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".

Happy birthday Mr. President

It's a month until The Man's birthday and once more I'm faced with that daunting question: what do you get for a man who already has everything?

Over the years I and my VISA have come up with some elaborate answers. One year there was a vineyard in France. Not an entire one, obviously, but a share in one that, at the end of the harvest would result in a box of your very own wine delivered to your door. You know, in a way that some people adopt those school kids in Africa. Only they aren't greeted by a pee-smelling parcel at your door they way we were. That was some of the...funkiest Chardonnay I've ever had...

Then, another year I booked us in for a weekend at Grand Hotel in Stockholm. I'm telling you, it's the residence of choice for the likes of Madonna, and for a reason too. I loved it. And for the prices I paid for his spa treatments I should hope The Man did too...

I've also treated him to lavish dinners and skydiving. I've given him eBay gift certificates and even started his own microcredit empire. But now I'm officially out of ideas.

A nice watch? I could never afford a nice enough- we're talking about a man who's already gone through a Cartier and a Vacheron Constantin. I know he dreams of a boat, but true to his style wants one of those penis enhancement yachts the harbour rents for which even he can't afford. 

"It's the thought that counts" means just about as much as the other age-old adage of "it's not you, it's me". So... I'm going to have to come up with something fabulous. Such as...a  threesome? And to make it extra fabulous... I could always be neither one of those girls!

Google me this, google me that

This blog will be celebrating her 5 month-anniversary later this month. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the God, the Academy... and of course, all you readers out there. 14 countries and over 5900 hits. I think it's safe to assume that by now, one way or another my Tourette-like writing has offended each and every one of you. Thank you for bearing with me anyway. 

A special thanks to the followers and for all the lovely comments- keep them coming!

Now, in order to guarantee maximum exposure (I have warned you, there's no stopping me now. It's either going to be world domination or a book deal), I looked up the most popular search words for internet searches to make sure even more people (with or without the intention) will find their way here. And in the name of customer satisfaction I have also included a description of all those search words to help all those hapless individuals out there that felt the need to google them to begin with.

So, here goes.

1. Sex

A physical activity aiming at  particular type of physical pleasure. Can involve just one person, usually, however 2. And sometimes,more. Occasionally many,many more. Especially when done in the company of other people (especially those of the opposite sex) and without any precautions, this can result in bloating, swollen ankles, regular nausea, back ache and eventually, in 9 months, hours and hours of hellish agony. Protracted by further 20-24 years of forced cohabitation and miserable coexistence.

2. Porn

A form of audiovisual entertainment, specialized in depicting the previous activity. Primary learning tool for adolescent men everywhere, unfortunately usually resulting in lack of any real skills when put to actual use. Another well-documented side effect of this obliviousness is confusion when a woman doesn't automatically reach the height of her physical pleasure the moment a guy shoots his cum all over her face, when all of a sudden another woman fails to turn up for the token lesbian scene and when some of the activities detailed in the material turn out to be physically downright impossible.

3. Free porn

Same as before, only this one you get without maxing out your credit card. You sucker.

4. Hentai

Now, this I had to google myself (the lengths I'm willing to go to keep my readers happy...) And, not so surprisingly this too is porn. Only Japanese kind comics-style porn. Which isn't too comical in that it often features underage-looking girls, body hair that was extinct in Western porn in 80's and activities and emissions Western porn has yet to introduce. 

5. Pussy

One of the main areas of a woman's body that the activities listed in... well, every single one of the entries so far center around. Unlike the male equivalent, this is discreetly hidden from the sight and is not usually paraded around as a drunken dare. 

6. Boobs

Another heavily featured female body part. Differs from the previous in that these usually come in pairs. Eventually the end result of just one careless 7 minutes of fun listed in the first entry literally sucks them dry by which point the woman loses her confidence and the man his interest in the woman. HAH! Not so funny now is it?! Can also be surgically enhanced with pricey injections of a substance traditionally used in construction sites.

7. MILF

After the above mentioned surgical procedure the woman gets her mojo back, dumps the idiot of a husband and becomes specimen of this sub-category of women.  To much delight of those adolescent boys, desperate to impress with their new skills (aren't they in for a lesson...!)

8. Paris Hilton

You choose. Can either refer to a luxury hotel in the most romantic city in the world or to a billionaire heiress whose only discernible talent is looking perpetually bored and skinny, even when having 1. and filming her own 2. 

There you have it. The most popular internet searches explained. You really are a sad bunch of pervs, aren't you? 

Well, thank you for your visit and...ahem... do come again!

Bricks and mortar

An Englishman's home is his castle, they say. And their interest in all things real estate borders on perverse. They can't get enough of the bricks and mortar section on their newspapers or those shows on TV that tell you how much your neighbour's house is worth, what they had done to increase the value, how much they sold it for, where they moved next and what's the average house price in the new area.

When I met The Man he already had a house in England and two flats in Canada (Whistler to be precise. Apparently " I date well" as I was cheerfully informed by a bona fide Jewish American Princess I went to school with in Israel). He probably couldn't afford any of those, but it didn't stop him from splurging even more money on a 3-storey villa in Spain. 

I on the other hand rent. Not that I can afford the exorbitant rent either, but hey ho, that's what you get for insisting on living in the city centre. But lately I've noticed some changes.Yes, hair growing out f places I never used to sprout hair out of and yes,  funny feelings that I don't know how to handle... But more importantly hours spent over Grand Designs and evenings pored over The Telegraph's property section. I've actually had dreams of Welsh barn conversions and Art Deco-style newbuilds in Devon. I used to to attend my friends' housewarmings thinking how much I save by not having to take a taxi home. The thought of committing to a mortgage with more zeros than James Bond would fill me with fear. Now those feelings of smugness and terror have been replaced with... envy. The property envy of the worst kind.

Back when I still had a job I did actually have a meeting with the bank about a mortgage. I earned well, yet my paycheck wasn't enough to guarantee me a loan big enough to buy from the neighbourhood I want to live in. I was buying alone, with no savings, with no shares, with no private pension fund... I haven't felt that humiliated since leaving a gynecologist's appointment  where she decided to (accidentally?) venture into proctology.

I can't afford a home but even my iPod lives in Louis Vuitton?!

Families, eh?

I spent last weekend with my sister's family. And I'll be going back in two weeks. This is what happens when they give you wine and then start asking if you'd be available for babysitting duty...

I also volunteer in a kids' playgroup at a reception centre. With all this PG-fun, you'd think I actually liked kids. No, I don't.

The other night I got together with some friends of mine the way we always do when we're all in the same city. They brought another friend and we tried the latest venture by that Junior Masterchef judge I wrote about. So far the weakest one of all the restaurants we've tried. But even the tabbouleh's contribution to the evening's ambiance wasn't as poor as mine (How can you cock up tabbouleh?!). One of us had just had her 3rd child. The other was just returning to work after maternity leave. The third one has a kid that's already started school. And then...then there was  me. Having my 3rd G&T, with no work to go to and no kids to get home to.

I'm fine about not having kids. As in, ever. But I can't help but think I'm missing out on something. And very soon,  I fear, that'll be my friends. What will I have to offer; what can I bring to these friendships when all their lives revolve around hiring nannies and prep classes to secure a place in the good school?

Though... our blissfully childless existence has been interfered with some...occasionally disturbing offers. A friend of mine is struggling to conceive so she asked me to become her surrogate. Yeah, rent-a-womb. And another is battling an illness for which the doctors will have to put her on medication that prevents her from having children. And she really wants them, within this 2-year-deadline doctors have given her. Only, she's still single. So, what did she do? Asked if she could have The Man's sperm.

Is there any more effective way to make you realize you're so past it? That your shop has already gone into liquidation before you ever even got to have the big opening?

And of course I'd help them. I love them both and can't even imagine what it must feel like to want something you can't have that desperately. No, wait. Maybe I do. That's why I'm writing this blog...

I would like to find a way to still be part of my friends' lives, even after the kids start taking over. And maybe I can be a fabulous Auntie, even if I'd never make a great Mum to anyone? 

And that got me thinking of the disturbing family dynamics of the Ducksburg. Have you ever noticed that no-one actually has kids there? They all have nieces and nephews! Scrooge  McDuck has a nephew in Donald Duck who in turn has 3 of them. Donald Duck (who in 60 years still hasn't been able to seal the deal) on the other hand has a girlfriend Daisy, who has 3 nieces. And then there's Mickey Mouse, with his 2 nephews. And his girlfriend Minnie and her 2 nieces. And then there's Goofy and his nephew. 

What is all this? Where are the real parents? What's with the multiple pregnancies that defy all laws of medical probability?

Is this the worst cover-up ever, designed to give illegitimate kids legitimacy in the eyes of prudish cartoon readers?! Or the most sinister case of child-snatching the (Disney) World has ever known?! Abuse of fertility drugs of a massive scale, baby factories for the use of the rich and ruthless?!

The more you think of it, the more deranged it all becomes...

The youth of today

As you all know, I'm a huge fan of cookery shows. I even managed to get addicted to Australian Junior Masterchef. Yes, that's right. Even the fact that it has children on it, wasn't enough to put me off.And my, what kind of children!

I could not get over the fact that a bunch of 10-year-olds could possibly be in the possession of that kind of culinary skills. Their technique, their vision, their experience... some of them most of them even put in shame. Still, I wrote it off as an antipodean quirk and didn't expect too much when the local version hit the TV in my country. And again... wrong I was. 

As one of the judges ( a big shot restauranteur famous for his Asian-style cooking and a string of popular restaurants impossible to get a table to, inspired by his travels and work all over that culinary treasure chest of a continent) was sampling a Thai curry and 11-year old contestant had produced even he went quiet. "How did you know these flavours would go so well together?" he was forced to ask. "Duh! Because I've been to Thailand" said the contestant. "Oh, really?" "Oh, yeah. like, 4 times". An 11-year-old! That just once again reminded what different lives the kids today lead.

When I was 11 my Dad had this ambitious if somewhat misguided opinion that kids should get to know their home country first. So, while my school friends holidayed at Tenerife (very hip and happening in those days), we cruised the country with a caravan. And this was 20 years before Anthony Bourdain visited my country and showed the world what a primitive Freakistan we (still) are. We are done with fighting the Russians and the Nazis - these days we either drink our way to the early grave or end there through the pole position we hold at the suicide statistics. Yes, what a glorious country. Definitely worth getting to know some more.

While my friends were busy building sand castles and collecting sea shells, my holidays were inevitable flurry of map reading gone wrong-related domestics and damp campsites. I didn't see a seashell until I was 19 and had to shell out on a trip to the Portuguese seaside. That sucked almost more than evenings spent cooped up in the caravan,keeping shelter from yet another rain storm. I didn't even get to sample seafood until well into my twenties! And here are the kids of today, with their exotic travels and foodie fiestas.

My own niece and nephew are very much examples of that life. Much to their travel-traumatized 33-year-old Auntie's envy. On their last trip they too went to Thailand. Until 5 days in their parents decided Thailand was done. And what did they do? Boarded the next plane to Dubai.

A look at their curriculum is another testament to the cosmopolitan world they're being socialized into. The amount of languages and religions spoken in their school is nothing short of amazing. In the town where I grew up the only exposure to foreign cultures were Benetton adverts. These kids go to school that looks like an audition for one of those adverts! 

Mind you, according to my sister it's because they live in a slum. Her words, not mine. And not all of the worldly ways are rubbing off on those kids. Sure, they have grown out of wanting to marry each other. But mainly as a result of my 5-year-old nephew deciding he wants to marry me instead...

Culture vulture strikes again

I have just booked another weekend away, this time seeing Swan Lake. I know over the past year I have put on a fairly credible show of  being genuinely interested in culture, but not sure I feel that way about ballet. Skinny  people in tights, doing things human body was never designed to do, with that permanent suffering etched on their face (can you blame them though- if you'd not been allowed chocolate cake for 23 years, you'd look like that too)? 

But I figured Swan Lake is too much of a classic to pass. Plus it gives me an excuse to go crazy with the local restaurants. I know I should have learnt from last trip's overindulgence, but my advancing years and excessive alcohol consumption have seriously impaired my short-term memory.

So, once again I'm busy drooling over menus and trying to decide how to best allocate the 3 daily 3-course meals. So far I'm torn between pretentious, overpriced  Italian and pretentious, overpriced French.

I've already started work on the wardrobe. It's going to be late September, so the key for every look will that Banana Republic trench I can't wait to break in! For this city break I'm (once again) drawing inspiration from New York, so (once again) I'm thinking black. This time with white, patent leather and a splash of leopard print. 

I bought this sleeveless, white top with pleat detail around the neckline that will look so chic with my black skinny jeans and that trusty Fendi belt.

Ooh, I already know I can't afford all any of this! But ooh, how I can't wait!

September issues

It's September. The summer is officially over. There's that smell in the air.

Others call it crisp autumn air. I call it death and depression. We're looking at months and months of darkness, cold, sleet, snow, rain and God knows what else; pouring frm the sky hell-bent on ruining my footwear.

No matter how hard I try to get excited the new season, walks in the parks, darkening evenings, candles and red wine I can't. I miss summer. The sun. Carefree picnics over rosé.


Even the arrival at the stores of the September issues the size of a brick fails to get me giddy. Well, that's not entirely true. I am so totally in love with my new red jeans and intend to wear them everywhere and with everything. And they'll look so fab with my new, absolutely perfect Banana Republic trench coat!

And eventually I'll get to break out my furs and all the winter coats I've been buying in a bid to make the cold just a little bit more fun... 

Though, meeting with a friend I hadn't seen for ages a couple of days ago showed me exactly how fab those red jeans  could look- provided I lost half of my lazy bum. 

Anyway... as I was sipping my way through the sour grapes we got talking about our respective mother-in-laws and apparently, unlike bums, they really only come in one size: overbearing. Now, my relationship with my own specimen of this peculiar breed has been well documented, but what is it with these people? 

First they can't wait to get the kids out of their feet to finally move on to the next chapter in their lives, then they can't seem to get enough of them! The kids never call them often enough, they never go visit them often enough, they never spend enough time with them.

And if, even when dating a 52-year-old you're not free of this parental plague... Where does it end? I have a horrible feeling that as a result of decades of thorough gin-infused pickling The Man's Mum will actually outlive all of us. And at the twilight years of my life I'll end up caring not just for The Man, but also the Mum... 

Crikey. A note to self: the absolute minimum age for the next boyfriend: 83.