past years, the one who invited me to his place in Spain. Even he has found a girlfriend. They're blissfully happy apparently, "talking, spending time and making love all the time", so now we "can just be friends". Oh. Ok then. And as a friend he feels he needs to share some home truths about The Man.

According to him The Man never really loved me or respected me- that became evident as he observed us together. I find his comments a bit rich, considering how he never particularly respected my love for The Man. What I don't understand though is why he'd feel the need to say that kind of things now that we're no longer together and he's not even trying to get in my knickers.

I probably shouldn't put too much weight on his opinions but they still hurt. I had a dream afterwards where I, driving with my parents, spotted The Man on the street, talking on the phone. I don't remember if he saw me in the car (and in other words, was aware of us being in the same city) but in the dream he called me and kept making lackluster excuses as to why we couldn't see each other but telling how maybe in a few weeks he might have time. I woke up feeling so inconsolable. 

Even my own dreams are taking the piss. Even after the break-up The Man's still keeping me at arms  length.

The morning after the psychic had been in touch again, informing me that the night before I had entered a new cycle in my life. What exactly, I'd like to know. One of more misery? More despair? I sure feel like I've been through apocalypse... Of course she's more than willing to tell me exactly how to avoid  making bad decisions during this new era, provided a reasonable contribution is made.

A reinvention might be in order though. Don't worry, I have no intention of pulling a full-blown Madonna though (that would drive the local bars and pizza places into bankruptcy), but some adjustments are in order- not least because of a new hidden camera show called Taxi. They basically film ordinary people (inevitably displaying variety of degrees of drunkenness) and put them on TV. Considering my average weekly taxi (and alcohol) consumption what are the chances of me not ending on one of those episodes?

Weekends are the worst. I still keep dreaming that on the way back from Asia he'll have that stop over in my country and he'll come and see me.  

What is the definition of being over someone? Not hurting anymore? Being ready to give someone else a chance? Knowing that you wouldn't take the other person back in a heartbeat,  should that even become an option? In that case, I'm nowhere near it. I love The Man. And want to keep loving him for the rest of my life...

No woman, no cry

It's so unfair. Dogs are being put down because of hip problems, but people with major character flaws are free to roam the streets and procreate. And in some cases, run the country.

Has anyone ever heard anything good about Saudi Arabia? They want to ban women from competing in Olympics- the celebration of freedom and equality. Their solution to women wanting to work is building separate cities where to banish the women. They refuse to publish pictures of women in their Ikea catalogue. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but surely a family where a trendy, Swedish-looking man, left alone to look after the (donor-inseminated? Surrogate-born?) kids is more conspicuous than a family with a Mum in it? 

Now Saudi academics (with impeccable credentials, I'm sure...) have published a report according to which allowing women to drive would mean increase in pornography, homosexuality and ultimately lead to extinction of virgins. Having trained academically myself I'm curious as to where they base these hypotheses on? Where exactly did they conduct the research that would allow them to go public with findings as absurd like that?

SERIOUSLY. What is wrong with these people? Why do they hate women so much? 

Here's a novel idea: if the sight of women working, walking freely, driving- well, basically the sight of women altogether, even when wrapped in enough fabric to cover Kirstie Alley (before the the weight loss), is too much for these men... How about we take about 2 inch-strip of that same fabric and cover their eyes instead? Saves a lot of fabric (leaving more for Kirsty after she ends up putting it all on again) and hassle!

52 shades of grey

The Man's birthday is coming up. In 2 weeks. I wonder what goes on in his head as he faces yet another reminder of death being yet another year closer?

As he looks back on the past year and all those 51 years before that I wonder what he thinks. Is he happy with the decisions he's made? The sacrifices he's had to make to get to where he is? Were they all worth it? If he had the chance to do it all over again- are those the ones he'd still  make today?

When he gets ready to celebrate this milestone with no-one but his mother to keep him company, is this how he envisaged it? That as a result of the life he chose he now has no-one to share it with?

He's not getting any younger. Or prettier. Or fitter. Or easier. 

His waistline is just going to keep expanding; his hair line receding. What ever is left of his hair is turning from grey to white.

He's looking at retirement. Prostate problems. Erectile dysfunction. Memory loss. High blood pressure. Cholesterol. Blocked arteries. Coronaries. Hip replacements. Cataracts. 

He's going to end up as one of those old men in their nude socks, orthopedic shoes, ill-fitting elasticated polyester trousers in taupe- pushing that Zimmer frame around and always smelling of pee.

I on the other hand will dress head to toe in leopard print and find myself a toy boy.

I sure hope it was worth it. I really love(d) him. Fully aware of the fact that that 19-year age difference was going to start to show not very far from now, requiring me to make the  very undignified transition from lover to an unpaid geriatric nurse. But I was willing to take it all on. As long as we'd make the most of the good years still ahead. 

But I don't have enough wisdom and maturity for the both of us. And if, after over a half a century he still doesn't know any better- his choice. 

Years they keep rolling

Next month would have marked our 7-year-anniversary. And here we are, with that clichéd 7-year-itch that no ointment could cure...

And my nephew - my beautiful, adorable, sweet, cuddly nephew just turned 6 years old. How that is even possible is beyond me. Where the hell did all those years go? Time just flies when you're waiting around for a proposal... For the first time in his whole life I'm faced with the daunting task of signing that birthday card all by myself.

How long before he grows out of the adorable, sweet and cuddly 6-year-old and becomes moody, loud and obnoxious 16-year-old? I soooo want to cherish the time before that happens. All my siblings are getting together in a couple of weeks for his birthday celebrations. And that, of course, is just another convenient excuse to do some shopping!

I decided to go for outdoorsy and active, but in a chic, country pursuits sort of way. With just the faintest hint of equestrian. So this is what I bought.

                                           

I'm going to combine it with skinny jeans and flat brown knee-length boots, Mulberry scarf and my Longchamp hobo bag. (The only occasion where I'd ever voluntarily be associated with a hobo, I'll tell you.)

             

Bearing in mind how my sister affectionately calls their neighbourhood "a slum", I just hope the neighbours appreciate my efforts to instill some class into their lives... 

Jesus Christ Dating Superstar

The scientists have discovered a papyrus that suggests Jesus was married. So far the Christian church has been adamant that he was single.

People, please! This was over 2000 years ago! The man was Jewish! He was in his 30s! Of course he was married! No Yiddishe  mama would have her son still single in his 30s. She would have set up JDate.com herself  if needed to find him a match.

Just imagine the nagging in that household...

"Jesus, our people did not wander around the desert for 40 years so you could do this to me! Settle down and give me some grandchildren already! Mrs Goldstein down the road wants to set you up with her son but I told her- my son's no feygele!"

And let's face it- he was sort of hot. If you're into that whole mid 90's grunge look. 

He would have had girls chasing him down the street! And with his skills he would have been quite a catch. Just imagine- never running out of Chardonnay ever again! Cutting back on the household bills with his way of making those loaves and fish stretch the extra mile! All the money you'd save on travel- by being able to walk from one continent to another! And considering what those magic fingers can do in the morgue... just imagine what they can do in the bedroom...!

Dress code of conduct

I had the first film shoot. Whole lot of old people. And people who looked like psych ward out-patients. But then again- what kind of people have 3 hours to spare in the middle of the day? It's something I've noticed over and over again as I'm trying to run errands these days. The shops, the post office, the banks... All awash with weirdos. And to make matters worse- now I'm officially one of those losers. Yet another reason to find a job and get off the streets! Fingers crossed- a job has just opened at my favourite NGO that I've been volunteering in for years... AND their office is located 2 minutes from where I live- is that perfect or what?

The dress code for the shoot was business attire. And what did I see? Crumpled shirts paired with ill-fitting miniskirts. Greasy hair paired with Converses. 

And my- those old people cough a lot. And those outpatients smell even worse than the old people. I was sat next to a fat guy who refused to remove his fleece jacket and smelled of shit. No, seriously. Yes, poo. Feces. Excrement. 

The shoot (along with all those trips to the opera) just confirmed my belief: The world needs dress codes- even with one people consistently get it soooo wrong. Maybe that's where my fascination with period drama lies- back then people still adhered to that kind of rules. I'm thinking of quitting culture simply because I don't think I can take another evening of watching those people. What kind of people think scruffy jeans and trainers are the suitable attire for night at the opera? Or a shopper tote the acceptable accessory?

People these days just don't know how to dress. Or... is it that they just can't be arsed? I don't get that- it's sooooooooooooooooo much fun! 

Believe it or not

Belief is a peculiar thing. It's essentially about putting your faith in something that has not, and in many cases, cannot be proven. I believe in God. Which is nothing compared to the fact that in 80's we all believed George Michael was straight. These days we're expected to believe that the kids being passed as Michael Jacksons's really are his- despite the obvious fact that they're of different race. Hell, R. Kelly believes he can fly!

I believed in us. I genuinely thought we were a great match; that we had what it takes to make it. But I believe in marriage. I believe it can be done. I believe I'd make a good wife.

And now I have to believe I made the right choice by walking away from The Man. And it's not easy. Sometimes I google him, just to see his name. The sight of those familiar letters fills my heart with tenderness and my eyes with tears.

Every day is a struggle. Even before I open my eyes in the morning I feel like I've been hit in the head with a sledgehammer as the full extent of the hurt starts to dawn on me. Every day I have to fight the temptation to email him, to tell him exactly how much I miss him; just how dreadfully much I love him. So far I have managed to resist the urge. It's very much like overcoming alcoholism- one day at a time. 

I have to believe. I have to believe that I have made it known what it is that I want and need and what it is that I can offer. And if he ever has a change of heart (after he's first acquired a heart), he knows where to find me. And the words (all 4 of them) needed to win me over.

I have to believe in myself. I have to believe I'm worth the Grand Gesture. 

Not working out

So, the job hunt continues. The applications numbers 58-65 have just been sent out. A government agency I've been trying to find a job for ages with is looking to hire loads of people so fingers crossed. I even gave in and applied for one that isn't located in my city. Which would  mean dreaded relocation to the other end of the country. Not thrilled about that prospect, but that's how determined I am to find a job. 

I need something to get out of the bed for. In need of a better excuse I signed up as an extra in a film. As an added bonus it's about a prime minister which means I get to wear business suits and at least look like a respectable member of society. I was also asked to participate on another, smaller scene. Which got me thinking...

If camera adds 10 pounds... I better lose 20 before that. I was even thinking about giving  that Pilates a go, but the enthusiasm (once again) wore off (not so) surprisingly swiftly. But on the other hand, I do lead a very active life:

I exercise (poor judgment when it comes to men)

I walk (away with a broken heart)

I surf (the net)

I run (out of money)

Now that I can add film extra on my professional pursuits, I've tried my hand at pretty much everything. In addition to actual jobs I've tried bar tending, working as an election official, baby-sitting, market research, transcribing depositions for a huge trial that now, a decade on still hasn't even started... I've even done medical trials! Prostitution is one of the few things yet to dabble with, and that's the one thing with money in it, what ever the state of the global economy. Too bad I'm such a pathetic prude...

No work, no play

Gabrielle the psychic has been writing me (again). She's very disapponted with me (what do you know. I've bagged myself not just a psychic, but a Jewish mother as well...) She's particularly surprised at the lack of contact as she sees a large sum of money ("several millions" she points out, in fact. Without a mention of which currency though...) coming my way.

I certainly could use those millions. Provided they were in American dollars and not , say, Zimbabwean ones.

In the past week I've had 9 new "thank you for your interest"- e-mails. And no interest in having me in for an actual interview. One of the e-mails announced the name of the person who was chosen for the job. A friend of mine.

Everybody keeps telling how it's not about who you are but who you know. Apparently I don't know anyone.

My friends have managed to make great choices with their education and careers. They've managed to network and gain relevant work experience that allows them to move up in life. I on the other hand will be paying off my student loan well into my 40s, probably without still having found any use for the degrees.

Time might have come to realize that integrity is so last season and move on to the next strategy: desperation. And what better way of doing that than to start begging for work from those friends in high places.

I saw an advert for a project coordinator in a company located in the same building where my old job was. They always seemed to have a party going on in the office and only seem to employ people who are young, skinny and trendy. I, being none of those and without any relevant qualifications, spotted the name that was listed as the contact person for queries concerning the job. She is an old mate of mine and just so it happens, their new country manager. 

So, I got in touch with her and we're going for lunch later this week. I'll come armed with my references, fresh highlights and determination. Somewhere between the main course and the coffee I'll put my begging skills to work. For once I'll try to sell myself (not short). And with any luck I'll walk away with a job.