The "others"

When I turned 30, I was summoned for an "age checkup". Right, because turning 30 on itself just wasn't traumatic enough...

In order to establish my stress levels, the doctor started asking about my life outside work. She asked if I lived alone. I said "yes", and she concluded "oh, so you're not in a relationship then?". I said that I actually was, but that we didn't live together. She asked how long we'd been together (the chutzpah on this woman!). I said 4,5 years. "And you're not even living together yet?!" she went on to exclaim. Uncomfortable by now (how was any of this her business anyway?!) I tried to make a joke of it. "Well, he is a middle-aged workaholic commitment-phobe so we've not really gotten there yet" I said. She nodded understandingly until all of a sudden she leaned back, raised her eyebrows, smiled mischievously and started nodding even more vigorously. "Ah" she said, "Now I see: so he's already married!". As far as embarrassing doctor's visits go, this one took the prize. Me? As the other woman? That'll be the day...

But I have been thinking about the concept of otherness a lot recently. The whole idea of a nation-state is a fairly recent construction. We've read how the idea of drawing lines on maps in order to establish the borders of regions puzzle the Native Americans and the Africans. Yet, they too routinely waged war against other tribes. So, perhaps the concept of "us" and "them" is something that is innate to us? 

We define us a part of a certain group and differentiate "us" from the "the others". While that might be perfectly fine and understandable as a tool of comprehending and compartmentalizing the world, it should not lead to assumptions of our implicit superiority over "the other" (Jesus, would you look at the words I'm using! Could they be any grander?). However, it should not lead into viewing "the other" as a threat to our survival; danger to our way of living, should it?

I'm thinking about race riots in Tel Aviv, declaring the Africans as "the cancer  of the society";  the asylum seekers and other migrants making their way to our parts of the world and the conditions and prejudice they face here. At the same time the right-wing parties are gaining more and more popularity in Europe- in their rhetoric emphasizing the divide between "us" and "them" even further. We are the results of millions of years of evolutionary success and this is the best we can do? Why does it seem we're taking steps back as opposed to moving forward which is what evolving is all about?

In the name of forcing myself out there I attended a festival celebrating multiculturalism. And what a festival it was. Hoardes of people of all skin colours, religious and ethnic backgrounds mingling together in sunshine - getting to know each other's cultures, sampling foods from countries they'd never even heard of and enjoying music happily mixing different traditions.

For a moment the world seemed like the place it's supposed to be. 

All work, no play

On my way to work I saw this advert for one of those pre-teen magazines. Oh, how innocent and different that world seems. "Who's your celebrity crush?" "Test if you're a secret stylist!" As I'm trying to schlep through the swamp that is the terrible thirties I can't help but envy that age. How much easier everything would be! No unemployment-related-frustration, no devastating break-ups, no debilitating Visa-bills, no mortgage-negotiations... 

My view isn't correct, of course, as anyone who's ever been 13 knows. Life at that point feels everything but easy. There's so much to worry about, so much angst and insecurity and even the break-ups feel every bit as devastating. And you need to get through them without Chardonnay and cigarettes!

But so much has changed in the world. Remember when people actually had proper professions? There were bakers, locksmiths, butchers, doctors, undertakers, barbers- and people actually had jobs! These days we have massive unemployment and scores of "management consultancy trainees", "visual brand developing executives", "program analyst supervisors" and "project coordinating junior partners". 

I'm getting so tired of everything being such a tough competition. You can never properly just stop to breath; you've never achieved any long-term security, but your place is only secure for a limited period of time after which the whole rat race starts again. How do you then plan ahead? When do you get to enjoy the fruits of your labour? When does it all end?!

Remember that notoriously elusive training I'm trying to get into? I just had another exam (Crikey! I had completely forgotten how nerve-wracking those buggers are!) to determine how many of the candidates reach the next round . One of the applicants was a man in his eighties. Apparently the answer is never. It never ends.

I'm not sure if I'm cut out for this arms race. Racking up unpaid internships in order to gain experience, working abroad to display capacity for multicultural interaction, learning new languages, volunteering in different organizations to gain knowledge and connections in the NGO- field, producing articles to show your social awareness and understanding of what's going on in the world, pursuing courses in humanitarian and international law to prove your pro-activeness... all this just so that one day someone might hire you? I'm ready for a truce.

I still haven't had a single call-back. Not a single job interview. And reading about a guy in who'd sent out 15 000 job applications and was still out of work doesn't really do much to lift my spirits... (in all honesty though- I wouldn't hire him either. He looks like the silent, retiring guy who nobody even knows works in your company until he kills his colleagues by stapling their eyeballs to the desk and sets the office on fire).

Shopping list for the dating supermarket

Now, don't get me wrong- I like dates. Especially stuffed with cream cheese with roasted  garlic and wrapped in pancetta. I love dates! But the human interaction variety is a trickier business. So many things can go wrong. And often do. Just look at Toby Harris and his first dates (he's doing the dirty work for me...)!

Who to go out with? Where to go? How far to go? What to wear? What to talk about? And most importantly: what not to talk about? I can't imagine anyone being too impressed by my obsessive blogging about my ex. So, the next guy would have to someone even better.

Here's a little list I prepared earlier:

Tall, dark, handsome, funny (in a witty, smart way- not in a retarded Jim Carrey way), smart, successful, toned,  sophisticated, wordly, positive, cultured, heterosexual, single, well travelled, well read, educated, culinaristic (no food allergies!), open-minded, socially aware, romantic, opinionated, expressive, DIY-capable, wealthy, thoughtful, loving, reliable, loyal, affectionate, organized, sensual, stylish, well behaved, committing, caring, generous, spontaneous, adventurous, easy-going, well dressed, respectful, social and - already in the possession of all this - down-to-earth.

Real estates are a plus. Sexually transmitted diseases a minus.

No pets, no children, no ex-wives and acrimonious divorces, no facial hair, chest hair, ear hair, nose hair or toe hair.

No vegetarians, convicted criminals or butterfly-collectors.

No workaholics, alcoholics, narcotics, pedofiles, zoophiles, human-, sex, or drug traffickers, unemployed, anyone living at their mum's, cross-dressers, serial rapists or clowns (it's a serious medical condition, people! It even has a name: coulrophobia! )

Circumcision is expected as is proficiency in at least 3 languages (none of which are Middle Earth or Klingon) and a good personal hygiene.

Hair must be shorter and bum bigger than mine. Nothing is more embarrassing than your boyfriend looking better in your skinny jeans. I know. 

Musicians and especially wannabe-musicians not wanted. Same goes for bigamists, scientists, professional athletes, manual laboureres and midgets. Oh, I'm sorry: dwarfs. No, little people. Wait, what are we calling them these days?

Those with erectile dysfunction needn't apply, nor people with PS2, mental illnesses, skin conditions or extra toes. Tattoos are fine. As long as they've been lasered off.

Oh, and I'd really prefer a Jew.

Well that wasn't so difficult, actually. And really: how hard can it be to come by a man like that? I'm sure I'm the only one looking for him...

And still... If I got to choose... Champagne-fuelled hot air balloon ride over Paris with doves showering me and that dream man with rose petals sounds perfectly nice but I'd choose Pizza Hut with The Man any day.

That's how bad I've got it. Just thinking of him makes my heart giddy and I can't help but smile. Still.

To date or not to date

To date I haven't felt any desire to date. I've been told how I need to move on; that I need to get back out there. I'm just not ready. And I'm not really sure where "there" is.

The dating scene was awash with weirdos already the last time I tried my luck and that was almost a decade ago! What would I be in for now? 

There was one guy whose driver picked me up for our date. He emerged dressed head to toe in polyester satin, wearing trousers with a dragon embroidered on them. He took me to a posh club and then made a point about arrogantly announcing he'd never buy a drink to a woman who wasn't his Mum. As I returned from the bar with a cocktail and a pack of cigarettes another man had insisted on buying for me, he tried to bum one off me. I excused myself to the toilet and never returned. 

Then there was another one, a freakishly tall man that had absolutely nothing to say about anything. He insisted on taking me out for dinner before 5pm, so that he could claim it back as business expense. The following morning I was greeted by his face on the cover of a gossip magazine telling about his relationship with a beauty pageant.

There was also that guy I thought I'd killed (oh, don't try to tell me that's never happened to you...!) , only to find myself on a blind date with him a couple of months later. His idea of a decor was a Play Station 2 and a stack of porn magazines. And that was one of the healthiest dates I went on.

Then there was a guy who, in the last census, reported his religion as " a Jedi". I rest my intergalactic case right there.

In the name of research I decided to sign up for one of those dating websites. I was impressed by their attention to detail and the precision with which they ask you questions in order to match you with a potential match. It all just seemed so time-consuming and...technical. It took me an hour just to figure out a screen name. How on earth can you think of one word that captures the essence of you and makes men go crazy? And one that at the same time wards off the actual crazies out there? "DD_cup_blondebabe_part-time_mercenary_loves2cook4u_79"?

Eventually I settled for a Hebrew one. Which is probably going to make them think I'm the weird one. 

Creating my profile took me 2 hours. Removing it only took 2 seconds. Who am I kidding. I'm not ready.

Celibacy schmelibacy

Back when I was with Le Frenchie, I spent quite a bit of time if France. Lovely country as they say- shame about the people. But I never quite understood how all the women in the glossies were always listed as célibataires. I knew the French had a reputation of being very open with their sexuality, but I wasn't expecting it to be discussed in conjunction with absolutely everything. And I definitely did not expect everybody to be celibate. Eventually I learnt enough French to realize they weren't celibate, they were single (célibataire= single).

Well, these days I'm both. I finally came off the Pill. Which means that at least part of me has accepted that The Man won't come knocking at my door after all, followed by us falling into each others' arms in passionate embrace and spending the next 3 days in bed. It would however, also seem that I don't think that will happen with anybody else either. Especially in about 3 weeks when the hormonal change-induced acne will set in (because I just don't have enough on my plate already...)

But I just read that being on the Pill somehow messes women up (not by turning them into weight-gaining, moody, irrational monsters completely at the mercy of our hormones- that we knew already) by changing our preferences in men. Apparently when we're off the Pill, we tend to go for completely different type that we otherwise would and coming off the Pill might actually not find ourselves attracted to the man we're with.

So, look out world. Who knows who or what I'll end up going for...

Vices 7 - Virtues 0

So far I've diagnosed myself as a firm sufferer of 5 of the deadly sins. The remaining ones are wrath and greed. I think the former is somewhat evident, this blog serving as a living testament to yet another one of my wicked weaknesses. Greed too becomes somewhat obvious when we examine my spending habits (and inability to pay adequate attention to any food groups outside pizza...). 


Remember those yellow shoes? Suede, by the way. I did try the sensible approach. Which obviously failed as I found myself reasoning: when did I ever regret buying a pair of new shoes (hopelessly impractical and ones I can't afford) ? Never. Whereas not buying...many times. 

I find all this rather worrying. Do I not have any redeeming qualities? Do I not have any virtues? When you can't even name a single virtue, I think it's pretty safe to assume you're not a very virtuous person. Which is rather a horrifying prospect.

I actually had to google "virtue" and came across this list :

Chastity

Temperance

Charity

Patience

Diligence

Kindness

Humility

Now, chaste I am. Not by choice though. Were The Man still in my life, there's nothing I'd like more that indulging in a little bit of fornication. 

Temperance... I remember that movement... so this one is definitely not for me.

Charity I do. Just not enough. Or for the right reasons...

Patience...I did like that Guns n' Roses song about this. I even liked Take That's take on this. But as far as a life-guiding principle? I simply don't have the time.

Diligence I practice. To a point that it drives those around me mad. I demand the toilet rolls to roll out certain way, I expect the tooth paste tube to be squeezed in a certain way and I want the picture frames to be displayed at a certain angle. But that's bordering on annoying hair-splitting. Perhaps even OCD. In either case, not very virtuous.

Kindness? KINDNESS? Well sure the hell I'd display some bloody kindness to all the frigging idiots out there if only life threw some  happiness my way too, for fuck sake!

Humility... a tough one. Life has certainly put me on my knees. Not sure I'm sufficiently humbled by it all though since I'm still kicking and screaming. And clearly engaging in a bit of poorly-timed blasphemy every now and then. So no, not this one either.

Gosh. There must be a special place in Hell for the likes of me. I only hope they have Sky Sports and happy hours there...

Humanitarian interventions

I just bought a skirt on eBay I'd been stalking for a year. That must be my personal record. I once stalked a Banana Republic wrap dress but even that ended in my closet in less than 8 months. 

That's determination alright. I know what I want and I go after it. I am a committer.

I guess I've always been like that: the first crush I ever had, I had a crush on all through school. After 9 years (!) I finally managed to pluck up the courage to actually kiss him. 

Even I don't know what to make of those examples. Yes, I want to commit, but maybe I really should just be committed. Is this kind of level of dedication even healthy anymore?

I know I've been miserable. To a point that people around me have started to genuinely worry. Remember how I thought I might be in for an intervention? And how I expected this blog might prove therapeutic, at least  preventing me from actually calling and talking to The Man? Apparently it hasn't. It might be time to bring out Xanax. 

I feel guilty for having caused this much concern for those who have helped me the most. What a loser they must think I am! Take my sister. Who clearly reads my blog. Remember, the sister who was as puzzled as I am? I'm not sure whether it's anger towards The Man or concern over my well-being but something prompted her to take action. She has wrote an e-mail to The Man.

It was a beautiful, heartfelt e-mail. C.S. Lewis has nothing on her (and I thought I was the verbal wonder in this family!). I don't know what to think. Gratitude for her concern and efforts to mend this? Shame for not being able to get through my own life? Embarrassment about knowing that even if The Man did react to it in a constructive way I'd always know he didn't take that leap because of me?

Why can't I be stronger? More sensible? More... over him? I once read about a woman who'd devised a 3-week plan to get over her ex-husband. Ok, it did involve smashing a house, but still. I too need to find a way to release myself from this. Because the thing is, even though there never was a wedding... in that proposal I did give myself to him. My heart has already made that promise.

And as I watch the life I never got to have flash before my eyes... I can't help but wonder. What if I'll never be the love of anyone's life?

I need to do something. Even the seagulls outside my window are displaying suicidal tendencies with their kamikaze-dives. Maybe "Secret" isn't such a bad way to after all...?

Gifts that keep giving

In another (failed) bid to get a closure I figured I could take everything The Man got me and flog it on eBay. That way I'd have less to remind me of him and subsequently also more money to either pay off the Visa bill or...buy more stuff!

I started by listing a scarf he bought from Tiffany's. Yes, that breakfast place Audrey Hepburn's Holly Golightly so loved. And yes, they also sell scarves. And no, I don't know what kind of a man goes to Tiffany's to buy a scarf. Oh wait, a man who doesn't like engagement rings?

Then I started regretting it. I did like the scarf. And I'm sure there was a reason The Man got it for me, not that I should be wasting any more of my time trying to decipher the going-ons of his murky little mind. But the scarf sold before I could cancel the listing.

Many things can be said about The Man but he did shop well.

The haul of the gifts he got me over the years include another Tiffany scarf, a Hermés belt and a matching bracelet, scarf, bag and make-up pouch from Louis Vuitton, a vintage Lancel bag to match the Pucci scarf I got for one Hanukkah, a limited edition Longchamp bag that no-one else in my country has and Mulberry Bayswater I'd been dying for for years.

Last Valentine's Day (the first Valentine's Day we actually ever spent together- reeling from my proposal...) I even got a ring. A scarf ring. But it did some from Hermés...

Call me shallow, but how could I ever part with those?

Those who say stuff doesn't make you happy are simply not shopping at the right places. Less is never more; too much of the good thing is never enough.

He also once flew me to Manchester to see my first ever live game. For someone who hates United, that's pretty big.  That had been my lifelong dream and he made it come true.

The ones left one my list are seeing U2 perform and finding my beshert.

There's a Jewish legend according to which 40 days before each soul is born, God and his angels (the Yentas to end all Yentas!) whisper into their ears "this boy for this girls" and "that girl for that boy". And once those souls have been united in Heaven, nothing can stop them from being reunited on Earth.

Silly jibberjabber you might say. But I think it's beautiful. And I'd like to think something was whispered into my ear as well (something other that "didn't I tell you not to stick anything smaller than your elbow into your ear? Didn't I? Now it's stuck and we'll never get it out!").

Love (and chlamydia). Life's gifts that truly keep on giving. 

New passport, new destinations

Oh, and while on the subject of holidays: I finally got that new passport. Which means I can now go anywhere in the world! If only it didn't involve border crossings and passport inspections...


I took this whole process very seriously. Remember, this was the one with the new name! Planning the right outfit alone took a week. Aware that this is going to be my calling card for the next five years, I really wanted to avoid that passport photo curse that I (and everyone else) am usually plagued by. That one picture where you need to look good... is always the one that fails to look anything like you.

Eventually I decided on the "well-if-I-don't-think-I'm-fabulous-then-why-would-anybody-else"- earrings, thinking they were blingy enough to distract anyone's attention from what ever might be going on with my face. I decided to go for hair down in loose curls. I even wore my favourite snakeskin heels (yes I know you can't see them but...) I looked good. Until I got caught in the rainstorm. 

I ran into the photo booth drenched and feeling nowhere near as glamorous I had felt when I left the house. And boy does it show. The earrings? You can't even see them behind my cheeks (if camera adds 5 kilos, then those booths add at least 15!). The hair?  So big it doesn't even fit in the picture. Basically the entire photo is occupied by my massive face. The kind of face you'd expect to be plastered on the front page of Daily Mail under the headline: "Crystal meth- it could happen to you."

If I can help it- no-one will ever get to see this...

Holiday- it would be so fine...

Now that we've been pampered with this summery weather, I hate my internship even more. As I drag myself home after yet another day of answering the phones and shuffling papers, I really don't need to see people sunbathing and picnicing in parks. 

Plus everyone around me is talking about holidays. Should we go island hopping in Croatia? Surfing in Thailand? Scuba diving in Tel Aviv? You're asking me? What you should do is shut the %#*! up!

I won't have one this year because A) I'm stuck with the internship that doesn't come with any holiday time and B) I'm stuck with an unpaid internship so I don't even have money to go anywhere. 

My internship finishes at the end of July, so unless I actually find a real job, I'll have August off. And at one point I was actually thinking of telling The Man to stay away from Southern Europe and invading the villa that I still have the keys to. I figured I deserved some sort of a partial custody. Plus there is the fact that a couple of his ex-girlfriends got to holiday there while we were still together. So...surely I too warrant a couple of unsupervised visits?

I love that place. And the more I thought about it, the better the idea sounded. (don't remind me on the ideas others had for the house...) And having the locks changed seemed like an even better idea. But I know I couldn't. Everything about that house is just so him. I know I make fun of it as the place where the Scandinavian design goes to die (like Florida to the Jews) but I do love that place. And it's got him written all over it.

So... I sent the keys back. With a note thanking for all the wonderful memories there (manners, people! Hasn't Bree van der Kamp taught you anything?). Hasta la vista, my Spanish dream.

They say if you love someone, set them free. What I want to know is who "they" are. They just seem to have a smug answer for absolutely everything. But... if I really love him, then I should want him to be happy. And if he isn't that with me...then I should let him go so that he can meet that elusive person with whom he is. And be happy when he does, right? 

Well, as far as personal growth goes, I'm not quite there yet. But perhaps a holiday away would give me the distance to process that one too. So, where will it be? Hitchhiking in Hungary?  Kicking back in Kosovo? Slumming it in Serbia? Backpacking through Bosnia? 

If I sell one of my kidneys, those just might be within my budget. But as a woman, travelling alone, many of those places would probably be best avoided. See, if anything were to happen... whose name do you think is listed as the beneficiary on my insurances? Yep. The Man.

Human interests

As these numerous internships have rarely actually provided me with much to do, I've had plenty of time to follow what's going on in the world. Like job adverts, royal weddings, eBay offers and the world news. As I knew The Man was busy I always wanted to make sure that he too would get the daily digest. Mostly of the human interest variety in the hopes of cheering him up.

Here's a selection of what I might have sent him today.

It's only understandable that in the throes of passionate love and wedding-planning some crucial details might escape your attention. Such as the compatibility of your names. Though Mr. and Mrs Jaeger-Meister does have class to it. Much more than say, the Rump-Orefices.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2150705/Jaeger-Meister-Rather-Grim-Partee-Moore-Hilarious-wedding-announcements-couples-unfortunate-surnames.html

I'm a huge fan of exploring new culinary delights. And I'm a fan of the good old schmeckie. Just not quite sure I'd combine those two great passions like this Japanese chef... How do I like my steak? Bloody. How do I like my schmeckie? Inside me please, not on my plate...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/24/asexual-mao-sugiyama-cooks-serves-own-genitals_n_1543307.html

The English team is impressed by the English language skills of an English manager. Only in England...

http://gulfnews.com/sport/football/hodgson-speaking-sense-to-england-stars-already-1.1027587

Our garage door in Spain has been vandalized anyway- so this might make a nice change. Plus the chance for him to finally get that Mercedes convertible...! I might use this too- by painting a picture of a Hermes Birkin on a Tesco carrier bag...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-18001779

What were they thinking? What were their overpaid brand consultants, marketing managers and graphic designers thinking? Erm... pretty much the as me most of the time these days, it would seem...

http://www.funnymos.com/logos-gone-terribly-wrong.html

Oh, because breaking up is so complicated and demanding. Meddling with the national security on the other hand...

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1351937/Immigration-officer-fired-putting-wife-list-terrorists-stop-flying-home.html

Those Asians take everything seriously don't they? I mean, when was the last time anybody even heard about a Japanese football team? Though... maybe that's where the English side is going wrong- they're practicing with footballs, not with steak and kidney pies!

http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/05/21/us-olympics-soccer-japan-rice-idUSBRE84K05Y20120521

Now this is a novel idea. Perhaps one that should be launched in countries like Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan where they're so concerned about issues such as preserving women's chastity. Women could be driving cars and attending schools and what ever it is that those crazy kids these days do since their chastity was safe. What would the clerics then come up with...? Would they be forced to look into mirror and realize that if they really want to preserve women's chastity THEY'D BETTER KEEP THEIR SCHMECKIES IN THEIR PANTS!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1082707/Outrage-chastity-belt-lingerie-fitted-GPS-tracking-system.html

Let them eat cheesecake!

Marie Antoinette was probably the most brutally misunderstood humanitarian in the history of humanity. Why shouldn't they eat cake? Cake is goooooooood!

We just celebrated a Jewish holiday called Shavuot. Feel free to google it but these are the two things that you really need to know about this festival: cheesecake and Ruth.

Cheesecake because it's customary to eat dairy products during Shavuot (and any holiday of cheesecakes- count me in!) Ruth because hers is the book read in the synagogues during the holiday.

Ruth is my homegirl (coming from a Caucasian that just doesn't sound right), so I think I'll dedicate this blog to her. 

Ruth was a Moabite who married a son of Jewish woman called Naomi (I can practically hear yiddishe mame wailing: "Oy! Vey! What have I done to deserve this! Why can't you marry a nice Jewish girl instead?") 

Anyway, the son died and Naomi encouraged Ruth to return to her own people as she didn't want her to feel obliged to stay with her (A good lesson for another Naomi -  Mrs. Campbell could learn a thing or two  from this Naomi's people skills...). Ruth on the other hand has different ideas and she goes on to say the most beautiful verses in the Bible:

“Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you.” (Ruth 1:16-17)

That's commitment. That's love. That's Ruth.

But Ruth was special in so many other ways too. She is the first known convert to Judaism. This is especially poignant to me, as I know how difficult it is to gain legitimacy as a Jew when you're a convert; both in the eyes of your fellow Jews and the rest of the world. I can't even imagine what hassle Ruth would face today, only to probably have the conversion nullified by the Israel Chief Rabbinate anyway. "Where did you convert? Who converted you? Which denomination?"

But lo and behold: Ruth eventually becomes one of the ancestresses of David. Yes, David of "David and Goliath" fame. Yes, David as in King David.

And whoaah, there's more. The Messiah too will come from David's lineage. Which means... that this stubborn little Moabite convert holds rather a crucial place in all this. Yes, the world without her would indeed be... a ruthless place.

So, no matter how others might treat us, let's take a moment to feel proud of who we are. And to eat cake. Lots of cake.

Bread and circuses

Continuing my desperate attempts to introduce/ force some joy into my life, I went to an amusement park. The sun was shining, I rode my favourite roller coaster, I was with friends -  perfect setting for a perfectly amusing day. Yet being among people seems like such a struggle. 

I used to be a happy, positive, upbeat person. Now it's an act I put on; a role I need to get into every time I'm out and about to make myself more tolerable for those around me. And one I don't think I'm performing in an Academy Award-worthy way. I think everyone can see through it. 


I feel bad. I have such wonderful friends that have helped me get through all this - a fact that even strangers point out to me. Even the people at work have turned out to be pretty fantastic. But I just can't bring myself to break out of my shell and join the world. Everywhere I go, I carry a 176 cm hole in my heart. That hurts. And not just because there are only 167 cms of me. Everything I do, I'd rather be doing with him.

I just want to stay home, alone, without having to explain why I'm still such a miserable git.  I even skipped St. Patrick's Day AND the Eurovision song contest- I simply didn't have in me to get excited about them. And those are my favourite holidays!


I've gone from the life and soul of any party to a housebound hermit. I spend Saturday evening at home, watching Lewis and drinking HP brown sauce straight from the bottle. The only person I want to spend time with is the man who doesn't want to be with me. And the irony? He is probably at home too, doing the same thing (with Chenin Blanc in place of that brown sauce).

What is happening to me? Am I really losing it? Is this blog just a verbal equivalent of those shrines you see on Criminal Minds on the walls of those delusional women, dedicated to that guy next door they're obsessed with? What's next? Voodoo dolls? Moving countries just so I can take up stalking? 


Even my friends are starting to worry. I think one of them is about to stage an intervention. You know, vision boards, universe boxes, laws of attraction- the whole "Secret" shebang. Apparently if you give the Universe, the Universe will give back to you. Well, I've given. And so far the only thing Universe gave me was 10 extra kilos and anger management issues of John McEnroe calibre.

Golden oldies

As we took the ferry to our mini break destination we very quickly realized we represented the wrong end of demographics. We were the only ones with our own teeth and hair. We could walk unaided- even after the Syrah-Viognier.

The whiff of Eau d'Oldie was more pungent than the breath of the Russian ice hockey-fans getting ready for the final later that night. Everywhere you looked there were hunch-backed old people fussing over bingo, the price of a cup of coffee and the extent of their dental work. As I looked at the sea of ill-fitting trousers with elasticated waistbands my head was buzzing with the mysteries of the golden years. 

Why do they all smell so bad? What makes their teeth fall out? How old do you have to be before you genuinely start thinking that purple hair really is the way to go? Do they all have their curls pressed and ironed on by the same hair-dresser? Do orthopedic sandals become mandatory at some point? 

And I knew exactly what The Man would have said at that point. It was exactly what I too was thinking. I don't want to get old.

And the things is, there seems to be very little we can do about it. Sure we can shoot heroine into our eye balls and live that sex and drugs-fuelled life of a rock star and die at 27. And then there's Joan Rivers. 

But apart from those fine examples, getting older is an unpleasantly inevitable fact of life.

I don't feel 33. I know The Man didn't feel 52. As I looked at one of the carbon copy grannies in tight white perm nagging to one of the plaid-clad grandpas in those elasticated trousers I got thinking: is that how they feel too? Do they still feel young inside, in spite of their incontinence- and impotence-filled geriatric reality?

But at least they still had each other.

I don't want to end up alone. I want to have someone whose hand to hold; someone whose bowel movements to monitor; someone who'll sneak off for a beer the moment I go attend the afternoon bingo. 

A couple of years ago, in the middle of a July heat wave one of my neighbours died. He lived alone and clearly didn't have much social life either. He just lay there, dead, without anybody missing him.  Nobody even noticed until he'd been lying there for weeks and the stench of his rotting corpse in the building got so bad we had to sleep with the windows open. 

Who's to say I won't end like him? Without the blue overalls and that perv gaze, obviously, but alone? The terms of my lease forbid me from having pets (ok, they also forbid smoking inside, disturbing neighbours with 4am after parties and installing a washing machine without a trained professional) so my neighbours are not even going to be alerted by the screeching of my cat after she's halfway through eating my dead face. It's just going to be me. All. By. Myself.

Come what may

I have repeatedly said how I need to learn to find more happiness in life; that I need to give myself the chance to find beauty and joy even in the midst of the most mundane Mondays. Talk is cheap (and I am not) so I finally decided to do something about it.

I took a mini break in one of the most beautiful Old Towns in Europe. I had  a lovely lunch at a restaurant currently ranked #1 in the city, followed by a delightful evening at the opera and a relaxing night at a wonderful little hotel just oozing that Old Word glamour. The following day was spent leisurely strolling down the narrow cobble-stone streets, shopping and lunching. So wonderful, so soul-nurturing. I soooo didn't want to come back.

It was something I had initially planned to do with The Man. But part of me always felt terrified. I never booked the tickets as I feared something horrible would happen. I could never completely count on us still being together. And if the uncertainty of your situation means you can't plan even 2 months ahead... that speaks in volumes.

I decided to go anyway; it all seemed too wonderful to miss. I went with a friend and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Until I got back home and had another epic melt-down. 

I've always travelled alone, choosing the road less travelled. I've explored places people in their right minds wouldn't. I've journeyed on planes, night buses, camels and donkeys and slummed it in cheap hostels. 

Travelling with The Man couldn't have been different. It was about exploring places that dazzle you with their beauty, staying in luxurious hotels where you don't have to worry having all your socks stolen, enjoying fantastic food in lovely restaurants and spending quality time with someone who isn't a Norwegian pot head/ rastafari/ member of the lost tribe/ make-believe-Ethiopian (only in Tel Aviv...)

We had a lovely time on our mini break. It was everything that a holiday should be. And everything that holidays with The Man always were. And no matter how much I enjoyed it all... I couldn't help but wonder just how much more I would have enjoyed it with The Man. 

The dreamy fairytaleness of the city, the romantic atmosphere of the hotel, the dimly-lit restaurant, those tortured hearts of La Bohéme... How I miss him. How I miss the life we had. 

I too want to have my true love. One that doesn't fear declaring how "come what may, I will live you until my dying day". But if La Bohéme and Moulin Rouge are anything to go by... true love always seems to come with a hefty dose of tuberculosis? 

They say that time is a healer

Time is supposed to heal. Time is supposed to make it better. Time is something I should give  myself, I'm told. That "time" seems like quite a hard-working, multitasking son of a bitch. But I can tell you, none of those are happening. I still find myself sitting shiva, barefoot and bereft.

When will this pain subside? When will I stop crying? 

It's been over 3 months since that ill-fated proposal. Something has happened with about one month intervals since. After the first month we got talking again and I thought we were going somewhere with it. Only to be burned again. Then there were the flowers and the card. And again I got my hopes up. Only for nothing to come out of that one either. Now it's been a month since that. And having clearly learnt nothing, I still find myself hoping this might not be it. I'm such a retard. When it comes to love I'm Helen Keller. I'm those three monkeys. I see no evil, I hear no evil, I can't help but proposing to evil.

My friend says these are all mind games; that this is how he keeps toying with me.But the thing is... I really don't think he's evil. I don't think he deliberately sets out to hurt me. But I can't really think any alternatives either. 

I'm an emotional roller coaster. I feel sad, betrayed, hurt, anxious, confused, frustrated, redundant, disappointed and ashamed. Ashamed for not being good enough. And I feel angry. But not at him. At myself.

I feel angry I couldn't see this. I feel angry for not being able to let go. I feel angry for not knowing how much I've made up in my own head. My friends say I lit up when I talked about him. Did I just imagine we had something special? 

But... I don't think I did. I just talked with my sister. And she's equally puzzled. I think she actually liked him. And she doesn't like anyone. The only men she gets along with are Ben and Jerry. She can't believe all this as she says that based on talking with him, she really thought we'd last. And that impression is also echoed by a friend's sentiments. She too got the impression from The Man that he was in it for the long-haul.

And I wonder what he is feeling (as has already been established, he was so gifted in that department)?  Has he moved on; having met someone who's happy being just a girlfriend? Is there already someone else; another woman who gets to see him, make him laugh and keep him happy?

Do remember, that night we met he was supposed to be on his honeymoon. Yes, honeymoon.  The man who doesn't want to marry me was supposed to be married to somebody else...

Deadly sins part 5: Vanity

This is apparently Devil's favourite sin. 

I never thought of myself particularly vain, as the perhaps overtly self-deprecating way I describe myself shows. Fine, so I can't have phone-sex if my hair is dirty, but that's just good manners, right?

However, I've just discovered something that has made me question this perception. Remember how I noticed how my shoes had started rejecting my feet? I thought that maybe that was a sign of my feet getting fat too. Turned out it wasn't. I'm developing a "deformity characterized by lateral deviation of the great toe". Yes, dear readers. That's a ...deep breaths... even deeper breaths... bunion. 

This is what Google has to say about it: "Tight-fitting shoes, especially high-heel and narrow-toed shoes increase the risk for bunion formation". AAAAAAAARGH! That description covers every single pair of my 56 best friends. Wait.. is this some kind of a divine revenge for my borderline-blasphemic blog entries? Is God smiting me?

According to medical sources bunions are also "reported to be more prevalent in people who wear shoes than in barefoot people". So...I'm being punished for not being a Kenyan bushman? I live in Europe! I need shoes!

Apparently since it's still early days, I might make a difference. By a change in footwear. That's sensible, flat, wide-fitting shoes. The kind that nuns, traffic police and Rosie O'Donnell wear. 

So, what did I do? Did I prioritize my health and well-being? Of course not. I bought a pair of narrow, pointy-toed shoes I obviously couldn't really even afford. But they're yellow, have a bow and are just about the prettiest shoes I've ever seen. 

I might be headed for a very painful future, but at least I'll be pretty when doing it. 

Ah, vanity. My favourite sin...

Suicide blonde

I do hope the last entry didn't completely freak you out. I have had my share of mental dysfunctionality and have indeed contemplated just ending it all. But have no fear, turned out I'm just too lazy for that (too).

Everyday is a struggle to keep myself together, I'll give you that. And Chelsea winning that Champions League trophy didn't exactly increase the quality of my life. And I am soooo tired of trying. Trying to stay positive, trying to get over The Man, trying to stay motivated in the job hunt, trying to focus on improving myself by learning new languages, doing research for articles no-one pays for and volunteering for people who disrespect me. But really, how would I even go about it?

I always assumed that slitting my wrists open would be my method of choice, seeing how I have a history of self-harming anyway. But I could never cut deep enough. And I don't even have a bath tub where to do it in; not just for the theatrical effect but for the tidiness. Just imagine the mess! No, that's not for me.

Hanging myself somehow seems so.. 1800's. And I'm too short to even tie the noose  anywhere near high enough. And I heard somewhere that people being hung tend to... well... go on themselves before they die. And I can't be found dead AND covered in shit. I can't have my neighbours think I'm some kind of a slob! Oh, no.

And here's the irony: I used to be a girl-scout. You know, a bona fide knot-tying, camping , star-navigating girl scout. But I wouldn't even know how to tie a noose...

Then there's poison. As much as I have flair for drama, that might be a tad too Disney's evil step-motherish. And anyway, where would I even get poison? I don't think you can just walk into your local pharmacy in search of it. Just imagine the dialogue:

.......

Me: What kind of poisons do you stock?

The pharmacist: A rather extensive variety indeed. Do you prefer European varieties or the New World ones? We also have some interesting South African ones that are now in season; simply wonderful bouquet!

Me: erm... I'd prefer some lethal kind.

The pharmacist: Ah, I see. May I inquire what you had intended to consume the poison with? Fish or meat?

Me: I'm thinking of killing myself.

.......

I suppose I could throw myself under a bus. But that's somehow so...common. I mean, never even take the bus! And there's a chance you'll survive. Paralyzed from the neck down. That would be even nastier than the life I have now. At least now I'm capable of making sure my toes are always kitted out with French pedicure.

And sometimes you escape unscathed. One of the drunks in my neighbourhood fell under the tram. Somehow he only managed to get his foot lodged between the rail and the pavement and actually walked away, in one piece. Only to find his sorry mug plastered all over the morning papers (those damn camera phones...). Now, that's just plain embarrassing...

The most effective way would probably be the good old gun. But obviously I don't just happen to have a spare one idly lying around. I'd have to apply for a license first. And along with the application I should submit a thorough account explaining exactly why I need a gun. Somehow I don't think "in order to kill myself" would fly with them.

So there you have it. I might be struggling to stay afloat in this endless sea of depression, but I'm not ready to drown just yet...

Deadly sins part 4: Sloth

I should quit cut back on smoking. I should drink a lot less. I should focus less on blogospheric blasphemy and try to get more articles published advocating social awareness.

I should start stick to a diet and stay on it for longer than a day,  only to reward myself with a pizza. I should start exercising find a form of exercising I might learn to like. Otherwise no-one's going to want to see me naked. Me included.


I should try to reconnect with religion.  Keeping shabbat is so much easier now with the football season out of the way. But in all honesty... I'm not sure I can ever go back to kosher. I really can't imagine my life without... here it comes... bacon. Damn you, Man. 

I should work on my French. And Arabic. And Hebrew.And Yiddish. After all, I might have lied on a couple of job applications that I speak those languages... And I should brush up on learn some computer skills. For the same reason.

I should read the classic literary masterpieces. I'm not sure I've read any of them. Though...Bridget Jones is a bit of a classic, yes? And I suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn to play chess either.

I should find a job that pays well, that I'm qualified for and that I find meaningful (me and 5 billion others...) And I need to learn budget management. And break off my co-dependent relationship with VISA. And start a pension fund for when I can afford to retire (from that job that I've yet to find), around year 2087.

I should learn to find happiness in life. And learn to manage my anger. (But then what would I write about?)

I should start recycling. I mean, the future of this planet depends on it, right? I should also learn to plan ahead and stock up on toilet rolls and batteries. And tinned food too I guess, you know, for a nuclear destruction.

I should do a lot of things. But just going over this exhaustive list exhausts me. Right now not killing myself seems arduous enough.