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!

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 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!

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’!

What has clearly been difficult for me to deal with beside the fact that my super hero is losing his physical super powers -I guess that comes with the territory when you’ve managed to still be standing for almost a century – is the fact that I am expected to become the (more) responsible adult for the two of us now. Of course I don’t really want to nor do I really know how.

So grandpa is turning 90 this year! Such a milestone, wouldn’t you say?
Of course there are a few features in him that are a bit rusty and could use some fine-tuning like his hearing ability, overall speed of motion and aptitude to retain and store brand new information into his memory cells, but all in all he’s as vibrant, alert and dynamic as Betty White, which needless to say means he still kicks ass (mine included)! And that’s truly the best part because an hour spent with him is like reading a captivatingly compelling, page-turning historical non-fiction – so fascinating, you just can’t put it down.

So what if grandpa has short-term memory and can’t quite always remember what was said five minutes ago? Seriously who really needs to remember anything about this world we live in today? What’s so brilliant about it anyway? Facebook? Twitter? Oh yeah, the breaking news of another celebrity checking into rehab is certainly very important to the intellectual enrichment of his world! I say he’s much better off strictly remembering memories logged from as far back as 30, 40 or 50 years ago. And he certainly does with uncanny sharpness. My grandpa is like an ambulant encyclopedia; the wealth of information he possesses is even more impressive than Ali Baba’s treasure! Every minute I spend with him is not only way more informative than an hour spent watching the news on CNN, but also is simply pure magic.

It’s magical because I get to travel back into a part of my past that I either didn’t live to see or was too young to remember, and I do so with him suddenly metamorphosing into his own version of Peter Pan (I guess that would make me his Tinker Bell?). It’s such a special experience especially when you get to find out that your grandpa, against all visible appearances, has had some pretty outrageously wild moments in his life – ones that would certainly put the entire cast of Jersey Shore to shame! Ironically, the more I hang out with him the more I understand myself better. I guess it’s true when they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! Obviously I am the lucky privileged one in the family who inherited the bulk of his fabulously absurd character traits: a splendid addictive personality, the “I don’t want to grow up” philosophy and the “fuck you” mentality, among many other sterling qualities. But you know what? I wouldn’t change it for the world. I’m glad the torch has been passed on to me because not only do great minds think alike, but also when two kids get together, without fail, what they do – and do it well, is play!

So what’s the problem now, you may ask? Admittedly, what’s been torturously hard for me to reconcile is the idea that the man who used to take care of me, I now have to take care of. Don’t get me wrong! I’m not being selfish and am certainly not insinuating that I do not want to be there and provide for my grandpa. It’s just that I have not disconnected yet from the image of this little girl I used to be, which apparently I no longer am. And that’s exactly the “WTF” part! Obviously, my grandpa is reverting back to childhood, but meanwhile I partly never left mine. This is where I go back and forth on the issue because the adult half of me doesn’t always comprehend the logic behind most of my grandpa’s actions, while the other half, the child in me that is, totally does.

I hate that more often than not I have to be the mature adult voice of reason – I was never good at baby-sitting as a teenager anyway. I mean for God’s sake, you’re dealing with someone whom back when I was 19 years old, while baby-sitting my then three- year-old brother, spaced out and forgot to send him to bed at the required curfew. I was watching a movie on TV and when I heard the garage door open I suddenly realized that the little devil had quietly been sitting next to me all along. Suffice it to say that to own up to my major fuck-up, I did the mature responsible thing. So I immediately grabbed my little bro, rushed him upstairs into his bedroom and tucked him into bed with the a few words of wisdom – you know, for motivational purpose: “if you ever want to watch TV with me again, keep your eyes closed and pretend you’re sleeping when mommy comes to check on you, Ok? You got that?”

Surprisingly, he did copy that! I guess being a genius runs deep in the family!
The point that I am making, in case you don’t see it, is that the same phenomenon is happening with my grandpa. I don’t know where my adult bootie starts or where the child in moi ends. And, honestly, I don’t really want to try to figure it out. After all, isn’t that the very definition of grandparents?
They’re supposed to spoil the shit out of you and say YES to everything you (as the grandchild) ask for. Not only that, but their job is also to counteract every goddamned thing your parents put a veto on. Whether the roles are now reversed or not doesn’t change the granddaughter/grandfather dynamics does it?
I think NOT! If anything, now, more than ever, should be my turn to spoil the hell out of him and by the same token totally piss off his kids presently cast in the unglamorous antagonist role of “the parents”. Hey, I didn’t read the casting breakdowns but it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that I absolutely don’t qualify for that audition.

So really, why should I bother to bother him by trying to go Police Academy on his derriere? I don’t look good in uniforms anyway! Plus if I did I would never get the exclusive, oh-so priceless, privilege of having him confide in me the way he so openly has. Not only that, but I would never have found out about that ONE untold story that explains everything about psycho me!

“You know that I could have become a multi-millionaire,” my grandpa randomly confessed last Sunday as we were indulging in a tête-à-tête coffee break. “Did I ever tell you about the time when I was living in Cairo and got offer a golden opportunity to make a lot of money?” he rhetorically asked, clearly not expecting me to answer.
“I had opened my own business salvaging pieces and parts of buildings that were deconstructed and was exporting them abroad to be recycled and/or re-used. A friend of mine somehow had access to substantial amount of Mary J and suggested that I help him export it by hiding it in the cargos carrying my material – of course in exchange of a handsome commission. So one day he gave me a full bag of what was supposed to be the best quality of MJ ever known to mankind to give to some potential buyer with international connections whom I was to meet at some seedy location by the Nile. As I was waiting for that guy to show up, I kept going back and forth with the idea that no doubts about it I would become a rich man, but I could also become a rich man who got his ass royally nailed and ends up locked up in jail forever. I was already with your grandma and the thought of not being with her was just not worth it. So, without a second thought, I dumped the bag into the Nile and split.”

Of course that’s the part where I, in complete shock and horror, I uttered a long-drawn sigh and exclaimed: “You dumped the bag? Are you crazy?”
I didn’t know if I was hearing this right but I think what my grandpa had just told me was that he almost became a professional drug dealer. How cool is that? And more importantly how cool is he?

This story and all the others that he preciously keeps sharing with me only reaffirms the reason why, no matter what, even at almost 90 years old, he still is my super hero. While I’m still a young Jedi in the making, he, on the other hand, has clearly successfully not only evolved but also graduated from Darth Vador to Yoda, literally and figuratively speaking.

And that’s just it! I want to be Luke Skywalker forever so that when the time comes for my grandpa to go away, I’ll know for sure that my Yoda will never EVER really be far away. In the end, that’s really all, both the child and the adult in me, needs to believe in.

What can I say? Everything I ever want and need to know about life, I always learn in Star Wars … I’m just sayin’!

I’ve been trying to figure out why the majority of my entourage seems to be flipping out about my turning 40 in six months. Seriously, it’s almost as if they are having a mid-life crisis on my behalf. You sure don’t see me panic…yet! I mean forty is the new thirty so really, what’s the big deal? Well apparently the big deal is called CHILDREN. Yep the burning question on everybody’s lips (but mine) is “are you going to have kids?”

While my biological clock has been rather off, meaning unable to figure yet on what time zone to operate, I will confess that the thought of it did pop in my head once upon a long recent time ago. I guess I better make up my mind ASAP before my eggs hit the expiration date.

“You better hurry,” is what I keep hearing. Hurry for what exactly? To be stuck with a mini version of me for the rest of my life? I don’t know if I told you that before but quite frankly there are days where not only I can barely stand my own company, but also, I can’t handle any of my so called “adult responsibilities. And if you don’t believe me, ask my puppy Georgie. I swear I think sometimes his bark is really a desperate cry for help. If that dog could talk, I’m sure he’d be begging for someone – ANYONE –to get him out of the daily misery of having to put up with my moronic habits and my numerous “I’m becoming my mother” obsessive-compulsive moments.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that I don’t like kids. I love kids! I just don’t like other people’s kids. But rest assure, I have no doubt in my mind that I’m going to unconditionally love the kids I’m never going to have. It’s not that I don’t have a motherly instinct, because I do – but only in my imagination. It’s rather about the fact that there’s a sort of disconnect between what I see myself as and what I really am. What that means is that everything always sounds like a great idea in my head but when it comes time to put these ideas into practice I no longer have the energy for it.

Are you confused yet? Well, so am I!
Here’s what I know about me: I say what I mean but don’t always mean what I say. So while I very much like the idea of having a kid or two (or three), I don’t necessarily want to experience the reality of it. For God’s sake not only do I change my mind all the time, but also I don’t always show up for my life. How would I deal with my kid for real? It’s not like I could get rid of it if suddenly I wake up one day and decide that – all things considered- it’s not for me. Motherhood should really come with a full refund option, or at least provide some kind of an exchange policy.

Thank god I have three brothers. And because I am generous like that, I’ll let them have kids and grant my mom her wish to become a grandmother. Personally, I very much aspire and look forward to playing the role of the super cool, fun, young and trendy auntie. And the best part of it is that once my attention span reaches its limits (because without fail it will), I can simply call a time out and take my happy childless bootie home –ALONE.

Call me selfish if you want but seriously I think that attribute should go to all the newly mothers of the world who spend ungodly hours trying to brainwash you on the virtues of motherhood. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me”, “It really gives a whole new meaning to your life”, “it brings so much joy and happiness” is all that comes out of their delusional mouths. Oh and let’s not forget my personal favorite: “It will completely change your life”.

No shit it will change my life! But I’m no fool, nor am I completely blind. Thank you very much but I can see the subliminal message underneath this entire false advertising propaganda. No one can dupe me! Clearly what they conveniently omit to tell you is that this allegedly fabulous life changing experience really translates into “you’re fucked for the rest of your life.” Now I know misery loves company, but I think it is uber selfish of them to try to sell you on a product that really isn’t all it promises to be. Isn’t that called fraud or better yet charlatanism?

Either way, I know what they’re up to. They’re trying to warp my judgment because they’re jealous of my freedom. No matter how hard I try to rack my brain trying to come up with an excuse to potentially give into the Baby Mama cult – because that’s what mother nature intended for my female specie- I can’t quite seem to convince myself to become a fully invested disciple.

Here’s the deal: The child that I very much still am would love to have kids – mainly because it’d be fun to see what a mini-me would look like; also because someone would carry on the family name; and perhaps most importantly because lately baby bumps seem be today’s hottest red-carpet accessory, and as a publicist it would make me look good to jump on the baby bandwagon to keep up with the current Hollywood zeitgeist. On the other hand, the adult side of me doesn’t really want to bother with the responsibilities of parenthood.

Why on earth would anyone deliberately seek permanent loss of freedom? Seriously what is so fantastically appealing about children? Need I remind you that they are demanding little creatures that take way too much space? Am I the only one aware of the fact that: your life isn’t your own forever; they make you get up early, go to bed late; they make you help with their homework; they cost a lot because of course they want everything; they worry you to death 24/7; they require attention, make you buy extra food, and other things such as driving lessons, cars and wrecks, and college tuition; then there’s the fabulous teenage crisis phase where they become ungrateful rebellious out of control bastards; and last but not least, the wonder-years of the boy or girl friends declaration of independence phase . Oh, and did I mention, you constantly have to clean up their mess?

With my luck, they might not turn out good! While I could hope that they would take care of me in my golden years, chances are they’ll grow up doing drugs, fighting, breaking laws, dropping out of school and just be menace to not only society but most importantly, to me. Because you know, they’ll realize my worse nightmare and come back to live with me.

So really, thanks but no thanks! My only deception is that I won’t have the chance to apply my exceptional creative publicity skills and launch a kick-ass PR campaign to brag about my progeny – you know, join the hordes of “talk-amongst yourselves” mommies with their nauseatingly over-exaggerated updates on what their adorably good-looking, toothless, bold little genius is up to today. Because surely the entire planet would have needed to know whether my kid has walked early, used an adverb correctly or even formulated an opinion on the recent health care debate or on the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell issue. Speaking of the latter, and strictly on a personal note, I’d go with DON’T TELL here. Dear mothers of the world, here’s the newsflash: nobody cares about your kid’s exploits so please put a lid on it!

Of course, in the big scheme of things, all of these (seeming) disadvantages are really minor technical details, which given the right amount of training and time could easily be overcome. Evidently the vital part – and the #1 most important issue – of this business of being pregnant is the 9-months pregnancy itself. Considering the fact that I am eternally on a diet, not to mention, kill myself at the gym every day to preserve my soon to become goddess-like figures, why the hell would you suppose I would let someone fuck it all up for me? Not only could I not endure the 273 (plus or minus) days morphing into the Michelin man, but I also could absolutely not handle the tragic consequences of the post-baby body catastrophe: saggy boobs, stretch marks, fat belly, etc…

And please stop wondering what J.Lo, Halle Berry or Nicole Richie’s secret to looking bikini-ready mere weeks after giving birth is. Let me save you some time, effort and money and give it straight to you: that allegedly magic formula doesn’t apply to regular woman – nobody else bounces back that quickly.

I’m not gonna lie! I can’t handle the idea of getting fat and messing up my body.
I seriously don’t have the stamina or patience to fix it after. I’ve invested too many years in my body-image obsession to throw it all out the window to make room for mini-me. Sorry but I need that space to keep me mini – literally and figuratively speaking! No I haven’t lost my mind, I’m just changing it all the time. But that’s exactly the thing … I’m still a child myself.
can I say? I might be turning forty but I’m not growing old, I’m just growing up. See? I still have the energy to be totally superficial!

…I’m just sayin’!

I guess they’re really not kidding when they say it’s a small world after all.

There I was thinking it was just another one of those bullshit generic man-made expressions formulated as euphemism for fate. You know, just to sound smart and wickedly witty. But all spatial things considered, to be factually accurate we all know that according to the mother of all sciences not only this planet is freaking huge, but also that the (very subjective) adjective “small” only applies to the popular attraction at the Walt Disney theme parks.

I’m saying that because I still can’t get over what happened to me during the not-so merry Holiday Season and can’t accept putting it to bed with just one stupid philosophical Mickey Mouse adage.
Helloooooo! Am I the only one with a clear sense of physical distance? It’s not at all a small world – if it were my ass wouldn’t have to be uncomfortably stuck on an airplane for 13 dreadfully interminable hours to go see my girlfriend.

Anyway, that’s not the point of my story. But speaking about geography let me situate my little reality TV-like drama in time and space. So a few days before Christmas I received quite an intriguing Facebook message from my ex-boyfriend Alan (yes the one who lost his girlfriend over the soccer game incident), which read: “do you work or represent so and so?” Of course for confidentiality and privacy purposes I am not at liberty to reveal the name he actually typed down but for all the curious minds out there all you really need to know, or rather do, is to replace “so and so” with the name of a famous celebrity TV star.

This is the part where I’m totally going to show off and shamelessly brag about the fact that this publicist extraordinaire (that would be me) has for the past few months been working on a major PR campaign for an entertainment event of mega epic proportions. Oh what the hell, I’ll even pull a “Real L Word” Mikey Koffman “I am producing the biggest event for LA Fashion week” stunt and say that I’m actually working on the biggest event not just on the West Coast but in the entire world. There, I said it! With that in mind, evidently as you can imagine, I have been communicating with the legion of celebrities slated to attend said event. Well ok, I’m maybe not in direct contact with these glamorous A-listers but only vicariously through their respective reps. Nevertheless, as a result, at the very least, now my name has been associated with them. And clearly this was why Alan was enquiring about “so and so”. What can I say? I have high standards, hence my solid reputable track record in matters of dating smart people with an uncanny ability to put two and two together and connected the dots!

Sensing something not too Kosher was up in his world, I instantly clicked on the reply button and hit him with my own question. “Why do you ask?” I wrote, keeping it vague. Seconds later, another Alan message dropped in my inbox. “I’ve been dating her for the past few weeks and was hoping that as her publicist you would have some valuable insights to share about her personality traits and could give me the full 411 on her,” he replied.

Quite frankly, when he dropped that bomb on me, I found myself highly disturbed and immensely annoyed. “How dare he!” I thought to myself. I’m not gonna lie, my mental indisposition had nothing to do with the fact that he was asking me to potentially unethically violate the sacred client confidentiality agreement – meaning the publicist-celebrity privilege – but had everything to do with the fact that my once-upon-a-time (seemingly) loser boyfriend was now not only dating but dating a celebrity! What the fuck?
First of all, even if we broke up five years ago when I finally made up my mind on being gay, the nerve of him for having replaced me! I thought I made it clear that all my “exs” are not supposed to date EVER again post-breakup with me; but if they must and do, they should do it secretly behind my back. I don’t know about you but I certainly do not need to see who’s the chick he has replaced me with – especially when said new girlfriend is clearly a major upgrade from my booty.

Secondly, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had not made a huge mistake dumping his ass back then. After all, now this celebrity was obviously all over him! What the hell was she seeing in him that I perhaps missed? Don’t get me wrong, Alan is an absolute sweetheart and a rare gentleman – totally the kind of man you eagerly want to take home to introduce to you mother. And that was the problem! Well, at least mine. He was clearly not the stereotypical kind of man who would disrespect you and treat you like shit, and admittedly, I just was not used to it (I’m a masochist, remember?).

Needless to say, I had no sound advice, nor super secret intimate details to offer him about his newfound love interest. I certainly was not about to use my detective skills and dig up some information about her – that’s what Google is for! Let’s be real here, as a member of the elite celebrity circle, her entire life should be fabulously displayed on the Internet, right? Plus, at this stage of my drama, it certainly was the least of my concerns as I was still struggling to digest the tragic news. Forget about Alan’s happiness, of course it was all about me! How could I not take this personally? I was beyond devastated that he had found someone of a better social status than I; and even worse, that a better version of me existed. Because evidently she kind of, sort of, but not really, looked like me – that’s my theory and I am sticking to it!

Because I needed to put my troubled mind at ease, I decided to put things into perspective and look at the positive side of the situation. That’s when it dawned on me that I could use this to my superficial bragging advantage – you know for egotistical vanity purpose. After racking my brain trying to come up with some brilliant Machiavellic machinations, I found the missing link.

The reality of the situation was as simple as the “Kevin Bacon Sixth Degree of separation” principle. Hear me out here. It’s like solving a mathematical problem – you just have to use your logic in figuring out the values. Here’s the deal: I slept with Alan. Alan is now sleeping with “so and so” (anonymous) celebrity; therefore I also slept with “so and so” celebrity. It’s all about the common denominator factor, which in this case would be Alan! So again, if I dated Alan and Alan is now dating a celebrity then I too am dating that celebrity.

Yeah me! I’m dating a famous person. Oh and by the way, did I mention she’s a jaw-dropping beauty? Now by all means, will the entire lesbian community please envy me? Want a piece of me? I think YES…or maybe not?
Ironically, and very sadly, I’m back to square one because I have this thing called a professional conscience and can’t advertise about my prestigious dating prowess. Plus to tell you the truth, I don’t really want to find my face in the tabloids – you know what I mean! I got to keep everything on the down low, as in, in my immeasurably delusional and oh-so creatively demented mind. But I know you, you know I know and that’s enough for me to inflate my ego.

What I’m still trying to comprehend is why Alan keeps trying to pull me into his celebrity relationship. If you ask me, I think he’s potentially considering indulging in a “ménage-a-trois”. How else would you explain the fact that on New Year’s Eve I received a text from him, cordially inviting me to come over to his house to celebrate the festivities with him and “so and so”?

While I was very flattered and momentarily tempted to accept the invitation, I just couldn’t picture myself in the role of the third wheel. I’m almost forty years old for God’s sake! I’m too old for that shit! And who in their right mind would possibly decide to get into acting at that age? But more than that, I just couldn’t come up with a proper way to introduce myself to her. What was I going to say?

“Hi, my name is M. I’m Alan’s ex-girlfriend, and by the way I am the publicist handling the biggest event in the world – you know the one you’re attending in a few months? So we’ll be seeing each other again … tootles!”

Hmm, well why not? Isn’t it a small world after all?

…I’m just sayin’!

Awww, the New Year! What’s not to like about it? That one delusional time in our redundantly monotonous life that quite ambitiously foolishly allows us to pretend, or better yet, believe that we can be someone else other than who we really are. I’m not being a smart-ass cynic or my typical arrogant French party-pooper self, I’m just being brutally realistic. Seriously, who has kept his/her resolutions beyond the month of January?

We all magically wake up on January 1 as if we all, overnight, collectively had a divine life-changing epiphany and are now valiantly ready to embrace this alleged beginning of new beginnings. Not so much! Reality Check PLEASE! Let me tell you what that “spiritual epiphany” is …it’s called: hangover! What else but the mind-altering residuals of the incalculable umbrella drinks you’ve continuously, and yes, excessively, ingurgitated all night long, throughout the gloriously fabulous overrated New Year’s Eve festivities, can obstinately convince you that you can radically change yourself? It’s the same chorus every God damned year! And you know what? Clearly it’s not a #1 Billboard smash hit! Give it a miss, already!

As the saying goes: insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results! As far as I’m concerned, for that very absurd reason, I say, why the hell bother with resolutions? It’s like hitting your head against a brick wall. It accomplishes absolutely nothing except give you a major freaking headache. I don’t know about you but my life is already complicated enough to deliberately add to the pile of “shit happens” casualties. I mean why overly stress yourself to adhere to this new self-imposed masochistic regime governed by this psycho-dictator version of you when you know perfectly well that comes February that preposterous impostor will fast be overthrown by the good old you? If you need a revolution in your life do as I do and stick to what you know. In my case that means embracing the pro-active philosophy of affirmative actions – which really translates into sticking to what I know.

With that in mind, for 2011 I absolutely resolute myself to doing the following:
To not quit smoking
To sustain my daily outrageous intake of caffeine – preferably Hazelnut coffee.
To remain an insomniac and leave my internal alarm clock to the 4:00am daily wake up call.
To maintain my workaholic skills even when the entire planet is on vacation.
To passionately remain addicted to the gym and force myself to workout even when I physically feel depleted.
To poison my life – and that of my poor little puppy Georgie – with my obsessive “clean-freak” mania.
To limit my social outings to my apartment and religiously dedicate my ever- evenings to my couch.
To keep on calling the cops on my disturbingly noisy neighbor and at the same token, maintain my reign of terror within my entire building complex. They all already wholeheartedly hate my guts so why lift the embargo now, right?
To keep getting angry at the world, especially when I am driving, and believing that I am putting everybody back in his/her place even if a tiny part of me knows it’s absolutely not the case.
To stubbornly keep on fighting and resisting the oh-so-complicated mind-torturing inventions of modern technology. As long as ridicule doesn’t kill, I won’t drink the cool aid and believe like the rest of you it’s not 1984 anymore. I’ll show you who’ll get the last laugh when I bring the Sony metal Walkman, Atari, the vinyl and the turntables back!

What all of this essentially boils down to, besides the fact that it evidently says: “I’m not a hypocrite and I am very conscious of the limitless elasticity of my own human stupidity”, is fundamentally very simple. C’mon, do I really need to spell it out? Surely it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, and that, rather, everything is definitely not right with everybody else around me. It’s quite obvious by now that I’m not on any super massive enterprises to change the slightest thing about my flawless bootie. And before you all jump on your high horse, let me set the record straight. To be politically correct, I’m not saying that I am not willing to make some big changes in my life. What I’m saying is that I don’t want to change me – I want to change the world!

Yes, this 2011 I am totally devoting my precious time to exploring my humanitarian/philanthropist selfless self and plan on focusing my Mother-Theresa efforts in saving the world and making it a better place for, well, of course … ME!
So, having said that, clearly, the one thing that’s got to change (preferably immediately) is THE OTHERS. And by “others” I mean “them” – no need to go Hollywood on anybody and name-drop, I think they know who they are!

Is it just I or is the majority of the world definitely out to annoy the hell out of me? Now I know the world could not possibly solely revolve around me but seriously how else would you explain the fact that, on a daily average, I generally spend the bulk of my time being angry, irritated and constantly needing to put people back in their place? Alarmingly, there’s plenty of evidence out there attesting to the sad reality that loads of people are indeed very challenged. I know you’re probably going to suggest that I ignore them, practice the “don’t sweat the small stuff” and just go on my merry way; Or if you’re my friend McKenzie you’d implore me to go see Dan, the therapist extraordinaire (don’t ask me why she got rid of Sponge Bob, her former psychologist whiz, but she just did!). But that poses an insupportable challenge to me and always throws me for a loop. How can I walk away and ignore those loopy train wrecks when clearly they’re trying to make a total fool of me? I’m nobody’s pinada – I wasn’t born yesterday! That’s why I need to lay down my law and show them how it’s done!

Frankly it’s quite insulting, not to mention revolting, that people underestimate the wealth and extent of my own dementia – It’s one of my best features for God’s sake! What else can I do but take all of this very personally? You can’t teach an old dog, new tricks!

But ok, I’ll make the necessary adjustments for 2011 and will let them have their field trip. They can officially put me on their radar, and continue to passionately waste their time wasting mine with their utter nonsense. As far as I’m concerned I’m making a dramatic new commitment to change the world and make a valuable impact and a huge difference by being of service to moi.

Now all jokes aside, since clearly no of us in our right mind should have the audacity to realistically pretend that our New Year’s resolutions can feasibly be observed throughout the twelve long months ahead of us, I suggest we all focus our efforts on the most crucially important question of 2011: where do I get to celebrate my big 4.0?

Forty years on this planet? Are you kidding me?
If this is some kind of a cosmic joke, I’m not getting it.
Stop laughing! It’s not funny!

Clearly, there’s more to life than watching people live it … I’m just sayin’!