For someone who tends to feel sick when even thinking about saying sorry this has taken a bit of working up to, but today I have something of an apology and confession to make with the former is particularly aimed at the people of my hometown because it they who have had to suffer the harsh consequences of my action.

So what is it I’ve done you ask? Well it’s good of you to ask because otherwise this would have been a rather short column. The reality is it’s less what i’ve done, but what I’ve allowed to happen. You see basically I have had a curse on me. By whom I don’t know and why I’m even less sure about, but you can be 100% sure it exists, and the worst thing about it is it not only affects me, but everyone where I live.

But I must be exaggerating. How can it have such a big impact? Well because this isn’t a curse that means I will always trip over when going out the door (I can do this all by myself) or that every meeting I go to will be a flop. This curse is that absolutely everywhere I take women on dates to will then promptly close down within at most two months of said event occurring.

But that’s just the recession you say. Businesses are closing down all over the place, and I would normally agree with you, however the thing is that I have, singlehandedly for the last 8 years of my dating life caused thriving businesses to suddenly fail and I can prove it.

First there was the swanky restaurant. Guaranteed to impress, and also totally empty my bank account for at least two months afterwards with it’s main courses that needed a microscope to be seen, this place was definitely a winner in terms of winning over the doubting woman I was attempting to date. And so what better place to go a month or so after we were actually dating (yes it was one of those stupid we’ve been dating for 39 days and 49 minutes affair) than back to the one of the first places we went out? It would be perfect. And so off we went…. to find it had closed down the day before.

Now back then I have to admit I didn’t think anything of this as it was the first to be hit with my curse, so merely found a new place that was perfect for brunches the morning after the night before. And so off I tootled with a new date (well she was new the night before..). Now this place really had it’s work cut out because we’d had a tiny little row that morning (also known as quite a quite a big one), but it was more than up to it. Having my date forgetting that she was trying to look incredibly moody within moments of arriving and being treated like they’d known her all their lives, the owners quickly made up for the damage I’d caused and far from seeing her rush off like she’d told me was absolutely crucial at 8am that morning, we ended up spending the whole day together. Nothing but a total and utter win.

Seeing swanky restaurant dropped quicker from my list of favourite places than well something that drops really quickly, I felt good. I had a new “impress my date” place, and the best thing about this one was it was open all day and all evening meaning whatever time I was dating I was going to be able to impress my gorgeous date with this gorgeous place.

Except it happened again. I didn’t go there for a few week and what happens? The blooming place (which was always packed) had only gone and closed with the owners opening a new place inside a gym…. well like that was going to work for taking people to on a date!!

But that’s just two right? A mere coincidence. Well yes if it stopped there. Quickly followed by the cocktail bar that made for perfect second dates, the Spanish restaurant that always put a smile on a date’s face with it’s slightly wacky interior design, the Italian that not only came highly recommended by me for impressing with it’s authentic flavours, but also the UK newspaper The Guardian, the stunning riverside bar with it’s views along the Thames that bought out the romantic in anyone and the hotel with it’s private mooring and secluded dining that was perfect for those “I’m gay, but not comfortably being seen to be gay when I’m out, but at the same time I want to be able to be all romantic and feel like I’m on a date” dates, it quickly became obvious not only to me, but also to my friends that there was only one factor that really linked all these.

Me.

Leading my friends rather rudely giving me a list of places that they’d prefer I didn’t go in as they would like the places to stick around, I have to admit I did what I always do and didn’t listen at all and decided to (secretly as I’m actually a little bit scared of them) to recently go on a date in a bar on the list. I mean come on as much as I say I’m cursed it seems too silly for words that I would be, and well I’m not taking some woman to a horrible bar just so everyone else can keep going to nice places (actually that doesn’t sound quite so good now I’ve written it on paper).

And you know what it was fine. I went past the place a few days after and it was still there. Well that proved it. I’m not cursed.

Well it proved it till this morning when I ran past it only to discover the place has now gone out of business…. which now leaves only one place in the whole town that I have managed to take a woman on a date that hasn’t closed. Only slight problem. It’s a strip joint. Like that’s going to go down well.

Photo credit: Marcin Wichary

So let’s talk about what’s been on my mind lately: SEX, of course!

And for the record I’m not choosing to focus on that subject because I personally haven’t had any recently despite the recent visit of my 23 year-old girlfriend (what can I say? I was not much in the mood – or maybe I’m just too old already), but mainly because somehow my circle of friends is exaggeratingly having plenty of it. So what’s the problem you may ask? Well, quite honestly, said cortege of show-off friends is nauseatingly bragging a little beaucoup too much about it. Enough already! It’s like the stars in the sky have suddenly collectively gotten together to exclusively form some inexplicable metaphysical cliquish constellation conspiring against me. If I didn’t know better I’d really think I’m the targeted victim of a sting.

Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely not jealous; I just don’t understand the uncontrollable need to kiss and tell. And I’m not just talking about the friends who indulge in a little ride on the sexual promiscuity wagon, but more so about the friends who are in a solid steady relationships.

I mean it’s to the point that I not only know the frequency of their sexual activities but as well their itinerary: the where, the what, the how and the who. And when it’s not verbally expressed then I get the sign language treatment namely, a cocky wink, a snarky rolling of the eyes, a smart-ass smirk, and the incomprehensible coded hand-speaking gestures. Either way, it’s too much information and certainly not the best feature of our friendship!

What is it about people that urgently make them want to tell the world about their latest bedroom exploits? Why do they have to scream it at the top of their lungs – isn’t that what they were just doing anyway and shouldn’t they consequently be worn out enough to simply shut up? Where do they find the nerves to insufferably make me endure the graphic detailed account of their episodic mini porn interludes?

Here’s clue: what happens in private needs to stay private! And by “private” I mean: I don’t need one of those special BFF phone calls; I don’t need a tete-a-tete coffee break turned white trash confessional, nor do I need the cocky absolutely retarded Facebook status updates scrolling down on my “recent posts” wall every 5 second. For the love of god, I beg you! Whatever is on your mind, keep it in that mind of yours if your don’t mind! It’s not cute, it’s not funny and it’s hardly attractive. Plus, and most importantly, I absolutely do not need the visual. I already have trouble sleeping and certainly don’t need to add “nightmares” to my list of nocturnal problems. Thanks but no thanks!

What is mind-blowing to me is the fact that they automatically assume that as their friend I have to be in on it and keep track of their sexual workout record. Not only am I not an accountant, but also I am neither their personal trainer. Here I am gesturing a common expression … closed captioning translation: I don’t give a fuck …EVER! (Pardon my French).

Sex is like the celebrity-race syndrome – it’s an ego-driven desperate vanity cry for unnecessary attention. Somehow as I’m writing this, I am instantly reminded of an anecdote a PR colleague of mine told me about this wannabe D-List celebrity who pathetically harassed a young barista at a coffee house to get a complimentary latte. Annoyed at the fact that the young lad had absolutely no idea as to whom this self-proclaimed celebrity was, the latter unabashedly logged online to show him an IMDB page ironically displaying a very scarce abundance of film/TV credits.

Just like it’s always infallibly the D-listers who seem to be inflicted with the Napoleon complex, similarly it’s always the friends who truly have nothing to show for whom continuously harass me with their pandemic fifteen minutes of fame. Without getting sanctimonious, it’s hardly good image uplift for them. With all due respect, my super superficial self is not particularly interested in being forced to mentally play an X-Rated movie with some fat-asses in the lead roles. I don’t know about you, but that’s definitely not a turn on for me.

It deeply pains me to see that some of my friends are in utter denial of their reality and not only boldly lie to me about the grandeur of their performance, but evidently do not tell themselves the truth about their own lives.

Dare I suggest that their obsessive need to boast about their sexual accomplishments is vastly a delusional psychological attempt indicative of their need to compensate for every aspect that makes up the rest of their dull lives?

And contrary to popular belief, women are actually worse than men in the public display of no inhibition department. When it comes to bragging about shagging, women and, more specifically lesbians, hold the gold medal. I’m not just talking out of my ass here! I’ve been on both sides of the “girlie talk” panel and, hands down, the gays are ahead of the “talk amongst yourselves” category.

At the risk of stereotyping, I’ve personally come to the conclusion that while straight women do tale-tell about their sexual encounters, lesbians, on the other hand, vaunt about sex regardless if it actually happened or not. It’s not that I am prude but you have to admit it’s not really kosher to openly divulge details of intimacy especially when the subject being publicly exposed is your significant other. In my book that indiscretion qualifies as total lack of respect.

Admittedly, I’m absolutely not opposed to sharing intimacies with my entourage.
As a matter of fact, I am the first one to recognize the potential educational value of summoning a committee to open the sex dialogue, but only when brought to a personal panel of “sexpertise” connoisseurs. And luckily the entire lesbian sexuality spectrum has so many intricate rubrics to cover you’ll never run out of opportunities to yap away. From sex toy-malfunction, bed death ordeal, performance deficiency, G-Spot mapquest locator, sex-drive disparity, position discrepancy, oral sex tricks, abnormal sex trips, normal sex tips, cheap lesbian dates, non-existent lesbian dates, flirting techniques, pick-up lines, to heartaches, headaches, breaking up, making up, making out, top versus bottom, getting under, getting over, getting through, getting plenty and not getting any…take a pick!

While I still refuse to make the necessary adjustments to adhere to and assimilate with what I call the “forced acculturation” phenomenon – people’s constant need to report on their (fabricated) alleged sexual activities – I can certainly accept the fact that we have sheepishly entered an age of a new type of cultural imperialism.

Vastly promulgated by the “dot com” moguls in social networking savoir-faire also known as MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter, we have regressively catapulted ourselves into an era of mass exhibitionism. Sadly now nothing is ever subtly suggested anymore but rather trivially exposed with nothing left to the imagination.

So be my guest and inject me with your viral online and/or real time libertine practices.
For those of you who wish to keep me posted, updated, tag me, vlog me, blog me, tweet me, wall- message me, Facebook friend me, throw it on my face or even put it in my face, please put it all in a folder and ZIP IT!

…I’m just sayin!

So not a lot of people know this but I, the woman who writes week in, week out about not wanting to be in any kind of relationship was actually once engaged to be married (well as married as a gay person can be in the UK). Yes you read that right. Not only was I committed to staying in a relationship for more than five minutes, but I actually said yes to the question that for most relationship phobes would be like being sentenced to 24 life sentences with no chance of parole.

Now the reasons for that not happening shall, out of respect, remain between myself and the ex-fiancee (although I have to admit when she mentioned she wanted to walk down the aisle to the theme music of the hospital drama, Holby City, I did start to have my doubts..), but we did get as far as doing the Gay Wedding Show thing and even, very gayly have a meeting (with ourselves) about it complete with event organisation pad and colour coded pens… all of which meant that I was more than able to participate in the rather indepth discussion that was had over a black Americano, a Flat White and a Mocha this morning (and no I didn’t drink all those myself…. you’re so mean…) about how exactly do you plan a big old gay wedding.

And that was indeed the first big question. Should it be a big gay old wedding merely because you and your wife / husband to be are gay, or should it be a more relaxed, average, not so rainbowy coloured affair?

Bringing us grinding to a halt before we’d even started, the general consensus was that there was no general consensus as we manically bounced between saying that we should be as gay as we wanted and who cares what anyone there thought, to saying that it was important to be respectful and actually keep things simple (I think we can all guess it wasn’t me who came up with that one), to the final option that we should have it exactly as we wanted and not invite anyone who showed even an ounce of homophobia as it was our day and therefore no-one should spoil it.

Ending up sounding to anyone around us rather like we were all marrying each other and entering into some polygamous marriage, we soon established that we hadn’t established anything and so then moved onto the next topic of discussion. How the devil do you work out who gets to walk down the aisle? Should it be the one who proposes, or not the one that proposed? Do you end up doing it together or do neither of you do it, and if it’s the latter then how on earth do you get to the front of the room… because let’s be honest being there first is just going to make you look sad, but if you’re not there then surely you are going to walk down the aisle.

Well I can tell you straightaway that we were just as useless on answering this one as we were on the first question. Now I was sure I knew where I stood on this one. Following the whole “I want the Holby City theme tune to walk down the aisle to” thing, I knew I most definitely wasn’t going to be doing any kind of walking. Well I say that, but then whilst mocking the indecisive, they then acted to highlight that whilst I had got myself out of the whole embarrassing music (and let’s be honest in my case probably tripping up) I’d overlooked one thing. I could be left standing there with my wife to be never turning up. Well now that thought was in my head I became as indecisive as everyone else. Perhaps it would be best that I was the one to do the walking (seriously you wouldn’t have believed that actually none of us were getting married…). This would then leave me safe from being stood up on my wedding day… except that wasn’t actually true (by this time I’m now fully onboard the doubting bus with everyone else). Now something even worse could happen. I could turn up fashionably late to do my aisle walking thing to then find that they weren’t there BUT everyone else was. Now that surely has to be even worse…

Now at the point of having scared ourselves silly about the thought of ever getting wed it was decided we had to stop being silly and come up with a solution which could not possibly go wrong. And in the spirit of sharing I bring you our solution.To make sure you are not stood up on your gay wedding day you must arrive at the venue with the person you’re marrying (yes we know that you’re not meant to see the person you’re marrying before the big old vows bit, but let’s be honest if there’s a chance of being stood up superstititions can go jump..)…. but wait there’s more. So you must arrive with your person to-be. Once that has occurred  you must make sure you keep them in your sights at all times, and yes that does include trips to empty nervous bladders just in case there are windows to crawl through, and at worst handcuff them to you till you’re at the point of saying your vows.

And then there was the vows bit. Now personally this is the bit that really puts me off getting married, not so much because I’m nervous about saying them, but more because of the fact that I have the attention of a gnat. In other words whilst I might look like I’m still listening to you, I can guarantee that after three milliseconds (and that’s with me trying really hard to stay focused) that I will be away with the fairies, and will totally and utterly miss everything apart from the first word of what I’m meant to repeat…. something that will end up with me either having to get them to repeat it (yeah like that’s going to go down well…), or alternatively attempt to make them up. Basically in either case it’s not going to turn out well.

And so it went on. Guest lists, outfits, bridesmaids, best men, we debated them all until we finally came up with the ideal plan. Don’t get married. Ever.

Oh and for all of you who have not yet experienced the Holby City theme tune this is what I was meant to have playing at my wedding…

Personally though with the way my relationships tend to end up.. I would suggest that the Bugs theme would be far more appropriate. This would of course require fake explosions at the same time for added effect:

Photo credit:Eusebius@Commons

Sometimes I wish I could find the logical explanation to solve the great big mystery behind the how and why my brain never seems to shut up. Maybe at last, I’d be spared from spending ungodly hours trying to reason over the same unsolvable philosophical questions and would cease to clutter my head with a bunch of trivialities that in no way, shape or form contribute to my intellectual progress. Unfortunately it is a fact! I’m neurotic, spastic and derisory. At least I have access to an incredible wealth of imagination and a highly creative database known as my own dementia – which by the way many members of my entourage have vicariously satisfyingly benefited from. I could of course make the necessary adjustments to stop living so much in my head, but the uniqueness of it would lose all its cache and my little Parisian ego would never forgive myself for becoming too pedestrian. After all as Descartes says: “I think, therefore I am.” So what exactly am I busy always thinking about? Well, beside the daily mental grilling seminar attended by the usual suspects such as “Is there more to life than this?”; “Why is this happening to me?”; “Why does everything have to have an end?” and “How much longer do I have?”, a new recruit just added itself to the “guess who’s coming to dinner” riddle, namely “why can’t I think straight?” – Or in more straight forward existentialist terms, “How did I suddenly become attracted to women?” Because I had nothing else better to do, I dedicated my whole weekend cogitating over the question. Needless to say that a flurry of creative ideas came popping up in my head but none of them provided me with a solid sense of closure. Sure, I considered the traditional metrics such as genetics, fashion trend, peer pressure and environmental circumstances, but it seemed too simplistic of an explanation for my complex cranium to settle on so easily. There I was again thinking “there’s got to be more to it than this?” Suddenly, it all came back to me – the pivotal catalyst that triggered the fatal team switch. As I mentally delivered – for effect of course – my acceptance speech for my Emmy winning performance in my life story episode dubbed “how I met my gay self”, one single word formed on my lips: MADONNA. And no, I’m not referring to the secular virgin Madonna, mother of god, but to the “like a virgin” Madonna, goddess of pop. Yep, as far as I’m concerned had it not been for the former material girl now turned kabbalah devotee, I would have never put my own personal human face to this business of “I kissed a girl and I liked it.” My sexual orientation metamorphosis happened gradually via a harassingly repetitive dream sequence. Right around the time I turned a quarter of a century, I also hit a milestone – you know that pivotal “wake up call” moment in your life where everything changes. What happened was that I shockingly found out that George Michael, the man I was for sure going to marry, have a bunch of kids and grow old with, was gay! Say what? George Michael likes men? How dare the media come up with such a preposterous claim? It’s hearsay I say! A bunch of cheap-ass gossip fabricated by the tabloids and simply a bundle of lies. Clearly it took me more than a minute to digest the news and come to terms with the reality that not only my heart would forever be bruised from now on, but that my life as well was forever ruined. That was the part where I went “papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep” and turned to Madonna for consolation – or rather she somehow decided to “dress (me) up” with her love. So every night as I retired to the privacy of my own bedroom for a good night sleep, she would consistently invite herself in to the nether region of my dreams. There I was generously treating myself to all the things the real world seemingly didn’t want to offer me when this Madonna clone – or so I thought – would surreptitiously disrupt the peaceful stream of my limitless imagination. It was like watching a suspenseful thriller and unexpectedly having a boatload of static fill your TV screen totally making you lose the thread of the story at the most crucial time. Damn you Madonna! Where did she get the nerve to be so irresistibly sexy as to jeopardize my sexual integrity – I should have known she wasn’t kosher the minute she started voguing her tooshie! “What are you looking at?” were the first words she would always sensually whisper to me. Hmmm, let me see … how about a freaking steaming hot pop icon donning a sinfully erotic negligee and oozing with a seductively intimidating, hard to resist charismatic aura striking a provocatively sexy pose on a big rotating round-shaped bed covered with red-colored silk sheets? The scenario was always the same: I was standing speechless with my feet firmly set on the ground paralyzed with fear and in complete awe. Madonna was on the bed with her hand stretched out toward me and every time the bed would complete one full round of it rotation ritual and place the superstar once again in front of me, the swiveling electrical mechanism would then temporarily stop. She would eye me seductively and I would stare nervously. As much as I knew she would probably chew me up, the situation completely convulsed me leaving me with the most delicious feeling. “Jump,” she would continuously implore with her arm extended in my direction as a pious offering. While my body was dementedly attracted to her, my mind kept resisting the temptation, vehemently struggling with the moral implication of it all. Ironically enough, back in those days, I was, perhaps, lamentably the biggest homophobe ever to walk on the surface of this earth. It wasn’t so much that I had a profound hatred for all things gay, but it was just unflinchingly inconceivable that it could ever be part of my conservatively sheltered, catholic-influenced cocoon. What can I say? I was absurdly ignorant. But you can certainly imagine the mental torture that this indecent, amoral, sexually charged persistent dream would inflict upon my narrow-minded self. I literally felt like I was punched in the brain. I was intolerably tormented and extremely confused – I mean, let’s be real, how do you say NO to Madonna? She’s certifiably the only one who can turn gay men straight and straight women gay – well, maybe Angelina Jolie too! “Jump M.!” she would say again and again … and again. I wanted to jump so badly and completely capitulate. Evidently, I had an inkling of what was to come if I could somehow muster the strength to freaking jump on that sumptuously inviting bed, but I inexplicably would find myself physically crippled. Another spin and I’d miss my window of opportunity again. This masquerade would go on for a little while leaving me emotionally aggravated yet pleasantly overwhelmed with an intoxicating adrenaline rush. The anticipation of getting in bed with Madonna was as addictively euphoric as any sexual preliminaries can be, or maybe it was just the idea of danger that would provide my addictive personality an irresistibly delicious high. Much to my regret, my lesbian Madonna dream would always end the same way. As moments ticked by, I would eventually be randomly blessed with a momentous bolt of confidence and marshal all my courage to at last join Miss Ciccone on her temptation island. As soon as my hand finally grabbed hers the dream would brutally screech to a complete halt. I would then frantically wake up, neurotically gasping for air and frustratingly yearning for more. What the fuck? Where was my happy ending? What happened to my “like a virgin touched for the very first time” sequence? I wanted a refund! Needless to say that for a long while I was very much looking forward every night to falling asleep in hopes that Madonna would get into the groove and have her way with me. Well …she never did! Maybe it’s because I’m a professional insomniac, and averaging about 4 luxurious hours of sleep every night (because my brain can’t seem to ever shut the hell up!) didn’t give her enough time, or perhaps she felt intimidated having to perform with a set deadline. Nevertheless, in the big scheme of things and because this is really all about me and not Madonna, she certainly gave me more than 4 minutes to save my world and express myself. Yep, the material girl is the lucky star who opened my eyes and my mind to a not so forbidden kind of love. Either that, or in the end, it’s simply all George Michael’s fault for turning gay on me. What happened to his “I’m your Man” love profession – you know when he told me “if you’re gonna do it, do it right, do with me”? If you ask me, the more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to concur with my (straight) friend Sharif whom for years has dedicatedly remained convinced it was Elton John who made my George gay. Because surely his donning flamboyant tight-ass shorts, a fluorescent pink sweater and luminous gloves in Wham’s 1984 “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” music video was not at all a red ‘gay’ flag …I’m just sayin’!

So I’ve have to admit I’ve had a few odd things said to me in the past concerning my relationship choices (mainly admittedly because I tend to make odd relationship decisions), but I have to admit that this weekend one of my friends came out with what has to be the best yet which was “The reason for your exploding toe is the very same reason your relationships always end so badly”. Definitely ranking in the top ten of the most strangest things anyone has ever said to me, I have to admit I wasn’t sure whether she hadn’t suddenly had some brain malfunction and got all her words muddled, but no apparently my love life is inextricably tied up to my toe as she was more than happily to dramatically explain.

And because I love and adore you dear reader, I want you too to share this deep psychological insight, but before I do I better clear up this exploding toe thing. Now I don’t actually have some kind of grenade style exploding toe. What I do have is a toe that’s basically stuck on a continual cycle of  being a bit on the unwell side (in other words it’s always looking a bit manky). The reason why I do is all down to some 26.2 mile jog I did last year.  Now anyone who has ever trained for a marathon knows this means one thing. Your toes are going to get seriously bruised, cut and basically beaten up in the process, and mine were no exception. Toenails fell off, toes that were once nice and straight now are a bit on the wonky side and I had more blisters in those six months than in my life time. The good thing was though that most of these injuries cleared up pretty quickly afterwards, except one on my little toe.

What instead has happened with my little toe is this. It’s fine for a few weeks, and then for no reason whatsoever it will develop a blister (I’m wearing the same socks and shoes and running the same distance so really there’s no reason, apart from it being attention seeking to do it). A blister? A blister? Is that really all I’m moaning about I hear you cry? Well actually no it’s not. Because that is only the start of the cycle. What then happens is somehow I manage to develop a blood blister UNDER my original blister (really do not ask me how I achieve that I have no idea..) and what was once slightly painful because so painful that I basically want to cry every time it touches a hard surface… like every step when you’re running.

So obviously that means I stop running right? Well no of course not. Don’t you know me properly by now?  What I actually do is keep running on it day after day, which surprisingly far from aiding it’s healing, actually make it worse.  In fact what happens is it basically just keeps on getting more and more painful until about five days down the line the following happens. I’m running along, and my toe will be hurting me so much that I’m wishing I’d gone to antenatal classes to learn how to do that deep breathing thing when suddenly it all stops. The pain has gone completely.

And then two things happen. The first is I try to work out if I might possibly just have died of pain and that the reason it’s not hurting is because I am no longer alive. Now I have to admit I’ve kind of struggled to establish how to work that out, so I tend to move onto the second thing. I look at my shoe. Now if I’ve died (which I haven’t yet) then I’m presuming my shoe would be the nice normal white running shoe with yellow stripes (seriously I don’t know what convinced me to buy trainers with yellow stripes) that they always are. If I haven’t died then I will discover the following. It looks like there’s been something of a bloody massacre by very small tiny people on my little toe as my poor shoe will turned a lovely shade of pinky red down one side. In other words my toe has “exploded”

But what on earth does my disregard for my poor toe have to do with my failings to be a successful girlfiend you ask? Well I have to admit I, like you, had no idea, but don’t worry my friend Blabbermouth was more than ready to share with me (and now you) how she had come up with such a brilliant analogy, and it goes a little like this…

The reason why the fact my toe keeps exploding and all my relationships end up going all a bit wobbly …. and then explode in spectacular fashion is down to the very same thing. The fact that on the first sign of there being a problem instead of actually going and doing something about it – like go to a doctor or actually talk about the problems that I might be having in the relationship I’m in – what I apparently do (okay I admit I do do it) is go down the “let’s ignore this and hope it just goes away” route. Now in the case of my toe this means that instead of doing something that will make it heal straight away I just wait for it to explode and then heal.

And apparently it’s just the same with my relationships (just minus the blisters). What Blabbermouth apparently witnesses time and time again is the fact that on realising there is a rather large problem with the relationship, you know the kind of problem that tends to see people go “I’m not standing for this” and leave, whilst everyone else would leave, I don’t. What stupid old me does is stick around, despite the fact that we all know it’s not working out and I’ve admitted I’ve definitely lost the loving feeling, because I am deluded that somehow the rotting away of this relationship could be reversed and it could end nicely. Wrong. Just like the fact my friends keep having to hear about my toe exploding, they all know that far from anything nice happening what actually will is all that bitterness and anger keeps building up until BOOM!!!, it all explodes in one huge argument where all those things pop out of your mouth that could never possibly go back in again and then they have to cope with me bubbling with rage for the next week.

So now I know all this then I’m obviously going to the doctors and will be dealing with my relationship problems a lot earlier on in my relationship right? Well umm let’s see… probably not. I mean come on what’s the point of making mistakes if you’re not going to keep making them till you’ve got them completely perfect.

Photo credit: Cаvin 〄

So you’ll never guess what happened to me!
Well, quite unexpectedly, I recently found myself waking up to the most unusually exhilarating feeling ever: happiness.

Luckily for me, that euphoria came with its fabulous sidekicks “self-confidence”, “self-esteem”, “assertiveness” and “charisma”. Although my newfound mojo seemed fairly benign at the time, I knew I had in my possession one of the fiercest and most destructive weapons of mass seduction because, to put it bluntly, it gave me the indubitable certitude that I was the shit. Not only did I know it, I thought it, breathed it, claimed it and positively owned it.

Religiously abiding to my ritualistic daily regimen, I first indulged in the decadent breakfast delight of caffeine and nicotine delicacies – a must have morning fix – before driving my derriere to the gym. I can already see some of you rolling your eyes in disapproval of my questionable healthy habits. What can I say? It is one of my nonsensical sterling qualities that has been the hallmarks of all my incomprehensible Gemini personalities.

Dressed in my newly purchased Adidas white sweat pants, my trendy American Apparel form-fitting black sleeveless V-neck t-shirt conveniently showing off the to-die-for muscle definition of my shoulders and arms, my brand new fashion-forward orange air-gel Asics shoes, I made my fabulously majestic Lara Croft entrance to the gym. Feeling quite pumped up and full of nervous energy, I immediately hopped on the treadmill and proceeded to run for a solid 45mn. I had strategically selected the cardio machine located closest to the stairs leading to the weight lifting equipment area to make sure my fellow members would notice me and look twice in my direction simply impressed by the intensity and strength of my workout, not to mention, blinded by my amazingly fantastic ripped body – for which, mind you I had been (and still am, uselessly) fanatically working my ass off to develop.

Surely enough, as all eyes began to fire at me, my delusional psycho neurotic self felt grandiosely validated and downright proud. My ego had suddenly skyrocketed to immeasurable heights and the boatload of thoughts cavorting through my mind turned incredibly ridiculous. Somehow now I was imagining in great details how all these men parading before my eyes vehemently wanted me while the women were unanimously split between feelings of desire and envy.

Fully immersed in my madness and exuding a superb air of highly misplaced self-confidence and arrogance, I then went on a delusional mind-reading rampage accompanied with a creatively lunatic mental dialogue with my newly recruited imaginary fans – you know for caption purposes. And if you must know, here’s what was going on in my head: “Wow, I’m so hot even I can barely stand the sight of me”, “All right ladies, please settle the hell down with the jealousy, I know you’re so dying to be me”; “That’s right! Check me out! I’m a sexy bitch! You want me, don’t you?”

As I was sinking deeper and deeper into the web of my eccentrically insane folly, I proceeded to gradually increase the speed of the treadmill (for effect of course) and was now absurdly sprinting like mad woman. I reasoned I needed to impress them a bit more. Don’t ask me why! Even I can’t begin to fully comprehend my own logic – if there was such a thing as a short bus in France, I would have probably qualified to ride to school on it. Anyway, once the 45mn elapsed, I decided to challenge myself to some more cardio exercise and traded in the mildly inconspicuous ground-level treadmill for the much more visible stair-masters conveniently situated in front of the panoply of all other cardio machines. Talk about being on a pedestal, I was now not only dominating the gym but as well panoramically elevated to a new omnipotent stature. Accordingly, I spent the next 30mn perched up on these delusional stairways of heaven foolishly practicing being god or some sort of other master of the universe.

When I was finally done with the cardio part of my workout, I followed the hordes of other wannabe fitness versions of me upstairs to imperiously tackle the weight-lifting part of my insane gym-routine. Still dressed with my super-sized self-confidence artillery, I paraded my butt, borrowing a fierce catwalk strut a la John Travolta. I was oozing arrogance, sex appeal and coolness, and again felt myriads of eyes fixing me in what I interpreted as being worshiping stares. As I bounced from one machine to the next flaunting my sexy toned and cut figure sans the killer abs (yet!), I noticed that one particular gym member of the female kind was obstinately and quite persistently following me (at a safe distance) not only physically but as well visually.
Needless to say, I was immensely flattered as she perfectly matched my admittedly superficial criteria for dating material. Evidently I was prematurely assuming that her stalking me was for no other reason than the fact that she felt compulsively attracted to me – but seriously, how could she not be?

I took a certain vicious pleasure in (seemingly) innocently participating in the flirtatious game that both she and I were now unassumingly playing, and solely relying on my perspicacity had invested all my assurance on the infallible bet that she would be the one making the first move. Minutes later, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and as I turned around was not at all surprised to see her at last standing in front of me. She leaned over to my ear and in a very discreet tone murmured some inaudible words under her breath.
I apologized for not comprehending what she said in the first place and kindly asked her to repeat herself. She then pointed at some guy stationed a few feet away from us and before she had a chance to reiterate her speech, my bigheaded brain had already made the conceited supposition that she was actually the spokesperson for some dizzyingly timid secret admirer who didn’t have the balls to approach me.

Well, Miss Good Samaritan might have had the guts to act as a liaison between wimpy over there and silly me over here, but she certainly was not the apostle of the good word.
“The gentleman over there asked me to let you know that you might have an accidental leak,” she said in an extremely considerate and sensitive self-effacing tone.
As livid and devastated as I was, I adamantly refused to cop to any of it – I would have rather opted for death by suffocation instead of humiliation. I bravely attempted to attenuate the magnificent embarrassment with the grotesque excuse that I had clumsily spilled coffee in my car and accidentally sat on it. I don’t know why but that was all I could come up with on such short notice to deny the accusation. Frankly, all I wanted to do at that very moment was disappear in the nether region of “never-finding-me land”. Unfortunately, I was very much stuck in my own skin having to overcome the natural disaster of this damaging “not so fresh feeling” catastrophe. Evidently, I made my wall of shame exit insistently keeping my head down as if I were dodging enemy fire, hoping to save whatever was left of my dignity. I felt as if I was about to become physically ill.

God knows how many people had already witnessed the horrifying human nature accident and viciously decided to keep quiet while all along laughing at my expense and jubilating at the idea of sharing this hilariously entertaining anecdote at their next dinner party. That’s right, I was going to be the joke of the town – and perhaps even the entire world if that news traveled through cyberspace. Because surely I am the center of the universe and people have nothing else to do but launch a massive online PR campaign to disseminate via Facebook and Twitter the breaking news about the tragedy of the appalling bloodshed drama.

Suffice to say, I wasn’t feeling super sexy and irresistibly irresistible anymore. My sorry ass had brutally crashed back down to planet earth and my overly pompous ego had completely deflated. I rushed home crying a freaking river and did what every adult does under these atrocious circumstances: I called my mom and responsibly proceeded to blame it all on her because she made me a girl. I mean seriously, she only had to choose between two options and of course picked the wrong one!

But because I was still committed to give this “happiness” feeling a shot and not necessarily revert back to my old skeptical, cynical ways, once I calmed down, I decided to embrace a positive perspective on the situation. That’s right! Looking on the bright side of things, I figured that all in all, there is indeed good in bad, and the crystal clear lesson to be learned here is really simple: obviously, I’m absolutely an utterly absorbing character (in every way)! Evidently the same can’t be said about the defectively “guilty” disposable plug.

… I’m just sayin’! Period!

So it’s Valentines Day again. You know, the day where everyone goes on about how it’s all a big commercial ploy, make pacts with their partner to definitely not buy anything, then one person gets into a panic about whether that was a bluff, goes and buys something, makes the other one feel really bad meaning all that most of us get to experience on February 14th is a big old feeling of tension in the air… and I don’t mean the sexual type.

But having said all that if we’re all honest deep down  there is one thing that can’t help but get everyone a little bit excited come Valentines Day, and that’s the fact that you might just get a card with that big old question mark at the bottom that allows you to do your best Precious Ramotswe Ladies Detective Agency impression to work out who it is … which you hope with all your fingers and toes crossed isn’t one of your parents.

So I’m sure you want to know (and pretend for my ego if you don’t) how I’ve fared over the years? Have I had to have more shelving put up to be able to display them all? Have I felt the need to donate to some forestry commission because of the huge amount of trees that have chopped down to make all those stunning cards? Well how do I put this without sounding seriously pathetic, sad and well a loser…. No and no. In fact I’m pretty sure minus the obligatory card you end up feeling you must give to your other half, I have had about the grand total of 12 cards over the years.

Twelve? Well that’s not that bad I hear you cry. Well yes actually it is, and it’s for two reasons. The first is I’m actually verging on the ancient now, and so this far from equates to even one card for each year of my proper dating life. And the second? Well rather embarrassingly they have all been from children (and the only slight redeeming thing about that is one was from a 6 year old boy when I was 6.)

Yes that’s right. I am seen as so much of a loser for not getting a card from any grown up people that small children, who don’t like to see adults cry, have felt so bad for me that they have got their little red crayons (or in some case green ones…. hey beggars can’t be choosers) and drawn me Turner Prize standard designs to try and make me feel a little bit more loved, which have included to date the memorable additional messages of “I Love You When You Read Me Stories” (so nice bit of conditional love there), “You Love Me” (that child wasn’t even willing to tell a white lie) and “I Love Airplanes and You” (and no that’s not sweet because  that doesn’t mean I’ve come second, I actually came 956,345th after every single plane that exists that he loved before me).

But let’s be honest it’s not all about the cards is it. Valentines Day is as much about the giving of gifts than it is about cards, so there’s still hope yet. Maybe I haven’t had lots of cards, but perhaps I have had bunches of red roses and divine Valentines chocolates filling my rooms year after year.

Well let’s see. How I put this… nope. So far in my very sad romantic life, no-one has EVER bought me red roses (admittedly I don’t want them, but that’s not the point), and I believe the only chocolates I’ve ever received was a Twix bar that my long term girlfriend of the time  thought would be an excellent substitute for any other gift (note to said ex if you’re reading this.. you might want to consider just not going with a gift if you encounter the same problem again… there’s something more insulting about being given a 59p chocolate bar as a sign of love than nothing at all). The only other gifts I’ve had on Valentines Day is a shoulder covered in baby sick (this can sort of be forgiven by the fact they went on to draw me a card in later years), a Tigger hand puppet from an admirer (I have no idea what made them think I wanted to be a puppeteer …), a song from a guy which had lyrics that basically said he thought I was beautiful, but also a real bitch (this was mainly down to the fact he found me “choosing” to be gay as an insult directed at him), and perhaps the best of all would have to be an ex (we’re onto a different one to the Twix delight) who was away on the day, didn’t get in touch at any point and then at 3am on the 15th decided to make it up to me by phoning up rather the worst for wear (i.e. drunk) and made me listen to 6 minutes of some goddamn awful bit of “modern” music that she felt expressed exactly how she felt about me (which I can only guess was that she found me to be rather noisy, not make any sense at all and be so unpleasant to spend time with that you’d want to hide your head under a pillow the whole time). Leading to her always swearing afterwards that she didn’t even remember making the call, let alone where she got the insult of all insults to the music industry track from in the first place, something that still has me pondering what is the more insulting – that a drunk her thought all she needed to do was play me a tune to keep our love strong or that a sober her didn’t remember and so obviously wouldn’t have done it!

So all in all I think we can say that Valentines Day hasn’t served me that well up until now and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be changing this year either. Maybe it’s time to go at this from another angle and stop waiting for everyone else to find me. So….. lovely lovely reader, who has a big budget for candles, chocolates and romantic dinners, do you want to be my Valentine?

It is safe to say that by now everybody knows Cairo is not just a village in Ohio.
As tragic as the recent events in Egypt have been – and sadly continue to be – one good thing has come out of this international political crisis: most people have now acquired the knowledge to be able to geographically situate it on the world map. Whether these nouveaux intellectuals have as well mastered the skill to also identify it as part of Africa and not the Middle East is a different story, and frankly not mine at this very precise moment.

No, no no no…the topic of my column this week is, for a change, ME – because evidently my so-not egotistical self found a way to make Egypt’s turmoil all about me. What can I say? I am very sensitive like that and can’t help but take things very personally. Not that the world revolves around me but obviously there’s a clear connection between Egypt’s current chaos and the spectacular mess that consistently and perpetually seems to rule my charmingly (seemingly) deranged brain. But if anything, as the saying goes, there’s always some good news in every bad news – at least for me. And the good news for me is that I discovered in my mini-epiphany episode, that there’s potentially a medical name for my condition. That’s right, my “retardedness” is not just the pure fabrication of my brilliant imagination nor is it entirely genetic – damn! So much for me thinking I had another valid “look what you’ve done to me” case against my parents. Not so much, or not yet!

Get this! Apparently there’s a thing in the psychology lexicon that therapists universally refer to, as “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)”, which I personally strongly believe had to be modeled after me. I mean, I’ve surely spent a lifetime checking the box for a boatload of (other) psychological disorders but never before has one definition fit the profile with such flawless, perfect accuracy.

So what is PTSD? Well allow me to give you the definition as provided by the ultimate authority in cyberspace, namely Wikipedia: “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma (sometimes months after). This event may involve the threat of death to oneself or to someone else, or to one’s own or someone else’s physical or psychological integrity. Events that can cause PTSD are witnessing a war, violence, natural disasters and/or any other catastrophic occurrences.” What that semi-fancy Academic sounding jargon translates into are the following symptoms:

- showing irritability or angry outbursts (check)
- showing more sudden and extreme emotional reactions (check)
- addiction tendencies (check)
- difficulty staying asleep (check)
- losing interest in social activities and isolating (check)
- showing increased alertness to the environment (check)

Right about now, you’re all probably taking a rapid mental inventory of all my numerous, potentially disturbing but very life-threatening events, I’ve so intimately shared with you in my past columns to try and pinpoint THE traumatic catastrophe that irreversibly fucked up who is I. And yes I would absolutely agree with you that discovering in absolute atrociously horrific shock that Santa Claus does not exist severely traumatized and damaged me beyond repair – and I will thank my older brother again for forever ruining my life. That was my immutable “inconvenient truth” and I was adamantly sticking to that conviction until I spoke to my cousin Bella” Skyping” me from –you guessed it – the Capital of Egypt, Cairo.
Do you like how I skillfully segued back to the original topic du jour? Yeah, me too – I’ll modestly pat myself on the back for that super witty maneuver.

So very quickly, let me give you some background information so you’re all able to effortlessly, logically connect the dots without having to strenuously put your brain cells through an excruciating cervical workout: I’m half Egyptian, half Lebanese. I was born in Beirut, Lebanon and moved to Paris, France when I was four years old back in 1975 when the Civil War broke and it was no longer safe to reside in my own native country (or so my family estimated it wasn’t). Long story short and skipping all the little inconsequential details, I grew up in Paris with my older brother and my four paternal cousins (which of course includes Bella to whom I was the closest to because of the same age factor) who likewise fled Lebanon the same year we did. Cut to after graduating high school era where my brother and I moved to the US and my cousins relocated to Cairo, Egypt. Cut again to last year, where I flew my ass to Pyramids city to go visit my cousins and more specifically attend Bella’s younger sister’s wedding. Needless to say that not only did I totally fall in love with the country and its amazing people, but I also wholeheartedly reconnected with my culture heritage not to mention with my family.

From there, fast-forward to two weeks ago when the Egypt that I got to see suddenly morphed into a violent war zone brutally disrupting thousands of lives – including my family’s. Suffice it to say that the 48 hours and plus during which the Egyptian government deemed necessary to disconnect all means of communications were agonizingly and interminably excruciating. Understandably, I was mortifyingly worrying about my family’s safety and furiously angry at the Egyptian regime for deliberately inflicting additional stress on my already “au naturel” spastic and hysterical self. Anyway, when I finally was able to get Bella on Skype she said something groundbreaking that totally turned the switch on in me.

“You know I thought I didn’t remember the war in Lebanon because I was so young. But going through all this now and witnessing all this violence has brought back some very vivid memories of what I had actually gone through back then,” she painfully confessed. “I guess I was repressing it all unconsciously, but I think it did affect me in a huge way,” she proceeded in a breathless élan. That was the exact moment when the freaking big obnoxiously colorful cheap-ass Las Vegas style BINGO sign went flashing before my flabbergasted eyes. Yep, that was my OMG moment.

Not to selfishly dismiss and/or disrespectfully undermine what my cousin and the rest of the Egyptian people were insufferably going through, but clearly this whole tumultuous pandemonium was metaphorically all about me. It suddenly got me to thinking how I seemed to, rather persistently, not only have been at war with myself since I was knee-high, but as well with the rest of the world which would explain why basically I love to hate you all – and please don’t take this personally, obviously I’m not well.

As I embarked on the gruesomely draining task of digging into my cumbersomely surcharged brain to try and pull out whatever memories I could find of my short-lived time in Beirut, only two images popped up very clearly. The first one was about Mister Bread – not Pillsbury Man – who would stop every day by the apartment complex I lived in with his old-fashioned mobile cart and ring his bell to announce his majestic presence. I remember the sound of that bell and the simultaneous sound of music my stomach was also making at the thought of sinking my teeth into one of his to-die-for absolutely decadent, warm pieces of homemade Arabic bread. Now I’m very aware of the fact that the general consensus is that I don’t eat, but I will have you know that I am quite a carb fiend. All I can say is … yummy!

The second memory that surfaced was quite the polar opposite of my Food Channel “eat-a-pita” show. I somehow remembered laying face down on the floor of some narrow hallway of what seemed like an apartment with my older brother next to me (assuming the same position) and my mom laying flat on top of the both of us. While most of that scene still comports a lot of blurry details, it is mainly the feeling of suffocation that has remained with me – perhaps that’s where my claustrophobia comes from, or not!

I don’t know why I, in the past 40 years, never thought of asking questions about this obviously pivotal part of my life. But I was now determined to do some detective work. Hell, if this was the key to solving the biggest mystery on earth, namely why I am so beautifully fucked up in the head and why George Constanza in “Seinfeld” is my real life role model, then it’s only logical that I demand an answer and demand it NOW. So of course, I called my prime usual” suspect: my mom! Seriously not to be overly melodramatic but kind of, I was absolutely not prepared to hear what my mom was about to reveal –well, ok I was, but bear with me here as I need to create some “wow, how tragic” passive aggressive effect on you – you know, a “box of Kleenex” moment so that you would feel sorry for me.

Anyway, after a long ass hour on the phone with my mother – by far the longest telephone conversation I’ve ever had with her, with the exception of that one time when she spent close to 45 minutes discussing the virtues of vacuum cleaners all this because I had told her my Hoover had just died on me and I was about to go purchase a new one – here’s the abridged version of what I found out:

I could go on and on about all those seemingly benign childhood episodes of me fitting parts of the (alleged) trauma in my daily life, which sort of went unnoticed and were perhaps mistakenly underestimated (like carrying a squirt gun to school and shooting at my teacher while she was writing on the blackboard then being furiously angry when the principal confiscated my favorite toy.)

Sure all these public displays of deranged behavior could potentially serve as clues in my self-diagnosed case of PTSD, but I should care because? Seriously it’s way too much work to fix what, for the most part, has always been broken. So why bother now?

All I know, and what’s really important here is that for thirty-freaking-six years I have devastatingly been deprived of my favorite bread ever – and that is the real traumatic tragedy!

Now I’m not quite sure how that helps you and/or my fellow Egyptians in anyway but hey it was like a bit of therapy in a looooooooong paragraph for me!

And wait t’il I publish my New York Times bestselling autobiography….HarperCollins, please call me!

…I’m just sayin’!

With an undefeated record stretching back to ancient Rome’ance –somewhere around the birth of the greatest decade ever known to mankind, namely the eighties, when the word “dating” went from a semantically ephemeral mirage in my very far horizon to an uncontrollable alive and kicking teenage hormonal bestial creature – I am proud to announce that on February 14, 2011, I will victoriously be defending my Olympic Gold medalist title as the ultimate professional dateless woman on Valentine’s Day.

This year again, I can confidently confess that I have absolutely not made a lot of activism efforts to help my cause. But honestly I am perfectly fine championing sustainability in my personal Facebook status. I’m so used to checking the “single” box in every profile form that to do otherwise would almost be as industrious as learning Chinese. What can I say? Celibacy agrees with me! Now please settle the freak down with the pro-Alex protesting! No need to bark to remind me that in all actuality I do have a girlfriend. Feel free to put your two cents in here, but this is the part where I, in turn, remind you that she is miles away, in another continent across an entire ocean, which still leaves my ass dateless and alone in La La Land. Maybe it’s a minor detail for you but for me beyond the obvious technical difficult it seemingly poses, it’s a very real reality, which factually translates in physically having me, myself and I remain alone – of course that’s not counting all my exceptionally entertaining personalities. I will have you know though that I am not complaining, I’m just observing. Really, why would I bitch when I am in my natural habitat?

It’s become such a natural instinctive reflex to the point that it is now far less difficult to count the number of times I’ve actually had a significant other to spend V-Day with than the times I pulled a solo performance – at least I only need one hand to enumerate those exceptional duos. And should you be wondering how many fingers would exactly be displayed … the answer is 2.

Mind you, two beyond memorable ones – for my then partners du jour that is.
Let’s quickly recap: one was sublimely yelled at for setting up a “Little House on the Prairie”-like picnic dinner on my living room floor – a spontaneous chivalrous move which instantly awakened my Courtney Cox Monica Geller OCD syndrome morphing me into a new and improved version of the “Diary of a Mad Woman.” What can I say, I just couldn’t live with the thought of having to clean up the expected mess on my carpet and very much interpreted this faux-pas of a courtship endeavor as an inconsiderate lack of sensitivity and total disrespect to my sense of hygiene. Needless to say, this unforgettable dinner experience pretty much boiled down to me abusively torturing the defenseless piece of brie cheese starring at me on my plate while silently fuming of uncontrollable anger. Perfectionism can really sap your energy and morale.

As for the second lucky victim of my affection, I nearly broke into her apartment – had it not been for her roommate and shall I say his highly developed sense of perfect timing – to transform her bedroom into my very own personal lovey-dovey reproduction of the Rose Parade. Mea culpa, I might have slightly gone overboard sprinkling her white bed comforter with hundreds of bleeding petals of red roses and myriads of colorful melting M&M – for decorative effect of course not to mention that is was her favorite candy. Suffice to say that the anticipated element of surprise didn’t quite work in my favor as her beloved comforter ended up in the trash. Warning: don’t try my antics at home!
Not to make this case all about me but kind of, I will have you know that the real reason why this specific V-Day still serves my memory far too well is because when I departed the scene of the crime I got pulled over by an insensitive cop for allegedly having made an illegal U-turn – an innocent maneuver on my part that cost me a whopping $350 ticket, which mind you, I, for the first time, failed to dispute in court. I guess the judge didn’t buying my well-thought, careful crafted fat lie. If you ask me, I should have seen this as a red flag that then girlfriend was bad news!

Anyway, let’s stay focus on the real issue here: how uniquely wonderful I am!
Aww, I’m glad you noticed and I totally agree with you; yes, I am such a rare breed of a hopeless romantic! They don’t make’em like me anymore. But I guess that’s what happens when you accumulate such colossal amount of mileages in the single lane.
That’s right, you just have plenty of creative, “get yourself a life” time to think out of the box and concoct these spectacularly original, glossy romantic ideas. Realistically speaking, I think the carpool lane is way overrated anyway and contrary to the general consensus doesn’t move that much faster.

Seriously, Valentine’s Day is nothing less than an isolating semblance of an overrated celebratory jamboree. Just like birthdays are brutal reality-checks that we are getting one year closer to the end, V-Day is a cruel and very much discriminating reminder that we, single people, are spectacular undesired rejects of society.

Couples are given a bit too much attention. Hello! They freaking celebrate V-Day every damned day of the year by the mere fact of having a special someone to come home to.
I won’t even mention the fact that courtesy of this super massive commercial enterprise called capitalism, said February 14 commemoration – which now absurdly burgeons right on the heels of Christmas – is no longer a simple 24 hour Hallmark propaganda but months of excruciating marketing harassment and psychological pressure for not only these love-birds but also the sans-lover like moi.

How about a little recognition for the single ladies? Let’s be real, while I don’t have to spend my money on my honey, it takes an insurmountable investment of time, energy, hassle and financial funds to entertain a successful relationship with my (temporarily) single self than with someone else. For instance, although I do tend to be more frugal with my wallet vis-a-vis any and all “me” expenditures, ironically, I uncontrollably go lavishly all out and way above my budgetary means to please my baby – when I do have one who lives within driving distance!

As I said before, dating yours truly (yes me) is most definitely quite a monumental challenge – ask Alex if you don’t believe me. For God’s sake, I still don’t comprehend how or why after so many months she still manages to put up with me! Maybe Skype is actually doing me a huge favor. I guess the camera loves me after all. Man, if I had known before I would have for sure gone into acting – to think that I could have been the next Angelina Jolie (sans the adopted kids’ UN soccer team and the admirable activist aspiration to want to save all the Third World countries because that’s way too much work for my selfish booty!). Nevertheless, truth be told! Left to my own device and having to personally attending to my high maintenance eccentric non-sense self on a 24/7 basis is no piece of cake either. Do you realize the insurmountable amount of work I have to invest in keeping up with my diva’esque self? Let’s see … I have to pick myself up when my ass falls on the ground, give myself a shoulder to cry on when I’m down, pat myself on the back for my extraordinary exploits, surprise myself with unexpected expensive gifts, cook myself gourmet dinners, buy myself flowers, take myself on romantic weekend getaways, compliment myself on how fabulous I think I look, console myself with the stereotypical sugar-coated white lie “no you’re not fat, it’s just the mirror that’s exaggerating your reflection”, argue with myself for making me fashionably late, tell myself sweet mots d’amour, and last but not least, perform all the detestable manual labor chores around the house. As coined by Hilary Clinton: “it takes a village to raise a child” and quite possibly the entire planet to raise a single sorry ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proposing to place an embargo against Cupid and boycott Valentine’s Day altogether, but merely suggesting we put a whole new spin on the “V” in Valentine. Let them indulge in the overpriced, poorly made tasteless goodies, the pathetic cheap-looking teddy-bears, sappy heart-shaped chocolates, the stinking bouquets of flowers, the nauseating cards loaded with cliché Lifetime Television-like poetic declarations of love, the stupid cheesy dinner-dates and the agonizing inundation extravaganza of all-things Pink. If this plethora of tacky merchandising is supposed to make me feel loved and wanted, I personally would feel more of a hot, in-demand, highly desired commodity with my face on a wanted flyer.

I will say though that the most insufferable part of this massive commercialization of stupid Cupid is the infestation of these brainwashing jewelry ad campaigns that absolutely merit a veto. If I have to hear one more time a single line of these fucking indoctrinating contagiously catchy jingles a la “he went to Jared” and “every kiss begins with Kay”, someone will definitely be coming home in a body bag.

I’m not being cynical but considering that most of the individuals populating the world live in bachelordom shouldn’t the law of the majority prevail here? Let’s give credit where credit is due! So if we official anoint V-day as the “one day of the year” pinnacle of my bachelorette career, then “V” should imperatively stand for the VACATION I am taking from my significant self.

So on this glorious fourteenth day in the second month of the year 2011, I will not be hiding under my blankets, sink my head under the pillows, binge on some delectable ‘comfort’ junk food or decadent, ass-fattening, uber calorific desert, and I will not either Skype my cyberspace ass to France to indulge in a virtual dinner date with my girl. Don’t get me wrong! It’s not that I do not want to spend some quality tête-à-tête romantic time with her or that I am afraid of ridicule but seriously that would be like those people who play air guitar and moronically bob their heads – it’s beyond absurd, it’s totally deranged!

No Ma’am! I will absolutely not tune in to the universal Celine Dion chest thumping self-mutilating pity party. My heart will definitely go on even if I don’t get any booty!

Seriously, as French as I may be, why would I go for cheese on V-day when I have my honey – George Michael – continuously on instant replay …. I’m just sayin’!

Most women I know – including me – have the extraordinary inhuman ability to totally poison their brain with complicated thoughts for absolutely no real reasons. If you ask me, and I know you are asking me, I truly, deeply, immensely believe that this inexplicable phenomenon also known as “illogical thinking” comes from the fact that we, as a gender (and I might add brilliantly fucked up specie) think way too much.

It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem if that thinking process didn’t also come with another mentally exhausting, totally impractical, not to mention misused, competence called “analyzing”. But that’s just it; that’s exactly what we do and do it impressively well: we analyze everything that we think about – not with our brains but we our emotions – and then when clearly it gets us stuck with nothing but a colossal headache, we spend even more time thinking how once again we’ve fallen into the inevitable “what the fuck were we thinking about” consequence phase. Clearly we still haven’t gotten a clue!

Here’s the deal: somehow we have this uncanny facility to fabricate some sort of mega traffic jam in our minds when really there’s none to be had because if, for even a mere minute, we took the time to step on the breaks of our psychopathic madness we’d see that there’s absolutely nobody else out there driving on the road with us. What that means in plain English is that we love to create drama – and I am convinced that we do it just because we can. On a deeper philosophical level this innately, seemingly natural inclination toward absurdity (as in abnormally demented human behavior) translates into our own self-sabotaging of our ability to fully be present in the “NOW” moment of our lives. In other words we’re constantly bathing in the “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” mode.

But no need to panic yet! It’s certainly not a massive tragedy and neither is it completely the end of the world. Yes ladies and gentlewomen, there’s hope for some of you (notice how I am not including my ass here) and it’s called Oprah and her little fury puppy, I mean disciple, Dr. Phil. Thank god for her divine highness being the human “messenger” sent on this majestic planet earth to help all women (and gay men) be the best that they can be NOW, which really means at the very present moment of your daily weekly lives between 3pm and 4pm (PST) on the very real reality of your television screens. As for the rest of us who haven’t drunk the Madame O cool aid yet, well I regret to inform you that apparently we’re fucked!

To that, and with maximum respect, I say “Not so fast!” Personally I think we’re the lucky ones. I’d much rather hang out in hell than be agonizingly bored out of my mind in peaceful paradise. Drama? I wanna! Hey, her majesty here (yours truly, me!) needs to entertain herself with whatever she’s got, or, to be more precise, whatever comes at her. Let’s be real here, we’re all beautifully defective and genially blessed with an uber complicated logic that organically thrive to constantly put us in a state of total confusion. I don’t know about you but I like my brain in nebulous land.

Seriously, it’s like constantly being perched up in the clouds -at least I know what blurs and what is clear to see. And what is clear to see is what is right in front of me. And what’s in front of me, metaphorically speaking, is the 24/7 brutal reflection (courtesy of my female entourage) of how far the elasticity of my desperation, pathetic’ness (I just made that up), impressive lack of confidence, lamentable low self-esteem and emotional messiness can stretch to. No need to have mirrors at home when you have female friends as demented and deranged as you are.

They ultimately do an amazing job at morphing into some sort of constant reminder of what you should absolutely not let yourself sink to. I swear, they provide for the perfect blue print of the “dos and don’ts” of the female race. And what I find even more fascinating in our ability to have the exceptional audacity to give advice to our own gender that of course we absolutely never ever follow ourselves– you know the usual “do what I say, don’t do what I do”. I’m not kidding when I say we’re spectacularly brilliant!

Take my friend Coco for instance. How should I put this? Well, let me be my straight shooter self and simply say that she’s freaking out of her mind. And that’s exactly why I totally love this girl (no, not as in I’m in love with her – you know what I mean?). Anyway, much like me, Coco has been tapping into the long distance relationship territory by indulging in a romantic affair with some handsome dude who lives about 4 hours away (by plane) from her. How did she meet this guy? Without going into gruesome details let’s just say that six months ago Coco went on a therapy retreat at some institute specializing in whatever psychological problem she was/is struggling with. Of course during that little geography escapade she, somehow, ended up having a torrid affair with none other than her therapist! I told you she was out of her mind! But wait t’il you hear the rest. So cut to six months down the road – meaning last week – Coco decides to put her sexy ass on a plane and suffer through the 4-hour flight to go see her Mr. Right.

This is the part where I have to tell you that she also had the option to fly to Paris to go on a shopping spree with her Lifetime Television-watching friends. So between getting some boots and getting some bootay, she chose to be “naughtay” – I guess a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s got do! Ironically enough when she got to her destination something terribly dramatic happened: SHE CHANGED HER MIND. Talk about being in the NOW, Coco was, to say the least, neither here nor there – but very much wanted to be there…in Paris, that is! At that point there was no turning back and she had to deal with the reality of being stuck with “Mr-so-not-right now” for whatever many days she was traveling. Because she is a responsible adult she took it upon herself to handle the situation the utmost mature and honest way: she told him she was on her period and went total PMS on him. Meanwhile I, some million miles away in LA LA Land, proceeded to be bombarded with SOS emails sent from her iPhone – because clearly I am such a mature and wise adult with my head always on my shoulders….not!

“I’m not enjoying this relationship anymore and will not be returning here anytime soon. He’s sweet and all but he’s annoys the shit out of me. I’m completely turned off” were the words Coco emailed me, “He wants to come visit me in February but I have to end it before that. I would love to keep him as a friend but the ‘couple’ thing is ruining it for me.” And then came my favorite sentence of them all: “I feel so confused and wish I didn’t have to hurt him but he’s really way too into me.”

The next day, I got even better electronic missives – yes ok I’ll confess, I was highly entertained by my friend’s misery!

“Am really having a hard time here. Can’t wait for tomorrow morning so I can hop in a taxi and get the fuck out of her, “ she wrote. “Last night was a nightmare. I pretended to fall asleep early because I couldn’t deal with his mediation and spirituality crap anymore and he tried to wake me up like 10 times!!!  I can’t stand him anymore and in a way am glad am going to end this SOON. He’s Sooooo not for me and am borderline disgusted right now! I know I am overreacting but I have reached this point where I don’t even have the strength or patience to pretend to be remotely interested!!! Today is going to be one looooong fuuuuucking day!!! Shops are closed, nothing to do…yay!!! I think starting 1pm I’ll start drinking! Seriously, what a waste of time a trip! Should have gone to Paris.”

So eventually “tomorrow” came and of course Coco hurried to get “the fuck out” of there. But guess what happened the minute she landed back home? Well, let me just cut and paste the email Coco sent me, which needless to say had me hysterically crying – as in laughing my ass off:

“So I just landed and miss him sooo much!!! What the fuck is wrong me? I am holding my tears and trying to reach him and he’s not answering and I feel so bad. I regret being so mean and distant. I didn’t tell you but out of 4 nights I slept 2 in the living room!!! What an idiot I am. How fucked up is that? I think I do have major emotional issues.”

Ya think? What’s to think about? Hmm, let me think about it!

Here we go again!

…I’m just thinking…I mean I’m just sayin’!