Confessions of an undercover elf‏

This year I am not even going to pretend: here comes the Christmas blog post.

First of all, a confession: my Christmas tree was up in mid November, lit and decorated by December 1. Same for candles and lights around the house, the wreath outside the front door, and the nativity (aka 'il presepe'). Heralding my latest motto 'November is the new December', shopping was completed, food ordered and charity donations posted, faster than you can say 'mistletoe'. All to the soundtrack of endless festive singing, repeated to insanity, testing the patience of those around me.

I am not making this up. I genuinely get excited when the sparkly lights appear in the streets, and friends start organising pre-Christmas drinks. Once a year I like to behave like a ten-year old. I am sure it is allowed.

Of course, the whole shebang is pointless without.. well, yes.. without love. Of all sorts.
So, I wish you all a Very Happy Christmas of Emotional Incompetence. Be it embraced with the innocence of mistakes. With the hope of tentative trying and resolved understanding. Of openness and purity of heart.

Merry Christmas, to all.

What women want

Simple: good sex and a helping hand to get through the day.

The relative weight of these two components can vary with age. 

In our 20s, it is probably 90:10; 70:30 in our 30s; 50:50 in our 40s; 40:60 in our 50s; 20:80 in our 60s. And then, who knows, maybe a flip to the origins later on in life!

Diamonds, weekends in Paris, iPads, puppies, horses, handbags, shoes and new stereo systems are added bonuses. But the basics have got to be right.

Just my two pence.

The next love story - The end‏

The unbearable excitement of the wait.
Scouting the crowd for a face that brings a fearful joy. 
Then the little silhouette against the busy background. 
Struggling through with the many bags of a nomadic
life.
Her eyes lighting up inside his.
The hesitation that prolongs the promise. 
Like after a reboot, all memories are deleted.
In their arms, the past died.
And the next love story found a new beginning.
A really quiet one.
Because happiness is private. 
And words can never make it justice.  
It only lives on their lips. 
And it is nobody else's to tell. 

No more x

Being an immigrant comes with several downsides.


Not really knowing where your home is.
Being away from your friends and other loved ones.
Not seeing your nieces and nephews grow up.
Missing food, tastes, smells that you are unlikely to stumble upon.
And then, of course, speaking another language and adopting other people's customs.

I am not a big tea drinker, but quickly made friends with real ale.
Won't eat marmite, mince pies or fish&chips, but am a big fan of crumpets, toad in the hole and fish pies.
I am still confused about the number of kisses people give as a greeting (two, I do two), keep mistaking politeness for friendliness, and find Christmas cards a scary yearly mountain to climb.

But there is one British habit that continues to baffle me to this day, 14 years on: the virtual kisses. The 'x', or 'xx', or even 'xxx', in cards, at end of emails, letters or any other written form of communication.
May seem silly, but so many questions are attached to the use of this tiny letter. When? To whom? How many? And most importantly, what's the subtext behind the text?
First, friends. Is the number of 'x's directly proportional to the affection of the signee? If so, is a two-x friend closer than a single-x one, but not as good as triple-x? What if I sign with two, and they reply with one? Am I misgauging the level of intimacy? Am I being left mid air, giving an unrequited kiss (as often happens in real life)? And if you get downgraded, down the x-reducing spiral of discontent, who will address the horrible, persistent doubt: what have you done for an 'x' to be taken away?
Add romance to the equation, and my head starts spinning. What is appropriate? What looks suspicious? What means friendship and what something more? What if a kiss is just a kiss, especially in cyberspace, and doesn't stand for much in the real world?

Too much for me.
I shall go back to my old ways and cross the 'x' off.
No more kisses. At least in shortened form. Plenty left in real life.
Don't be offended. I am just Italian.

The next love story - Part 5

Going gray. No point pretending. Look at the bastards around my temples. Who told you to give up so soon?! Haven't you noticed the rest of me?! Slackers.. Part-timers.. Traitors!
Where did I leave the paper? Can't remember what's on television tonight. Maybe I should go out.. Don't fancy going out. Would rather get some food in and a couple of beers. Going out could be good for me. Distracting. I should go out.
Who am I kidding, I can't be bothered. No. I am not going out.
What time is it? Too late to call Europe. Could wake her up. And have some phone sex.
What if she isn't alone.
Maybe I will have a cigarette instead. What?? All gone. Damn.
Got to get some.
Sod it, I am going out.

The next love story - Part 4

I shall never understand those couples who sit at restaurant tables for hours in silence, looking at each other in a bored vacuum. Relieved when the food arrives, as they have something to keep their mouths busy. Not to mention those who stand cross-armed and sad-faced at gigs, staring at the crowed, looking for entertainment.
Yes, it is probably the envy talking.
He is many nautical miles away. I am so entrenched in this single loneliness, I have almost forgotten his face.
But isn't that always the case? The difficulty to picture the exact features of the ones we love. And of cats. The details of their snout never quite manage to anchor in my memory.
What is left, what I keep going back to, is the footprint of a sensation. Of his hands on my cheeks when he kisses. Of the shrug in his shoulders when he walks away. 
Then it all dissolves to the sound of the alarm clock early in the morning. And there is no time left for nonsense.

The next love story - Part 3

Fallen into the very common trap of living, the days started to stack one after the other. A long line of repeated dawns and sunsets. A cycle of biorhythmic repetition. They balanced on the phone line, with the dangerous uncertainty of a fearful funambulist.

Looking at the different sides of the half glass, he embraced the sensual grip of the tangible, while she succumbed to nerves and denial. Both relishing the sweet, welcome pain of hundreds returns.

And wrapped inside a geometric series of infinite boxes, a trick, an illusion, a divertissement. Desire.

I quit (brief interlude)‏

Considering last week's brutal reminders of our transient and rough journey through the valleys of joy, I decided to quit a couple of time wasters.
From most television programmes, to people who don't love me.

Yes, life's too short.

You are all invited to do the same.

The next love story - Part 2

"Where were you today?"
"Barcelona"
"Now?"
"Still here"
"Will you be back?"
"I don't know"
"I understand"
"No, I really don't know. How did they call it.. re-ergonomization of the leadership teams"
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know"
"How long have you said 'I don't know' for?"
"30 minutes?"
"Over a year"
"Don't lecture me, Mr I-know-it-all"
"I know nothing, me"
"This bed is massive"
"Meant to tell you"
"What?"
"Was walking through Central Park today, saw that bird again, the pretty blue one that isn't always blue, and couldn't remember its name"
"Indigo Bunting"
"I like that you know crazy stuff like this. How big is that bed?"
"Pointlessly big"
"I should get ready for my 4pm and recover from the brainless state you throw me in"
"OK"
";pig you"
"Eh?"
"Bloody keyboard is for child-size fingers!"
":D"

The next love story‏

And here it is. In full anonymity, to avoid getting shot.

Once upon a time there was a handsome guy. He was astute, quick, ambitious and yet in need of reassurance. One day, his path unexpectedly crossed the one of a smart young lady. She was nervous and volatile, and yet deeply rooted in the convictions of her upbringing and in the faith in her future.   

They met at the edge of generational transformations, when conventions are demolished and rebuilt, when words like 'commitment' and 'forever' sound risible and transient. When apolidity is the rule, not the exception. They met in the nowhere land of career success and marketing spin, where everybody is guarded and calculating their moves. They stopped to take a breath and got distracted. They lowered their guard and fell in love. Although they couldn't call it love, because that word too was being pulverised, mixed with glue and repackaged as a Valentine's Day card. They just lived it, hidden under other easier, paler, more technical words.

Their beginning was crushing, like a train at full speed. Absolute and demented. Confused. Cruel. As they tried to hold on to the signposts of their scripted journeys. Testing how far the rubber band of their feelings could stretch, before pulling them back together.

Bear hug

When I was at university, the physics department was based a stone-throw away from the zoo. Solving complicated equations was often interrupted by the gibbon's shrieks, or the chilling sound of unhappy caged animals. Not too unhappy they must have been, as this bizarre atmosphere was strangely conducive to coupling, and the cutest lion or leopard cubs often were born in captivity to delight our studious, and sometimes bored, afternoons.

Officially because we used the cafe', unofficially because we were probably on the list of weird species threatened by extinction, physics students could wander around the zoo for free, like a modern Epicurean Garden, where quantum mechanics and cybernetics were debated.

As a budding EI, my conversations were often a mixture of heavy ions and the latest relationship disasters, hoping to find some rational answers to the ineffability of the heart.
One day in particular, after the nth emotional mash-up, a friend's hug helped bringing my melodrama into perspective and eased me back into some sense. A bear hug among the polar bears.. Couldn't have been more poignant.

Why bring it up today?
Because some hugs last a long time. Even if they need to take electronic form. If I have learned something in all these years, it is that unlike romance, friendship can survive hardship and separation, and come to your rescue when most needed.

And yet, why are we all suckers for the next love story?

Board(bed)room quota‏

What do intelligent, educated people do when bored at work? Simple: Fantasy shagging. You know Fantasy football? Pretty much the same, except that goals are scored every time a rumour is successfully planted about the player allegedly having sex with someone else in the company. That is to say, the winner needs to get HR's knickers repeatedly in a twist above anybody else's indiscretions, until they resemble the Wheel of Fortune.

This happened at Married Friend #2's firm, where a bunch of senior managers, who should have known better, found themselves drawing complicating relationship plots over subsidised coffee.

MF#2, uber competitive as ever, constructed phantom stories about the president of European operations (you have to aim high), the building manager (can't beat a broom cupboard) and, in a stroke of genius, the head of HR herself (everybody likes some girl-on-girl action). She was beaten to the post by her office buddy, who allegedly bedded the CEO, the COO, CIO and the CFO, almost automatically winning the title of CSO (Chief Shagging Officer).

Dangerous game, I hear you say. Indeed, it all ended in tears when whispers reached the Chairman of the board. Who was enraged and horrified to find out that he wasn't on anybody's list. The company now enforces a strict no-relationship policy.

Which brings us to the question: are business and romance compatible? Is it risky to go seamlessly from spreadsheets to silk sheets? And if it all goes to pot, how to ignore each other when walking down narrow corridors, or sitting across a boardroom table? On the other hand, considering the number of hours we spend at work on an average day, aren't we robbed of potential partners if obliged to exclude our colleagues?

Another friend, who is an HR expert, offered her advice on the subject: 'People can do whatever they want outside working hours, I don't care. There is only one line that cannot be crossed: the reporting line. Be creative, fish outside your team, explore new departments, broaden your office horizons. And, if you really like someone, don't mind what people say, let them talk. Before or later they will get bored and move on to the next gossip. In case they don't, be flattered. It means you are hot property.'

If I may add, someone should also remember to include the highest powers when spreading rumours. Nobody wants to feel too old, or too powerful for alleged indiscretions. What's the point of being the boss otherwise?

Talk to strangers

A while back, English Rose witnessed a lovely encounter worth reporting.

Here it is:

Busy carriage of a commuters’ train, late in the evening.

Young guy in his 20s settles in his seat. Looks around and, having spotted an abandoned newspaper, asks the girl in the next seat if she minds him reading it.

She looks at him straight in the eyes and replies: 'Of course' – and adds – ‘you are very smiley, you know?’ How do you manage that at the end of a long day?’

And so the conversation starts.

Before getting off at his station, he asks for her number. Will he call?

As English Rose put it: ‘No online dating, no drunken mess or meat market club. I am reassured.’

What can I add?
I am not against any of the above. You have to do what you have to do to find whatever it is that tickles your fancy. But it is indeed reassuring that good old words, smiles, sparks, instant connections still mean something to us.
May I just add that I mainly admire the courage of these two train-daters to grab the fleeting moment, to act quickly and think later.

Now, I wish I knew how it all ended..

Me tweet

I am afraid I have fallen for it.
Bite-size Emotional Incompetence can be found here: aka_The_EI

Follow meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Just say no‏

How many times have your friends begged you to stop doing this or that for your own sake? To stop boycotting yourself by:
- falling for the wrong guy
- carrying on obsessing about the wrong guy
- nurturing hopes against all odds about the wrong guy
- talking incessantly about the wrong guy.

Truth is, no matter how hard they try to convince you, it has to come from within. Because even if the tallest wall is erected to shield temptation away, you would probably fall back on your butt when first left to your own devices.

So, it is with a massive sigh of relief, that Single Friend #1 has declared that she cannot be bothered with Ghost Guy anymore.
She finally had the chance to meet him again, after all the unsuccessful stalking, and decided.. not to go. Not because she was scared, nervous or felt insecure. She just could not face the stress and hard work associated with another meeting/heartache/pointless longing.
Instead, she called me while on her way home and we chatted pointlessly about the serious stuff of life: whether wearing black at a wedding is still inappropriate, good books and bad books, why we struggle to create meaningful long-term human relations, if aubergines are better grilled or fried. GG wasn't mentioned once.

I am very proud.

Jeepers Creepers

I am totally creeped out.

Approaching my hotel-room bed, I just noticed a little post-it on the headboard stating ‘Good night – sleep tight!’ accompanied by the drawing of a little sheep.. Holy guacamole!

After careful inspection, the writing appeared quite stylised, almost printed.. maybe it is just a (bad) marketing stunt from the hotel management.. Who thought this one out?? Not impressed..

Seriously, who would like to be stalked by some creepy post-it writer in a German hotel? Actually, who likes being stalked anywhere?

Which got me thinking about Single Friend #1’s latest fixation: Ghost Guy. A mysterious fella, unseen by most, she is incessantly following around like a rabid puppy. Endless emails, texts, WhatsApp messages, calls.. she is unstoppable. And all she is getting back is.. silence. Nothing, nada, zippo, nulla. And the more he hushes, the more she longs.. It must be some form of masochism for sure. Which I would kind of get if it was at least accompanied by a teaspoon of pleasure.

So, as a friend, I launch my appeal to GG: dude, change your phone number, email address and all passwords. It is not safe out there.

Ehm, huh, her

Will be back.


Promise.

Let's stay friends‏

Cliché scene (feel free to reverse roles):

Man: 'I am really sorry, but this isn't working for me'
Woman: 'What do you mean?'
Man: 'You are great, but I can't see this relationship going any further'
Woman: 'Are you dumping me??'
Man: 'No, I mean, yes.. Sorry, didn't want to hurt you.. I do care a lot about you. Please, let's stay friends'
Woman: 'F@#* off'

The question is obvious: can you stay friends with an ex?
Yes, yes, I hear ya, you are in best terms with several of your exes. You are great at maintaining relationships, and regularly in touch for laughs and fun..
Give me a break. This can't be true for all of them, surely.

Whether you can go from mating to mates depends on several factors.
First, the actual relationship. Were you friends before dating? Were you friends in addition to being in love? In both cases, chances are something is recoupable. On the other hand, was the sexual chemistry so tangible you carried an X-rating on your forehead? Were you a bundle of fire together? Was drama on the menu every other day? Then once apart, staying apart may be the best solution.
Second, the break-up. Anything ugly, especially if it involves third parties, is unlikely to bestow a chummy buddy. Broken china and the odd bone are a lot more likely.
Third, children. You have to be civil to each other. To say the least. No choice.
Fourth, and probably most importantly, time. It may look impossible in the aftermath, but years later you may find the most unexpected exes-turned-into-friends by your side. Sharing thoughts, experiences, stories with someone who knows you well, can be very insightful. Someone from a distant place in your past, who understands what you mean and where you coming from.  Someone safe, you can speak to freely, without fear of misinterpretation. Someone you actually like and can make you laugh. Who can quote you back, from forgotten memories, who can predict your choices and cut through the superficial crap. Even if they haven't spoken to you for over a decade.

It is not all that rosy, though. There can be perils to be aware of. Specifically, the flame must be truly and utterly dead. For both parties. No hang-ups and no secret hopes.

And, of course, the good old dilemma: can a man and a woman be just friends? But that's another story.

The last taboo‏

Don't get your imagination racing.. This is not what you think.

What I am talking about is.. roundness, podginess, chubbiness.. take your pick. Basically, the social unacceptability of talking about one's weight. Especially women's.

The Man once made the horrid mistake of dismissing a very cool cape I was trying on because 'it made me look chunky'. You can imagine the icy silence that followed, the quick gathering of my possessions and the storming out of the shop. Thing is, he was right. I looked totally crap. And huge. But hearing it spelt out seriously dented my already shaky confidence. Which is why few things are as offensive as the 'f' word. 'She looks fat these days.' 'How could he possibly run off with her?? She is fatter than me!!' 'OMG, I am so fat I am in this photo, destroy it now!!' And so on. You know the drill. You have heard it all before. Or said it yourself.

Body weight fixations can impinge on relationships. Tear explosions in the middle of an earthy dinner, hysteria while getting dressed for a big occasion, love-making strictly in the dark.. I remember a friend swearing like a trooper at her image in the mirror on her wedding day, refusing to get married if we didn't find a solution for her (non-existing) protruding stomach. Watching someone you love torturing themselves and hiding away is painful. And frustrating. As confidence needs to be built from within, not from how others see us.
And BTW, if ever buy lingerie for a woman, make sure you know the exact size: too big and the reaction will be 'you think I am fat!' Too small and 'OMG, I am sooo fat!' In both cases, nobody is going to get laid..

At this point, the chubiness counter-terrorism would state that in reality men prefer rounder ladies. This is probably an unfair generalisation. Some like thin, some like round. Chances are, we only end up going out with the people who fancy our particular body type, as a pre-screening is automatically performed the moment gazes cross. That would be him staring at her tits and her staring at his butt.

I personally like a man with a bit of a belly. A spare tyre around to middle to squeeze when hugged. Something to hold on to, to make me feel grounded and real.

This is all good in theory, but with the summer holidays looming, how will we survive the beach walk of shame? Chances are, I will look like a whoopie pie.. Am I proud of it? Not really. Am I in tears about it? No, otherwise I would have done something to avoid it. And yet I wonder. Why should I strive to be a size 6 or 8 (aka 38 or 40)? Who decided I looked better in tiny clothes?

At the end of the day, I am me. I am healthy, I am happy, and I am round. Shoot me.

(Crimes and) Misdemeanors‏

Forgive me, sister, for I have sinned..

Being raised catholic comes with a base-line luggage of guilt. No matter what you do, you are most certainly doing something wrong. Feel bad about it? So you should. And hold tight, as punishment is most certainly on its way.

Indeed, the other day mine was around the corner. Literally.

It all started out very innocently. In a moment of solidarity, I shared my food with a fellow human being. Someone I know, not a random bloke off the street. Nothing wrong. Except, as he smiled thanking me, I couldn't help but notice how cute he was. 'Very cute', I kept thinking as I walked down the road. 'Really cute', as I directed my feet straight into a junction. A massive junction. With a big red traffic light. That I missed, thinking about the cute guy. So, to avoid being reduced to a pulp by shooting cars, I had to invert my course, and go round and round the crossing. Stuck at repeatedly insistent red lights. In the rain. Heavy rain. Trousers wet, up to my knees. Heels soaked. Vintage Armani jacket ruined.

When I finally got to the underground, someone thought that activating the passenger alarm and keeping a whole train on a platform for 20 minutes was a hilarious thing to do. At that point, I figured out that I ought to snap out of my thoughts of cuteness in order to save the day. But it was too late, as I had already missed my rail connection. Which led to being late for a call. And pissing people off. And having to apologise for my actions.. There you go, cosmic justice being enforced.

Now, don't say I didn't warn you..

8(1/2)

Who is crazier: the mad woman or the man who stuck with her for eight years?

Universal truths: Hugh Jackman, insecurities and wrong bras‏

I am always wary of gender stereotypes. Especially in this testosterone-fuelled, role-mixing, metrosexual society. We face a gianormous variety of daily challenges, and often need to adapt our personas accordingly. Either alone or with a partner, we have to take on whatever tasks life throws at us, even if they don't necessarily fit under our genetic 'job description'.
However, in the past days, having had the chance to spend quality time with some of my favourite ladies, I was reassured by some comforting commonalities of likes and dislikes.
Here's a digest.

1. Hugh Jackman. He is hot. Super hot. Massively hot. We sat (some of us for the second time) through that pile of rubbish that is Wolverine-X Men Origins just to see him in varying levels of nudity.

2. Comics and graphic novels. We read them. We love them. We are geeks.

3. Shoes. Enough said.

4. Running away. From something or someone. Good or bad. Usually good. Just in case it ends up working out.

5. Wrong bras. As the bra police (aka Single Friend #2) noted yet again, we are constantly in denial of our true boobage.

6. Too much wine. Why is it that mornings after never start with 'oh, what a shame, I wish I had a little more booze last night'?

7. The octopus syndrome (aka calendar overkill). Trying to do too much all the time, and then feeling tired and grumpy because of the evolutionary disadvantage of having only two arms.

8. The a-hole. Who treats you like a scrunched doormat. Fallen for at least once in every woman's lifetime.

9. Insecurities. Too short, too tall, too smart, too silly, too blond, too clumsy, too strong, too assertive, too pushovery.. We are our own worst enemies. When will we learn to accept who we are?

10. Friends. We are fierce and independent, but there is nothing like a shared laughter to wipe worries away, or two minutes of uninterrupted ranting to let steam off.

And of course the truths about sex.. But that's another story.

Of Paris, friends and French men - an old post I forgot to upload‏

In a moment of bright optimism, Smart Friend and I decided to spend the night in Paris on the back of a business trip. The evening was perfectly rounded up by Male Friend #2, now a fashionable resident dans la Ville Lumiere, who joined us for dinner. (BTW, I missed you!)

A rapid summary.

Smart Friend and I got propositioned twice in the space of 10 minutes. The second time with some very explicit hand gestures. (Because, yes, let's face it, one is very likely to give head to a random bloke walking down Saint Germain de Pres!)

There is life outside London. And pretty cool restaurants too. (Of course, I had to duck under the skirt of the giant sculpture in the middle of the room, just because it was there and looked like a fun thing to do.. And because, as MF#2 noticed after one of my clumsy stunts, some things never change)

In Paris it is not enough to express a simple preference for either still or sparkling water. Oh no. You need to be precise and specify the exact amount of bubble. Smart Friend and I felt like two country bumpkins. Maybe distracted by the cute young waiter, who, according to MF#2, was also waaay too smiley in our direction. (As if..)

The last weeks may have been tough for me, but the care and attention my family and friends gave me are unbeatable. So, I am smiling too. (Not to French men, though. Too dangerous)

Out of spite, out of mind?‏

Someone I know openly admitted to having kept her ex-husband's surname out of spite. To annoyingly remind his second wife that she was there before. And during, to be precise. As wife number 2, her closest friend at the time, took too literal an interpretation to the word 'sharing' and decided to extend it to the bedroom.
Looking at it from another angle, it seems to me that the surname in question may also represent for the holder a continuous reminder of a sour ending. Of the one who ran off with the best friend. Cutting-off-nose-to-spite-face comes to mind.

Love is a well-known no-rule zone. No need for the puritanical look of protest. If you have never broken a rule, you have never been in love. In any case, let's face it, collateral damage, the likelihood of hurting an unarmed bystander is high, very high. Even if you behave by the book, chances are there is someone out there who cried for your actions. Nothing to be blamed for. Just the nature of the game.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point here is healing. How we heal. If ever. And if revenge makes the process easier. Or sweeter. In summary, does holding a grudge help mending a broken heart?

Speaking from personal experience, after being dumped, I once.. Sorry, can't say that, he may be reading. Another time I helped a friend.. No, can't admit to that either.. Hang on, this one should be safe: an ex could not type his new girlfriend's name because a couple of keys had mysteriously disappeared from his laptop. And phone. And home computer.. You can never be sure enough..

One can be an optimist, like Single Friend #1, who bounces back after each misadventure. Or stay sour. Like me? No, never. I am just.. Italian. The flame eventually dies down, and everybody is happy again. No serious harm done.

Happiness

Would you rather be tormented, but creative and productive, or happy, but borderline boring?

Happiness. Big word.

A few people in the past weeks said that I look happy. Two reactions: incredulity (I have been feeling quite ill, so not really on top of the world) and terror. Of something catastrophic about to happen to wipe out my presumed bliss.

Truth is, although we all strive for happiness, once we reach it the risk is to become complacent. Or paranoid. Fear of change. The desperate maintenance of the status quo.

Research shows that happy people are more successful, better looking and longer living. On the other hand, neurotics are likely to die young. Great.

I just wonder if the linchpin is in the search, in the creation of goals. Positive, happy goals. To be able to enjoy the actual journey, not the destination. To reach a state of inner contentment that allows you to centre when things go tits up.

Imagine a stable equilibrium: when it is disturbed, it spontaneously restores itself, like a golf ball flicked out of its hole that rolls down the slope and back in position. We can't stop shit from happening and we can't sit at the bottom of the hole, eyes and ears shut, hoping never to be disturbed. But we can work on building that pull, that anchor, that stability that allows us to be happy and yet moving.

I am not making much sense, am I? Blame my presumed happiness for it.

Bank Holiday Monday

It is 5.30pm on a Bank Holiday, and I should be working. As per usual, I try and find any possible excuse to reprieve the boring read after taking a break for a walk. So, my mind wanders. Like a bored child in a department store.

I wish I could come up with something funny/clever/interesting/engaging.. not a chance. Not on demand. I should know this by now.
So, I shall just say ‘hi’, if anybody happens to read. If you are bored too, and decide to check out this blog. If you want to share a thought, please feel free to do so.
I will go back to my consumed papers. At least for a little while.

Girly moments

A few things happened in the last couple of weeks that brought me back to days I thought to be well and gone.

1. Girly crush.
Do you remember when you were at school and desperately wanted to be friends with this really really cool girl (read 'boy' if you are a man)? Remember the dorky attempts to look interesting and worth talking to? The tiny little steps towards a full conversation, trying to avoid appearing too needy? Well, I am having a girl crush right now. At my dear ripe old age.

I so want this gal to be my friend, I am doing it all wrong. I make a constant fool of myself, in my full clumsy splendour (I keep dropping objects, braking utensils.. the usual). I say all the wrong things. And sound as odd as I can be. I almost asked her out for drinks, then felt inappropriate and left it.

How can this possibly be? How can a professional, semi-adjusted 30-something still worry about rejection? And not even by a man?? Why am I so scared of asking an intelligent, successful, inspiring, funny, articulate woman out?
Gulp!

2. Girly giggles.
Out with some girlfriends, I went to order a boring tomorrow-is-a-school-day pineapple juice and found myself hit on by a cute 20-year old American barman. I was so surprised, I actually started giggling like some kind of idiot. When he offered to buy me a proper drink, and then smiled in my direction while I was discussing cleaning agents with the ladies, I went through all the obvious uncomfortable moves: hair-touching, mouth-covering, wedding-band wiggling. At the end of the evening, the only possible way out was straight and fast through the exit. No looking back.
What a loser.. (Me that is)

3. Girly night.
At the end of what felt like a 20-hour work day, I packed my bag and directed my fed-up self towards a busy bar. On the spur of the moment, two friends joined me for an impromptu drink that ended up into a girly boozy night. Weekend plans, life-changing decisions, sex accounts, mild gossip, unrequested declarations of friendship (sorry I made you feel uncomfortable)... the whole shebang. The morning after was slightly painful, but I still managed to go for a run.
Nice.

The smiling guy‏

In an underground train carriage, I find myself staring idly around at my fellow passengers. I briefly catch somebody's fleeting smile. Is this guy actually smiling at me? I look away, look around, look down, look back. Yep, he is most definitely smiling. And in this direction. (Seat on my left? Empty. On my right? A glass pane)
First thought: I must have toothpaste all over my top. Second thought: is he laughing at me? Third thought: if he is not been sarcastic, he must be blind. Or with a fascination for odd women with crazy hair. Or.. And off I go, on a solitary journey of self deprecation. For the whole route from South Kensington to Monument. By the time I get off, I am exhausted. But, more excruciatingly, I feel like a compete moron. Because while I was self obsessing, scrutinising my insecurities, I failed to notice that the smiling guy had absolutely no concealed motive whatsoever. He was just a happy chappy grinning away at the world. He kept smiling at his book while reading, at the man who sat next to him at Victoria, at the little dog that almost bit his finger off. And at me, because I happened to sit opposite. No harm intended.

And I missed it all. Entrapped in my paranoia.

What a muppet.

Comfortably smug

Promise: I will not talk about the awesome concert, music event, moment of tears and emotion I have recently witnessed. I realise I have already bored everybody to death with my tales of a certain Mr Gilmour appearing on top of a certain Wall to play with a certain Mr Waters. So I will not insist on Mr Mason joining in for what is likely to be the very last time. Enough said.

Truth is, I am sporting an uncharacteristic grin today. May sound daft, but for once I had a string of good news, and that made me happy. With the happiness of the best kind: the one that has got nothing to do with you. That is to say, nothing I heard of related directly to me. Just my friends, my family, my colleagues, who saw some hopes translating into reality.

Pretty cool, uh?

Officially odd

In case additional evidence was needed, it is 
now scientifically proven that I am weird. 
Very weird.
 
What do people do on their birthdays? 
Celebrate? Get drunk? Eat too much sugar?
Have parties? Presents? Cards?
 
What do I do? I wake up in the middle of the
night with the urgent need to update my will. 
Yes, I got up, dug it out, and set out to 
rewrite it, when I realised that the latest 
version was dated May 3, 2006. I had the exact 
same idea five years ago!! 
 
Is this some kind of back-handed celebration of life? The Thanathos/Eros battle?
Or just pure and simple OCD? Control of life, control of death. No idea. 
I do know that the past year has been massively odd. So it is only fair to end
it in the same style. 
 
Now, it is time for a new chapter.
 
Happy Birthday to me.

Love, honour and.. obey?‏

Madness is running riot. This country has 
turned into a massive blob of romantic folly.
This must be a tough time for all those

allergic to weddings, marriages and all the lot.  
Interestingly enough, coveted monarchists or
last-stage
romantics are discovered when and where 
you least expect. But is it romance or just a 
publicity stunt? Who cares, as long as we have
a day off.  

Obey.. Interesting word, almost never used in 
wedding vows these days. I can't possibly imagine any of my friends obeying. Although it would be
easier, wouldn't it? Instead of spending hours and hours arguing and compromising, all that would be 
left to say would be 'yes, darling, as you wish'. And then bang the gardener or the pool boy in order 
to withstand yet another day of obedience. Good plan? Bad plan? We shall never find out.

There can hardly be a worse wedding situation than an event with the entire globe watching.. Add to
that that the whole marriage will be impossibly public.. And yet.. Who cares?? What goes own between 
two people (or three or four, as it happens) is nobody's business. If your own life is boring, read a book, 
do some charity work, don't stick your nose in others' laundry baskets! 

No, I haven't been drinking. Just overnauseous by sticky-sweetness nonsense. Time to go home.
PS
Once home, I found The Man with Union Flag bunting for the living room and a whole day of non-stop
niceness.. Maybe I should stop complaining..

Mantenetami in due, che uno non basta

I know, shouldn't post when angry. But I need to vent... AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!

I could punch, kick, roll on the floor shouting.

Instead, I had a revolting cream egg and a packet of Maltisers.

Why can't life behave??

Una questione privata

Dating in the age of information overload can be tricky. What is appropriate to share? When does nosing about become plain stalking? Where is the line between being reserved and stand-offish? How to predict when a written statement (even if just a few characters long) is going to come back and bite you in the butt? And, BTW, in certain circumstances, wouldn't we be better off blissfully ignorant?

Some time ago, American Friend had a Facebook squabble with a guy she was dating. She was accused of having too strong a presence on his page, of being comment-trigger happy, too enthusiastic.. well, basically of being her usual lively, curious self. She took the remark with a raised eyebrow, and moved on, keeping a watchful eye on her typing pinkies. Regardless of social networks, things unfolded between them at their own rate and, after not too long, they decided to pull the plug on the relationship. All was forgotten until last week, when she decided to have a wander on her now ex's profile.. Bad plan. His new girlfriend was all over his page, even in his profile photo. Can you imagine the wave of rage? Not only he had moved on (but that's another story), the whole privacy palaver was just a red herring. The truth was much deeper. Because the guy she was reading about on Facebook was completely different from the one she went out with. Or at least the one he wanted her to believe she was dating.

If you start creating different versions of yourself to maximise the chances of a successful relationship, it is key to keep all your personalities well compartmentalised. To remember what hat you are wearing with whom (partners, friends, family, colleagues). And what to post where. Because the most likely scenario is that at some point the sheer exhaustion of trying to be somebody else starts taking its toll, and either mistakes creep up or you just can't be bothered anymore. Or you end up with someone who wants to be your everything but doesn't fancy going out with an army of fighting egos.

Of course, we are not the same self all the time. We wear masks to suit the different roles we need to take on. Pirandello said it much better than I ever could: we are one, no one and a hundred thousand.

So, what to do? Be your odd self, with small chances of going out with the person of your dreams? Or pretend to be what your object of desire is looking for, moulding your wants, needs and aspirations to theirs, in your pursuit of happiness? Male Friend #1 once told me that in his difficult times he tries and resort to just being himself, taking full responsibilities for the outcomes. But then, I wonder, how do you know you are not just wearing another mask?

Just because

I am in a sunny mood.

Gimme, gimme, gimme

So, say your birthday is coming up, and you could pick ANY presents, what would you choose? (World peace and the end of famine don't count)

Hmmmm.. Difficult question.. At least for an indecisive like me, who hates to even pick wine and food off a restaurant menu.

To start, a couple of extra hours, all to myself, every day. To run, read, catch up on the news, watch a film. Or just sleep. (What is it with this feeling constantly sleep-deprived?)

Maybe a long weekend in Paris, with extra cash to be spent Chez Chanel.

A huge party on the beach.
A week with Muffin Tops.
A private screening of my favourite films.
Calorie-free chocolate.
Bags.. and shoes. No discrimination.
Ooohhh, yes, I know: a dog! A Westie, named Dr Watson, who would follow me everywhere.

Or even just dinner and drinks with a distant friend I don't get to see much these days.

Truth is, I don't want anything at all. Just a little peace, a bit of love and.. the end of this shifting phase. Before it all gets too boring. And the dog. Yes, most certainly the dog. Pleaseeeee.
PS
Just in case anybody out there is in desperate need of real present suggestions, I would love something that starts with 'i' and ends in 'Pad'.

Una pausa

That's not my name

Readers of a prudish disposition, look away now (which is way this post is likely to be crawling with typos: I have to write with my eyes shut).

Single Friend #1's dating misadventures just got even more tragicomical. The latest addition to the club is a young, dark-eyed artisto, with an irresistible smile on his face and too much dope in his system. And a flamboyant sex life. An inconsistent oscillation between interminable nights of passion and cigarette-filled afternoons of ennui, spent staring at the ceiling in silence. The uncertainty, not knowing how each encounter would end, made him even more attractive in the eye of the fool, who kept going back to his tiny, smokey flat.

Until that evening. When, after a considerable amount of cheap wine, in the midst of love-making, he ran his fingers through her hair and, in a single sigh, called her "Debbie". Not SF#1's name. Being stared at by eyes wide open in shock and surprise, he tried to quickly back-pedal and mumble some feeble explanation ("This other girl, no, I mean, my ex.. No, not what you think, not now, I mean, right now, clearly not, it is just the two of us in this bed, right? Unless you would be interested.. Ouch! Hey, stop it! You can do some permanent damage there..").

Which brings us back to the theme of nudity, and, in particular, to the question: how do you retreat with dignity when scantily clad? Especially if gravity, babies, pies and too-little-time-to-exercise start taking their toll on your slightly squidgy self? Can you take the moral high-ground while trying to cover your high, middle and lower grounds? And how can you expect a man to listen to any heated accusations when he is clearly mesmerised by the naked boobs bouncing in anger in front of him? Not a chance.

SF#1 opted for the silence treatment and a swift disappearance. Unfortunately she also ended up leaving behind some items of clothing she will never see again. Who knows, maybe they will fit Debbie..

How does it feel?

Early (at least for me) morning, dragging my sleepy self out of the house with a decorous amount of clothing on and clean teeth to catch the train to work. General zombieland: the caffeine junkie, the uncontrollable cougher, the iPad-cyborg, the smelly farter. Until I raise my eyes from the boring scientific literature I insist on dragging around in the vain hope of catching up on work, and I see him. We all see him. An incredibly good-looking man in his late 30s walks down the platform as if it was a catwalk. With an understated smile, he gets on the train and finds a seat while we are all still staring at him.
Which begs the question: how does it feel to be so incredibly overendowed in the shallow department of external appearance? Are freebies the norm? Do admirers throw themselves at you? Is there a queue outside your front door? I am intrigued. Surely it can't be a disadvantage. Never heard anybody complaining for being too attractive (and, if you are thinking about it, I wouldn't risk my reaction. Just drop it). But how far can it be pushed? Does the so-famous 'inner beauty' ever come into play?

A friend of mine, a very intelligent and funny man who has never looked like a Greek statue or oil painting, had, sods' law, a very handsome brother. As a young university student and brainy overachiever, he could easily spark a conversation with the ladies. He also managed, in most cases, to build solid friendships, which he kept on working on in the hope of getting laid. His commitment to his 'mind appeal' was compelling: he read the whole Recherche du temps perdu, watched never-ending indie films, perfected his gentleman manners. All of this would eventually get the girl through his front door, with a high chance of success. Unless.. Unless his brother decided to show up. Like in a David Lynch film, the same sequence of events kept repeating itself again and again. The good-looking brother would walk into the room, introduce himself to the young lady, smile, offer her a cigarette, start talking about himself, and Proust, Wenders and Kieslowski were immediately forgotten.

Are we all that shallow? Can't we see what hides behind a pretty face? We would like to think that, now that we are a little older, we look at things differently, right? Except.. Incredibly Good Looking Guy has just flashed his piercing blue eyes in my direction and I have almost dropped my BBerry.. Life is incredibly unfair..
PS
This is probably immature, but can I at least hope he is stupid?

Palliative care

When a relationship is dying, but you are still in love and try to hold on to whatever is left, does the comfort of each other's company help, or does it just protract the agony?

Failures are never easy to admit. Whether it is a job, a friendship or love, to accept being wrong, or, worse, in the wrong place at the wrong time, is a struggle. Starting all over can be exciting, but detaching yourself from the old, before the new sets in, is, to say the least, painful.

Married Friend #2 had a major breakdown this week. To an incredulous husband, she admitted the unbalanced, unhappy nature of their relationship and just bust into days of unstoppable tears. To love someone you can't fully have, who doesn't love you back the way you want them to can transform perfectly functioning, successful individuals into self-doubting, self-loathing idiots. Basking in the martyrdom of unrequested acts of sacrifice and self-flagellation.

There is a time when one needs to stand up and walk away. Usually when the balance has tipped. When the grief outweighs the joy.

But what about the practicalities of relationships that keep people together? The visible as well as invisible ones? The habits? The closeness? The secrets?

As I said, not easy. Trouble is, when you realise that there is no curative option, there is no turning back. And if you wait too long, more life will have passed by without a resolution.

Somehow, it is almost easier to be dumped. But then, whose choice was it in the first place, once power of negotiation is lost?

Elizabeth Taylor - random blog post

Oh my.. I just looked over the shoulder of the guy sitting next to me on the train to read on his newspaper that Elizabeth Taylor died today.
Who cares? I care. Well, in a very wide sense, I care. Because, you see, in the past year I found myself quoting, yes, quoting, Ms Taylor a strangely high number of times. With eight (eight? Not sure, didn't read the full article, the owner wasn't interested and turned the page too quickly) marriages behind her, she is the EI queen bee, the model of all EI behaviour. My role model? OK, now we are taking it a little too far.

Although.. You have to admire the courage, the persistence, the relentless optimism. The insane belief that next time it will be better, that it will be worth it. That, despite opposing circumstances, two people who are meant for each other will eventually be together. Hmmm.. I know, I am not very convincing.. I am not even persuading myself here. I am back sitting on the fence these days. Not taking a stance on the pros and cons of love. It has to be said, though, one most certainly needs to be slightly deranged to fall in love. Not afraid of risk, of gambling. Of losing, or, more scarily, of winning. And to do it so many times.. Respect.

So, goodbye, Elizabeth Taylor. You gave me some good words I cannot remember anymore. Good words you couldn't live by. Will I?
PS
On a very different note: can someone please hijack Donald Trump's head and cut all is hair off?? It is embarrassing to even look at..

Lost & found - Part 1

Mainly lost.

M&S or S&M?

A mini survey among people in a relationship indicates that most really big arguments and sorry disagreements revolve around two main issues: sex and money. (Preferably, not together, i.e. money for sex)

Although not a real deal-breaker, and certainly not a cause for end-of-the-line discussions, shoes, yes shoes, may sometimes polarise opinions and feed the modern-day man/woman divide. How?
It is a well-known fact: most women have an obsessive compulsive desire for shoes and handbags. One of the reasons: they will always look good on you, regardless of the size of your butt. It used to be quite improbable that a man understands and cherishes the unstoppable need to purchase tens of dozens of possibly salary-defying shoes. Some of which are never to be worn, but just gazed at in lust and admiration for days and months. However, in this day and age of metrosexuality, chances are men spend just as much on covering their extremities and demand their companions to be perfectly cladded too. In high heels.
Let's face it, heels are wonderful and gorgeous and make your legs look longer and leaner. If you skipped the long-leg queue on Creation Day, they also take you up to kissable height, without having to stretch your neck like a ring-bearing African tribe woman. But, unless you can drive or be cabbed around all day, they are also a major cause of pain and tears. I am not joking. I insist on wearing a pair of fairly new shoeboots that literally make me sob half way to the office every single time. The obvious solution and compromise would be elegant, cute, comfortable flats. So fashionable, so on-trend, so walkable. Too easy... As this is where Venus and Mars collide. For most men there are No. Good. Flat. Shoes. None whatsoever. Forget it. They are 'just flat shoes', undeserving of any adjectival connotation. Like an M&S tee-shirt, which, no matter how they may try and spin it, is just a tee-shirt. It does its job, end of story. Not much else to say.

What to do then? To be honest, I don't have an answer, I really don't. I personally refuse to carry spare pairs or hide them under my desk. It somehow feels like a final fashion defeat. Also, I already constantly carry a house-worth of handbag content (see previous posts) that any addition needs to be highly justified. Therefore my shoe collection is split in two: shoes to be driven around in, and shoes that can safely take me from A to B. In the meanwhile, I carry on looking for the perfect catch: the comfortable and yet beautifully sexy heels.. I am sure my unstoppable optimism will some day be rewarded.

Brief encounters

OK, so you are in the undergarment-wearing camp. Another dilemma afflicts: what to wear and when. And what are you expecting to see when those buttons get undone and clothes start to swish away?

I once spent an afternoon with Best Friend's Little Sister in the Selfridge's lingerie department, in the desperate attempt to find something sexy (while still retaining a crotch), practical (how on earth am I supposed to put on a 30-clasp corset? Who am I, Scarlett O'Hara??), feminine (is it just me finding slippers with pink, fluffy bits something that either cocottes or old aunts would wear?), slightly naughty (without dangerous, poky, metal bits) and available in bra sizes above an A-cup. What did I leave with? An anti-shock gym bra. The first and only item to catch my attention. And the strengthening of my conviction that non-matching underwear is perfectly acceptable. OK, maybe not all the time.

However, to my surprise, a not too different experience awaited when, Father Ted style, I found myself dazed and confused on the men's floor of a clothes retailer. When did life get so complicated for you boys too? Sure, if you own big white pants, and you are not Sarah Jessica Parker wearing them ironically, ditch them now! What to buy instead.. your guess is as good as mine. The obvious answer is shorts. But, how short? How tight? Cotton, lycra or silk? Exposed or sawed-in elastic band? Patterns? And in the summer? Thongs are a no-no, but budgie smugglers? (He he, don't know why, but the words 'budgie smugglers' make me giggle every time..) Too much information at the wrong time, like watching a CSI autopsy while having dinner?

This may seem a superficial concern, but I will need to face my fear of underwear fitting fairly soon. According to my mum, as a woman hits her late 30's-early 40's she is enraptured by the unstoppable need to buy colourful clothes and extravagantly expensive lingerie. The female, less costly version of a Porsche. What am I going to do? How will I enjoy my well-deserved middle-life crisis? Please, let me have one, I don’t want to miss out..

Brain freeze

I don't know what's going on with me, but somehow I am not able to string more than two sentences together.
There are plenty of notes and half-written posts in my Drafts, but I don't have enough neurons going about to actually finish a...

Not as easy as it seems

Not that funny either.

Own business to be minded.

The vanishing act - Part 2

What is it about? Some of you have asked.

About me being too busy to live? Or going on a very brief holiday? About friends who don't reply to my messages? The Sunday paper insert always finding its way out of my bag? WW points that are never enough? Night sleeps that are often too short? District Line ghost trains getting lost underground? Friends who are or will be far far away? Little persons to be returned to their parents? George? Hopes, silly dreams and good looks? Resolves, strengths and good intentions? Good ideas, inspiration, half sentences? Love?

Maybe all of the above. Maybe none.

But if you keep disappearing, I am going to flog you senseless. Yes, you.