Live from Lebanon ... It's The Blog that No One Reads

Sex, Lies and the Internet: Part II

2012-02-02T14:57:00.000+02:00

As promised, here is part two of my 'expose' on online dating sites. Today we shall discuss the total perverts! I don't know, maybe you guys won't find the below so offensive. Maybe I'm a complete prude or just plain old fashioned. But honestly, I really don't know what these guys expected when they emailed me with this stuff. Seriously, my picture is about as seductive as one of Mother Theresa feeding the poor! But that doesn't seem to matter - my caption might as well have read "Don't need nothin' but a good time!"

So, here are a few of the messages, that I am literally copying and pasting. Oh, just to let you know, I am not using these morons' real handles.

[NB: Please don't read on if you find stuff like this offensive.]

Perv1: Hey, did u know that women tend to reach the peak of sexuality in their mid 30's !!

Uhm, thanks for the sex ed PERFECT STRANGER who I've never met. Totally appropriate first email. Yes, totally appropriate.

Perv2: hey babe are u into bondage ?
Okay, first of all 'babe'??? Hellloooo, do I know you? NO! So, don't call me babe! And second, just a word of advice, do not send this kind of crap off the bat. It's a good idea to send an introductory message first, like: "Hey, my name is so and so. I like movies and going out to clubs and would love to hear back from you." If the girl responds, then you can try and see if she's into the same gross stuff as you by giving more details. For example, "I like (porno) movies and going out to (strip) clubs."

Perv3: I think I want to force u into something else than clubbing. I am sure u'll love that.
I guess I should explain that I wrote in my profile that I'm not a big partier and usually go out 'by force' (yeah, that means you MadGlam!). So the above email serves me right, I suppose.

Perv4: Ok, I can't copy/paste this one verbatim because this is not Penthouse. It was an email with descriptions of licking and sucking ... ending with "yep, that's how you eat an ice cream!" so you all can use your imagination. It is kind of funny if you take away the fact that I've never met the guy before, and slightly clever so we should give kudos to Perv4 for his originality at least.

Perv5: What's the AR stand for. If what am thinking of applies on what's on ur mind ... I am more than happy to share with u :)

So, I very cleverly included my initials as part of my online handle. Don't ask me why! So stupid. Anyway, that's the AR this dumbass is referring to. The rest, however, is beyond me. I must not be very well versed in my pervy vocabulary, because I cannot think what AR stands for. I mean maybe if it was one letter or the other, but both? I suppose if you were a complete pervert you could make any initials sound sexual. Maybe I'm missing something and AR is a total turn on. Maybe I should start using just my initials when I meet hot guys, so when he asks, "What's your name," I'll be like, "Aaaaaa Rrrrrrr, wink wink." Yep, I've got the whole seduction thing down pat, so thanks for the tip, Perv5!

Now we come to the worst one - this message literally made me blush, and it was so explicit that I can't include all of it. So here is a short excerpt.
Perv6: listen i find ur lips and mouth and above all ur bright eyes extra special...u'll never ever find a man more gentle, [CENSORED], sensitive and always [CENSORED] for girls... i love all and everything about you girls...the smell of ur feet - i can cover them with heavy kisses even if smelly like after a long day in ur shoes and then lick them clean...ur soles r like a merry cream to me... then go on [CENSORED]
OMG!!! The rest of the email is like really, really graphic that I'm embarrassed for this guy. How can he send something like that? The funny thing is that as I was reading it, the first part about the smelly feet grossed me out so much more than the nasty sexual stuff further down. It is just so beyond gross. Who in their right mind wants to lick smelly feet! HOW IS THIS REMOTELY SEXY???????? EWWWWWWWWWW. I almost messaged this guy back just to say, "AYBBBB! Ya aybeshoum aleyk!" But then I remembered I'm not his mom. I also thought about telling him that at one point I thought he could have a future career as an erotica writer, UNTIL I REREAD THE PART ABOUT THE SMELLY FEET. EWWWWWWWWWW.

As you can tell, this whole online dating thing has not been working out so well for me up until now. I've gotten 68 emails to date, and according to the 'matchmaking' expertise of this site, my best 'matches' so far are liars, perverts, or guys from Israel. Hmmmm, so my choices are feeling like I'm in a porno movie or being shot for treason? Great start.

Sex, Lies and the Internet

2012-01-26T16:13:00.005+02:00

Recently, I was hounded, literally hounded, by ... well let's just call her Little Miss Bossy ... to sign up for an online dating site. She's been on my case forever about this issue, giving me the usual so-called pros: you have nothing to lose, you never know, increase your pool of acquaintances ... blah blah blah. Anyway, after a while, I thought, yeah why not? Let's give it a shot. So I did.

I know there is this whole taboo about online dating sites here, but I figure there is no harm in meeting new people and it's so easy over the internet. You don't really have to do anything except answer a few emails. So I signed up using a different name, of course, and you would just not believe what has crawled out of the woodwork so far! (Before I go on, I just want to clarify that some of the guys that have contacted me seem really nice and cool, but they don't make for good blog material, so obviously, the decent ones will not be mentioned. I only say this because I don't want to make it sound like I'm bashing these sites, which I'm not, and that it is possible to meet normal people.)

But for now, let focus on the LIES!!!

So, I can understand why some people will opt not to put a picture. Maybe they're hiding something, or maybe they are just embarrassed about being on a dating site. Who knows? Personally, I don't respond to messages from guys without a photo because I figure, if you're embarrassed, then don't be on the site, and if you're hiding something, I am not interested. Also, between you and I, I'm going to assume that no-picture dude is ugly. Wait, did I just say that out loud?

Anyhoo, what's even worse is the guys that use fake photos of hunky celebrities - I've had several of those. It is beyond pathetic. I mean do they really think we're going to believe they look like Jason Lewis, Samantha's hot boyfriend on Sex and the City? There was also this one guy who had two pics of himself from a distance and then a closeup pic of ... Clive Owen! OMG, what a LOSER!

Maybe I should try putting up an obscure pic of me so no one can really see my face and then use a close up of Angelina Jolie. What? Is that a stretch? You mean I don't really look like her even though we have similar coloring? Reallllyyyyyy??? I dunno, I think like Clive-Owen-NOT Dude, I could get away with it. And when I meet guys in real life, and they are shocked, just shocked, that I'm not Angelina Jolie's twin, I could just say, 'Oh, well this is what I look like from a distance.'

But the worst fake picture offender was this guy who used a photo of Dirk Benedict, the original Face from the 1980s show The A-Team and the original Starbuck from the 1970s Battlestar Galactica. I bet he was thinking, 'This actor is from the 70s and 80s, no one in Lebanon will know that I'm not Dirk Benedict. So what if his hair is feathered and the jacket has shoulder pads? I can totally pull this off.' Loser just doesn't cover it.

I also never respond to guys with fake photos, but this one I just had to confront. So I emailed him back and asked why he was using Dirk Benedict's photo and if he is some sort of die-hard A-Team fan or something. This is his response, copy/paste, I kid you not:

'i want know you . i want friend together talk . plase write me mail'

Then he gave me his email address. Oooooh yeah, I was so tempted after that!

But the lies are not as offensive as the pervy emails some nasty guys thought would somehow get me to email them back. I don't know what they were smoking before they started typing, but let's just say they definitely didn't sign up for the site to find their soul mates!

So, stay tuned to Part II of Sex, Lies and the Internet to read all about the perverts!

1 Broke Girl!

2011-12-08T16:23:00.001+02:00

Dear readers, this year has not been stellar for my business. It was so bad that I didn't even make enough money to buy a single new designer bag. I know, so tragic. Forget about the Arab Spring and global warming - this handbag situation is the tragedy of the year. Okay, so I'm exaggerating - what else is new? I can just imagine the litany of angry emails I will get in response to that last statement: you compare Marc Jacobs camel tote to Middle East revolution?? Oh, who am I kidding? Like anyone ever sends me mail in response to this blog (that no one reads) anyway!

As usual, I digress...

So, business has been really bad and I have been forced to reevaluate my whole business plan (yes, I have a business plan!). Should I stay in Beirut, where let's face it, the amount I make from one brochure means about the only thing I can afford in this town is a Starbucks coffee - a Venti, but still. After reviewing my invoices for 2011, I realized that if I were living in the US, local churches would be coming around giving me charity gift baskets as if to say, 'Oh, we're so sorry you're so poor, here, have a banana muffin.' And if I were still living in the US, I would so take that gift basket and enjoy that muffin with my Starbucks coffee, or my net worth as it were.

The trouble with being poor in Beirut is that no one admits that they're strapped for cash. It's like this giant taboo. I mean, people are actually ashamed that they can't afford the latest $8 million cell phone or ridiculous sports car that transforms into a rocket and flies to the moon. In fact, I would go so far as to say that admitting you have money problems is worse than, say, admitting you never graduated high school ... or that you robbed a bank ... or that you still wear Speedos.

I know that some people would even prefer to sell an internal organ in order to pretend that they live la dolce vita. Kidney? What kidney? Who needs that itty, bitty thing when you can get knee-high Christian Louboutin boots instead? I know what you're thinking, but the thought has never crossed my mind. Really! Why don't you believe me? I'm telling the truth. Honest! I'm not even a fan of Louboutin! Okay, okay. I'm kind of a fan. Minor, really ... a passing fancy, if you will. Perhaps maybe with a medium sized appreciation for the supple leather, pretty heels and oh so hot red soles. Nothing major. Alright, a little major. Okay, alright already, so I'm a huge fan! HUGE!

Other than being frustrated at not being able to purchase new, pretty things, another problem is explaining to friends that I simply can't afford to do certain activities unless I resort to the Daddy ATM machine, ever so popular in Lebanon but a place I haven't visited since 1995 (okay, 1998!). To some Beirutis, though, admitting that no, you can't just hop on a plane to the south of France for a 30 day vacation at a ritzy five-star hotel that costs $2,000 a night is tantamount to saying that you're homeless and living in a cardboard box in an alleyway off Hamra Street, practically starving if not for the LL250 mankoushi that Abu Mustapha, the guy with the neighboring impostor perfume stand, gave you after selling his eighth bottle of faux Chanel No. 5.

So I've accepted that I'm not going on any shopping sprees at Saks any time soon, but with Christmas and FOUR birthdays coming up, my bank account is still in a major panic. Wouldn't it be great if I could just buy everyone socks and they would all think that was the best present ever? Even the kids, would be like, Yay, socks! So awesome! Anissa is the best aunty ever! If that completely believable scenario doesn't happen, I could always feign innocence and be like Whaaaaat? Socks aren't a marvelous present? Why, I had no idea. Look, they have ducks on them!

Oh well, you know what they say: ♫ It's the most ~~expensive~~ wonderful time of the year ♫ !!!

Easy As Pie

2011-11-24T13:39:00.001+02:00

Every Thanksgiving, I do the obligatory thing and ask my mom what I can make for the big meal. It's more of a ceremonious thing than a genuine offer. And knowing how useful I am in the kitchen, she usually says, "Nothing" - although I have over the years, miraculously, churned out a mean apple pie, pecan pie and once, a pumpkin cheesecake. But those flukes of culinary success were few and far between. In fact, my ability to get things done in the kitchen is about as advanced as my ability to last five minutes on an Ultimate Survival quest with Bear Grylls.

To my mother, a traditional Lebanese lady with tremendous cooking talent, having a daughter so completely hopeless in that department is a disappointment that has taken her over 30 years to come to terms with. Although she has somewhat accepted the fact that there is no inner great chef in me, her eyes still glimmer with hope whenever I attempt some small cooking feat. It's like subconsciously she believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and somehow mastering that art just may land me a husband. It's very Field of Dreams - you know, if she bakes it, he will come.

I wouldn't say I'm a bad cook per se, because I just don't do it. My desire to enter the kitchen and prepare a meal equals my yearning for a root canal ... without anesthetic. (Okay, okay, I'm exaggerating. Nix the 'no anesthetic' part.) But if you want to know the truth, my mother only has herself to blame. As a kid, everything my parents made me do, I refused to do as an adult. For example, I no longer eat steak or bananas, and don't drink milk. (I used to also not eat eggs until a few years ago, when I had a particularly delicious chance encounter with an English breakfast in London that forever changed my once prejudiced taste buds.) And helping mom in the kitchen was numero uno on that list.

You see, my parents used to entertain a lot when I was growing up. It felt like nearly every weekend there was some lunch or dinner they were hosting. I used to absolutely DREAD them, because I was expected to help in the kitchen. TORTURE. I'm pretty sure I ended up being more of a pest than a help. I never knew where anything was, which drove mom crazy - "Don't you live in this house?" she'd scream. And worse, she'd ask for utensils in Arabic, leaving me dazed and confused because I barely knew what they were in English. And back then, the extent of my Arabic vocabulary was murhaba (hello), mneha (I'm fine) and busa (ice cream). Mom would get so frustrated with me that she'd eventually just throw me out.

Luckily for her, though, she has four daughters: two are good cooks, one cooks, but her food is ... well, no comment, and then there's me. Miss Lean Cuisine/ Casper & Gamibini's take out/ spaghetti/ club sandwich (pretty much the extent of my 'cooking' ability). Okay, I'm not being entirely honest with you all. I actually have a specialty. Yes, you read right, a speciality. I - sometimes on special occasions - make my now famous chocolate pie. How did I become famous for anything to do with the kitchen, you may ask? By accident.

When I was in high school, one of the students brought in a chocolate cake that was so scrumptious, I asked for the recipe. Culinary genius that I am, I didn't write it down. When I got home, I told my mom about it and asked her to make it. Seeing a narrow window of opportunity, she said if I wanted to have that cake again, I would have to make it myself, and so desperate for that chocolate heaven, I agreed. But of course I completely forgot the ingredients and directions. My mom kept asking me if I was sure I knew what I was doing and not wanting to admit defeat, I assured her I did. Well, the final product was not the cake my schoolmate brought in, but it did end up being a delicious chocolate cake/pie concoction that I have become famous for.

Anyway, this year, you can just imagine mom's surprise when I told her that last night I made not one, but TWO chocolate pies for Thanksgiving today: one regular and the other chocolate mint. I still don't know what happened in that kitchen all those years ago that left me with at least one culinary legacy, but divine intervention is a strong possibility!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!!!

A Beautiful Mind

2011-11-14T13:22:00.001+02:00

I know that I always have an excuse for a (VERY) late blog entry, but this time, a very dear and close friend was going through a hard time and I could not write for laughs knowing she was so sad.

Anyway, without further ado, let's get down to business ...

You'd think that my absence over the past few weeks would mean that I have even more material to write about. Well, yes, a lot did happen, but funnily enough, the thing that sticks out most in my mind is one very exciting, stimulating and mind blowing game of Trivial Pursuit. No, I am not the world's most boring person (even though I admit I've had my moments), but sometimes there is nothing more fun than a good old board game. So, after dinner and drinks in Hamra last week, I returned home with Mr. MUF and decided to play Trivial Pursuit along with Mr. US.

Now, let us backtrack a bit. I like to think of myself as a well-rounded person, with a little knowledge about a range of topics so I can participate in a variety of conversations. When hanging out with the guys especially, this is particularly cumbersome, because I have to read up on coma-inducing topics, like sports!

For example, last month was the rugby world cup and Mr. B was incredibly enthusiastic to watch the England games. He organized a couple of viewing parties at our favorite pub, and for some reason invited me, and for some reason, I went (that reason being the English breakfast on the menu). As long time readers of this blog know (hello, mom), I'm not exactly a fan of rugby. But nevertheless, before the morning match, I brushed up on some basics so I would fit in with the guys. As they were talking rugby, I put in my two (very vague) cents so I wouldn't appear totally out of place and they'd think that I knew what I was talking about. But between you and I, I was just there for the food!!!

Then there was the wine fest that took place in the downtown a few weeks ago. Not much of a drinker, or a wine enthusiast for that matter, I decided to go anyway. I went with Mr. B, Mr. US and another friend and we made the rounds of the different wine stands. The other three are totally into their wine. They like know stuff and understand what things like 'bouquet' mean. I think I did commit a serious faux pas though. This one wine rep from a very snooty vineyard said, "I am going to open a very special bottle for you. Here taste this from [I don't care year]." So I did. "Do you taste the [I don't care what type of wood and fruit]?" I replied, "Yes, sure," even though all I tasted was wine. "Isn't it marvelous?" he then asked. "Oh yes, marvelous," I replied as I dumped the rest of the glass in the dump bucket and escaped as fast as possible after glimpsing his horrified expression. He was positively aghast that I didn't want to finish it!

The rest of the evening, I just smiled and nodded and sipped the wine in between my teeth to make it look like I knew how to taste the wine properly, which I don't because my extent of wine knowledge comes from the movie Sideways, which I thought was totally crap by the way. I also twirled the wine in the cup to see how it coats the glass, because that also means something and made me feel very 'winey'. But the buck stopped there. When I ran out of things to say, I said that I was done drinking because I was the designated driver, which was true ... and also convenient.

Okay, so far, I've given you examples of how I barely got by with minimal information while doing stuff my guy friends like to do. Now let's get back to that Trivial Pursuit game, during which I didn't have to fudge my way through anything. I totally kicked butt because while Mr. MUF was awesome when it came to sports, and Mr. US was awesome when it came to history, because I read about EVERYTHING, I was totally awesome ... period!

I even knew who took some boxing championship away from Hector Mercedes (or some question about boxing). You stumped yet? Yeah, well it was Mike Tyson. Okay, so I only got it right because he happens to be the only name in boxing that I know (yes, him being in the Hangover movies has something to do with that). Anyway, although I was grabbing up wedges with lightning speed, knowing how guys hate to lose to girls no matter what the game, I gave sooooo many hints to help the others out. I even sang the jingle for the Hershey Bar after Mr. MUF said that the name of the American chocolate factory that broke ground in the US in 1903 was, and I quote, 'Tweex.' He still didn't get it right.

So while I may not know a great deal about sports, or wine (or a bunch of other things that I'm not going to reveal), I do know a little bit about a lot, which you know, kind of makes me a genius.

Hey!!! I said kind of!

The Day the Earth Stood Still

2011-10-12T16:07:00.003+03:00

The scene ... mass hysteria across the country. Panic, tears, outright devastation.
The date ... October 11, 2011, ongoing as of the publication of this blog entry.
The place ... Lebanon, oh and the entire Middle East, Africa and Europe.
The event ... GLOBAL ... BLACKBERRY ... WIPE OUT! Oh mah Gad.

So, yes, yesterday Research In Motion declared that there is widespread service disruption around the world because of a problem that they still haven't fixed. It's been 48 hours. I mean it's bad, people, really, really bad. And I'm not even that addicted to my BB, I mean, well, compared to other people that have serious withdrawal issues (*cough* Miss HotStuff *cough*). Okay, so maybe, maybe, I am just slightly attached to my phone. Maybe. Just a little. Here's how I've been coping so far.

Yesterday started out normal enough. I got up at *bleeeeep* o'clock, reached for my trusted companion, my BB, to check who loved me. NO ONE! How could this be? Not a single message, not a single email, not a single anything? What has the world come to? Feeling completely dejected, rejected and more than a little discombobulated, I decided I was tough enough to go about my day normally despite the fact that I was gettin' no BB love. I can do this, I can do this, I don't really need my BB. This will not really affect me.

By lunchtime, I checked my BB for the umpteenth time to see if the problem had been resolved. I saw line after line of BBM message with a naked check mark on the side - no little 'D' or 'R' to indicate any of my messages had been delivered or were read. I tried calling the phone company for the third time only to get the automated operator saying all lines were busy and to try again later. I was so frustrated and angry I picked up my phone and threw it (like a girl). This is outrageous, I should send one of my notorious angry emails to RIM and give them a piece of my mind.

After a while, I calmed down a little bit and regretted throwing my phone. Unless, I thought, the drop triggered something that miraculously made it work again. Nope. Still not working. I delicately picked up my BB in the cupped palms of my hands and willed it to work ... with my mind. Nothing. Then I resorted to prayer. Oh, please tech gods of RIM, put your thinking caps on and FIX THE PROBLEM and I will never complain about your crappy service again! Zilch.

By late afternoon I was inconsolable and thinking the unthinkable: switching to an iPhone. It was like being stuck in an episode of Terra Nova - without BB, the earth was no great place to live. The only salvation for humanity has to be travelling 80 million years back in time. Oh wait, do they have cell phone service over there? And what about the man eating dinosaurs? Hmmmm, okay, so maybe that's not such a good idea. I was back to square one. Oh sigh, this is what heartbreak must feel like.

At nighttime, I had no choice but to accept the fact that I may be BBless for a while. I resigned myself to the reality of the situation and was determined, more than ever, to get through this rough patch like a champ. No BB outage will bring me down. I am stronger than that. I will prevail!!

I ... oh wait ... is that a beep I hear? Could it be ... YESSSSSS, a BBM! Oh my god, this is great. This is wonderful. This is the best day everrrr! There is a god! Crisis averted. All's well with ... oh crap. What the he...?? Just an SMS? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

From Sushi to Wonder Woman

2011-09-27T15:13:00.000+03:00

On Sunday night, I found myself sitting with MadGlam, my partner in crime, at a bar thinking of - wait for it - Wonder Woman. I know, I know, tres bizarre. You're probably wondering what strange series of events led me to such a random thought. Well, it all started like this ...

Sunday morning I got up to get ready for a family lunch in the mountains. (FYI: Warm and sunny in Beirut naturally means cold and rainy in the mountains!) When we got there, we saw that the lunch was outdoors ... in the rain, which was pounding the flimsy canvas serving as a shelter, dripping through slits that horrifyingly crept closer and closer to my handbag, which was good in a way only because it distracted me from the horror that was becoming my hair. Then I looked across the garden and saw that there was nothing covering the food. Hmmm, this will be interesting, I thought. It wasn't. It was wet. Very, very wet. So, of course, I was not enticed to eat the soggy food, which of course resulted in me starving to death by the time I got back down to Beirut, which led me to pick up the phone and dial ...

... McDonald's delivery (yes, McDonald's delivers here, God bless Lebanon!). But before I could put in the four digit number, I received a perfectly timed intervention from MadGlam, who suggested we go out for sushi, a much healthier dining option, to be sure. At dinner, we decided to go out for a drink when we were done eating, which is why an hour later we found ourselves sitting at a new bar that opened downtown, when suddenly ...

... our intense discussion on text messaging was interrupted because she saw some guy she knew, to whom she introduced me and then asked, "Do you think he's attractive?" One look at the blazer/ t-shirt combo, slicked back oily hair (I didn't look at his shoes, but I have a strong suspicion he wasn't wearing socks - so gross) and I thought he must be caught in some time/space wormhole thingymebob that left him stuck in the 1980s, back when the Miami Vice look was still cool, which, of course, reminded me of ...

... the totally awesome Hot Tub Time Machine, which was on cable the other night and is completely underrated, by the way. Great film. Okay, maybe not 'great' per se, but definitely at least 'good'. I just love John Cusack. I think he's still single. I wonder if he likes brunettes?? Oh, sorry, I almost forgot about you guys. Okay, where was I? Oh yes, Hot Tub Time Machine. So, the movie made me think of the scene when they were first transported back to the 80s and they were skiing and everyone was carrying a ...

... walkman, which I got as a present from my parents on my 10th birthday. It was white, as big as my head and the earphones were the size of a football helmet but with foam. And I thought I was totally cool, because I had a walkman! The first cassette tape I ever bought? Def Leppard! (If MadGlam is reading this, she's probably thinking, 'Def Leppard? Isn't that the latest handbag from Gucci?') Anyway, I digress yet again. That happened in 1984, the year that my school in Dubai held ...

... the greatest Halloween fair ever, to which I went dressed up as none other than ...

... dah dah dahhhhh ...

... Wonder Woman!

And no, I do not have ADD ... surprisingly!

Blabbing with the Bassara

2011-09-13T12:42:00.000+03:00

So, yesterday after a weekend of beer, baked beans and rugby (yes, it still looks like gay porn to me), MadGlam and I decided to go see a bassara, also known as a fortune teller. Now, I should say that I have not frequented a bassara's lair since the good ol' days with FFF way back when. But so extraordinary were these supposed talents of yesterday's soothsayer that I allowed curiosity to get the better of me and tagged along.

Off the bat, Fortune Teller Extraordinaire NOT (FTEN) was totally off on my 'aura' or emotions, or whatever. Before looking at my coffee cup, she said my 'energy' was showing her that I was an extrovert [WRONG] who loves to go out all the time [WRONG] and everyone loves me [so true, of course, and I mean, like EVERYONE.]

Right, great start, I thought to myself. Then she says: "Now I want to move on to your emotions, and by that I mean your love life, and by that I mean you don't have one." [Uhm, okay, that sounds hopeful.] "I see in front of you a white wall." [How droll, at least couldn't my boyfriend, i.e. the wall, be a more exciting color? Maybe something psychedelic or at least slightly funky?] "But don't worry, I see past this wall." [Phew, thank God. I was really starting to think I was going to exchange vows with dull concrete.] "Yes, yes, past this wall, there is a man [specific]. You will meet him in May or maybe some other month or maybe you met him already ... [looks at my raised eyebrows] but no you have not met him [looks at me again] but yes maybe you have [looks again] but no, no you haven't." Whatevs!

Yes, FTEN was that good. Apparently Future Husband, who thankfully is not a wall, works in advertising, or marketing, or something in the arts or is just employed. At first he was NINE years older than me. When I expressed my disappointment at this big age difference, the conversation went something like this:

FTEN: "Why are you upset - nine years is not so much an age difference."
[Please bear in mind that at this point I had already given her my birth date and year.]
ME: "Uhm yes it is."
FTEN: "But you are only 30"
Me: "Uhm, no I'm 37. 1974, remember?"
FTEN: "Oh, oh, I made a mistake. He is 39, your future love, yes, yes, the 9 was for his age, not the age difference. Do you feel better now?"
Me: "Oh yes, soooooo much better. And I'm so glad that I'm getting this totally accurate and not at all BS reading from you based on my facial expressions and body language."

Okay, then she starts spewing out letters. 'R', 'M', 'E'. "Do you know anyone with those letters in your family?" Actually, no, but my brother's middle name is Ramzi, which technically could be spelled Ramzey, which would fit, so I threw her a bone and said, yes, my brother. "You work together in a family business." [WRONG] "You work in similar fields." [WRONG] I was so annoyed at this point, I just started to give her information and told her we share an office space. "Yes, yes, that is the connection I see." Eye roll.

When I BBMed my brother and gave him this super exciting news, he said that FTEN is just as accurate as Wheel of Fortune. They give those letters for free in the final round because they are some of the most popular letters in the alphabet and chances are, she's gonna get at least one right. Which is probably why she told me future husband has an 'S' in his name and MadGlam's has a 'T'. When FTEN revealed this tidbit to me, I was like noooooo wayyyyyy, thanks for narrowing things down. I mean, just about everyone I know has an 'S' somewhere in their name. Hello needle, have you met haystack?

After about an hour with FTEN, I was really ready to stop my fortune telling adventures foreverrrrr. Seriously, even rugby makes more sense to me than her so-called predictions!

Bride Wars!

2011-09-07T11:57:00.000+03:00

So, it's been a loooooonnnnnngggggg break from my blog I know, but dear readers, I needed it. There was A LOT going on this spring/summer and unfortunately, that meant no time for my blog. And let's be honest here, it's not like I was ever really that ... uhm let's say punctual ... about updating my entries!

Anyhoo, the reason for all the chaos?? Another one of my sisters got hitched - wohooo! And then another got engaged - double wohooo! And yet another came along just for the ride with two kids, a husband and a kidney stone (his, not hers) in tow - a reserved wohooo, but only because of the kidney stone. Yes, it's been a hectic few months. Thankfully, all went well (or hamdillah, as we say in this neck of the woods). As you can see from the pic above, the bride was absolutely stunning, the engaged sister (right) was as equally as radiant and 'married with children' (left) has never looked less than beautiful a day in her life. That's me in the middle. (And no, we bridesmaids were not pointing our bouquets at our sister's head because she made us wear bridesmaids dresses.)

During the whole summer, I have to relate to you the huge contradiction going on in my head as both my younger sisters prepared for their nuptials and engagement party. Some of you may recall my less than enthusiastic feeling towards such celebrations because of the onslaught of akbalik (hope you get married next) comments that I get. I thought that was bad ... until they stopped! Let me explain ...

You know, it's true what they say, you don't appreciate what you have until it's gone. Funnily, weirdly and incredibly bizarrely enough, that's how I felt about the whole akbalik thing. I despised it because I was like, 'Hello, there is more that I want to do in my life than get married, it is not one of my major goals - I want to accomplish things greater than nabbing a husband!'

Fast forward to this summer. A bunch of people were over to congratulate us all on my sister's engagement. My sisters were all there and I'm the only single one left. I was sitting next to my also single brother and then when everyone got up to leave, they all completely ignored me and started telling him akbalak. Did I mention I was standing right next to him?? Suddenly, being at the receiving end of an abalik comment wasn't so bad. I seriously felt like an expired carton of milk. I thought maybe I should get a new tattoo on my forehead, this one saying, 'Yo, still viable.'

My sister noticed this outrageous injustice of akbalik bestowment, and said politely, 'Anissa first.' Then the barrage of akbaliks began to spring forth and - again - funnily, weirdly and incredibly bizarrely enough, I was actually pleased. My brother on the other hand was where I was just a few short months ago and sick of hearing it. He joked that he was going to change his name to Akbalak.

But you won't hear any complaints from me anymore, no siree, Bob! I ain't no moldy piece of bread just yet, so feel free to call me Anissa Akbalik any old (no pun intended) time!!

Sealing the Deal Part II

2011-04-04T14:53:00.004+03:00

After much ado ... the second part of the 'Seal the Deal' series has finally arrived. Why the delay, you may be asking (if you weren't asking, then skip ahead to the next paragraph)? Well, I was on a self-imposed writer's strike. I was holding out until my demands (to myself) were met. Negotiations (with myself) were tough and extremely stressful. Finally we (me, myself and I) reached a compromise and now I'm back to work.

Now, back to the blog subject at hand. As promised, I spoke to Typical Single Lebanese Guy and he gave me the scoop on how picking up chicks is done a la Libanaise. First, let me describe TSLG. He is successful, above 35, with his own love pad and in general a nice guy. I'm not a shrink, but he does not strike me as someone who is particularly egotistical or full of himself, and does not try to over-compensate any insecurities by talking about how much money he has or the people he knows. (Hmmm, on second thought, maybe he's not a typical Lebanese guy ... anyway, I digress.)

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: This is not some parody on Lebanese men, or a slam in any way. TSLG exists and he is a friend of mine, who has given me permission to write this up. Also, the description of the ladies below are according to TSLG's view point and are not my opinion necessarily. And just to reiterate that this is not a diss, let the record show that I love Lebanese men!

Okay, now when TSLG is out on the prowl, no fins come out - he is way more chill about getting his prey. He is a predator that operates under the radar - very effective indeed. His weapon of choice? Ignoring. Apparently, this little trick really works, as girls (or the ones swimming in TSLG's pool) are only too eager to please when they think that an unattached dude is not paying them enough attention.

In fact, so effective are TSLG's tools of seduction that he has generously agreed to share with you all his 8 Simple Rules to Sealing the Deal. This is obviously beneficial to a) guys who are new to Lebanon and are clueless as to how to land a Beiruti babe, or even guys who are just plain clueless and b) Lebanese women who want to know why the guy at the bar, who seemed so into you, never asked for your number!

So here is a page right out of TSLG's playbook:
Step 1: Go in bar and mark the hot girls. Make sure you sit within talking distance, preferably at the bar.
2: Ignore the girl - i.e. don't look at her or make any eye contact - for at least half an hour to 45 mins. Apparently, chicks are less discriminate when it comes to looks and are more interested in a guy's approach than his physical similarity to Robert Pattinson.
3: After ignoring period, casually strike up a conversation. Do not answer any questions about your job because girls are always looking for a reason to discredit you, so don't give them the opportunity.
4: When you or she is about to leave, just say it was nice meeting you and don't ask for her number.
5: After a few days, look her up on Facebook and send her a message saying it was nice meeting her the other night. Say something funny, like 'don't worry, I'm not going to stalk you or add you as a friend.' The girl usually responds and adds you as a friend first.
6. After sending a few messages back and forth, casually mention that you should meet up for drinks. If she agrees, she will send you her number.
7: While out with her, always pick up the tab and never make the moves on her. A typical Lebanese chick wants to prove that she's a good girl and making the moves will give her the opportunity to reject you. You should avoid rejection at all costs.
8: After a few 'platonic' dates, ask some friends to meet you and introduce the chick as a friend who is like your 'little sister'. This will infuriate her. She will try to prove that you are attracted to her and the next time you're alone - boom! - she will be all over you.

And that, my friends, is how it's done!

Sealing the Deal

2011-03-17T15:50:00.007+02:00

I recently met up with my pal, Priscilla Priss, and she couldn't stop talking about Slow Jim Blah, who she said she knew was into her but hadn't made the moves yet for reasons she could not fathom. She asked me for my opinion, but I had no clue as to what Slow Jim's problem was, if he was indeed as into her as PP claimed. My philosophy is that over analyzing is always a very bad idea, and so if a guy is acting like he's just not that into you, then that's just what it is. I tried to break this gently to PP, but she is convinced that that is not the case.

So, wanting to help out my friend, because I am just so generous and giving that way, I dialed up my go-to guy for all things guy related to get the male perspective. I'm talking, of course, about none other than the one and only Mr. B (back by popular demand). After I explained PP's predicament, the conversation went a little something like this:
Mr. B: Is Slow Jim a TLG?
Me: Huh?
Mr. B: A typical Lebanese guy?
Me: Uhm, yeah, I guess.
Mr. B: Well, that's the problem right there. TLG will not make the moves on a chick the way, let's say, a European or American dude would. (NB: In reality, Mr. B would be mortified at the use of the words chick and dude.)
Me: Whatever do you mean?

Mr. B then went on to describe the 'typical' pick up scene, apparently common in just about every town but Beirut. Allow me to paraphrase: Imagine the opening sequence of Jaws (the first one, not the crap sequels). The hot bikini clad babe swims in the seemingly calm waters, wading peacefully, oblivious to the danger lurking beneath. Then ... cue music as the fins appear ... dah duh, dah duh, dah duhhhh. Action!

So, if you keep the babe and just substitute the sea for a pub and the shark for out and about dudes, you'll have the essential ingredients for 'sealing the deal.' If, for some reason, two of the guys in the same group are after the same girl, it's all out war, though. According to our expert, Mr. B, in such instances, the conversation will go a little something like this.
Guy 1: Shoo, what do you think of her?
Guy 2: Yeah, she's cute.
Guy 1: Is this war?
Guy 2: I think so, mate.

I always thought that guys operated on the unshakable 'bros before hoes' code, but apparently when alcohol is involved, the only rule is that there are no rules. Now, I know what you're all dying to know: how is the fight settled? The answer will shock and amaze you!! Such a profound revelation will surely bring you to your knees. So ... hold on to your seats ... be prepared ... catch your breath ... sit tight ...stay calm ...

"Whoever hails the first cab," Mr. B replied.

I know. Deep stuff.

But if that's how a non-TLG operates, then what about a genuine, bon a fide, living and breathing TLG? Well, for that story, dear readers, stay tuned for the startling revelations straight from the horse's mouth: Mr. TLG spills all in my next blog entry! Until then, happy ... sealing?

I Like You, You Like Me!

2011-03-03T14:46:00.014+02:00

The other morning, I came across an article from iVillage.com called '10 Ways to Make People Like You.' Of course, being as popular and universally loved as I am, I had no reason to read such a piece, but I thought in light of what's going on around us in the Middle East these days, a couple of politicians out there (or even Charlie Sheen) could use the advice! So here is my take on the tips and hints:

1. Smile a lot
So obvious, I know. Yes, a cheerful showing of your pearly whites makes you more attractive to people and they will be encouraged to like you more. Hmmm, well I guess there should be an addendum to that, like if your smile is accompanied by statements like, 'There will be blood,' your 'friendliness' is probably not gonna be taken that seriously.

2. Be a good listener
This may also seem like a no brainer, but you'd be surprised how some folks will interpret thousands of people carrying signs that say, 'We hate you. Leave now,' to mean, 'We worship the ground you walk on.' See, a good listener, you know, actually listens.

3. Share something about yourself
Do not get carried away with this one. The key word here is 'something' as in one thing. For example, scratch the two hour, incoherent rambling of how great and perfect and wonderful you are, and maybe say something like, 'Dude, sorry to hear that you lost your job, I've never had a real one myself, but yo, did I tell you that Beyonce, Jay Z, Usher and Nelly Furtado came to this kick ass party I threw on my boat?' See, in one sentence you managed to share that you are empathetic and cool. Two birds, one stone.

4. Strike the right pose
It's all about body language: crossing your arms and legs away from people closes you off from them and they are less likely to approach you or continue talking to you. This makes you less likable. I'd like to add that waving guns in the air and shooting doesn't help either.

5. Don't talk trash
Right, here it goes. To get people to like you, it's probably not a good idea to refer to them as 'cockroaches' or 'rats.' Just a suggestion.

6. Lighten up
It's always a good idea not to take yourself too seriously and show that you can laugh at yourself. This will make the person you're talking to more comfortable and relaxed, and they just may start thinking that you're a pleasure to be around. You could share an anecdote about yourself, like the time you got high off your coffee and milk. Ha ha ha! Really. Totally hilarious.

7. Ask for a favor
This point needs to be clarified. For example, it's okay to ask someone to watch your phone while you use the bathroom because it establishes trust. It's not okay, however, to ask people to ... I dunno ... suffer for a loaf of bread while you bask in luxury off their labor. Maybe?

8. Do something nice
Okay, big hint here: bombs and bullets don't count.

9. Use their name when speaking to them
See number 5. Names proper are probably best.

10. Be sensitive
Uhm ... let's see ... if you follow points 1 through 9, I'd say you're all set in the sensitivity department.

And now, after completing this 10-step program, everyone should totally love you. You're welcome!

Hearts and Red Teddy Bears

2011-02-11T11:54:00.007+02:00

The other day I was talking to Miss Bitches-A-Lot (yes, we still speak from time to time; no, I don't know why; and no she doesn't read this blog so yes, I can talk about her) and she was asking, like Bonnie Tyler, 'where have all the good men gone?' A very good question indeed, although in her case, it's probably that they just don't like her. Anyway, that conversation got me thinking about Valentine's Day, which is just around the corner.

Actually, even without talking to the most irritating person this side of the Mediterranean, it would be nearly impossible not to think about February 14, since practically every shop window in Beirut looks like a giant blood clot! Now, don't get me wrong, I am not anti-Valentine's Day, nor am I one of those people who thinks that it's just capitalist crap invented by evil retailers who manage to dupe nutty romantics into paying $80,000 for a single rose when on any other day it would cost less than $1. No, I actually like the fact that there's a romance day, even though Miss HotStuff scoffs at this and says, 'Every day should be Valentine's Day.' Whatever! Who the heck has the energy to be romantic every single day! I mean, how many red Teddy Bears can one possibly own?

I then started to think back to some of the most embarrassing Valentine's Days I've had. First, there was the time when a single female friend and I decided to go see a movie and we totally forgot that it was February 14. After we bought our tickets, we were so embarrassed when at the door of the theater we saw there was a special Valentine’s Day promotion going on and they were giving away roses to all the girls and some sort of sample cologne to the men. Obviously, we had no idea this movie was like an event or something, and because we weren’t with any guys, we got the roses and the cologne. So there we were … two girls … at a romantic movie … surrounded by couples … carrying cologne and roses. Needless to say, we were so embarrassed we couldn’t throw the gifts away fast enough because a) we didn't want to make it even more obvious that we were dateless and b) we didn't want to completely kill our chances of ever getting dates again by looking like we were gay.

A few years after that, I got a call at my desk from the receptionist where I worked at the time telling me that I had just received a bouquet of flowers. Since I wasn’t seeing anyone at the time, I was pleasantly surprised, so I leapt out of my chair and hurried to collect my Valentine surprise. At the receptionist’s desk, there were a dozen beautiful red tulips and my mind began racing with names of men who could’ve possibly sent them.

“Who are they from?” asked the bitchy, nosy receptionist. Ah, the suspense as I read the words, ‘From a secret admirer,’ the excitement, the thrill … the utter disappointment as I recognized the handwriting. This couldn’t be, I told myself, the flowers are from … my mother?? After regaining my calm, I replied with a smile, “They’re from a secret admirer.” Okay, so I lied - I rationlized that it was better to appear mysterious than loserish.

There was also that Valentine’s Day when I actually did receive a gift from a bona fide ‘secret admirer,’ only to discover it was that creepy, stalker guy, who was as old as my grandfather, about as attractive as road kill, and somehow interpreted a polite, ‘hello’ to mean, ‘I love you, please send me a creepy present.’

As for this year, who knows? Maybe I will get a giant heart stuffed with chocolates and a big ass red Teddy Bear. But let's just hope it's not from a geriatric weirdo … or a relative (no offense, mom!).

We Doth Protest Too Much?

2011-01-27T13:26:00.011+02:00

So, everybody knows that the past two weeks or so have not been the best in our beloved country, but this is not a political blog, and I will not be going there. Suffice it to say that because of the situation, I have not been going out and so, Mr HJNTIY, if you're reading this, you better stop now, because this entry is not going to have anything scandalous in it.

Now, because I have not been in the mood to go out, I have been watching a lot of movies the past 10 days. One such film was a supposed real story about alien abductions that I have refused to see for months, even though my brother has been eager to watch it since its release. I get laughed at a lot, but aliens scare the crap out of me. Hello, did you not see Independence Day? And even genius extraordinaire Stephen Hawking said that if aliens ever came to earth, they would not be the friendly ET type (yes, even he [it?] freaks me out). Also, how is it that all the alleged abductees have the exact same story? Even their descriptions of the aliens are the same. Coincidence? I think not.

My family still makes fun of the one summer years ago when were vacationing in our old family home in the mountains and I didn't sleep the whole time there because I was terrified that a UFO would land nearby. There was a huge empty lot right next to my bedroom window and it was the perfect spot to land their spaceship, I reasoned oh so rationally. There was also an army checkpoint in the street in front of the house, and when there were soldiers on night duty, I could sleep, because - I reasoned oh so rationally - if a UFO came by, their screams would alert me to their ominous arrival. If, however, they were not on duty, I would wait until daybreak before getting some shut eye.

I think it was my mother who asked me if I had the same fear in Beirut. 'No, of course not,' I said. 'In Beirut, there are too many buildings around so they can't land their ships,' I added, as if this should be totally obvious and logical. 'Oh riiiiiggghhhhttttt,' my mother replied in the tone shrinks use when they talk to people in the psycho ward.

So, anyway, when my brother wanted to watch this alien abduction movie, he tried to convince me - using physics - that it was impossible for aliens to come to earth. Something about needing to create a black hole, or wormhole, or whatever in order to travel fast enough to reach our planet. What the hell does he know? Like he understands alien technology??!!? I am completely unconvinced. I mean, they could have already invented that ability on the planet where all the Scientologists came from!

But, apparently, the laws of physics are the same across the universe, even in alien land. Whatever! Okay, it's not like I've seen one or anything - or have I? - but it's like the case of ghosts. Maybe you don't entirely, 100% believe in their existence, but you don't want to say it out loud just in case they do exist and then they show themselves to you to prove it. Well, I'm not going to take that risk, thank you very much. So, if you're out there aliens (and ghosts, while we're at it), I believe! I believe!

As for my sleepless nights, my fear was abating some thanks to my logic about UFOs needing space to land. That is until my brother pointed out that they can just hover above a buildling, they really don't need to bring the ship down. Yeah, thanks, bro!

Love, Actually

2011-01-11T17:00:00.007+02:00

Happy New Year, everyone! I've been on holiday for the past three weeks, so that explains the long break in blog entries, but now I'm back - better than ever (not). And as another year has passed by, I thought I'd give a brief rundown of this blog's most popular co-stars to date.

Pixie Minxie
The last time we caught up with this golden mane babe, she was fresh off one of the worst blind dates in blind date history. Well, you'll all be happy to know that one of those blind dates actually paid off - believe it or not! - and Pixie Minxie is now engaged to none other than Blizzard Jogger, a newly inducted addition to this blog! Yes, it was a match made in blind date heaven - as I've said before, stranger things have happened. I'd like to say akbal me having the same happy fate, but we all know my luck with blind dates, so that ain't ever gonna happen! Congrats Pixie and BJog!

Miss HotStuff
So hot that most men do her bidding with the single bat of one eye, Miss HotStuff had a love affair so intense this past holiday season, we all thought her heart would break when the love of her life suddenly walked out on her. Significant others can be so brutish that way! It all started one cold winter's day, when traveling abroad she noticed that her - gulp - BlackBerry was not working and she could not - gulp, gulp - BBM her friends back home. Heartbroken is actually not the word. Devastated, inconsolable, distraught ... perhaps are more accurate descriptions of her state of mind. But don't fret, dear readers, you'll be relieved to know that after hours and hours of calls to the phone company, her disastrous state of affairs was finally repaired. Her dear love was back in her eagerly awaiting arms and all was right with the world once again.

Mr HJNTIY
Who knows whether or not this dude is still obsessing over barely legal debutants who he'd rather describe as 'sisters' rather than love interests. At a recent outing, he emphatically stressed that he was a changed man - perhaps transformed through a New Year's resolution? Yes, he no longer sets an age limit of 25 or less for the women he dates. Now hold on ladies, those of you waiting with bated breath should also hear the clause to this so-called change of heart in his lifestyle. He's okay with women who are older than 25 as long as they look 25. Such revelations give me so much faith in the core values of the opposite sex!

MadGlam
Oh, the lifestyles of the madly glamorous were equally void of passionate romance this past holiday, but that didn't stop our heroine MadGlam from capturing the hearts of her many admirers. Unfortunately, she did not find her one true love in her stocking come Christmas Day. Hmmm, could it be that Santa caught glimpse of a naughty side none of us knew about? Perhaps old St. Nick thought her shopping spree with suitcases a bit much? Or perhaps he was offended when 'Sweet Emotion' came on the radio and she said, 'Oh, I know who sings this song ... uhm, Bono.' You mean U2, thought Santa, listening in all the way from the North Pole. 'No, no, it's the that group, I don't know their name, with Mick Jagger,' she said, thinking she was correcting herself. No, it's not the Rolling Stones either, mused Santa from atop his sled. 'Now I've got it, it's Guns N' Roses!' she said all excitedly. IT'S AEROSMITH, AEROSMITH, Rudolph screamed after he just couldn't take it anymore, nose flaring even more red than usual in frustration.

Mr US
Now here's some tantalizing tale from the dark side! Mr US recently met SHB, an acronym I shall not spell out for you, but let's just say the chick deserves the name COMPLETELY. Imagine, she thought she could play two men - friends at that - at the same time without the brain power to think that maybe, just maybe in a town as small as Beirut one of the dudes might catch wind of it. After going all Fatal Attraction on Mr US - yes, she even admitted to going to his home while he wasn't there and peeking in the windows... so CREEPY - he gave her the benefit of the doubt despite my warnings that he was going to soon find bunny rabbits boiling in a pot in his kitchen. After a while, he realized that SHB was playing the same game with his friend, and even after she found out that Mr US learned of her shenanigans, she still had the gall to contact him again! Move over Glenn Close, you've got competition, and boy is she nasty!

Bronzed Poop and the Courtesy Flush

2010-12-17T11:30:00.007+02:00

Never I have felt more that men really are from Mars than a few nights ago when having drinks with Mr B and Beardy McSnow. Seated in between the two, I was caught in the crossfire of the most bizarre conversation. I was just sitting there, enjoying my drink, thinking I was part of the conversation when Mr B looks over to Beardy and they start sputtering about something incomprehensive and burst into fits of laughter. All I caught were the words 'Suri's dispatch.' Confused yet? Well, join the club!

I felt like I was at a tennis match, bobbing my head from left to right trying to figure out what the two guys were talking about and why it was so bloody hilarious. So, logically, I asked, "What on earth are you guys talking about?"
"What we're going to name our yachts," replied Mr B.

Yachts?? Yes, this is what men discuss when they are alone together. It was a conversation that they had started earlier in the day and decided to finish at the pub later that night with a few beers in the mix. Lucky me.

"Oh ok. Well, what would call your boat?" I asked Beardy, trying to participate, although not really all that interested.
"Suri's Dispatch," he said, Mr B laughing even more. I stared at him blankly, totally not getting the joke. Then came the enlightening explanation.
"You know Suri ... Tom Cruise's kid," explained Beardy.
"Yeah, okay," I said, "but why dispatch?"

All right, hold on to your seats, because here is the story: Apparently, a few months after Suri Cruise was born like four or five years ago, according to Beardy, the Cruises bronzed her first poop and auctioned it off on eBay. So enraged by this, Beardy can't let go of it to this day. "Uh, I don't think that's true Beardy," I said. "No, no it's true, Google it," he assured me.

Okay then, moving on ... I turned to Mr B. "And what, pray tell, would you call your yacht."
"Courtesy flush," he responded without hesitation, further eliciting laughter from Beardy. Now this did not need explanation. Mr B, you see, is kind of obsessed with the toilet behavior of your average Joe. He thinks the world would be a better place if more people flushed immediately after delivery and contact. Apparently, this is a huge problem in guy world.

Not that anyone asked me, but if I were to name my yacht I would call it Men are from Mars and Women are NORMAL!

Morning Glory … Not!

2010-12-07T14:05:00.004+02:00

This blog entry is actually from my latest column in Sayidaty Magazine (English version, on sale now!) and my editor suggested I post it on my blog as well. So here it goes ...

There are some ~~annoying~~ people on this planet who love the mornings and for some mysterious reason it’s their favorite time of day. They look forward to the peaceful quiet, which is only made more enjoyable by a simple cup of coffee. Bah … humbug! I am obviously not one of those people and am so not a morning person. In fact, it’s safe to say that I pretty much hate the early morning. I hate the quiet on the streets (because all the smart people are still in bed); I hate the barely there sunshine (even the sun is still asleep); I hate the fact that I have to wait at least five hours until lunch. It’s all so depressing that not even a delicious cup of java can brighten up the prospect of having to rise before 9am.

My opinions on the morning, however, prompted my illustrious editor, Tarek Hijazi, to send me this terrifying message: “Here’s a challenge your readers are going to love, Anissa. Starting tomorrow, set your alarm clock for 6.30am. Pretend a snooze button is something that only exists in fairy tales with flying unicorns. Wake up. Have coffee (otherwise it would automatically render your attempt useless). The effect is almost effective immediately. You’ll be channeling your inner morning person in no time. Guaranteed.”

At the sight of ‘6.30am,’ my face blanched in horror. What am I, a rooster? I only wake up at the crack of dawn to catch a flight. Period. Thinking it must certainly be a joke, I ignored the challenge. Then I got the phone call, and the conversation went a little something like this:

Tarek: Hey, what do you think about taking on my challenge?
Me, laughing: I honestly didn’t think you were serious.
Tarek: No, no, I’m serious. Try it for a week.
Me: Are you mad? No way!
Tarek: Okay, five days.
Me: No!
Tarek: Okay two days.
Me: No!
Tarek: Okay, one day. Just get up at 6.30am one day.
Me, panicking: But that’s the middle of the night!

Tarek was convinced that a yummy caffeine jolt would transform me into a morning person; I was sure it would not. Anyway, despite my qualms, I agreed to give it a shot. True to my word, that night I set my alarm to precisely 6.30am and made a mental note to not hit the snooze button. I even went to bed early at 11pm. Later, feeling as if I had shut my eyes for only a minute, I heard the loud blare of my alarm. Still practically asleep, I automatically hit snooze without even thinking (sorry, Tarek, but whose brain is switched on at 6.30am?). I told myself, okay, I’ll get up once the snooze alarm goes off, giving me a precious extra 10 minutes of sleep (what Tarek doesn’t know, won’t hurt him). The next thing I know, the construction site across the street comes alive and I wake up from the noise. I looked at the clock and it was 7.10am, 40 minutes off schedule!

Still half asleep, I decided to get out of bed anyway and go through with the challenge. I made my coffee, and since it was way too early for my brain to function, I decided to sit in bed and watch some morning talk shows. I finished my coffee and the next thing you know, I’m dozing off … again. Yes, I re-fell asleep and this time I didn’t get up until 10.30am. What a disaster!

I think it’s safe to say that I failed the challenge and not even coffee could turn me. Hello, my name is Anissa and I am, and forever will be, a non-morning person. So if any of you happen to catch me out and about so early in the day, be sure that I will be a) on my way to the airport; b) sleepwalking; or c) possessed by an alien.

Lebanese Don't Love Rock N' Roll

2010-11-24T17:37:00.004+02:00

What is with Lebanese and their non-existent taste in music? I would say god awful, but that would be just a tad arrogant, no? Allow me to explain …. As this week has consisted of one holiday after the other, I have been stepping out on the town quite a bit with the usual suspects, give or take a new addition or two. As is usually the case, I get really bored with the going out scene mainly because the music at most places (with the exception of my favorite haunt in Monot) is so bloody terrible. It’s like people in this country can only like one song at a time, and they obsess over it for an entire season, so that it’s played over and over and over – you get the picture? – again until the mere opening bars start to make your ears bleed. But no matter how over-played the tune is, when it comes on at whatever club you happen to be at, Bimbo Barbie jumps on the table, ‘whooing’ until her shrieks break glass while Macho Man waves his hands up and down in his best ‘gangsta’ impersonation, with cigarette in one hand and whiskey in the other. Yes, tres cool. Ask them what this song is called or the name of the singer, though, and you will be met with blank stares.

Now, I’m not saying I have superior taste in music or anything - actually most people here hate my music, which is fine - but at least I have my own individual taste. I know the names of the songs I like and who sings them. I even have favorite bands – shocker! Okay, so I know this country has major problems that go way beyond no real music knowledge, but it would be nice to mention a singer and have the other person know who you’re talking about. There are a few exceptions, like Mr. B, for example. We don't have the same taste, but at least we can have discussions about different bands and genres. We argue a lot - he thinks British Pop is a genre on its own, I insist it's part of the Alternative group; he thinks The Clash rock, I think they suck; I think Moonlight Mile is the best track off the Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers, he thinks it's the worst, etc. But at least I can have a conversation about the Rolling Stones with him ....

Which is totally not the case with MadGlam, who was at a club in London where a Rolling Stone - identity still unknown - was partying and she didn't even know who it was!! An actual Rolling Stone!! Can you believe it?
"Oh, I was at a club with someone from that band you like," she brought up nonchalantly.
"What band?" I asked.
"I don't know, the one on that t-shirt you wear."
"The Rolling Stones?? Was it Mick Jagger?" I asked, excitedly.
"Yeah, the Rolling Stones. No, no, not Mick Jagger," she answered, "it was the other one." Hmmm, very helpful.
"Was it Keith Richards?" She had no clue who that was, of course, and trying to get any further information out of her was about as effective as getting water from a stone - no pun intended - not surprising considering that she wandered onto the set of the latest Pirates of the Carribbean movie and thought it was a Halloween party ... where everyone was wearing the same costume, but that’s another story entirely.

I guess, then, that I'm only to blame when, on discovering that one of my all-time favorite bands Guns N' Roses will be playing in nearby Abu Dhabi, I asked her to go with me. (In my defense, I did ask Mr. US first, but he replied, "I only like two of their songs." Hmph!) MadGlam's reply? "Isn't that a clothing brand?"

I guess Huey Lewis was wrong - the heart of rock and roll is not still beating ... not in Beirut anyway!

Beirut Knows How to Party

2010-11-15T16:52:00.006+02:00

This past weekend, a group of us decided to go to a hot new club that opened up not too long ago to ring in the upcoming holidays a little bit early. We were a big group that included MadGlam (of course), Mr. Borrring + 1 (his cigar), Mr. HJNTIY (minus his 'sister') and Mr. US (nothing scandalous on him yet, except that he NEVER reads my blog). A bunch of other people were also there, but I can't be bothered to make up nicknames for everyone (whatever, it's Monday!).

The place itself is really nice - you know, tasteful decor, good service and food, and the entertainment is really cool. But the people - OH MY GOD. I seriously felt like I was at prostitute central. No, it's not like the women merely dressed like ladies of the night, they actually were ladies of the night. It's the kind of place where hookers are given out like party favors and you don't want to get caught rubbing your nose because people will automtically think you're a cokehead. The bathrooms even have ledges for easy snorting and I have allergies and a weak bladder so I can only imagine what kind of impression I made!

So scantily clad were nearly all the women there that I felt like I was Maria from The Sound of Music - sersiously, the ladies on our table were probably the only ones wearing bras and clothing that covered all our 'kibbles and bits.' There was one chick wearing gold sequined shorts with a black bustier and bustle over her rear. It was probably one of the most hideous outfits I've ever seen in real life. Mr. US still can't get over it. The funny thing is, she probably paid a fortune for it and I would be too embarrassed to give it away to Goodwill.

On the table just in front of ours, 60 year old men were fawning over 20 year old girls, who were sitting in their laps and acting about as inappropriate as you can imagine ... in a public venue ... that is supposedly not a brothel. On the table to our right, about 20 women were all over balding old farts, dancing in leapard skin outfits so trashy Courtney Love wouldn't be caught dead wearing them (okay, maybe Courtney Love). Funnily enough, they all looked remarkably similar. 'They must be sisters,' said Mr. US. 'Uh no,' I replied, 'they just have the same plastic surgeon.'

All the men, not surprisingly, were overweight, balding or bald, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey, thinking they were totally important and cool because they were with barely legal, semi-dressed, trashy women. Yes, very tasteful indeed! Well, here's a news flash: paying women to be in your company is about as impressive as being able to pee upright.

Of course, Mr. US and Mr. Borrring had a field day -'What, we're only people watching!' Uh huh, well, there certainly was a lot to see. My eyes are still burning!

Free Peep Show and Other Unfortunate Events

2010-11-09T17:26:00.002+02:00

I know that everyone has had that excruciating embarrassing moment - the one that they can't seem to forget no matter how much time goes by. You know, like the time you were walking down the street, head turned in the opposite direction as you were talking to someone and then walked straight into a lamp post, hitting your head. Or the time you fell out of your chair at the computer lab in college one evening when it was PACKED with students so that about 10 of them jumped up to 'see if you were ok' when you were desperately trying to pretend that nothing happened so no one would notice. What?? None of those things ever happened to me - no, of course not! But my karma must've been really wonky one day not too long ago as I did have a moment and it was pretty embarrassing to say the least.

So, my good friend Mr. B just wrote a book and I was invited to his book signing. I decided to wear a light, airy dress, even though it's been getting kind of breezy lately. BIG mistake. I think you can all tell where this story is going. Anyway, I arrived to the place, and as I was getting out of the car, my dress flared up just as this guy on a moped passed by. He obviously got a great look because he said something smarmy and I was just so incredibly mortified, you can't imagine. For the first time, I was totally grateful that my Arabic sucks because I did not understand what he said. I knew it was a nasty comment, though, because he had a chick on the moped sitting behind him, so he wasn't exactly going to compliment another girl in front of her.

It was like I timed my exit from the car perfectly to give the sleazy dude a free peep show. I was soooooo embarrassed that I wished I had the opportunity to explain myself to him. You know, like scream after him I DO NOT FLASH PEOPLE ON THE STREET like trashy starlets have a tendency of doing. IT WAS THE WIND!! I'm usually so careful when getting out of the car when I'm wearing a dress or skirt. I even watched this episode of Oprah once years ago and she had this etiquette expert on, who described how to perfectly get in and out of a car without making a spectacle of yourself. And I paid attention! Stupid wind.

This was even more embarrassing than the time I was bending down to get something from my purse one night when I was out in seriously low cut jeans and I realized a little too late that buying those jeans was a really bad idea. Or the time I was walking down Bliss Street, again in a dress, and again it flared up because of the wind, and it was broad daylight, and the street was packed with pedestrians and cars. But the difference between those times and this time is that no one made any rude remarks so I could soothe my mortification with a whole lot of denial and convince myself that no one saw anything. It's not like anyone came up to me, pointed, and said, 'Ha, ha, saw your underpants,' which is basically what that idiot a**hole on the moped must've said, give or take a lewd word here or there.

Yes, embarrassing things happen to me a lot and now I know why they say ignorance is bliss! It really is, trust me!

What I Have in Common with Justin Bieber and Jennifer Aniston

2010-10-27T14:16:00.008+03:00

No, it's not the physique of a 12 year old boy or Brad Pitt (I wish!), but something else entirely: a much-talked about hairdo. Okay, I'm giving myself way too much credit here. Honestly, no one is talking about my hair but me. As you probably already surmised by now, I had my hair cut a couple of weeks ago and I'm still on the fence about whether it's a good look for me or not. I thought about starting a mini-survey on Facebook, posting it on my status - a like it or don't like it type of thing - but couldn't think of a way of doing it that didn't make me seem like a vain idiot with way too much time on my hands. So, guess what? I decided to blog about it instead. Much less loserish, no?

It all started a few weeks ago when I went to get a routine trim. I've had long locks for a very long time and have been reluctant to chop my hair for ages, even though my hairdresser has been telling me I need to for nearly two years. But trying to convince a girl to cut her hair short is like trying to wrestle away the remote control from a guy - basically it's a struggle. So, back to the trim: Lebanese hairdressers are really gung-ho about cutting. You have to be very adamant about the length you want (helpful hint: always say you want to trim about 4 inches less of what you really want; I learned this lesson the hard way!), or else you might as well say bye bye to your tresses.

On the day in question, I was, as always, very clear about wanting to cut only one inch so that I would get the desired four inch trim. My hairdresser again said that I should cut my hair as I looked old and drawn (his words). I immediately said, 'NO!' He then said, 'Before you say no, let me show you a picture.' So he showed me a picture, and it was nice and all, but I said, 'It's too short.' He then huffs and goes to show the pic to Miss HotStuff, who proclaims she loves the 'do. So the hairdresser comes back to me all smug, as if Miss HotStuff's opinion should be reason enough for me to chop my hair.

Hairdresser, insistent: See, see, she loves it.
Me, beginning to waver in my resolve: I don't know, it seems awful short.
Hairdresser, noticing a slight weakening in my stance: Trust me, you will look younger.
Me, thinking Hmmm, clever, he used the magic word: 'younger.' Very clever indeed: Uhhhhhhh
HD: Khalas [he grabs a chunk of hair from the back of my head and just cuts ... it ... all ... off], so you can't argue with me anymore.
I say nothing as my jaw drops in horror after he presents my severed ponytail in victory.

In the aftermath of the hair slaughter, I have gotten used to my new, shorter 'do. And luckily, Lebanese are very eager to give their honest opinion about how you look at all times, from weight gain to hairstyles (no sugarcoating in this country). So, it's safe to say that my short hair seems to be going over well with some people - 'Hey, your eyes don't look so deeply set in your skull,' said Mr HJNTIY - and not so well with others - 'Uh, not your best look, is it?' coming from Mr B.

And then there are some, who ... well, I just don't know what they think - 'Oh, you cut your hair, well, at least you got rid of that nasty red color.' Thanks eyebrow lady!

Naked Dudes and Shopping with Suitcases in Spain

2010-10-14T19:17:00.007+03:00

So, it's been a LONG time since my last blog entry - but because I'm awesome, you'll all forgive me ;)

Dear readers (yes, I have more than one now!), I have just come back from a lovely sojourn in splendid Spain, where I spent a great week or so with none other than the still fabulous MadGlam. I won't bore you with the whole sightseeing spiel on the wonders of Barcelona and Madrid, but let's just say a lot of it was indeed cultural and a lot was ... hmmm ... let's just say interesting. (Did we see a grown man remove his pants, squat and then use the sidewalk as a toilet? Yes! Did I see two random men walking down a major street buck naked - oh, excuse me, one was wearing flip flops - for no apparent reason, except maybe they wanted even tans while getting some exercise? Yes!)

I will, however, tell you a little bit about our trip. First, traveling with a friend is definitely a lot better than going it alone. Although MadGlam and I are complete opposites for sure - she is the energizer bunny that, literally, never stops, and I am the relaxed person who is well ... normal. For example, I wear sneakers and a small shoulder strap bag; she wears heeled boots with a pink Balenciaga bag. She is madly glamorous after all!! We also differ in how we like to sightsee. I like to soak in the sights and take my time, take a rest when I'm tired, take a cab if I don't feel like walking anymore. She likes to see a whole city in three seconds without taking a breath, and cover the whole town ... in heels. By the end of the afternoon, she still looks MadGlam, and I look like I'm about to keel over. Many an afternoon she would still have the energy to walk around more when I would walk back to the hotel alone for some rest (thus my encounter with the buck naked dudes).

MadGlam is also, for some reason, in love with trains, which is how we got from Barcelona to Madrid. Oh my God! I can't think of anything less vacationy than lugging around your own luggage across a stinky train station, carrying them onto to a packed train and then lifting them into luggage slots. HOW IS THIS A VACATION? I felt like I was in a manual labor camp in Siberia. But MadGlam is like this mysterious contradiction: she dresses like she's going to a nightclub even when going on the Orient Stinkville, yet she is also able to haul a five ton suitcase without breaking a sweat ... or a nail. I was a disheveled mess. But unlike the other people on that train, I actually use deodorant.

Yes, MadGlam has no problems with suitcases at all, not even when going shopping. In fact, on the day we went to the outlet mall, she stopped by the luggage shop and said she wanted to buy a suitcase. 'But, we're at the mall,' I said, 'why would you buy a suitcase to lug around while you shop?' In the MadGlam world, that's how you shop, you see - you buy a suitcase so you can put all your purchases in it and then you just roll it around ... in a mall.

In case you didn't believe me, that's MadGlam, suitcase in hand, at the mall!!

'Everyone does this!' she tells me.
'Uhhh, no they don't,' I say. And believe me, I shop. I know shopping. And I have never seen a person buy a suitcase at a mall and then putting all their stuff in it and then rolling it around all the other shops. Ever.
'Well, what do you do with the bags?' she asks.
'Uhhh, carry them,' I say.
'No, no, this is much more practical,' she says. Yes, MadGlam practical. Did you not know this? No? Neither did I!

Anyway, as the shopping progresses, guess who gets stuck lugging around the suitcase? You guessed it. It started like this:
MadGlam: Anissa, do you mind taking the suitcase, I want to try this on.
Me: Sure [Ten minutes later, me window shopping, embarrassed as hell going around with a suitcase ... at a mall.]
MG: Thanks, do you mind taking it again, I want to go into this store.
Me: Alright [Another ten minutes, getting weird stares from people who are obviously not in on the MadGlam philosophy of how practical it is to carry around a suitcase ... at a mall. Oh, and did I mention it was an open air mall and that it was raining?]

I'd like to say that's the Lebanese way of traveling and shopping abroad, but it's probably more accurate to say it's the MadGlam way. But because she's MadGlam, she knows how to make it work!

Vampires are Lucky!

2010-08-22T13:28:00.009+03:00

Since starting my summer vacation, I admit, my blogging has become about as abominable as the weather. But seriously, who could blame me? It's soooooo bloody hot, I find it difficult to get out of bed in the morning because the sheer energy of sitting upright is draining. In the mountains of Lebanon, it usually never gets really hot, that's why hardly anyone has air conditioning. BIG mistake - BIG! On a daily basis, I steal the line of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz as Dorothy drenches her in a pail of water, screaming, "I'm melting! Melting! Oh what a world!" (FYI: any deniers of Global Warming should head over to this neck of the woods and get a dose of reality.) Anyway I digress...

The other afternoon, lying on the couch near comatose from heat fatigue and needing a spatula to scrape me off the chair, Miss HotStuff and I decided to head down to Beirut just so we can sit in the AC for a while. Since our apartment is being renovated, we thought about where we could go to cool off and decided on a movie. She suggested the latest Twilight movie, Eclipse, and I of course being the cool, mature, one protested such a loserish choice (uhhh, that's my story and I'm sticking to it!). It was no longer playing though and Miss HotStuff (and Miss HotStuff alone) was incredibly disappointed. We then chose to watch the latest Predators movie and headed down to the city, joined by Mr US and Good Ship Lollipop.

The ride down in the car to Beirut was divine - like heaven. AC blowing in my face, surrounded by frigid air - it was pure bliss! When we arrived at the mall, we discovered that Miss HotStuff got the venue wrong, but so desperate were we for AC that we bought tickets to a movie that we weren't so keen on seeing. Even taking a nap in the theater seemed like a party at that point!

The line for popcorn was super long so we decided to go get our seats instead. When we sat down, Miss HotStuff offered to go back down and get the refreshments since she was the least excited to watch the movie ... that was not Predators... because she got the theaters wrong... which was totally her fault (hey, I'm just saying!). We all wondered how she was going to carry everything back herself, but finally sitting in the cool AC, none of us volunteered to go help her. She'll dabir halha, we thought. And sure enough, she comes back 10 minutes later with the concession stand manager carrying the popcorn, nachos and candy we ordered, which he offered to do without her even having to ask. Yes, she is that hot.

Don't even ask me about the movie. All I could think of was AC. Sweet, lovely, cool, cold, refreshing AC. I wrote a little song about it in my head (AC, AC, I really love you AC; you keep me cold, you keep me cool; those that don't have you are really fools. Yeah, yeah, I'm no John Lennon!). My mind even wondered to daydreaming about the idyllic life of vampires. Sure, they had to drink blood to survive, but they never got hot! Okay, okay, so they complain a lot about not being able to be in the sun without literally catching on fire, but what whiners! At least they can sleep without waking up in a pool of sweat.

Well, hopefully this bloody heatwave will end soon and my delirium of wanting to be turned into one of the undead just so that I can cool off will fade along with the hot weather. Until then, I'm sleeping with all the windows open (not just because of the heat), and since vampires need to be invited in, there's also a sign: Don't bother knocking, just come right on in. You know... just in case!

Botox and William Shakespeare

2010-07-30T00:59:00.011+03:00

In Lebanon, the old cliche is that the women are obsessed with plastic surgery and will do absolutely anything to tap into the fountain of youth. I have not jumped on the Botox bandwagon yet, but let me tell you, I have been tempted. Just the other day, I was going through boxes of my old stuff, trying to organize crap that I've piled up over the years. It was a trip down memory lane and it reminded me of the years gone by. From pictures to the white, puffy dress I wore to a dance when I was 15 (currently crumpled up in a pile on a shelf on top of my old school uniform) everything reminded me that you simply cannot stop time, no matter how much Botox you get!

I started going through the childhood boxes first. There's a lot of stuff I kept for reasons I can't figure out (the creepy stuffed Chihuahua with no eyes), and stuff I kept for sentimental value (stuffed orange puppy from my favorite uncle, also with no eyes) and stuff I kept to remind myself that I was a smart kid (report cards, only the good ones - like I said, I was smart kid!), and they all made me feel damn OLD! So, I threw out the scary Chihuahua, kept the orange puppy and read through the report cards for a laugh to cheer me up. I reflected on the irony that in 7th grade, I got a C in English - "Anissa should spend more time on homework and aim for a higher standard." In my defense, though, the teacher did not like Americans and constantly ridiculed my accent. Also in my defense ... whatever, I'm a published writer now! Funnily enough, I got an A in Home Economics Needlework (yes, that actually was a class) - "Anissa has been a keen and enthusiastic worker completing her projects more quickly and to a high standard." Wahhh?? Don't ask me how the heck that happened. I have absolutely no recollection of Anissa + Needlework = Keen or Enthusiastic.

I also had a lot of boxes of pictures, and let me tell you, 99.9% of the photographs I kept hidden away for good reason. Okay, yes, they do remind me of aging, but more importantly THEY ARE HIDEOUS! Let's just say I could've passed for an overweight vampire (not the hot Twilight kind) with braces and frizzy - like really, really frizzy - hair. I ain't gonna be posting those pics like ever, but some (like MadGlam) were lucky enough to visit the family home in the mountains and see the ones my mom kept, literally, hanging all over the place.
Me [preempting inevitable comment on hideousness of photos as MadGlam enters house]: Yeah, I know the pictures are awful.
MadGlam [standing in front of particularly hideous photo of me wearing white - yes, white - shoes]: Oh my God, Anissa is that you??
Me: Uhhh, yeah.
MadGlam: Emmmmmmmmmmmm.
Me: It's okay. No need to say anything!

I thought to myself, hmmmm, sometimes getting older isn't so bad. After all, the older, the wiser - as in wise enough to use a pair of tweezers and never, ever, ever, wear white shoes!

Feeling a little better, I then moved on to unpack boxes of my old books. At first I thought, cool, this won't be bad because books are ageless and will never make me feel old. Then my niece walked in as I was going through an old anthology of Shakespeare's work. My niece is seven and an avid reader (she takes after me), so she is naturally curious about books, and our conversation went a little something like this:
Niece: What book is that?
Me: It's the work of the greatest writer in the world, William Shakespeare.
Niece: Is he still alive?
Me: No, he died a long, long time ago. Before there was electricity, before there were cars and before there were computers.
Niece: Was that before you were born?
Me: Botox, anyone??

Bitchy Village Bumpkins

2010-07-19T15:05:00.004+03:00

Dear readers, I have to relay to you this unbelievable story of rudeness. Yes, I'm still stuck in the mountains, yes the roosters are still demented and yes, everything is still not working. But that's not what this blog entry is about. Oh no! It's about village bumpkin bitches! Yes, Cruella de Vil lives and, unfortunately, it's nearby!!

Just the other day, we were invited (or perhaps not, you never can tell in the mountains) to a village function. Apparently, my sisters and I are known as the village snobs because no one sees us anywhere (HELLO, THERE IS NO WHERE TO GO). Anyway, we decided to go and since it was a cocktail affair, I knew there was no risk of me being seated with five-year olds just because I'm single.

When we arrived, we said hello to everybody and all were polite ... except for one hideous being who is so far removed from civility, it's a wonder anyone would invite her peasant ass to mingle with genteel society. When introduced to my sisters and I, she looked straight at me and said that I look like this woman in the village who is famous for being hideously ugly! I mean, I don't expect to be compared to a supermodel or anything, but to a complete dog biscuit? WHO DOES THAT?? I thought being told I had gained weight or had fat thighs was bad enough, but this?? This was just about the worst insult ever.

I was stunned into silence, a million things to say back running through my head, but not one I could form into a coherent sentence. Don't you hate it when someone says something completely awful to you and you're so shocked, you can't think of a thing to say in return? I knew she said the comment out of pure spite because she is rather revolting looking (being generous with that description) and her husband (who is a known philanderer with a mistress that actually lives in the same village) was more than eager to leave her side and come introduce himself to us, but that is no excuse for such rude behavior.

Although I was struck mute by her venom, my sister rushed to my defense, taking me back in time to our days on the playground when she would always strike any bully that dared upset me in any way. She told the bitch that she was wrong and that I look nothing like that notoriously unattractive woman. But still, it didn't seem enough. I wanted to hurl equally hurtful insults at her, but just then, a friend of ours who we hadn't seen in years came over and the conversation with the peasant bitch was cut short.

I was not appeased. I just don't understand people. Why go out of your way to offend someone you don't even know; someone you literally just met? And why, oh why would she think it okay, under any circumstances, to show up to a formal event in cycling shorts? I mean okay, we're in the village, but does that mean that manners and any semblance of fashion sense should be completely discarded?

Next time she is lucky enough to be invited anywhere, she should go through a checklist: 1) Get some manners (no, 'class' is not just a cell phone shop, but is actually a human quality); 2) Don't look like clothes were bought from Homeless Bums R US. Seriously, I don't know what was more offensive - her distasteful remark or her hideous outfit!

And exciting life in the mountains continues ...

Leaky Bras & Mutant Mosquitoes

2010-07-05T14:27:00.007+03:00

So, my summer vacation has officially started and unlike most Beirutis, who decide to travel to froufrou places like the Riviera and what not, I summer in the sexy mountains of Lebanon - woot, woot! My first few days up here, however, have not exactly gotten off to a grand start.

Nature

First, you have to get used to the sounds of animals - and no, I'm not talking about World Cup hooligans who drive around honking horns and shooting guns over a stupid soccer match; I mean, like real animals. Every year it's the same old story, I always complain about the roosters, and this summer it's no different. They literally crow at all hours of the day, leading me to believe that something in the mountain air has caused the collective brain damage of all roosters in the area. I mean, how hard is their life: dawn = crow; all other hours = DO NOT CROW! And don't get me started on the mutant mosquitoes that just do not die. Every night, after covering each room in a cloud of Vape and PiffPaff, without fail I hear the familiar bzzzzzzzzzzz just as I'm about to fall asleep.

Neighbors
Most people in the mountains are bored out of their minds because there's nothing to do other than eat copious amounts of watermelon. To pass the time, villagers usually sit on their balconies watching what everyone else is doing and then gossiping about it, which is why you have to be extra careful of what you do. I guess I didn't help matters much when I used the bathroom the other day and forgot to close the window that overlooks the neighbor's house. I'm hoping no one was out on the balcony at that particular time, otherwise, boy did I give them something to talk about!

Social life
Socializing in the mountains usually consists of one thing, and one thing only: wajbat (must do obligations). The other day, I was doing one such visit, when I noticed some moisture in my chest area. I usually don't sweat much so I was a little confused, but when I got home I changed out of the dress I was wearing and put on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts to cool down. But the moisture kept coming back and I felt like I had turned into some sort of unstoppable sweat machine. I kept wiping down as if I were working out at the gym or something. Anyway, when I thought I had resolved the problem, some people were over so I went to sit with them. A few minutes later, Mr. US said, "Why is their water underneath your chest?" I looked down and sure enough, there was a huge water mark. I ran to the bathroom and realized what the problem was: my water bra had leaked! I looked in the mirror and not only was there water all over my shirt, but one side looked larger than the other. Miss HotStuff came to find me and laughed hysterically when she found out what had happened. She said she saw the water spots but thought it was sweat, so she didn't say anything because she didn't want to embarrass me. I guess she figured me walking around the village LOPSIDED was less mortifying!

Ahhhh, yes, there's nothing quite like life in the mountains! Is it any wonder, then, that most mornings I ironically wake up longing for the hustle and bustle of Beirut just so that I can get some peace and quiet?

Shame on You, Lebanese!

2010-06-23T13:41:00.007+03:00

This past Sunday evening I was sitting at home, relaxing and watching TV. It was a tranquil night and I was unwinding just before the start of a hectic work week. I had a DVD of one of my favorite shows playing, and I was sipping some de-stressing tea concoction ... when, all of a sudden, I hear POW POW POW. Gunshots? I nearly jumped out of my seat, hand on heart. Are we under attack again? Is another war erupting?

NO! It was none of those things. The reason for the uproar? Brazil scored a goal against the Ivory Coast. Imagine the stupidity of some people!

Okay, so we all understand that the World Cup is a huge big deal (to losers who act as if football is their life) but that is no excuse for such antics. I mean really, are gunshots really necessary when your favorite team scores a goal? Are you that pathetic that the highlight of the past four years is a football game? I know this blog entry is off track from my usual ones, but I am sooooo disgusted with my fellow countrymen right now that I had to let out my frustration. (And unlike the morons going around shooting in the air, I know that the pen is mightier than the sword.) That night, I didn't get to sleep until after 1.30am because of all the retarded people that were driving around in their cars or on mopeds, honking their horns and blowing those annoying as hell vuzuwhateverthehelltheircalled horns. How brain dead are these people? Even genuine Brazilians living in Brazil don't act so stupidly!

I have a message for those idiots: HELLO DUMBASSES, NO MATTER HOW MUCH OF AN IDIOT YOU MAKE OF YOURSELF, NO MATTER HOW MANY T-SHIRTS YOU WEAR OR FLAGS YOU WAVE, YOU ARE NOT BRAZILIAN - or German, or Italian or Spanish, for that matter.

The next morning, a talk show radio host was discussing all the raucous the night before, and this poor woman phoned in saying that the animals shooting in the air shattered all the glass panes in her windows. She called the police and all dumb and dumber could say was, 'Well you know, boys will be boys and it is the World Cup,' because of course football is as good excuse as any to shoot loaded weapons in a residential area. So what if an innocent person could get shot? IT'S FOOTBALL ... totally worth it. Deputy Dawg and co. then advised the woman not to press charges, because God forbid they get off their lazy asses and actually do their jobs and put away a**holes disturbing the peace.

Then this other jerk phones in and says, 'Yeah, so what? We want to have fun, we want to enjoy ourselves. We have the right to have a good time.' Uhh, not if said 'good time' requires guns and bullets, ya ahbal. Haram, poor guy, we really shouldn't judge him since I'm sure that listening to all that vuzuwhatever crap has given him permanent brain damage.

Now, I'm not saying that the World Cup isn't fun - it is - or that I don't enjoy watching the matches - I do - but that doesn't mean that I throw all civility out the door just because my favorite team is playing. It also doesn't mean that I should strap on a pair of revolvers and go all Annie Oakley on everybody when they score a goal. Helllooooo, it's just a game people. Shame on you for thinking otherwise. Shame on you for all the noise. Shame on you for all the bullets. Shame on you for being such uncivilized beasts and bothering so many people...

SHAME ON YOU!

Have I made my point? Now, with all that said ... GO USA :) !!

Beiruti Beach Bunnies

2010-06-14T16:18:00.008+03:00

This past Saturday, I woke up to sunny skies and decided it was a good beach day (of which I have not had many, as readers of my last entry well know). I wanted to go to a casual place, but Mr. US insisted on going to one of the swankier beaches in Beirut because he was meeting a friend there who had already reserved 'prime sun beds by the pool.' Reluctantly, I agreed although I really wasn't in the mood to be surrounded by emaciated socialites.

We got there just in time to see two tourists arriving in a service just in front of us. We stood behind them, but they were pulled aside while we were ushered straight through. I looked over at Mr. US questioningly and he said, "They came in a service." REALLY?? They weren't allowed in because they arrived in a cab? They're tourists, of course they'll show up in a taxi. Mr. US shrugs, "They're also two guys; if they had a girl with them, maybe they would've gotten in." REALLY?? What is this place, some sort of flashback to Studio 54? You need hot wheels and hot chicks to get in? I think to myself, if this is what it's like at the valet depot, what's it going to be like inside the place?

I didn't have to wait long to find out. Every chick there looked like she could be carrying a sign that says, Hi, my bikini cost $5,000 and so did my boobs. I look down at my $5 Gap flip flops, Old Navy beach dress and tell Mr. US, "I hope I don't embarrass you with my lowly Victoria's Secret bikini." I don't add, even though it's your fault that I'm at this ridiculous beach to begin with (which I have avoided up until this point because of its reputation of catering to that kind of crowd).

While swimming in the pool, I see a woman, probably in her early 40s, strutting up and down the pool in an itsy bitsy two-piece, fully made up (complete with bright pink lipstick), perfectly coiffed hair, jewelry galore and ... high heeled pumps, just begging to be noticed. When the strutting doesn't work, she then starts to dance, yes dance, poolside in front of everyone all by herself. It is strange, sad and hilarious all at the same time. The things people do to get attention! Next thing you know, they'll have stripper poles installed.

As I sit and sun myself, nose in book, iPod blaring, I look up to see a Paris Hilton wannabe waltz in with bad blond extensions and a flower headband across her forehead. She's also clutching a Louis Vuitton bag ... at the beach. I guess she didn't get the memo that a) Paris Hilton is so 2005 and b) beaches are not fashion runways. By this time, my non-coiffed hair is a mess that I tuck into a hat, my tan is uneven with a bright red strip going down my left leg where I missed the sunblock and I have unintentionally flashed half the beach after my strap comes undone. Luckily, I'm so disheveled that no one takes the time to look at me much less notice my bikini malfunction.

When Mr. US is ready to leave, we head back out to get our car from the valet. Two women are already standing out there and have been apparently waiting ages for their car. I hear the parking attendant yell something about a Honda into his walkie-talkie. Mr. US hears this too and gives me a knowing look, like you see, that's why they're waiting so long for their car. Yes, how absolutely horrendous that they should own a non-luxury vehicle! I look back at him with my Really?? expression. He just shrugs and says, "Welcome to Lebanon." As we get in our car and take off, the poor ladies are still waiting.

And that's how you get a tan Beiruti beach bunny style!

Chronicles of the Last Tanless Chick in Beirut

2010-06-03T18:29:00.006+03:00

Sunshine ... the Final Frontier. These are the chronicles of a really white chick in Beirut. Her summer-long mission: to get her ass to the beach; to get some sort of tan so that she no longer looks like a freaking albino; to boldly go where every person in Lebanon has gone over and over again, except for her!

Captain's log, stardate beginning of Lebanon's summer season: So, the sun has been shining all of five minutes and 90% of the population is already tanned and lovely! What gives? How do these people get to the beach so fast? Do they not have jobs? What?? I'm not jealous or anything. I mean, I'm just saying, some people have lives, you know, they can't just drop everything once the temperature is just above freezing so that they can look good in white (or any other color) again. Seriously, I feel like I'm on board the USS Last Tanless Chick Standing.

Captain's log , stardate a week week into the summer season: I'm still tanless. Everywhere I look, I'm surrounded by bronzed babes. I made plans to go to the beach with Miss HotStuff, but (because she's mad at me for a BB debacle) she went without me. I'm going out tonight but it's taking me forever to get dressed because everytime I pick something to wear I think, Nope, this will look better on me when I get a tan. I finally find some black t-shirt that will just have to do.

Captain's log, stardate a few weeks into the summer season: I have a meeting today and was looking particularly pale, so I decided to try some fake tanning stuff the night before. I wake up and nearly have a heart attack when I see an orangey line across my forehead where I failed to properly blend in the tanning lotion. I LOOK RIDICULOUS, I scream at my reflection! I scrub my forehead for about an hour with alcohol and lemon juice in a desperate attempt to get rid of the hideous line, but I end up making it angry and raging red. To make matters worse, my face no longer matches the color of the rest of my body. Let's just say, thank God for makeup. I look heavily made up for the daytime, but hey, at least I don't look like a clown.

Captain's log, stardate four weeks into the summer season: Yes! I have finally made plans to go the beach. I'm so excited. The night before, I do all the necessary grooming stuff; I've picked out my bikini and bought the sunblock. I'm ready. I get up in the morning, put on my bathing suit and pouff, the sun goes away! 'Ha ha,' says the sun, as if it's imitating Nelson from The Simpsons. I decide to go for a walk and buy some stuff that won't look good on me without a tan. Along the way, I blind people with my glaring whiteness.

Captain's log, stardate the second month into the summer season: I'm having dinner with Mr US, Miss HotStuff and MadGlam. They're all tanned. Bitches! It takes me an hour to find an outfit that doesn't make me look like a whiter shade of pale. In the end, I pick a green color that I think looks all right, but after we order, Miss HotStuff says with a grimace, "Man, you really need a tan." You think? Helloooo, I have a mirror. "You shouldn't wear that color until you get some sun." Thanks! Just what I needed to hear. She picks up a sushi roll, points to the rice and asks, "Hey, what does this remind you of? Anissa's skin. Ha ha ha." Yeah, very fraking funny!

Captain's log, stardate the second month and then some into the summer season: Today's the day. I can feel it. I look out the window and declare, today's a good day to tan. The sun seems to finally be on my side. I head out to the beach, find a good spot, spread out my towel and begin to soak in the rays. I'm happy, I even take a picture and BBM it to Miss HotStuff, who's stuck at work, to make her jealous. My eyes are closed, I'm loving the day eventhough the crappiest French music is blaring from the loud speakers and is grating against my eardrums. Then, I feel a sudden cool breeze and a shadow crosses my lids. I open my eyes...

NOOOOOO, I scream in my head! This can't be happening! Not now, not today! Please stay! But the sun doesn't care. 'Ha ha,' it says again as it disappears behind a cloud.

I'm One Of Yous Now!

2010-05-26T12:36:00.007+03:00

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It has been over two weeks since my last blog entry - a grave offense in the blogosphere! What can I say? I had a really packed and busy two weeks. I was drained - all creativity sapped from my psyche. But now my batteries have been recharged and I'm back! Okay, so without further ado, let's get to this week's entry ...

Last week, in the midst of one of my most stressful deadlines of all time, my phone decided to die on me. A little over a year old, I was surprised that the thing didn't last longer. And the timing, the timing!! Anyway, I could not be without a phone so I decided to go the next day and get a new one. I have for the longest time been refusing to join the CrackBerry world, but in my weakened, vulnerable state, I succumbed to peer pressure. Miss HotStuff and Mr. US have one, not to my mention MFFF and Mr. B, all of whom have been telling me, 'You gotta get a BlackBerry.' And so I did - I know, bakeer, right?

Since everyone and their mother has one, it's not like the BlackBerry world is exclusive or anything, but it sure is fun! My favorite thing so far? As a self-proclaimed MSN addict it should come as no surprise that it's BlackBerry Messenger! And the icing on the cake? IT'S FREE from one BB to another! And since MMS doesn't work in Lebanon (among a trillion other things) the fact that we can also send pics to each other is also very cool.

But as with all delightful inventions, BB also has a dark side. I'm still trying to get the knack of the whole BB etiquette thing, and I've made one major blunder so far (and it's only been a week!). I was out with Mr US, MadGlam, Mr B and co. when Mr. Borrring showed up. I was so excited about my new toy that when he asked about Miss HotStuff, I decided to whip out a ... well, let's just say not very flattering photo she BBMed me when she was under the weather and bored. It was supposed to remain between us (get your minds out of the gutter, nothing naughty!) but I, being completely clueless, showed it to Mr. Borrring. BIG MISTAKE! I thought it was funny, but to Miss HotStuff, showing it to Mr. Borrring was a huge breach of BB etiquette.

Mr. Borrring did not make things any better by immediately BBMing Miss HotStuff and telling her that he saw her photo and it was nasty! THANKS MR. BORRRRING! Her rage was swift and merciless. I had already left Mr. Borrring and was on my way to another venue when I heard the delightful 'ping' that let's me know I have a BBM. 'Yes,' I said, 'somebody loves me!' HAH! Let me tell you, I got anythng but love. What ensued was a rant about how thoughtless and terrible I was to have shown that picture! Miss HotStuff was livid with anger, which she surprisingly expressed pretty well considering the limited capacity of BBM.

Needless to say, I felt like crap. My new shiny toy had turned into an instrument of guilt and shame. Why oh why had I done that?? I was feeling down, my excitement over my new BB subdued by my bad BB behavior. But just as I began regretting my purchase, I heard it ... 'ping'. My eyes lit up, my excitement began to stir again. I picked up my phone, clicked and my joy returned. 'Yes! Somebody does loves me!'

Tales from the Ladies, Part III: Unibrow Ape Man

2010-05-10T11:01:00.005+03:00

And now we come to the third and final installment of Tales from the Ladies, with this letter from the delightful Minxie Pixie, who was traumatized after a particularly horrific evening with Unibrow Ape Man. This one's a doozy, readers. Poor Minxie - who knew guys could be this bad?!?

Dear Anissa,

It all started when this guy, Unibrow Ape Man, asked me out for a coffee. I agreed so he then asked if I wanted to meet up with him or have him pick me up. I told him I’d meet him, but he insisted on getting me (why did he offer if he had already made up his mind?). Anyway, my house is on the left side of the street and when he picked me up, he pulled over on the right. As I was walking down the stairs to the street, I saw his ugly ass still sitting in the car. I had to wait for cars to pass before I was able to cross the street. When I did, he was still sitting in the car.

I have to mention that I don’t really know this guy and had only met him once before, so I couldn’t believe that he didn’t get out of the car to greet me. Anyway, I opened the car door and sat down and he didn’t even shake my hand! He had his right hand on the wheel and the left hand outside the window and asked, “Hi, how are you?” I answered fine, but I was so pissed that he didn’t get out of the car to greet me properly. WALAW?

We drove to a restaurant in Gemayze, which was my idea because he didn’t bother to make any plans for our first date. I ordered a tea and he ordered coffee and dessert. The WHOLE time he was telling me how great he was because he was almost done with his residency to be a doctor. Then he went on and on about how all the girls who ‘know’ of him only want to meet him to get married because he’s a doctor. As he was shoving his dessert in his mouth, he kept telling me how delicious it was. Did he offer me a taste? Of course not! He just kept telling me how amazing it was and how amazing HE was.

To add to my misery, he went on to tell me that he doesn’t want to marry me. I was pretty sure I never asked him to, so I kind of laughed thinking he was kidding. He told me he was serious and that just because I was the same religion as him, and he was a DOCTOR, he wasn’t ready to settle down. I told him that was completely fine with me and I had no intentions of getting married to him either. At this point, I was completely over the whole date and wanted to leave just to go home and make fun of him. After he paid the bill, I thanked him, and as I was putting my cell in my purse, he was already out the door! The waiter felt bad for me I guess and stuck around to say bye and walk me out the door.

When we got in the car he started telling me that he really liked me and I was really pretty and then told me he had a girlfriend. Of course, upon hearing that, I couldn’t be polite and quiet anymore. I looked at him like the pathetic loser he was and asked him why he bothered to take me out. He told me that he wanted to get to know me better and not pass up a good opportunity but he didn’t wanna get married. At this point, I'd had enough. I bluntly told him that being a doctor isn’t so wow considering I have a family FULL of them. I then went on to tell him that he shouldn’t flatter himself when girls ‘of his religion’ give him the time of day because it doesn’t mean they want to get married. Not every Lebanese girl above the age of 25 is desperate to get married for God’s sake!

I then told him that I sure as hell didn’t see him and think I was going to marry him because A) he’s ugly with a unibrow that’s makes a complete circle around his big head; B) he has NO manners and C) he’s a complete APE! As if!!

When we were approaching my house (yeah I’m not done yet), I started to rummage through my purse to get my keys out because I wanted to get the hell out of the car. He passed my building and kept driving, so I asked him what he was doing. He said he wanted to cruise a bit because he was ‘enjoying’ my company. Ugh! He asked me if I minded and I said yes! What was the point of talking to him? The date was over and we had nothing in common.

Now here’s the funniest part. As we are cruising around Beirut, he tells me that after he drops me off, we will never talk again because we will never be friends! I started laughing, truly laughing. Without me even asking why, he told me that he can’t be friends because I was the same religion as him. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I said that was fine with me and not being friends sounded great! He then tried to explain himself with reasons that I didn’t even pay attention to. I was literally looking outside the window at the people smoking argilli on the manara wishing I was with them rather than in the car with this jerk.

After over an hour of driving around and wanting to kill myself, I asked to go home. Of course, he parked on the right side of the road and didn’t bother to move his nasty ass from the car. Handshake? Nope! I got out of the car and traffic was a bit heavy, so I had to stand out there till the traffic lessened. What was about 20 seconds waiting to cross felt like a fraking hour! I crossed the road finally and started walking up the stairs of my building and as I looked behind to see if Unibrow Ape Man was still there, I saw that he had already driven off!!

I was so disgusted I came home and made fun of him to allllll the people I know. That was BY FAR the worst, most torturous date EVER!

Ahhh dear, Minxie, don't fret! Who knows, maybe someone will call animal control and get this ape back in the zoo where he most definitely belongs!!

And now that our tales are over, I'll see you next time, when the Blog that No One reads returns to its old, delicious ways. Until then, you know you love me, XOXO, Blogger Girl!

Tales from the Ladies, Part II: El Cheapo Grande

2010-05-03T13:31:00.004+03:00

Welcome dear readers to part II of our eye-opening series on the world of dating with this tale of shocking cheapness. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds was recently horrified to find herself on a date with El Cheapo Grande, who was so stingy, he made Scrooge seem generous. Wonder how she managed to navigate herself through the treacherous waters of this scandalous adventure? Do read on ...

Dear Anissa,

I was asked out on a second date by this guy last week, who we’ll just call El Cheapo Grande. The fact that ECG said, “I wanna go somewhere cheap and casual,” should be an indication of why the name is perfect for this creep! Plus, it should have alerted me to his soon-to-be discovered lack of manners, but being the open-minded lady I am, I decided to go just the same. Upon arriving at the agreed upon venue, not only did he not stand to greet me, but he also seemed generally unexcited to see me. I was looking pretty hot, if I do say so myself, so a simple “you look nice” would have made up for the fact that he didn’t stand to say hello. Whatever! I’m pretty laid back so I continued to be polite. The conversation was okay, and I was telling myself that maybe ECG is not so horrible after all.

HOWEVER, at the end of the date, we were in a debate about the subject of living together before marriage – he is in favor and I am not. Anyway, during this back and forth the bill came, and instead of snatching it up like a gentleman, it just sat there in front of us both. VERY AWKWARD. I, by no means, need a man to pay for my meal, however, if I’m asked out on a date and it’s his invitation, etiquette says that it is his responsibility to pay. Either way, I wasn’t going to assume that he was going to pick up the bill, so when he finally reached for it, I of course offered to pay. (By the way, I got a salad that was $12 and had tap water as a beverage, so my bill probably equaled a total of $15, including tip.) Anyway, once I offered, he studied the bill, and then said, “Uhm, you could throw in a $20 if you like.” And then conversation went a little something like this:

ME [in my head]: WHAT AN EFFING CHEAPO!
ME [out loud, big smile on my face]: “No problem.”
ECG: “No wait, why don’t you just grab the next one.”
ME: “No that’s quite alright, I will pay for myself,”
ECG: “No really, I got it, not a big deal.”
ME: “No really, I insist on paying my share.”
ECG: “Why? Are we not going out again?”
ME [in my head]: YOU THINK?!? HELL NO, YOU CHEAP BASTARD! If you don’t think I’m worthy of a freaking $15 salad then you aren’t worth an iota of my time!
ME [out loud, exaggerated politeness]: No, it’s not that at all [yeah right!], I just don’t like to owe anyone anything.

ECG still refused my money, but at that point, it was way too late. Whatever interest I had was out the door. What a HUGE turn off that he had zero manners and was about as charming as an ape. Too bad, because he was actually good looking. But, hey, that’s what we call a Monet: good from far, but far from good! Nexxxttttttt!!

Sounds delightful ... NOT!! Let's hope our poor Lucy has better luck next time with a guy who at leasts thinks her company worth more than a salad and water! In our next Tales from the Ladies installment, Minxie Pixie dishes about her tantalizing travails with the opposite sex. Ooooh, sounds delicious!

Until then, you know you love me, XOXO, Blogger Girl!

Tales from the Ladies, Part I: Mr He's Just So Into Himself

2010-04-29T23:19:00.018+03:00

The other night I was having drinks with MadGlam and Blonde Bombshell and we were discussing - what else - the male species. BB said that she really enjoyed my blog entry about Mr. He's Just Not That Into You, and asked if she could write in about her disasterous dates with his could-be cousin, Mr. He's Just So Into Himself. I thought it was a great idea and started thinking about the experiences of other Lebanese babes with similar stories to tell, which is why I decided to run this series, Tales from the Ladies! So, without further ado, here is Part I, straight from the horse's mouth:

Dear Anissa,

I really liked your blog entry about Mr He’s Just Not That Into You and I was wondering if we could exchange notes, because I went out with Mr He's Just So Into Himself and thought I’d share with you what it was like to date him!

I’m sure we’ve all heard about Narcissus, the guy who was so into himself that he actually fell in love with his own reflection. Well guess what? He’s not just a story, but lives among us, and I actually dated him! Let me start with my first outing with Mr HJSIH, which I would qualify as ‘educational,’ to say the least. I got to learn all about his measurements: jean size, tee-shirt size, etc. It was actually hard not to memorize such important information, since he kept reminding me how in shape he was and what weights he lifts at the gym everyday – with a private trainer, of course.

Although he is well over 40, Mr HJSIH is like the teenage boy I never had. He has the same preoccupations, maybe the same raging hormones and, just like a regular teen nowadays, he also has ADD (or like Carrie Bradshaw puts it, Another Disastrous Date). It made it impossible to have a conversation with him and difficult to make eye contact, because he was always checking out the crowd around him. I was, however, able to hear the details of how he got to select his ‘premium’ phone number, and how he has already started working on his tan. Phew, thank God for that.

On the second date - yes I did go on a second date with him, maybe because I wanted to discover if there was anything behind this façade, or maybe because I kind of liked the measurements (don't judge me!) - he told me about his deepest darkest worries: the opening dates of La Plage and Sky Bar have been pushed back!! How could they do this to him? Especially considering that he already bought the sunglasses he will wear at the beach while sipping his margaritas and the swimming trunks he’ll parade around in to show off his biceps and abs.

All this opened my eyes to the shortcomings of my own existence: how the hell could I forget about classic Lebanese summer rituals? Why am I not thinking about tanning and getting in shape! And, most disastrously, how could I possibly still be wearing last year’s sunglasses!! SHAME ON ME! Ahhhhhhhhhhh, my life is obviously sooo not worth living, Anissa. At least Mr He's Just Not That Into You complimented you – he actually liked someone other than himself and his date. Mr He's Just So Into Himself only compliments, well, himself!

When my friends joined us, he barely took his eyes off his BlackBerry, so they told me that maybe they didn’t interest him because they didn’t show up with smelly cigars and a million dollar Rolex. How shocking that I have non-Rolex wearing friends! Note to self: make friends with plastics who make Paris Hilton seem down-to-earth.

Anyways, Lebanese society is all about the looks, the muscles and the tans. Summer is the ultimate season for partying, working out and meeting a lot of shallow people. It made me realize that if Lebanese women are superficial it is because men WANT them to be like this ... and also because they are not much deeper themselves.

Hmmm, well it sounds like other people out there have been on dates almost as bad my blind-date-alogues! Any more of you out there?? Oooh, do tell!! In the mean time, get ready for Part II, when Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds dishes all about her uber fun time with El Cheapo Grande. Yikes! Sounds like another match NOT made heaven!

Until then, you know you love me, XOXO, Blogger Girl!

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

2010-04-21T17:23:00.015+03:00

The other day I was shocked to find myself talking to a Lebanese male who actually reads ... as in books. Anyway, he asked me what I like to read and as I began to list my faves, he arrogantly interrupted me, saying, "Please don't tell me you're into that whole vampire crap." Okay, well, I wasn't going to mention those books because I've already read them ... all ... but after his whole condescending tone I found myself a little bit peeved and so I replied, indignant and proud, "Actually, I do love those books. I know you guys don't get why we women are so into the whole Twilight and True Blood stuff, so allow me to explain: sometimes fake vampires are just so much better than real life men." I then began to list the ways...

1. Grooming
Vamps: In the Twilight and True Blood books the vamp heroes (Edward and Eric, respectively) are beyond hot, especially Eric (MadGlam can totally back me up on this one). In short, they are perfect looking, with Edward not only having great hair but also irresistible breath and Eric having a towering Viking bod that would make lesbians drool.

Real dudes: Well, I know I'm no Gisele and so when I'm at the gym or beach, I don't really expect to see a real life guy that has a killer bod, but hello, at minimum if your back makes you look more like a werewolf than a human, then WAX IT. No, taking a shower and wearing deodorant is not enough! It really irks me that most guys in this country take no time to groom themselves when we women are expected to look flawless at all times. From unibrows to hairy backs, we've got it all, which is why we'd rather get our hunk fix from out of a book than in real life.

I 'll take this ... Over that!

2. Manners

Vamps: They're suave, sophisticated, attentive and charming. What more could a girl ask for? When Edward and Eric love, they love hard and make us sigh dreamily with every romantic gesture. Who could blame a gal for swooning at Edward's undying love for his beloved? And Eric - well he is just so damn hot!

Real dudes: Some friends wanted to introduce me to a guy that they described as every bit as fantastic as a hunky vamp, so I agreed to yet another setup (because I never follow my own advice). Anyway, as you probably already guessed if you read my blind date blog, he was, unsurprisingly, a total troll. But that wasn't the main problem with this guy, he was so completely rude, so completely the opposite of a gentleman that right in front of me he asked his pal about this busty blonde at the table behind us! Did I mention that he looked like a troll? Yeah, you see, Edward would never do that!

3. Attitude

Vamps: Edward is a total gem - he is moral, honorable and respectful, and treats his lady love like a jewel. In fact, his attitude could not be more admirable. Now when it comes Eric ... okay, admittedly he does have a little bit of an attitude problem, but who cares? He is just so damn hot! So unless your over 6 ft., blond and completely ripped with Viking roots, don't think you can get away with the same antics.

Real dudes: In Lebanon, because there are hardly any single men left, most guys think they can get away with completely abominable behavior, like not calling when the say they will, standing you up for a soccer match on TV, or trying to convince you that getting a massage with a happy ending is totally ok.

Now do you see why we find vampires so much more appealing than what real life has to offer? It's just like the Rolling Stones said, I just can't get no satisfaction!

Karma is a Bitch!

2010-04-15T14:30:00.010+03:00

I once read that the Dalai Lama said inner peace is about choosing how you react to a situation: you can choose to be mad/angry or you can choose to let it go and be happy. Hmmm, well he must never have come to Lebanon. I really want to be one of those people that can do that, though, I really, really, really, do. They say, after all, that it's all about Karma - i.e., you get what you give out. So, I always try to be polite and considerate, expecting the same treatment in kind, but that just doesn't always happen. The reason? Karma really is a bitch, and guess what? I've met her ... more than once!

Before I begin my tale, however, I must insert this short preamble. In Lebanon, it's in the people's DNA to immediately remark on another person's weight, whether colleagues, acquaintances/relatives or even complete strangers. They will just come up to you, say hello, immediately followed by, "Yiiii, shoo nashanee," which translates into, "Oh my, you've gotten so fat." They will then follow the statement with either, "But it looks good on you," or, "What have you done with yourself," depending on if your reaction is a 'what the *#$*%*?' facial expression, or an amiable admission to said weight gain, respectively. For the record, I have never been so rude as to tell anyone that they've gained weight, yet Karma has still found a way for me to be on the receiving end of such bitchy remarks.

Take for example one fine day in Beirut, when I was on my way up the elevator to get to my office (I was working at this unfortunate company at the time) and these two receptionists were having this conversation at the front desk in the lobby right in front me as I stepped in:
Bitchy Receptionist #1: "You know what's weird about Anissa? Some days she looks really thin and other days, she looks really fat."
Bitchy Receptionist #2: "Yeah, you're absolutely right."
[Both look straight at me as elevator door closes and my jaw drops in shock]

And then there was the time I was in the locker room at my gym and I was making sure everything was tucked in the right places in the mirror before heading out to the treadmill when this random chick comes up to me and starts this lovely conversation:
Random Locker Room Chick: "Hey, have you ever considered liposuction for your thighs?"
Me: [Face in total horror at extremely inappropriate remark from complete stranger] "No! And I can't believe you just told me that."
RLRC: [Noticing my horrified facial expression] "Oh, I was just kidding, ha ha ha."
Yeah, nice save Random Locker Room Chick, who I don't even know and even if I did WHO SAYS THAT?

And so-called friends can also jump on the rude bandwagon, like the time I was having lunch with Miss Bitches A Lot and we had this short but illuminating conversation:
MBAL: So, do you want dessert?
Me: No thanks.
MBAL: Oh why? Is it because of your thighs?
Me: NO!
Now, how can any normally functioning female emit positive energy after hearing that? Actually, maybe those people do exist - they're called ROBOTS! Oh wait ... positive energy, positive energy, positive energy.

Okay, so obviously I still need to work on the whole 'learning to let things go for inner peace' thing. But sometimes I wonder, is Karma trying to send me a message about my thighs? If so, then seriously, what a bitch!

The Hunt is ON!

2010-04-09T14:07:00.015+03:00

The other week, I was flicking through TV channels and caught an interview with a professional matchmaker in the US, Rachel Greenwald, and I wrote about it in my latest column for Sayidaty magazine (April 2010 issue). I was a combination of outraged and amused by what she had to say and so I thought I'd write about it on my blog as well.

So, Greenwald wrote the self-help book, Find a Husband After 35 Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School, (yes, that is the real title) and although I am no fan of self-help books, I decided to check it out - for research purposes of course! In the book, she writes about ‘The Program,’ a 15-step guide on how to find a ‘wonderful mate.’ Readers, however, are warned that the road to finding Mr. Wonderful is arduous and pricey so she recommends having a special find-a-husband checking account. Hmmm ... Prada bag or husband finding fund? Decisions, decisions, decisions!

Okay, so I should admit at this point that I have not actually read the book. I did head out to the bookstore to find it, but here in Beirut, such desperate measures are apparently not in-demand, despite the supposed ratio of one man to every five women. Anyway, a little more research led me to an online article by The Observer, in which the 15 steps of Greenwald’s husband-hunting tips post-35 are listed (results guaranteed in one year to 18 months).

So bring out your checklist and get ready for the hunt!

1. Marketing focus: make sure you really want to find a husband
Check.

2. Marketing support: seek the help of a best friend
Check.

3. Packaging: improve your appearance and always look your best
Look good to attract guys?? No way! SHOCKER! I had absolutely no idea. Thank goodness for these totally not obvious tips!

4. Market expansion: hunt for a man in as many places as possible
Do I need a spear? Or will a club suffice?

5. Branding: show what makes you stand out from the crowd
Although I’m completely anti-smoking, maybe I could borrow the slogan from Camel cigarettes: ‘Anissa – Where a man belongs.’

6. Advertising: Ask anyone if they know of a possible date
Readers, I’m depending you – email me!

7. Online marketing: use an online dating service
Maybe it’ll be more effective if I just get ‘Marry Me’ tattooed on my forehead.

8. Guerrilla marketing: get out of the daily grind
I guess I could take up pole dancing.

9. Niche marketing: ask your married friends if they know any suitable men
Well, I suppose I could live with the nickname Ms Desperado.

10. Telemarketing: call everyone you know and ask about possible dates
See above.

11. Mass marketing: think of everywhere you might meet men and try them all each week
Yes! My night vision goggles will finally come in handy!

12. Event marketing: throw a party and invite single men and friends who can bring some
If I knew that many single men, I wouldn’t need this program.

13. Product life cycle: if it’s not working, take a break to recharge your batteries
If only I were the Energizer Bunny, then I could keep going and going and going and going and going ...

14. Quarterly performance review: take a hard look at why you’re still single
Uhm, because this ‘program’ sucks.

15. Exit strategy: how to decide if you are going to dump him or marry him
What helpful advice! A conclusion I could never have come up with on my own. Let's see, I think I'll dump him ... no marry him ... no dump him ... no marry him then dump him then marry him again ... or... I DON'T KNOW. TOO MANY CHOICES. SO COMPLICATED. HEAD GOING TO EXPLODE!

Obviously, the above program is not for me. Perhaps I’m too cynical, or maybe I’m missing the point, but you never know, dear readers, you could have better luck. Happy hunting!

He's Just Not That Into You

2010-03-24T13:55:00.009+02:00

We've all been there - the guy you're interested in never calls or, even worse, doesn't even ask for your number. You sit there analyzing every move he made, because every word, blink, smile, or hand gesture has a hidden meaning that you and your girlfriends dissect in minute detail to figure out why he never asked you out. But then Berger came along and ended all of that in an unforgettable episode of Sex and the City, when he opened our eyes to this simple yet life changing phrase: he's just not that into you.

Just last week, I actually got the chance to objectively observe a bona fide Mr. He's Just Not That Into You, and because I'm such a generous person, I'm going to share with you some pointers on what to look out for if you happen to find yourself on a date with someone like him. And here's how the story goes...

Some new bar has opened up in Beirut and so a group of us decided to go check it out last week. We were supposed to meet at a certain time but I said I would get there later (what?? I wasn't watching American Idol). By the time I got ready and finally arrived at the latest 'it' venue du jour, I was actually later than I said I would be (what?? I wasn't watching American Idol), but we were a big group so it's not like someone was waiting for me alone. Anyway, after about half an hour, MadGlam and I decided to haul over to the restroom where we ran into Mr. He's Just Not That Into You. He soon joined our table with his 'date,' and so I began to take notes on the telltale signs that he's just not that into you:

1. The Sister Act
Mr. HJNTIY stood talking to me and MadGlam when I noticed another chick sitting by herself at the other end of the table. I asked him, 'Is that your date?' and he replied all innocently, 'My date? No! She's like my sister.' Uhuh, right. Well, she certainly was young enough to be his little sister (we'll talk about guys pushing 40 who prefer to date 12-year-olds in another blog entry!), but somehow I didn't believe the relationship was at all familial. So, if the guy you're out with describes you as any kind of family member, then take note, he's just not that into you.

2. Sweet Talker
Mr. HJNTIY was all flattery that evening, first commenting on how much he enjoyed my blog and then moving on to my 'deep eyes.' I have to admit, at first I wasn't exactly sure that he was complimenting me, because when I asked if by deep he meant soulful, he said, no, he meant literally deep, as in deeply set in my skull. I was like 'Huh? Is that meant to be a good thing?' but in the end, I gathered that he indeed did find that a good thing. Now, I'm not flattering myself or anything - I don't think Mr. HJNTIY is interested in me at all (I'm not 12 after all!), but the bottom line is if the guy you're with is complimenting another girl's eyes or any other parts of her body and you're right there, then you know he's probably just not that into you.

3. Lap Dance
After a few minutes, I look over and see Mr. HJNTIY's 'sisterly' companion do the I-feel-awkward-no one's-talking-to-me-play-with-cell phone routine and tell him that he shouldn't be ignoring her like that. He calls over to the poor girl, who hastily stops faux texting people and immediately gets up and plops herself on Mr. HJNTIY's lap. Mr. HJNTIY responds by turning his head in the opposite direction and starts talking to someone else. So, if the guy you're with looks like he could be getting a root canal while you're practically giving him a lap dance, it's probably safe to say that he's just not that into you.

4. Hand and Hair Games
The lack of attention getting to her, Mr. HJNTIY's date then appears to get a wee bit desperate as she grabs his hand and starts caressing it (yeah, so sisterly). Absently, Mr. HJNTIY allows the hand holding but still does not tear himself away from his riveting conversation. His date then begins to run her fingers through his hair (an even more sisterly gesture), and Mr. HJNTIY is just as indifferent, puffing way on his cigar and looking completely bored. So, if your guy appears one yawn away from slipping into a coma while you are silently screaming 'let's get physical,' then please be advised that he's probably just not that into you!

After about an hour, Mr. HJNTIY left ~~to tuck in his date~~ for the night and I thought what an interesting case study he made while sipping my strawberry daiquiri. So, the next time you're out with someone who calls you his sister, pretty much ignores you half the night and seems completely bored with you the rest of the time, don't waste your energy analyzing his every move. Just put yourself out of your misery by simply admitting that he's just not that into you!

The Biggest Loser

2010-03-19T01:36:00.012+02:00

Everyone has some scandalous skeleton lurking somewhere in their closet. Some remain hidden; others, unfortunately, find a way to creep out and slap you in the face forcing you to face the tough question of 'Who is the biggest loser?' Nobody wants the answer to be 'me,' but sometimes a story gets out there and you have to face up to the fact that yes indeed, it could perhaps be you. And such was my fate the other night ...

It all started one quiet evening while watching MTV (as in Music Television) when suddenly, Ms. HotStuff gets really excited when the video of those twin dweebs who remade Under Pressure comes on. "Oh my God, I love this song," she says as she raises the volume. Then I see Vanilla Ice - yes, the one hit wonder from the early 90s - pop up for a cameo. The genius twin dweebs, you see, have combined the wannabe rapper's one and only hit with the original Queen/David Bowie collaboration. I think to myself what a total and complete loser this guy is since it's been like 20 years and the only other thing to his credit is the how-could-you-miss-it-Oscar-worthy film Cool As Ice (no, I didn't know the title off the top of my head, ok, I IMDbed it!). As the video progresses, I become convinced that the twin dweebs are sure to follow Vanilla Ice into the world of one-hit-wonderdom, when I look over and see Ms. HotStuff eagerly downloading the song onto her BlackBerry, all happy with herself. And, as if that weren't bad enough, she goes on to start the following conversation:

"Oh my God, he is so hot," she says. I look at the screen, completely confused.
"Who?" I ask.
"Vanilla Ice," she responds in all seriousness.
Just to make sure, I ask, "Are you serious??"
"Yeah, he is so hot," she says again for emphasis in case I missed it the first time.
"You are such a loser. He is like 80 years old."
"So what? He doesn't look that old and he is fine [as in F.I.N.E. fine]."
"I cannot believe you find Vanilla Ice hot! You have reached a new level of loserdom. I am so blogging about this conversation." Ms. HotStuff looks at me completely unfazed and asks: "Did you or did you not attend a Vanilla Ice concert?" I am stunned into silence. Touche, Ms. HotStuff, touche.

She knows it's true, so there's no point in denying this deep, dark, hideous secret from my past. And even though the score is now 15-love in Ms. HotStuff's favor, I attempt to defend my honor. "Ahhmm, errrrr, uhmmm," I sputter. "In my defense," finally coherent words emerge from my mouth, "it was an MC Hammer concert [yeah, like that makes it better!] and he was just the opening act." Where was I going with that lame ass defense? MC Hammer is supposed to make me sound like less of a loser? And so I continue, trying desperately to save myself, "And, also in my defense, MC Hammer was a BIG thing back then - you know, with the sherwal pants and the you-can't-touch-this dance." Ms. HotStuff is still not convinced after hearing this and says, "Did you or did you not attend said concert with your mother?"

Oooh, that was brutal. I really felt the sting of that one. I am caught off guard but manage this pathetic rebuttal, "Well, again, in my defense [I watch a lot of law shows, but that's the only legal jargon I could come up with], back then I was too young to attend a concert unchaperoned!" But I realized that it was too late. The dark stain of loserdom was too deep set now to be removed no matter how hard I tried.

I thought my argument was all but lost, but I reviewed all the facts in my head to try and come up with one last stand. Yes, I had attended an MC Hammer concert. Yes, Vanilla Ice had been the opening act. Yes, my mother had come along. Oh the shame, the shame! But just as I was thinking that maybe Ms. HotStuff had won this round, she utters, with all sincerity, the words that will ultimately give her the title of 'The Biggest Loser': "I want to kiss every one of his tattoos."

I rest my case!

Not So Secret Diary of a Beiruti Gal

2010-03-11T12:42:00.057+02:00

I'm sure everyone is absolutely desperate to know what a fabulous, exciting, super popular, successful, single Beiruti gal (yes, me!) gets up to during the course of any given week. It's exhilarating stuff, let me tell you. So exhilarating in fact, that I decided to give you a sneak peek of my thrilling diary. So here it goes...

Monday
Well, K$sha may wake up in the morning feeling like P.Diddy, but when I get up there's only one word to describe what I feel and look like: crap. And I don't say that in a fishing-for-compliments way, because seriously people, I am not a morning person. I'm lucky enough to work from home and since my office consists of only moi, my work attire is a pair of pjs and a robe - tres professional, I know. I hate Mondays and usually spend most of the day downloading music and watching previews of just released movies, all the time telling anyone who'll listen that I'm sooo busy with deadlines. Good business strategy.

Tuesday
I started work and finished in time to make it to the gym for a pilates class. BIG MISTAKE. I usually never take workout classes because I'm so uncoordinated, I look like a flailing fish out of water rather than someone who is actually exercising. Anyway, I was doing my 30 mins on the bike when my trainer comes up to me and says, "Hmmm, I cannot tell ... are you fat? Yes, yes, you are fat. You have gained weight." I look at him, fury in my eyes, "I HAVE NOT GAINED WEIGHT. These sweat pants are just too BIG for me now that I have actually LOST weight and so they make me look fat." Yeah, nice one, Anissa - he's so going to believe that. He doesn't, of course. Anyway, I was so furious about the fat comment that to make a point that I was all slim and fit, I took the pilates class, because I thought, hey they're all on mats, how hard can it be?? Stupid Anissa. Let's just say they should call it killates.

Wednesday
After I finished work for the day, I was thinking that there was no way I was going to the gym after yesterday's excruciating workout. But for some weird reason, I always feel guilty when I don't go, so I like to have an excuse, no matter how lame. Just in the nick of time, MadGlam called and eased my guilty conscious with plans to go out for the evening. I glanced at the clock and, hallelujah, there was no way I could make it to the gym and be ready in time, so I got my excuse. YES! During the evening though, my aching limbs did not really benefit from me falling on my ass - yes, in front of the whole table - when, as I was sitting on the arm rest of a chair, it tilted over, taking me with it. I tried to get up all graceful and nonchalant so that no one would really notice, but I knew that didn't happen when almost everyone ran up to me and asked if I was ok and someone even helped pick me up from the floor! Embarrassing much?

Thursday
Went to the mall with MBGF and did what I do best: GOSSIP. In the evening after meeting my deadline - yes, I do actually work! - I got ready to go the gym. I went into the TV room to eat an apple before heading out the door and looked over at the TV - Miss HotStuff was watching American Idol. "You are such a loser for watching this crap," I tell her. She ignores me, engrossed in the show. I take a seat while I finish my snack and continuously make fun of her to mask the fact that ... I'M ACTUALLY WATCHING AMERICAN IDOL. I think myself ingenious, but after sitting through the entire show and not going to the gym (again), I think the cat's pretty much out of the bag. Hello, my name's Anissa and I'm addicted to American Idol.

Friday
TGIF, wohooo! So, as with every Friday, I go to the pub for a drink with the boys. Before heading out the door, though, I get a phone call from MadGlam, asking - nay, commanding - me to go to this other place in Gemaizeh afterwards even though I tell her I'm not in the mood. MadGlam is very convincing (read: scary) and so I reluctantly agree. After the pub, we head out to Gemaizeh and notice cops and army personnel everywhere. There's even a check point, and as I roll down my window, I'm perfectly polite to the soldier - who waves me on immediately - but I'm thinking, 'Helloooo, the shootout at that club was last week, dumbasses.' I love how Lebanese security always get into action after something bad has happened. Way to take a bite out of crime!

Saturday
In the morning, I go to get my nails done in Verdun and arrive a little early so that I can walk down to Starbucks and get a coffee. A semi-conscious security guard searches my bag at the entrance. I am sooo annoyed because again I think about the shootout at the club the week before and wonder why my handbag is searched at a bloody Starbucks, like I'm going to go in there guns blazing for a caramel macchiato, when a**hole guys are never searched and are allowed to go into clubs and shoot people. Later that evening, totally not in the mood for a crowded outing with smokers and drunk people, MadGlam and I are invited over to Mr. B's for a quiet evening of drinks. MadGlam then pleads with me not to blog about what we do next, but I tell her there's nothing wrong with going to a 24-hr grocery store to buy snacks (yum, Twizzlers) and then buying DVDs, even if it is Saturday night. We're still totally cool! But then MadGlam committs a gross atrocity by tasting one of my Twizzlers, declaring them disgusting and throwing an unfinished stick into a dumpster!! I'm not sure we can still be friends.

Sunday
This day should have been accompanied by an orchestra of heralding trumpets since it was the day that I finally saw AVATAR! I know, about time, right? Two words to describe this movie: AWE SOME. I mean, it's not every day that you get to end the week with blue people that can plug their hair into stuff!

Touching Me ... Touching You ...

2010-03-02T00:08:00.011+02:00

The following is a true account of how Lebanese people watch rugby.

So, I really do not care for sports at all, something that was confirmed at my weekly pub night with Mr. B, MadGlam and co. The evening started out well enough and as per usual we caught up on a variety of interesting, mind stimulating topics ('remember the swipe?'). Eventually Mr. B and co. left and we were joined once again by the very exciting Mr. Borrring (yes, he is still bored) and his friend. As we continued our intellectual discourse, a mad group of over-excited sports fans stormed in and before we knew it, we were caught up in a raging rugby match that had just started on TV. Oh lucky us.

(By the way, just an off-hand observation, I don't think your average Lebanese guy is into sports either, unless he's lived abroad, has another nationality and thus follows the team of another country. Of course the exception is soccer, in which case every Lebanese man either supports Brazil or Germany because unlike Nelson Mandela who used rugby to unite his country, we Lebanese have no such national team. Yes, I watched Invictus.)

MadGlam, who is as into sports as Mr. Borrring is into yoga, was excited that her fellow Frenchmen were playing 'football' against some team in red (Wales). Someone points out that it's actually a rugby match and we all decide to support France because 1) Wales isn't even a country; 2) none of us gives a rat's ass about rugby; and 3) no one even remotely understands the game - yes, even though I watched Invictus - which is demonstrated by my discussion with Mr. Borrring on whether or not a score was called a touchdown or a goal. "No, no, it's a touchdown," says Mr. Borrring confidently while puffing on a cigar, which is how Lebanese men watch sports. "Are you sure? I think it's a goal," I interject, although I have no idea what I'm talking about - yes, even though I watched Invictus - and am more concerned about the effect of the cigar smoke on my freshly washed hair. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," settles Mr. Borrring.

Our loud (if mock) enthusiastic shouts of 'Vive La France' draw the attention of a rabid Welsh fan, who comes up to our table for no apparent reason and asks if we're into the game. We reply that sure, we are soooo into the game. He then asks if we're with France. Again, we (faux) passionately exclaim our devotion to the French team. Rabid Welsh Fan then asks if we understand the game, and we say, "Sure, sure we understand the game." And just to emphasize how much we all understand the fine nuances of all things rugby, I ask, "So, is a score called a touchdown or a goal?"

RWF (who by this time has revealed that he is in fact Irish) gives me a face of disgust. "Urgh, you Americans always take a fine, respectable sport and turn it into a vulgar game. You took rugby and made it into American football and took cricket and made it into baseball." I interrupted his stimulating diatribe with, "Uhm, can you just answer my question." "Oh, it's called a 'try'." Man, we were so off base. A try?? Stupid rugby, not even their scoring makes sense.

Not in the mood to get into the whole 'America ruins everything, even good sports' discussion, I turn to MadGlam, and say, "At least American sports players are hot! Rugby players look like toothless cavemen." "They look like hobbits," she says. "Yeah," I agree, "hobbits carved out of tree trunks." As you can tell, we don't care about the game, the talent, or even the team - to us, if we have to watch sports, for the love of Prada, at least let the players be hot!

Anyway, MadGlam, then bursts into fits of hysterical laughter and takes a napkin to wipe her eyes. By that time we are joined by another friend and we all look to the giant screen to see what has so captivated our companion. We see a bunch of stalky, squat men in short shorts in a huddle grabbing each other's asses (no lie) - it looks like a scene from a gay porno, but with clothes, except when one guy pulls down another guy's shorts and we are treated to his bare buttocks. Suddenly, Neil Diamond's 'Sweet Caroline' pops into my head: Hands, touching hands; Reaching out; Touching me; Touching you ... Good times never seemed so good. Could be the rugby theme song.

I look over at RWF and wonder how he thinks American football is vulgar compared to this!! "At least Tom Brady never looks like he's auditioning for an x-rated version of Brokeback Mountain!" I shout ... in my head ... but still, I'm right, right?

And that's how Lebanese people watch rugby.

How far would you go ...?

2010-02-24T15:23:00.006+02:00

Sunny Sunshine and I were having coffee a few days ago and discussing how far we'd go if we were interested in someone who was not exactly responding in the way we had hoped. We are both very much Old School - which basically means we're better suited to living out a Jane Austen novel than mingling amidst the modern tigresses of today's dating world. Our idea of being 'daring' is sending an unsolicited text message, which neither of us has had the guts to do, mind you. Yeah, we are so not Gossip Girl material! We decide after decaf non-fat lattes and herbal tea that we are hopeless cases. But I did spill about a story of my most ~~pathetic~~ daring move over a guy I was very much interested in.

At the time, I went to Miss HotStuff for some much needed advice on how to go about pursuing my crush (FYI: while SS and I are kindred spirits in our ~~wimpiness~~ traditionalism, Miss HotStuff thinks I am just plain lame). I was throwing a small dinner for friends and really wanted this one guy to come. We were acquaintances so it would've been totally natural for me to call him up and say, 'Hey, I'm having a dinner, why don't you come?' But nooooo, I had to over-analyze the whole situation and think for ages about whether or not I should invite him, how I should invite him, and to make sure that it doesn't seem like I'm into him (even though I totally was) if I were actually brave enough to invite him. With all the backwards and forwards and going through all the scenarios, Miss HotStuff was literally ready to throw me off the balcony. 'Uhhh, how old are you again?' she reminded me ever so kindly.

It may sound easy enough, but making the first move is incredibly difficult and needs to be done with finesse and so subtly that the guy doesn't even know that you're doing it. It's really quite a feat to send a message that basically says, 'Hey, I'd like you to be at my dinner, but don't let it go to your head that I'm interested in you, but at the same time, here is a big hint that I like you, just in case you weren't sure and haven't made a move yet because you were afraid I was going to reject you.'

Taking all that into consideration, it should come as no great surprise that it took me two hours to come up with a one sentence email invite (because I was too chicken s*** to call or even send an SMS). After writing the email and staring at it forever, I read it out loud to Miss Hotstuff and Mr. US, who happened to be over. I called up Mr. B and asked his opinion; he thought I'd been used in some science experiment that regressed me back to the age of 12. The delivery guy from Roadster came with our food and Miss HotStuff suggested I ask what he thought (I laughed sarcastically, but was secretly seriously considering it).

Finally, Mr. US, completely annoyed with my juvenile behavior, told me to send the damned email already in a way that made it perfectly clear that everyone thought I was a complete loser. 'But what if he says no??' I whined. 'SO WHAT??' he replied. And that was it, really. I thought, yeah, so what if he says no. So what if some stupid dumbass guy out there doesn't want to come to my dinner because he - obviously - has incredibly bad taste in women? Is my ego really so fragile? My pride really that frail? NO! I thought resolutely, I can handle this.

So ... I hit send .. dah dah dahhhhhhhh....

Okay, so nothing earth shattering happened. He replied shortly after saying he'd love to come to my dinner. And no I did not check my email every five minutes to see if he'd responded (okay, maybe I did).

And then it was over and I had survived. (By the way, the guy eventually asked me to dinner and after all that build up in my head, he turned out to be quite a nasty piece of work. All my efforts wasted!!)

You know what? I still don't get why the old formula had to change: boy likes girl, girl likes boy, boy asks girl out - END OF STORY! It was so easy and simple and uncomplicated. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know - I need to get my head out of that Jane Austen novel already!

Now you know the extent of my so-called daring, but how far would you go, or have you gone ... ??? After reading the above, you know it ain't gonna be hard to ~~shame~~ out-do me!!

The Blind Date-a-logues

2010-02-17T18:10:00.011+02:00

The other night I was super busy when I got a phone call from MadGlam, who suggested we go get a bite to eat. So, I put down my brush and turned off my iPod (no, I was not singing along to Taylor Swift's 'You Belong With Me' in the mirror!) and got ready. We arrived to our favorite haunt and ran into Mr. Borrring (because he is in a constant state of boredom) and started exchanging dating horror stories. As the queen of the worst blind dates ever, MadGlam suggested I blog about the worst ones. So here it goes, the worst three in no particular order.

The Spitter

I guess the title speaks for itself, but this is how the story goes: my mom gets a phone call from a friend who knows a guy - a doctor no less! - from a good family blah blah blah, and she thinks he'd be perfect for me. I beg mom to say that I'm seeing someone, or leaving the country or even that I'm gay, but just get me out of it. Long story short, she guilts me into meeting the dude, because 'you never know' (except that I DO KNOW and I'm always right). So, the guy calls and we set a 'date' at a cafe in Beirut. I remember arriving and seeing a few guys at the cafe - all completely unattractive - and notice one is particularly not good looking and pray, just pray over and over again that it is any guy, even the 50 year old balding one, but not that guy. Of course, it's that guy. Anyway, I order a sparkling water because that was the quickest thing I could down. The guy was nice enough but just not for me because ... well, he just spat all over the place. When some landed in my water I thought I was going to puke and knew I had to get out of there right away. So, for the first time on a blind date I lied to make a fast escape. I told him I was madly in love with someone else and that I'm sorry I wasted his time. So of course he asked me why I bothered to meet him, and I said because my parents didn't approve of the guy. And the next logical question was why they didn't approve. And because I'm the WORST liar on the planet and a big fat idiot, I said the first thing that popped into my head, which for any logical person would've been because we're different religions. But nooooo, Anissa the moron did not say that. I said it was because... we were cousins! I still don't know what the hell I was thinking. All the excess saliva threw me off my game and somehow affected my brainwaves. I'm not normally so stupid, but that's what a lot of spit flying at you will do to a person.

The One that Never Was

Okay, so technically this was not a blind date because the guy was so awful over the phone, that I didn't even meet him. It began with the same spiel - a relative calls saying she knows a guy who is this and that and we should definitely meet. Me being the eternal idiot agrees yet again. So that same day I get a phone call from this guy. First, he calls me Alyssa, so I correct him and say, 'Actually my name is Anissa.' To which he replies, 'What kind of name is that?' Nice! Who calls up a girl and doesn't even get her name right?? And then, when he does hear her actual name makes fun of it?? A total moron, that's who. Anyway, he was insistent on meeting that very night, more proof that he was loser, and I told him I was only free at the end of the week. Then he proceeded to go through EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK to see if I was free, and again I repeated I was only free at the END OF THE WEEK. Finally, he got the message, and we agreed on a Friday. I have to add that he giggled every time he said the word 'date' like he was five or something. For the next few days all I could think of was how to get out of this date without offending my aunt who set the whole thing up. I decided I would bite the bullet and just do it. One hour, how bad could it be, right? On Friday morning he calls, and asks how I am. I say I'm fine. Then he says, "I'm just calling to confirm our date, hee hee hee hee." He had the most annoying giggle you can imagine and at that point I knew I just could not go through with it, so I said, “Well you know actually I'm not fine at all. I'm afraid we're going to have to postpone." I prayed he got the message. Well, a week passed and he never called back so I thought my prayers were answered, until one Saturday I got a phone call from a strange number. I pick up and ... it's the guy's sister calling to yell at me for not going out with her brother! I was in total shock. I don't like to call guys that I didn't get along with losers, but please, this guy totally was. I mean, his sister?? Come on. And she was yelling at me, "Are you going to go out with my brother, YES OR NO, ANSWER ME, YES OR NO!" Oh yeah, that made her brother more appealing! I told her to mind her own business and if her brother wanted to ask me something, let him pick up the phone and ask me himself. Thank the heavens above he never did!

Moped Guy

Mr. Borrring got a kick out of this story the most. It all started with yet another relative telling me that I should meet this great guy she knows. And because I never learn, I agreed ... again. We decide to meet up at this car show that was going on at the time, because I was covering it for the magazine I was working for (why the editor chose me to cover a car expo I have no idea). Anyway, I thought I would kill two birds with one stone, do the story and meet the guy in the same hour. So, the guy was nice enough, but not for me. We go through the expo and he's explaining car stuff to me, but my mind is totally switched off because to me car = engine + four wheels. At the end of the expo, we exchange pleasant goodbyes and walk out together. I asked him if he parked his car or gave it to the valet and he said he had his own ride. So, as I was waiting for my car from the valet, I see him walk over to a tiny moped driven by another guy, hop on the back put his arms around the other guy and go off ... on a moped ... on the back of a moped ... with another guy driving. Enough said.

And there you have it. The worst blind dates ever. I don't know what it is about me that makes people want to set me up with the worst possible matches, but that's what ALWAYS happens, so now I am forever sworn off blind dates. For real!

But all my experience has allowed me to decipher the deceiving blind date code that people use to coax you into going on blind dates:

1. He's good looking translates into he's a troll but I'm lying so you'll meet him anyway.

2. He's a doctor - He's a troll with a fancy degree

3. He's from a good family - His dad is not an ex-con and his mom is not a reformed prostitute but guess what? HE'S STILL A TROLL!

So, you've been warned. The next time someone wants to set you up, take it from me and ... just ... say ...no!

Porn and the Blowfish

2010-02-10T01:29:00.005+02:00

This week has been an absolute disaster on so many fronts that I think they've named a new condition just for me, Crazy Bitch Syndrome. Well, I don't know how well any of you would do after contracting chronic sinusitis and being quarantined at home for over a week with no contact to the outside world, which I guess wasn't such a bad idea considering that the medication I have to take has made my face puff up to Fat Albert proportions. Actually, when I got my diagnosis and treatment plan, I really did handle it with grace. I thought, I'll take this time to just read and watch TV, I mean I'm kind of a homebody anyway, so how bad could bed rest for a while really be?

Things started out ok until ... the cable went out and I absolutely FREAKED! Apparently these two cable companies that I happen to subscribe to decided to merge just when I was not allowed to leave the house and all my favorite channels were like gone! They had to reconfigure the signals or whatever and until then it was like I was lost at sea with no raft. So, I called my dad and made him get the freaking cable guy come over right away and talk to him because I just can't yell effectively in Arabic. The cable guy came over pretty promptly and I gave my dad strict instructions on what channels he better bring back or I would kick some serious ass (even in my weakened state, TV withdrawal brings out the Hulk in me). I did not personally meet with the cable guy because vanity is a beast and hello, did I not mention the hideous swollen guppy face that made me look like I could be an extra in a horror movie without the need of special effects?

After a while, dad comes to my room and asks me to check my channels and make sure they're all back. So I flick through and I notice that three of my favorite movie channels are missing and I go ballistic. So my poor dad goes back to talk to the cable guy and tells him to bring back those particular channels. Then dad comes back to my room and explains that they've changed things around now and those channels are now part of a different package and cost more money. Okay, you have to imagine my situation: I'm off caffeine because of my meds, my face is literally space alien scary, my hair is crazy and I'm wearing granny sweats as I storm into the TV room and start ripping into this cable guy, who is like a 16 year old kid. Vanity be damned! I wanted my TV damn it!

I tell him in my ranting Arabic that I've been his client for a hundred years and if he thinks he's going to charge me more for the same channels I was getting before then ... yeah well, I couldn't think of anything threatening enough to say at that moment, but I think my hideous appearance frightened him enough. So he said I had to call his boss, and I was all like, fine, I'll call your damn boss and turned to dad and told him to call the boss, which he did (my poor dad!). He told the guy, "My daughter wants these channels and you better give her these channels and we're not paying you a dime more." So the boss guy didn't want to upset my dad, who is a very loyal customer and tells the kid to give me my channels. The kid gives me this really strange look, like he's embarrassed for me or something, and I figure it's just because I look so stunning in my chronic sinusitis attire. Then he very weirdly asks my dad and I to leave the room. At that point, I was just like 'WHATEVER! Just get it done,' and stomped out all huffy and puffy.

A few minutes later, dad comes in and says that the kid left and that I should check if I got my channels. So, I flick through my TV and I see my three movie channels and I'm happy for about three seconds and then my jaw literally drops. I was totally stunned, shocked when I saw ... SIX HARD CORE PORN CHANNELS. Oh ... my ... God. I don't think I've ever been so mortified. I mean, I was screaming at this poor kid demanding these channels, and the whole time he was obviously convinced that I wanted FREE PORN! Oh ... my ... God! And that's why he asked us to leave the room, because he was too embarrassed to download them in front of us!

So, this kid is thinking two things: 1) I'm a pervert addicted to porn with a dad who is okay with that; or 2) my swollen face is as good as it gets for me and that's the closet thing to a social life I'll ever get! Oh ... my ... God! What followed next was a very embarrassed phone call from dad to the cable boss guy, explaining that I only wanted the non-porn movie channels (honestly!) and to please send the - probably now disgusted and horrified - kid back to remove the porn. Yeah, recouping from chronic sinusitis was fun.

Anyway, my quarantine comes to an end this week, and although the porn is gone (honestly!), I've still got that sexy blowfish look going, but if you happen to see me, tell me I look pretty anyway and I'll buy you a beer :)

The Good Ones are Always Married or Gay!

2010-02-03T13:43:00.012+02:00

The other day I was off to a meeting with someone for the first time and during such occasions, I usually like to make a good first impression and do my best to dress nicely and fix myself up. Anyway, that day I wasn't feeling too great and not really in the mood, so I decided to leave out the mascara, put on some comfortable jeans and although I did wear a nice sweater, without the good bra, I might as well have been wearing a maternity outfit. Of course, on the day I chose to dress down, the guy I was meeting with had to be damn cute! I cursed myself for not attending to my lashes and could hear Victoria's Secret in my head saying, 'I told you so!'

Well, I was disappointed for all of two minutes because then I noticed the wedding ring and even though the guy was cute, and smart and charming and kind, he was now Handsome Unavailable Man (I was first going for cute unavailable man, but I hope I don't have to spell out the problems with that acronym!). So as it turned out, alls well that ends well.

All that got me thinking about where nice girls are supposed to meet nice guys. I wrote a chapter about this in my book, because we really don't have the same options as other Western countries, mainly because 99.9% of the guys have left the country. Well, we have bars, but let's be honest, when's the last time you were hit on by a nice guy at a bar? I'm not talking about guys you were introduced to by friends and you happened to be at a bar, I mean total stranger sleaze bags who come up to you with their smarmy come ons. It's always like, "Hello, I like your clotheyz, I hope I can see you for many montheyz, maybe on your birssday. Thanks for you." (Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Lebanese accents, but it gets on my nerves when they transform one syllable words into two syllables. Okay, I just heard the collective groan of everyone who ever had to hear me speak Arabic and mispronounce 98.7% of all the words, so I'll just shut up now. Thanks for you.)

So, other than meeting guys at meetings and through friends, you can also meet them at places that you regularly frequent. That's how I met Bumped Into Guy (oooh, a completely unintentional Sex and the City reference; really, not trying to be a Carrie, always thought of myself as more of a Charlotte). I kept running into BIG at the same place and at first did not like him at all because he was talking politics and let's just say we disagreed. Anyhow, later that night, I dreamt that I saw him wearing a Hawaiian shirt, which convinced me that not only was he a jerk, but also a dork.

(I have to break from that story for a minute to explain that it used to take me a while to be friendly to people I just met and my shyness was often perceived as being snobby. So, one of my dearest friends, MadGlam, for years was trying to work with me on my apparent Ice Queen persona. She ever so gently broached the subject, completely sensitive to my feelings and such, saying, "Anissa, people don't like you when they first meet you. They think you're cold and a snot bag." "Whaaaaaat?? What do you mean? I'm delightful and charming!" I replied indignantly. "Yeah, I guess, if by delightful you mean aloof and charming you mean that you act like you have a giant stick up your ass." Okay, I guess I was one of those, 'to know me is to love me kind of people.' But I decided to change toute suite!)

Taking those kind words into consideration, I decided to be nice to BIG since having his own political views was his right and he didn't even wear the Hawaiian shirt in real life, so I could hardly hold a dream against him. Over the course of the next few weeks, I was very friendly and charming and he asked for my number. In typical male fashion, though, he did not call. But, I still run into BIG all the time and he is still all flirty and complimentary, etc, etc, hinting that we should meet up, but never actually growing a pair and asking. Anyway, I suddenly thought about it and now realize why BIG has never called. It is so obvious, so clear, so blatantly in front of my eyes. The Hawaiian shirt dream was an omen, a sign, meaning of course that … BIG is gay (not that there's anything wrong with that)!

Well, despite all the HUMs and gay BIGs (hey, that's my story, and I'm sticking with it), I'm still sure that Cute Available Guy is out there somewhere, and hopefully when I meet him, my lashes will look their best and other parts of me will be bolstered up appropriately!

No, Women do not Dream of Winning Blenders!

2010-01-21T16:43:00.005+02:00

So, yesterday I was driving to the gym when I came across the most offensive billboard ad I've seen in a while. A blonde, big busted woman in a low cut, white dress is deliriously happy while holding - wait for it - a blender! Okay, you might be thinking, what's wrong with that? Nothing, except that the ad was for the credit card rewards program of a bank - where I bank actually - and to illustrate all the wonderful things you can win with the points you save up every time you use your card, they thought they'd show how exciting it would be to win ... a blender.

What idiot thought that any woman, Lebanese or otherwise, with the opportunity to win from hundreds and hundreds of prizes, would opt of all things for a bloody blender? This is so completely insulting on so many different levels. Basically, they are saying that in this day and age, women - who I think have pretty much proven that they are capable of doing more than just blend things - would still choose to stay in the kitchen and make milk shakes. RIDICULOUS!

Dear, bank, thank you for sending such a positive message to Lebanese women, especially your clients. I'm so pleased to have been equated with a kitchen appliance - a LOW END kitchen appliance (sheesh, at least choose a microwave or cappuccino machine)! I'm so glad that I've chosen to open my account with you, really, since you obviously hold your female clients in such high esteem. Oh please let me earn enough points on my credit card so that I too can prance around in a slutty dress, fully made up with bleached blond hair and clutching to a blender for dear life! As a lowly female, why should I want anything else on your list, like a new computer, an airline ticket or even ski equipment. No, of course I wouldn't want any of those things when I can win ... A BLENDER!!

You banking folk sure do know what women's dreams are made of! Way to have your chauvinistic finger on the button. And FYI, the next time you feel compelled to stick to sexist stereotypes of Lebanese women, at least choose one who even remotely looks Lebanese. The last time I checked, even blonde Lebanese don't look Swedish. Seriously, what kind of retarded ad agency are you working with? Did they somehow find a way to bridge the space/time continuum, travel back to the 19th century and leave their brains there?

Note to the dumbass(es) who came up with this idiotic ad: Yo, Rip Van Winkle, I know you went to sleep in 1950, but now that you've woken up, please take note that its 2010, a time when - shockingly - women no longer dream of owning BLENDERS! Moron.

Guys and Facebook

2010-01-14T13:39:00.004+02:00

So, I was having dinner with a friend the other night and he admitted something to me that I found a little surprising: when I added him on Facebook, he totally got the wrong idea. According to him, the main indicator was the fact that I had only met him once before adding him, and he was thinking, 'Why is this chick adding me, I only met her once.' Fair enough assumption, even though not entirely accurate. You see, when we met, he said he was a fan of my book, and any fan of my book (shameless plug for Miss Guided - buy a copy today!) is a super addition to my friend list, whether male or female. But that got me thinking ... do all guys think that a girl is into them if added as a friend first??

Well, to help you out a little - and thanks to the insight I got from my pal at dinner - I thought I'd give some hints on how to know if a girl is really into you, or whether she is just adding you because she thought you were a nice guy (and was a fan of her book ;) ). This only applies to people who've met in person before connecting on Facebook. Total strangers who add you probably do think that you're a yummy stud muffin.

Okay, first of all, not all women think of Facebook as a platform for finding dates - I certainly don't at least and I know a lot of people who think the same. Of course, you come across many people who use Facebook as a matchmaking site, but do not assume that every person has the same mindset. So without further ado ...

Rule number one: If you've actually met the girl, even if it's only once, and she's not a total floozy who's coming on to you, then in all likelihood she added you because she thought you were cool and wanted to remain in contact, and not for any other reason.

Rule number two: If after she's added you she hasn't initiated any attempt to engage in some sort of contact with you (e.g. sending you a message, starting a chat, commenting on your status, etc), again, she's probably only interested in friendship. If she responds to contact initiated by you, then she is just being polite and does not necessarily want to jump your bones. (There is an exception to this rule, however, if - and only if - rule number one doesn't apply. If when you meet her you get a really strong vibe that she's into you, and then she adds you but makes no move after that, she is most likely waiting for you to initiate contact, since she's the one who made the first move by adding you. She's looking for a sign that you were into her too.)

Rule number three: If you're not really sure what this chick is thinking, and so you decide to do some harmless flirting via a message or chat and she responds in a completely neutral, non-flirty tone, then she is most probably not into you. Be careful not to misinterpret friendly for flirty - there is a BIG difference!

Rule number four: Take a look at her pictures to get an idea of what kind of girl she is. If she's not posting wild party pics, then it's not likely that she uses Facebook to pickup men. (If you can't see her pics and you're on her Limited list, then she most definitely is not into you at all!!)

Now, what if a girl is totally wanting to date you - what signs do you look for then?? Hmmmm ... well I can't reveal all my secrets, now can I?? As for the rules above, that's all I can think of for now, but if I've missed anything and anyone has any other insights they'd like to share, feel free to do so in the comments section below!!

Happy Facebooking all :)

Faux Frenchies (and other losers)

2010-01-04T14:36:00.014+02:00

So, I was having dinner the other night when I was accosted by this hideous wannabe Frenchie loser, who thought her ridiculous accent made her sound more intelligent and of a higher class. Whatever! Not even her stupid accent could mask her blatant stupidity, and as for her class, let's just say my New Year's Eve dates have more of it in their furry paws. I won't go into detail about what we were arguing about, but let's just say that she's an idiot and even Paris Hilton has more brain cells than her. Anyway, as always, I digress.... Getting back to topic, what is with these idiots who think that speaking with a put on accent is actually cool? I have to admit, the Faux Frenchies get on my nerves more than anyone else, although there are also wannabe Americans and Brits that are nearly as irritating, but we'll get to them later.

Okay, a typical Faux Frenchie will come up to you in their Frenchie coucou manner, all pretentious and nauseating with their dumbass accents that they probably worked harder on than graduating high school (if they even managed that), and a conversation will generally go something like this:

Faux Frenchie: Bonsoir!
Normal Lebanese Person: Hi.
FF: Frenchie frenchie coucou nonsense in French.
NLP: Sorry, I don't speak French. Only Arabic and English please.
FF: Oh mon Dieu (face in disgust) no French?? Quelle catastrophe! Yuck, Arabic is only for peasants, but if I must lower myself ... [Begins to speak Arabic with French accent].
NLP: Uhm, you know you're not French right?
FF: Yes, and I've never even been to France, but I must roll my 'r's anyway, because it is very clah.
NLP: Moron.
FF: Mais ouis!

People who've flown over the UK or had a layover in the US and come back to Lebanon and act as if they don't know how to speak Arabic anymore aren't much better. But in order of most annoying, let's go through a typical conversation with a Faux Brit.

Faux Brit: G'day mate.
Normal Lebanese Person: Uhm, you know that's Australian.
FB: Oh yeah, easy mistake, though, ainnet [i.e., isn't it]?
NLP: Only if you're mentally challenged.
FB: Hey, I really am British, you know …. Look, I can say, bloody hell!
NLP: You’re bloody annoying.
FB: Wicked!

And now we come to American wannabes, who have accents so bad, hearing them is like listening to fingernails on blackboards – i.e. excruciating.

Faux American: Hey, like oh my God, I am like soooooo American, and just to prove it to you, I’m so going to talk like this the whole time even though I was only in the US for like five minutes. Awesome. Dude.

Normal Lebanese Person: Did you just say, ‘Dude?’

FA: Totally, dude. I totally said ‘dude,’ dude. Like you know, right? Whatever rocks your boat, man.

NLP: I actually don’t know. Is there a conversation going on here?

FA: Oh my God, are you serious? Are you like totally clueless or something?

NLP: [No comment, stares incomprehensibly at babbling idiot with limited vocabulary who inexplicably keeps saying ‘dude.’]

FA: Duuuuude!

New Year's WHATEVER!

2009-12-24T13:18:00.006+02:00

So, New Year's Eve is coming up and now the question on everyone's lips is: 'Yiiiii, shoo a'mlee al ra'as al sinee?' New Year's parties have become such ridiculous displays of excess in Lebanon that it's a wonder why anyone would want to go through it all. Seriously, what is the point? I heard the other day that some hall or the other is selling tickets for $800 so people can sit in a VIP section up on a balcony overlooking the commoners on the ground floor who paid a mere $500 per ticket. I asked why anyone would pay so much more for a balcony and the response was, 'Because people think that having VIP stamped on a ticket is clah.' Well, if by 'clah' you mean R.E.T.A.R.D.E.D, then that would be absolutely correct! (FYI: In Lebanon, VIP may as well stand for Very Idiotic Pansy.) I would much rather use that money for a new pair of shoes than waste a gazillion dollars on a ticket to some crap party where the nasty ass meal might as well have food poisoning stamped on it and the alcohol is most probably supplied straight from the gas pump.

The last time I went to one of these NY's parties was a few years back. I paid about $180 (which by today's standards is a peasant fee equal to about 23 cents), so I could party with friends at an upscale locale downtown. So, I get there and I'm sitting on this table and everyone is like, 'party, yeah' and I'm thinking, what is the big deal? You can party any day of the week, what is soooo special about tonite? Nothing, except that instead of paying $10 for a drink, you're paying over $100. Okay, so then I was sitting there, designated driver because, call me crazy, but I wasn't in the mood to spend the next day in the company of the toilet bowl, and I'm trying to have fun. But, as is always the case with these over-inflated shingdigs, the food was gross and the music made my ears bleed. At midnight, I went around kissing everyone, and then spent the rest of the evening looking at my watch trying to decide what time I could gracefully make my exit without being labeled a loser. I decided 2am was good enough, but too studied and exact, so I waited another 20 mins and at 2.20am I was out the door.

After that exciting - not - evening, most other NY eves I've spent outside Beirut. But this year, here I am back again, and while everyone else is scrambling for tickets to this dumbass party or that one, I've made my own 'exclusive' plans. Ticket cost: about $5 (for DVD rentals); Menu: anything not involving an IV drip is a step up for me; Guests: two hot studs who have never let me down:

Toby (l) and Harry

So what if one has a weak bladder and the other is blind (and both have really bad breath), I'll still have better dates than most people, I'm sure! And come New Year's day, I'll probably be the only person around who's had a good night's sleep, non-puffy eyes, and ... a great ass pair of new shoes! Of course, all of you will be passed out and too hung over to notice. But that's okay - all I can say is: Happy New Year ... suckerrrs!

Beauty Salon Bitches

2009-12-07T12:21:00.010+02:00

Yes, yes, I know... I am absolutely the worst blogger ever, which is why this is the blog that no one reads. And how can I blame readers out there?? I have not updated my blog for three whole weeks! Oh, mon dieu! In blogger time, that's like 50 years. My blog is so neglected that it's begining to mold! The reason for my inexusable lapse in writing is a tortuous job I was working on that depleted my soul of any ability to write creatively. Yes, it was that bad. But, on Friday, I finally finished with it - WOHOO! - for good and now I can get back to life as I know it.

Speaking of life as I know it, the other day I went to get my hair done (even though I was busy with work, as every Lebanese gal knows, there must always be time for grooming, no matter what!) and after 14 years living in this country, it never ceases to amaze me how annoying beauty salon bitches can be. I had actually taken an appointment - you know, when you call ahead of time and make sure the hairdresser can take you at a specific time - and I arrived right on time - a concept foreign to most Lebanese. Anyway, I get there and the salon is an aboslute mad house. A lot of foreigners were in town, still on holiday, and as if it wasn't bad enough that they can't drive worth a damn and cause the worst traffic jams ever, they also think that the Lebanese should cater to their every whim, because naturally, the world revolves around them.

My hairstylist was very apologetic and said he would get to me as soon as possible. I'm not the pushy type, so I told him not to worry about it and took a seat in the waiting room and patiently waited my turn. Have you ever noticed that at the hair salon, nearly every woman has like this emergency situation so that they need to get their hair done right away because they are so much more important than everyone else and, naturally, too good to wait? They march in with their fake boobs and fake lips, wearing outfits more appropriate for their grandchildren and wail, 'Dakheelak ya ______, lazim itruk ba'ad sa'ah, a'ndee mow'ad.' Yeah, if that's the case then MAKE A BLOODY APPOINTMENT.

Anyway ... I waited 45 minutes and finally went in to get my hair done, which brings me to my next beauty salon rant. Why, oh why, do they allow women to smoke at the hairdresser? Is there anything more annoying than getting your hair washed and blow dried, only to have some vulgar cow sitting next to you blowing smoke into your freshly styled locks??

Oufft! These beauty salon bitches bring new meaning to the word 'inconsiderate.' Hmmm, sounds like they need to pick up a copy of my book and read chapter 13 on minding manners for a refresher course on how to be polite!

Designer Bags and Bombs

2009-11-16T16:32:00.003+02:00

I think Beirut's major malls and shopping centers need to have a serious sit down with management and discuss their ridiculous secuirty policies. I'm all for checking the cars when they come into the car park, but checking our handbags at the entrance before going inside? Puhleeze. Note to head of mall security: Women are not going to bomb their designer handbags! This is Lebanon, our precious bags are more important to us than any political agenda. Trust!

My Marc is way too precious to blow up

Mind you, not every mall has some bored-out-of-his-mind geriatric secuirty guy at the entrance searching women's handbags - some management teams have been smart enough to notice that an upperclass woman with the latest Marc Jacobs draped on her arm is hardly the type to be carrying TNT. In fact, the only thing mildly explosive she'll be holding is her credit card receipts. If any mall owners are listening, please rest assured, we are there to shop, spend money and gossip over coffee with fellow designer bag toting gal pals - i.e. we are not interested in blowing anything up. Seirously, do you think we'd be dumb enough to strut into the ABC with a bomb in our bags?? Plus, all the terrible violence that has happened in this city over the past few years has been carried out by MEN and they use dingy cars and vans, not purses.

The bottom line is this: we Lebanese women (not me specifically) spend way too much money on plastic surgery, designer clothes, shoes and handbags to blow ourselves up. So, the next time you think a lady's designer handbag is a good place to hide a bomb or any other weapon, think again!

Saturday Night Loser

2009-11-08T17:47:00.007+02:00

I know this is Beirut, the greatest party city ever, but don’t you just feel like staying in sometimes and doing nothing? It’s true that image is everything, and so staying in on a weekend is considered anything but cool here, especially come Monday, when everyone is like, 'Yiii, ma rihtee a Palais??' But, last night I just could not be bothered to get all gussied up for a night out on the town. So, when my friend called in the afternoon and was like, 'Let's go to Capitol,’ the idea of putting on heels exhausted me and I thought, nahhhh, I'll skip out on that one. Then another friend called and asked if I wanted to join them at Zinc. I pondered on that one for about a second because there was a reserved table so the heels wouldn’t be a problem, but I had just washed and styled my hair and I really didn't feel like smelling like an ashtray. So I made up some lame ass excuse (well, less lame than I just washed my hair) and opted out of that plan too.

Usually when I don't go out on a Saturday night, my sister and I rent horror movies, but yesterday she was a total traitor and went out so I was left all by my lonesome self. I had a couple of movies to watch, but both sucked big time (FYI: GI JOE was beyond ridiculous and Surrogates could induce a coma). After the movies were over, I got really bored and regretted my decision to stay in, but then I remembered my freshly washed hair and thought, no, I did the right thing not going out.

I think I reached an all time low though when I decided to watch TV a bit before turning in and while going through the channels I came across a show on the beyond dorky Jonas brothers! At first, I thought, okay, I gotta change the channel real quick, but you know how it is when you come across a car accident on the road and you can't help but look at it no matter how bad it is? Well, that’s what this show was like, and so … I watched the whole thing! I usually think nothing of staying in on a Saturday night, but when the Jonas brothers started singing about how they were in love with a pizza delivery girl and running around giant pizza props, I knew I had reached a new level of loserness.

Anyway, after that horrific lapse in coolness (a rare occasion, of course), I decided to hit the sack and thanks to the brilliant writing of Bernard Cornwell, I went to bed with a gorgeous Saxon warrior who made the hideous memories of all things Jonas disappear.

So, there it is. I was a Saturday Night Loser but at least a) my hair still smells great, b) my feet don’t hurt and c) since this is the blog that no one reads, my reputation of total and complete coolness won’t suffer any consequences!

RIP: Chivalry is Dead

2009-11-02T15:52:00.008+02:00

What happened to the days when knights in shining armor roamed the earth on their majestic steeds?? Yeah, yeah, yeah, those days are gone, now, but is that any excuse for all chivalry to be extinct, gone, dead, finito? Why did the call for equal rights of women automatically mean that men no longer had to be gentlemen? Just because we want the same human rights with regards to say, hmmm, voting, and freedom and working does not mean we want to be men. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but in general, we remained ladies, while the guys sat back and said, ‘Fine, you want equal rights? We're going to bury chivalry six feet under.' And, oh boy have you guys done a good job of it!

Let's take for example my friend, Julie*. She and I started talking about guys (of course) and she told me how she went on a first date with this guy who has been pursuing her for years. In the 30+ year range, she finally relented and said yes to this guy because she thought, he’s nice and after having dated a multitude of jerks, wanted to go out with a 'gentleman', and Julie's mom was so happy that she was finally going out with a 'nice' boy. HA!

When he picked her up (of course a missed call, because the two cents spent on an actual call is so not worth it, right?), she came to the front of her building where the guy was waiting in his car. This is the first date, remember, and they are not really friends, and he did not get out of his car to greet her! I know this is the blog that no one reads, but in the event that there is at least one guy reading this, please take note, that on a first date, GET OUT OF THE CAR and say hello. How much energy could it possibly take to open the car door, step outside and greet the chick?? Added bonus (but don't hold your breath) is if he actually opens the car door for you, but that probably hasn't happened since 1963.

When you arrive to the restaurant, or wherever, it's not so tragic if the guy doesn't open the car door for you to get out, but Julie was so not impressed when the guy not only didn't wait for her to get out of the car, he sauntered into the restaurant without her as if he forgot she was even there! Dude (yes, I'm using the word dude), you're on a date - with a chick, not yourself. Always let the woman walk ahead of you and when you reach the venue, hold open the door for her (we promise it won't be too taxing on your arm muscles). Why is this seemingly insignificant stuff important, you may be asking yourselves, because it is a sign of respect, and every lady wants to feel respected. Anyway, I won't go into anymore details about that date (did he gab on his cell phone? Yes. Did he lecture her on his brilliant political analyses - i.e. put Julie in a coma? Yes. Did he ask one single question about her, her life, her interests? NO!) Okay, when the bill came, he did the typical polite thing and paid, although Julie, always the lady, did offer to pay.

(Now that we've reached that point, I have to digress just a little. Julie, like most other accomplished ladies - i.e. not a desperado gold digger – appreciates a guy who pays for dinner not because she can't afford to pay for her own meals, but because it is a matter of manners. Why?? Because one of the main positive attributes of a guy is generosity and him not picking up the bill gives the impression of stinginess and that is a HUGE turn off. Proper ladies don't expect a guy to pay for their expenses, but when on a date, a true gentleman always picks up the bill. And a true gentleman knows that this has nothing to do with money, but with the actual gesture.)

Next we come to my friend Nancy*. She recently met a guy of interest who she wanted to get to know better. He asked her out, she accepted and the date went well enough and he seemed to like her quite a bit. After the date, he said he'd like to see her again and Nancy said sure. A few days letter, she gets a message on Facebook - yes Facebook - asking why he hasn't heard from her and hinting, but not asking that he'd like to see her again, setting her up to respond that they should get together. Nancy, fed up with this laissez-faire attitude of so-called wooing did not take the bait. She responded kindly but did not reply with the expected, 'let's meet up.' What is with guys making absolutely no effort? You want to date a girl, pick up the phone and, ASK HER OUT. Do not send an SMS and do not send an email! Especially if the girl has already been out with you and/or already said she’d be open to seeing you – i.e. the whole ‘fear of rejection’ thing is not an excuse.

I know that the ratio of guys to girls is like 1 to 8 million in Lebanon right now, which is why some chicks are so ready, willing and able to put up with such behavior and do all the pursuing themselves. Now guys are so accustomed to sitting back and waiting for the chicks to make all the moves that they do nothing or at best, the bare minimum. But, little do they know that sitting out on the benches of this unrefined game are the most valuable players - classy ladies worth getting all down and dirty for. Too bad the rules of the game have changed so much that hardly anyone bothers to make the effort to discover and appreciate these MVPs.

Yes, unfortunately, chivalry is dead and most guys think that equal rights means that they get to act like Neanderthals. Maybe we should react in kind and revert back to our cavewoman days and stop plucking our eyebrows and shaving our legs! Do you think they’ll get the hint then? Yeah, probably not!

*Names have been changed for the sake of privacy

The False Advertising of Sexy Divine

2009-10-18T13:42:00.003+03:00

As nearly every single Lebanese woman who travels abroad and gets back to Beirut, the first thing I did when I got back home was call for a nail appointment. (Okay, they have nail salons in Richmond, but the last time I did my nails there, they looked like they belonged on one of those trailer park trash guests on the Jerry Springer Show.) Which reminds me, I also need to call my hair salon, but priorities, priorities, priorities!

Anyway, as I was fresh off the plane, I was looking for a new color to reflect my new post-vacation attitude. I was going out that night and I was thinking let's do something drastic (for me - i.e. not French tips). Let's do some color. After much perusing, a little bottle on the rack spoke to me. It was bright. It was different. It was purple. It was Sexy Divine! Oooh, I told my manicurist, let's try this one, maybe the name will rub off on me! She thought that was a hoot and we got started. After she finished my first hand, I looked over and admired my neatly painted nails and was convinced I had made the right choice.

So later on, I got ready for my Friday night with the boys. I was gone for a month, so naturally I wanted to make a grand entrance. I had a new outfit. New shoes. New lipstick shade. And, of course, my Sexy Divine nails. I was all set.

I was a little late (as per usual) and the guys were already there. I thought I was going to be bombarded with compliments, from my hair, right down to my Sexy Divine toenails. No such luck. All I got was a 'Hey, you're back.' Oh, gee thanks. Then the conversation switched to which actors were the modern day equivalents of the golden oldie classics. What?? I did a quick scan around the pub to see if anyone else could possibly notice my sexy divineness, but no such luck.

Eventually, I interrupted the stimulating debate over whether or not there was a modern version of Steve McQueen (my suggestion of Daniel Craig was quickly rebuffed early on), and was like, hey didn't you guys notice my snazzy new nail polish?? They were so not impressed. One of my friends said, 'Let me put it this way, if we were on a first date, I wouldn't ditch you because of the nails.' Nice, just what every girl wants to hear!

So there it was. In future, I think nail polishes should be labeled more realistically, like, 'No one gives a rat's ass what color you choose' or 'You think this is going to look good, but it won't, trust us.' Well, one thing's for sure, the weird purple shade I had pinned such high hopes on didn't make me even remotely sexy apparently or the least bit divine. False advertising indeed!

Party Time ... With the Flu!

2009-10-01T00:20:00.004+03:00

So I have the flu - oh woe is me. As you know, being sick sucks, especially when you're supposedly on vacation (yes, it's still a vacation even if you're in Richmond, Va.!). I've been in bed all day and that translates into one thing - one less day to shop while I'm here. Being sick sucks! So, instead, I'm sitting here watching Oprah. Today's episode: how African-American women suffer with their hair. I think she should head to Lebanon and see how women really suffer for their looks. Oh great, there was just a news break about swine flu in Virginia - yey! Anyway, I digress...

I don't know about you, reader, but I'm the type of sick person that likes to stay in bed in my pjs all day long. I can't even imagine leaving the house (don't worry, I do find the energy to shower). I also like to make everyone feel bad for me without being whiny or pathetic. Like today, for example, my sister said she was going to make her famous chocolate chocolate chip cookies to cheer me up. Well, she hasn't made them yet, but don't worry, I will guilt her into baking before day's end! What can I say - it's a gift.

Not every sicko likes to take time off and stay in bed, though. One of my best friends, for example, will not let something as minor as a fever or sore throat slow her down - nope, not at all. She will go out, cough medicine and hanky in hand, as if it were just a regular night out on the town. Okay, just thinking about going out has exhausted me. My nose is stuffy, my throat is scratchy and my body aches so I'm gonna head back to bed now. Yes, that was whiny and maybe even a little pathetic. But, if you feel compelled to bake me cookies anyway, please go right ahead!

Adventures with Kleenex Hand

2009-09-22T15:09:00.007+03:00

Hello all (yes, that means you, dear fan)! Greetings from the fun and exciting Richmond, Virginia, from where I am writing this next thrilling installment of ... The Blog That No One Reads! So, I know what you are all thinking ... why on earth would anyone travel to Richmond?? Hmmm, good question. Well, my brother is graduating from grad school with an EMBA and good sister that I am, I decided to attend (even though he never reads this blog). He's in NC, but my sisters live in Richmond, so two birds, one stone - you get the idea.

Anyway, the Air France route was a pretty good one. Beirut to Paris was a breeze, then a two hour layover at Charles de Gualle went by really fast. Then it was time for the long haul stretch from Paris to Washington DC. I boarded the plane and took my seat and saw that I was sitting next to a guy from some French-speaking African country. I said a friendly 'bonjour', unloaded my stuff, took out my book and iPod, put on my seat belt, and leaned back to get comfortable and started to read. La di dah, everything was fine ...

Then I hear a loud blowing noise and I turned and caught the guy next to me blowing his nose WITH HIS HAND. And then - as if that wasn't bad enough - he began to flick the 'stuff' off with his finger. I have never been so disgusted in my life. Seriously, I am not exaggerating, and I once had to sit next to someone who stank like sweaty feet. This was worse. By far. And the guy was not embarrassed or at all shy about what he was doing; it was like it was normal or something! WHO DOES THAT??

So, then I was in a dilemma. Do I ask the flight attendant to change my seat and risk everyone in the cabin think I'm a racist who does not want to sit next to a black man, or do I sit for seven and half hours next to a guy who uses his hand like a kleenex? I thought about it and thought about it, but every time I turned to look at the guy, I couldn't get the image of what he had done out of my head. I thought about meal time - would I be able to eat anything? What if he did it again while I was eating? Okay, that did it.

The flight attendant came around and I said that I didn't want to sit in the front row because there was no room for me to stow my bag and I didn't want to put it in the overhead compartment. He looked at me surprised and said, "But you have so much room here? You won't have as much space in another seat." I said that was okay, I just wanted to have my bag with me at all times. He gave me a quizzical facial expression that could've meant a) this chick must have diamonds or something in that bag; or b) this racist chick ain't foolin' nobody.

I switched seats and who could blame me? And that, dear reader, is how my adventure with Kleenex Hand came to a thankful, blessed end!!

Don't Seat Me At the Kiddie Table

2009-09-09T14:52:00.015+03:00

So, the other day I was invited to the millionth wedding of the summer. I had no desire to go, but my mom guilted me into it (as mothers usually do) and I had a new dress so I thought, why not?

Well, the day started out pretty hectic. I didn't have time to go to the hair salon, so I styled my hair myself. No biggie. My nails were a disaster, but I didn't have time to do them before the wedding, so I thought I could paint them quickly in the car. BIG mistake (especially when my dad is driving). I guess a lot of people don't realize what a hassle it is to get ready for a wedding, even when you're not the bride. Anyway, I arrive and my hair is not great, but acceptable; my nails are a disaster, but my dress is pretty. I wrap one hand underneath my clutch bag and hide the other with a pashmina, hoping that no one notices that my fingers look like they've been painted by a blind three-year-old. I lean in to kiss everyone, even people I've never met before, just so I don't have to reach my hand out for a handshake. I know that everyone will be referring to me as the mad kissing chick, but better that than anyone notice my nails.

Of course, the cocktail hour is still going on when we arrive, and I'm wearing heels from hell, so obviously I enjoyed standing up talking to people who a) I don't know or b) I don't like. (Yey, weddings!) My dad, also a big fan of weddings, turns to me and says, "When you get married, please elope." My uncle then says, "When you get married, please don't hire dancing monkeys (i.e. the zaffee)." Cool, I think, a lot of people are sure looking forward to my nuptials. Then mom turns and says, "Just get married."

Finally, we're ushered into the dining area. I check with the hostess and she gives me a different table number from my parents. I get to my table and lo and behold, I'm sitting with teeny-boppers, oldest person, 15 - no lie. I feel like a babysitter and I ask the hostess if she's sure this is my table. She says yes. And I look at her with my, 'are you for real?' expression. She is unsympathetic to my plight. Probably because she's 12 years old herself. With no other choice, I sit at the kiddie table, taking a seat that may as well have had the sign "SPINSTER - 35 and still single." I half expected the photographer to come up and tell me that he thinks I'd be perfect for a new version of Old Maid that he's creating.

The Lebanese notion of 35!

What can I say? Have I been to worse weddings? Yes, but that's only because one of them left me hospitalized for a week - but, that's another story! So, the next time you're going to invite me to a wedding, please extend a little courtesy and seat me with the adults. I may be unmarried, but I promise, I don't bite!

Scandals of the Summer

2009-09-08T12:40:00.007+03:00

I'm baacccckkkk!!! Okay, so the vacation is over and it's the return of everyone's favorite blog that no one is reading! In this enthralling installment, I thought I'd go ever the scandalous events of the summer - yours not mine. See, while I was stuck in a boring-as-hell mountain village (actually, I'm pretty sure hell is far more exciting than Hamana will ever be), you were all out there having a blast in the real world somewhere, so do share your scandalous trysts, rendez-vous and other such goings-on.

As for my paltry tidbits of excitement, the most fascinating thing that happened to me was watching the latest Harry Potter film. Doesn't it suck when you have so many hopes pinned on the summer - you know, like you are going to do so much, meet so many new people, have so much fun, etc, etc - only to have it end and basically have nothing much happen? Well, except for a great tan, in my case. Oh, and a new hairdo, which is going over well, if I do say so myself.

I know what you're thinking: 'Anissa, you were gone for over two months and you come back with this?' Yes, dear fan, you are right. It is unabashedly unforgivable, but alas, the truth. So delight and entertain me with your summer news. If yours was as boring or - gulp - even more boring than mine, then please do spice it up a little! Let me live vicariously through you!

On Vacation

2009-07-29T11:57:00.005+03:00

To all my millions and millions and millions of readers, I'm sure you have been wondering, why the hell hasn't your favorite blog been updated in eons?? Well, the answer, my friends, is that I'm on vacation! As anyone who's anyone knows, there is nothing like the Lebanese summer, and I'm taking full advantage of the beach and mountains, enjoying myself (even if the internet sucks) and having fun!

So, see you when the summer is over and try not to miss me too much. You know you love me, XOXO Writer Girl!

NB: Pic courtesy of Alyah Rafeh and her lovely feet, which no one can beat!

Who'd of Thought We'd Miss Michael Jackson?

2009-06-26T17:25:00.004+03:00

Oh my God, Michael Jackson is dead!! If someone had asked me of all the celebrities I'd miss if they weren't around anymore, Michael Jackson probably would've been somewhere way down on the list. But, last night, when my sister came rushing into my office to tell me that the King of Pop had died, I was soooooooo upset. We ended up staying up until 2am to get confirmation that he had indeed passed away.

Did I particularly like him? No, he was weird to say the least. Not exactly someone easy to relate to, with all the plastic surgery (non-existent nose), weird skin pigmentation and questionable dress sense (hello, sequined glove), not to mention the marriages (Lisa Pressley kiss, yuck!) and the Nordic looking kids (genetic miracles for a black man?). But, he was an icon, whether you liked him or not.

I remember when the Thriller video came out - one word: wow! We were living in Dubai at the time and so we had to actually rent it on video to watch it. I was pretty young, and the dancing zombies coupled with Vincent Price's creepy voice terrified me. The Sri Lankan housekeeper, though, was a fanatic and she insisted on watching it a hundred times despite my terrified whimpers. "Look, look at the dancing," she said, as if that were supposed to take away from the fact that they were zombies! Let me tell you, to an eight-year-old, dancing zombies are frightening!

That night, my parents took us out and walking through the garden, I was terrified a zombie was going to pop out of the bushes and grab me - the thought of it singing and dancing did not assuage my fears. My mom asked me why I was so jittery and I told her and she started to laugh. I took offense to that because she is the chicken of the family and can't even watch shows like CSI. So, when I got back home, I was determined to sit through the video ... again. This time without squirming. "I watched A Nightmare on Elm Street when I was seven," I told myself. I was afraid to sleep for a week, but I watched it! And now I was letting a music video get to me? This was unacceptable. Pathetic even. So, I put in the video before going to bed, watched the whole thing and went to sleep. I don't remember what I dreamt about, but I do know that nary a zombie made an appearance!

Oh well, good bye Michael Jackson. Despite everything, your entertainment over the years has been thrilling!

Immortal UNbeloved

2009-06-15T15:48:00.014+03:00

Over the past few weeks, my mom has been working on transferring all our home movies (from the early betamax days to the present) onto DVD. My dad bought his first video camera back in 1984, when I was ten years old, so there are A LOT of tapes to convert. We all thought it would be a lot of fun to start watching those old tapes right from the very beginning, but boy, was I wrong! You see, over the decades, I had forgotten how awful I was growing up, and just remembered myself as being a nice kid who was good to her siblings (for the most part). And with advances in technology and things like the betamax going obsolete, it became harder and harder to revisit those tapes for a little dose of reality. The cold hard truth could not be hidden forever, though, and now, what I was really like as kid has resurfaced. Dah dah dahhhh ...

Yes, the theme of haunting music should be playing in your heads right now, it is only fitting considering what a dreadful child I was. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a little bit. It's not like I would've been perfect for roles in the Exorcist or The Omen, but I wasn't exactly a little ray of sunshine either. My sister Alyah always told me that I was mean when I was kid and we'd get into huge arguments as adults over this issue. I would say I was delightful and charming and that she was the meanie, and she would say that I was horrible and always picking on her. Yes, very mature, I know. Anyway, I now have to eat my words because she, in fact, was right all along. And to top it all off, there is video evidence to support her claims! (Okay Alyah, happy now, you were right!)

At practically every occasion caught on film, I am making acidic comments about my siblings, or making fun of them in some way. At one family lunch, I'm even filmed whacking my little brother across the head without batting an eye. (I think I felt guilty immediately afterwards, because then I am seen hugging and kissing him, so I guess I wasn't completely awful, right??)

I'm second from left, hugging a then one-year old Nadya.
Don't be fooled by my seemingly sweet demeanor!

My siblings, on the other hand, might as well have been actors in a Hallmark movie, always holding hands and hugging each other and playing with each other. They look into the camera and make cute remarks, whereas I look into the camera and wax lyrical about how completely fabulous I am. Yes, I forgot to add that in addition to being unbearable, I was also totally conceited, believing that I was the greatest thing on earth. I have no idea why. I was overweight, had braces AND glasses, not to mention the worst sense of style, and let's just say that every day was a bad hair day.

Little miss conceited. That's Alyah on the right looking
on in horror, thinking, 'What the hell does this chick see in herself!'

It made me nostalgic for the good ol' days when no camcorders existed and people could remember themselves anyway they liked and nobody would be the wiser. Unfortunately for me, the truth is out of the bag. Just call me the Rafeh Immortal UNbeloved!

March Madness: A Rant of the Week

2009-06-02T11:57:00.007+03:00

So, unless you've been living under a rock, you probably all know that Lebanon's elections are coming up this weekend. To be honest, I'm much more interested in the results of this past Sunday's MTV Movie Awards. Yes, the news of Twilight sweeping the awards got my blood pumping a lot more than who will emerge victorious on June 7! I mean come on, who would you rather see giving a speech on TV, the delicious Robert Pattinson or some middle aged, overweight, maniacal politician ranting and sweating, spewing threats and insulting other politicians?? Hmmm, I take the hunky actor, thank you very much.

It's a wonder that any one living here thinks that any of the crazy lunatics running for office are qualified to run the country. Let's see, what has been accomplished since we gained our pseudo-independence .... wars (internal and international), instablity, corruption, assassinations (political and otherwise), fear mongering, threats against the civilian population by those that were supposedly there to protect us, more fear, more threats and more violence.

What we didn't get? A stable, democratic country - democratic being the key word. A government that actually works for the people - you know, since we elected them and all - instead of focusing solely on securing their own power base and pockets. A government that doesn't steal from the people. A government that implements reasonable utility costs for electricity, water, phones, etc, that correspond to the average wage. Also, speaking of government run utilities, the UNIVERSAL collection of electricity bills so that others are not penalized with exorbitant costs because of those who do not pay. A proper army that does not stand around and do nothing while unarmed civilians are being beaten or murdered right in front of their eyes. Respect from our so-called leaders when on the road, so that we are not shooed off the street like cockroaches just because they want to get home for dinner - they are not too good to wait in traffic like the rest of us. And speaking of traffic, not closing off entire roads systems without any regard to the average Joe, who does not need to spend fours in traffic getting home after working all day just because some useless politicians decided to have a meeting (which inevitably will end in accomplishing NOTHING).

The list could go on and on, and frankly, I don't have the energy anymore to go through the problems with our government, or lack there of. Where are the laws and bills that should have been passed that would improve our way of life? Why are political leaders only good at going on TV and bad mouthing each other? Why don't they actually do something that will improve the lives of the Lebanese people like they are supposed to be doing? Why haven't we seen the privatization of EDL and the cell phone companies? Why haven't we seen the implementation of civil law with regards to marriage and divorce, etc? Why haven't women been granted the right to give the Lebanese citizenship to their husbands and children? Why hasn't the infrastructure been improved so that we can attract more businesses to open their doors in Lebanon, improve the economy and employment? Where are the changes that the people want to see, not the changes the politicians want only to make them richer and more powerful?

So many questions and not one politician capable, qualified or willing to answer them. Here's a piece of advice: instead of bickering about March this and March that, try doing what your constituents want for a change and actually DO SOMETHING.

Despite my severe disillusionment, I will be at the polls this Sunday exercising my 'democratic' right (hah!). In an election in which all the candidates suck, I will be voting for the lesser of two evils. Maybe, one day, we can hope for more - we certainly deserve it. Robert Pattinson for president anyone??

Men who wear white socks and other pet peeves

2009-05-29T15:04:00.014+03:00

So, I was having lunch with a friend last week at a trendy new cafe that just opened and as we started talking, we noticed our table was rickety. At first, none of us said anything, but then all the shaking back and forth was sooooo annoying, my friend called over the waiter and asked him to put something underneath the table leg to steady it. The guys on the next table thought it was hilarious we were making - in their approximation - a big deal of the shaky table. One guy said, "This is Lebanon, nothing works right." Hmmm, he may have a point, but I'm pretty sure he was talking about politics. Well, there may be no solution to the election drama we're all facing, but a rickety table? Damn straight we can get that fixed! And we did.

But that brought on a whole new conversation: pet peeves. My friend, Mr. Pet Peeve, gets annoyed by just about everything. During a telephone conversation, he interrupted himself and went on and on for nearly 15 minutes about how smudge marks on his new external hard drive were driving him crazy and how every time he picked it up, he had to wipe it clean. Well, we may not all be as anal as Mr. PP, but there is a whole list of pet peeves that we can certainly relate to. Mine is long and varying, but I've narrowed it down to the below.

1. Guys who wear white socks with dark shoes (except for with sneakers) - why, oh why? Is being color coordinated really that difficult??

2. Which leads me to ... guys who don't wear socks with shoes, especially in summer - one word: GROSS!

3. People who call you and after you've said hello, say hello back a million times before finally saying what they've called for.

4. Cars that cut in front of me, even though there are no other cars behind me, and then proceed to go at a snail's pace.

5. People that say 'you're welcome' before you've even said thanks.

6. That retarded commercial for skin bleach that insinuates being dark is like having dirt on your face (coming in a close second is that annoying as hell 'pasta from Pizza Hut' commercial).

7. Mexican/ Turkish soap operas dubbed in Arabic.

8. People who take the elevator to the first floor - how lazy can you be??

9. Lebanese traffic cops, who seriously have the mental capacity and manners of a cockroach!

10. Smudge marks on external hard drives - NOT!

Go ahead and add your own pet peeves in the comments section below! I'm sure that will be a very interesting list!

Strapped for cash

2009-05-21T16:23:00.006+03:00

In order to relate to you the latest in a long series of embarrassing situations, I have to give you some background information - so bare with me! The other day, I went to withdraw cash and the ATM machine ate my card after three failed attempts at punching in my PIN. This was on a weekend, which meant that I had to wait until Monday before going back to the bank and getting my card and some much needed cash. I'm not usually such a bimbo, by the way. I have the original number written down, but it's not working so I guess I must've changed the PIN some time ago because now, for the life of me, I can't remember what it is. I'm usually pretty good at remembering crap like this, but you know, it happens - sometimes your forget the PIN for your ATM card and you're left with no cash over the weekend and forced to revert back to your high school days and borrow money from your parents (thanks mom and dad, will pay you back soon, promise!). Anyway, I digress...

Later that day, I stopped by the grocery store - pre-loan from the parents - thinking, no problem, don't need cash, will put groceries on my credit card. I forgot about the guy who carries the bags to your car and when he took my groceries and started walking with me to my car, I panicked. I was so flustered as to what I should do. I could've taken the groceries and said I can carry them myself, but I totally forgot I was cashless until he was already walking with me. I then asked myself, should I snatch the groceries from the guy and insist on carrying them myself at the risk of him thinking that I'm too cheap to tip him? Should I let him carry my groceries to the car and just tell him the honest truth, that I didn't have any cash? As I was wondering what I should do, I realized I was wasting time and getting closer and closer to my car, making option one now impossible. I took out my wallet and frantically started digging for one stray thousand lira bill that I hoped was tucked somewhere in between pictures of my niece and nephew and old credit card receipts. By this time, we were at my car and with each bag he placed in the trunk, my panic grew.

As he slammed the trunk shut, I opened the coin holder praying for some change ... and my prayers were answered. Hallelujah! I found nearly LL2,000 in coins, not ideal but better than nothing. I explained that I had no cash and apologized for tipping in coins (looked down upon in this neck of the woods). The guy was very pleasant and told me not to worry, no tip was necessary, but I insisted he take the coins, which he did. So, I traded in a huge embarrassing moment for an only slightly embarrassing moment. Not bad.

(PS Still haven't figured out my PIN and am still the cashless wonder of Beirut!)

Bluetooth and picking up boys

2009-05-05T10:26:00.003+03:00

So apparently, I have been missing out on the greatest invention of the 21st (or 20th?) century: Bluetooth - aka the awesomely subtle yet effective tool of seduction. I was chatting with a male acquaintance of mine (a self-described jagal) and it seems Bluetooth + Flirting = True Love! Who knew? Certainly not me. Here I thought this new fangled, nifty technology was only good for transferring data from one Bluetooth enabled gizmo to another. What a loser I felt when I admitted that I only used it to send songs to my phone for ultra cool ringers. Let me tell you, Mr. Jagal thought I was anything but cool.

'No, no, no. You must to use it when you are out in a cafe. Someone maybe will like you and send you a message. Like, "hi, how are you." You reply, "yes, I am fine, how are you?" You look around and if he is okay, maybe you will have coffee together,' he instructed. Hmmm, sounds easy enough I suppose. Just switch my Bluetooth on the next time I go out and let the magic happen! No problem.

The other night, I was having dinner with a friend and I told her all about the advice I received from Mr. Jagal. She started to laugh and didn't even know what Bluetooth was really, but decided that we should try it anyway. So we did.... And we waited.... The results of the experiment were as follows: Flirting Action: 0; Cool Song Transfer: 1.

The next day, I relayed the results of my failed attempt to Bluetooth flirt to Mr. Jagal. 'No, no, no. You must to use it in a place where you see other people using their phones. Not just anywhere. Did you see people using their phones?' he asked. 'No, they were eating, I guess,' I replied. He just shook his head like I was the most incompetent pick-up artist alive (which I probably am), a Bluetooth Bimbo if you will.

Oh well ... Bluetooth may not have been be able to find me a match made in heaven, but at least it didn't prove completely useless!

Some People are Real A**holes: A Rant of the Week!

2009-04-29T17:45:00.009+03:00

As you can probably tell from the title of this blog entry, I'm in a really bad mood! I just can't believe how really terrible some people are. So today, I was on my way to pick up a friend for lunch - I was late (as usual) and he called me just as I was two minutes away from his place. I knew he was waiting outside for me, so when a car from a perpendicular street was trying to turn onto the main road I was on, I did not let him pass. I was late and had right of way anyway, and didn't have to let any car pass. The SOB then turns in and rams his car right into the back of my jeep. ON PURPOSE! I was so enraged, I mean, who does that?? Who rear-ends a car just because the person driving didn't let them pass?? What an absolute caveman! I got out of the car and gave him a piece of my mind. Onlookers on the road - all men of course - came outside and berated the lunatic as well. He apologized and said it was an accident, but I told him that he was lying, that he did it on purpose because I did not let him pass. So, he says, 'If it was on purpose, then I apologize, and there is no damage to your car.' Oh, I was soooo angry, so I called him a son of a bitch and walked off.

How can people be so awful?? And last week, I was driving down this one way road, and a van/cab driver was coming up in the opposite direction. He stopped his car, refusing to back up, and I refused to back up because HE WAS GOING THE WRONG WAY! So, I put my car in park and waited. He thought he could intimidate because I'm a woman and his falling apart van was full of males - well, he had another thing coming. He came out of his car and was telling me to back up. So I said he was going the wrong way and he should back up. So, of course, being in Lebanon, where 99% of the population is completely without principles, he starts screaming and yelling at me – yeah, like that’s going to make me move. He then threatens to hit my car. I told him to go ahead, and I will call the police and let them decide who is right and wrong in this situation. So, of course, coward that most morons like that are, he backs down, and starts to say that I'm like his sister – really, no joke, his sister - and to please back up because by that time, two other cars had come up behind him. I didn't want to cause world war III over the whole thing, but I was prepared to fight for the principle of the matter. So, I compromised and said I would back up only if he admitted that he was wrong and apologized. He did and I backed up. He was even benevolent enough to thank me as he drove off. How touching!

I am just so sick and tired of jerks in this country acting like total barbarians and then screaming and yelling when called on their behavior because they think women are too timid to face them. As this one bystander at the cab incident said, 'Ma3alesh, just back up.' And I told him, 'Mish ma3alash.’ It's bad enough that people here are so completely inconsiderate, rude and uncivilized when they drive; the least they can do is apologize when they are wrong. He agreed with me while chomping on his mankouche, but then shrugged his shoulders like there was nothing to be done.

Well, there is always something to be done. We put up with a lot of crap living in Lebanon because we love our country. But, I for one, draw the line at being bullied by a bunch of dumbass a**holes!

N.B.: Credit for the title of this blog entry goes to the one and only Michael Karam!

Your Age in Chocolate

2009-04-23T11:32:00.005+03:00

Okay, I can't take credit for this one, I got it as an email forward and thought it was really cool. I know it's a mathematical thing, but anything to do with chocolate gets my attention - fast!! So, think of this as a bonus blog entry and enjoy :) !!

Your age in chocolate begins NOW!!

Don't tell me your age; you probably would tell a falsehood anyway but the Hershey (or Cadbury) Man will know! This is your age by chocolate math and is pretty neat.

DON'T CHEAT BY SCROLLING DOWN FIRST! It takes less than a minute . Work this out as you read . Be sure you don't read the bottom until you've worked it out! This is not one of those waste of time things, it's fun.

1. First of all, pick the number of times a week that you would like to have chocolate (more than once but less than 10)

2. Multiply this number by 2 (just to be bold)

3. Add 5

4. Multiply it by 50 -- I'll wait while you get the calculator

5. If you have already had your birthday this year add 1759 .... If you haven't, add 1758.

6. Now subtract the four digit year that you were born.

You should have a three digit number.

The first digit of this was your original number (i.e., how many times you want to have chocolate each week). The next two numbers are YOUR AGE (Oh YES, it is!) AND THIS IS THE ONLY YEAR (2009) IT WILL EVER WORK!

How I discovered that George Clooney is NOT in love with me

2009-04-20T15:07:00.019+03:00

Yes, it's been over a week since my last entry and I'm feeling like the absolute worst blogger ever. But, in my defense, I have been ill ... yet again! I caught a debilitating virus that left me bed ridden for five days - fun stuff! Anyway, now on to today's exhilarating entry: secret admirers. Oooohhhhhh ...

So, last week, I got this sms that I have a secret admirer - I know, I know, everyone's been getting them. But, I decided to check the whole thing out, investigative journalism style, so that I could properly expose the scam to you, my dear readers. For those of you not in the know, an sms has been going around that the recipient has a secret admirer. To get your special message, though, you have to send an sms to a provided number. My 'secret admirer' message was in French - the first clue that the whole thing is bogus, because anyone who knows me even remotely, would never, ever, send me a message in French. Anyway, it read something like, 'I really like you, but I'm too intimidated to approach you.' Flashbacks of grade school and the crushes of 12 year olds sprang to mind, but I persevered!

The message then says that it will give you the name of your so-called admirer if you send yet another sms to the same number. I did so (only because our dear minister of telecom has reduced sms rates to $0.10, otherwise this experiment would never have happened. So, thanks Gebran!). I received another message, saying, shocker of all shockers, that my secret admirer wishes to remain anonymous, but if I send in the name of who I think it could be, it will tell me whether I'm right or wrong. So, I typed in a name, and guess what folks ... ? That's how I discovered that George Clooney is not secretly in love with me!

Although entirely possible, George is not in love with me

Devastated as I was, the experiment was not yet over. My sister, who also received a secret admirer sms, did the same thing at my -- annoying? -- insistence, just to see if we would get the exact same message. Well, hers was in English, but she was as equally heartbroken to learn that Edward Cullen was not secretly pining away over her!

So there you have it folks! Our brilliant detective work was so brilliant, in fact, that I feel like this could be an Emmy award winning segment on 60 Minutes. And thanks to the amazing investigative team of Rafeh & Rafeh (aka Anissa and Nadya) we have not only managed to uncover the truth for you, but have also saved you from those moments when you think, 'Well maybe I could have a secret admirer,' but you don't want to be that loser that sent in the sms hoping to find true love, only to realize that you actually fell for a gimmick. Yes, you owe us big time (feel free to thank us ad nauseam!).

Disclaimer: This experiment is in no way an indication of loserish behavior, since it was carried out with the full knowledge that it was a hoax and done for the sole purpose of providing hardcore proof of its bogus nature.

Readers, dearest

2009-04-09T11:51:00.006+03:00

Dear readers (all two of you), I'm sorry that I have been so neglectful of my blog of late, but I have been seriously busy with deadlines. Thankfully, I actually have some work to do - wohooo! (It has been a slow few months, so a hectic work schedule is more than welcome.) What I like to do when I'm really busy is reward myself after completing a task. Like, for example, when I finish writing a paragraph, I get five minutes (okay, more like 30) to check out Facebook. Today, I'm treating myself - in between copywriting a brochure and copyediting a catalogue - by writing a new entry for my blog. After all, I wouldn't want to disappoint my eager readers (hi mom!).

Speaking of work, I'm going to put in a shameless plug here and talk about my book, Miss Guided, which according to a very reliable source (thanks Nadya!), is now number 10 (out of 20) on the Virgin bestseller list downtown. I was number four before those blasted Twilight books hit the stands. Stupid books about a gorgeous vampire (swoon, sigh, Edward) falling in love with a mortal (dumbass, whiny Bella) and their mushy romance ... that I am COMPLETELY OBSESSED WITH! But, that doesn't mean you have to be as well. Put that book down and go out and buy Miss Guided. Everyone dies at the end - just kidding, I would never be that cruel, except for once, but that's another story ...

Okay, and now on to shameless plug number two: I will be writing a column for the English version of Sayidity magazine, which is available pretty much across the Middle East. So, be sure to check out my musings and humorous witticisms in The Lighter Side every month! Also, feel free to send me feedback and suggestions -- even let me know what irks you so that I can point out the lighter side. Ahhhh, clever, see the connection there???

Well, my time with you today has been regrettably short, but rewarding nonetheless. I have a catalogue waiting for me, dear readers, not exactly as tempting as a delicious vampire, but hey, at least there's a paycheck involved!

Trashy Tuesday

2009-03-31T13:01:00.014+03:00

Good Trashy Tuesday to you all! Lot's of dirt to dish in this week's installment, so let the gossip begin ...

First off, in keeping with the current world economic crisis, I thought it fitting to talk a little about those poor (pun intended) celebrities facing economic woes of their own. So, according to a recent report from ABCnews.com, the top seven poorest celebs are:

1. Willie Aames (the guy from Eight is Enough and Charles in Charge) - Okay, to call him a celebrity is stretching it, but apparently this former star from the 70s and 80s had to have a garage sale to cover his mounting debts - talk about embarrassing.

2. Michael Jackson - Yep, it's true, he may not have lost the shirt off his back, but he did lose the jewel encrusted glove off his hand. After selling off his Neverland ranch (aka Creepo Manor), he was supposed to sell off a bunch of his stuff in an auction. That, however, has been put on hold as the so-called 'king of pop' prepares for about 50 sold out concerts in London this year, which will apparently be earning him about $1 to $2 million EACH! So, I'm not sure Wacko Jacko will be on this list for long.

3. Jodie Sweetin (the middle kid from Full House) - Are we even surprised that the former meth addict is on the broke list?? No, but we are surprised that ABCnews considers her a celebrity! The former child star has apparently had a taste of the poverty life, since having her water and electricity turned off numerous times and may be now losing her house.

4. Lindsay Lohan - Rumors about drugs, alcohol, buying luxury cars she can't afford, stealing fur coats and borrowing money from her girlfriend may be the reasons that landed LiLo on this list. Or it could be that she hasn't had a job in eons and that her latest movie is not even going straight to DVD, but straight to cable TV! Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Lilo in the poor house

5. Annie Leibovitz - Now this one is a shocker! How could one of the world's most famous and in-demand photographers be in debt - over $715,000 in debt to be exact?? It seems that she has had to borrow some $20 million and put up her town house as well as her coveted photos up for collateral. Talk about living beyond your means!

6. Ruben Studdard - Uhm, do we even care about this one? Well, it seems he owes about $200,000 in taxes. Yeah, I know, I'm bored already too. So on to the final celebrity on the list ...

7. Ed McMahon - Even more boring than Ruben, you say? You're right!

So, the next time you're feeling bad about your finances, just think of the above. At least you don't have to pretend to be rich and famous.

Since we're talking about lists, I also came across one on the stinkiest Hollywood heartthrobs. I mentioned in the last Trashy Tuesday that the absolutely delish Rob Pattinson needed some deodorant tips. Well, apparently I'm not the only one who thinks so, as one magazine listed him as one of the 100 UNsexiest (yes, unsexy) celebrities because of his lack of hygiene! Other supposed stink bombs are Matthew McCaunghey, who admits to not having used deodorant in 20 years, Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves and Viggo Mortenson, who supposedly got so into his Aragorn role in Lord of the Rings, he slept in the woods and didn't bathe, like ever.

Smelly but still scrumptious!

Hmmm, and you know what? These guys get women! The most beautiful (perhaps, olfactory nodes deficient) women!

Last, but not least, I leave you with this tidbit especially for my mom (and Kinda, although she won't admit it) ... After a million years, the US soap, Guiding Light, has been canceled. First airing on the radio in 1937 and then on TV in 1952, it's - finally? - time to say goodbye!

And speaking of goodbye, it's time for me to sign off. Until next time, you know you love me. XOXO, Writer Girl!

Only males need apply

2009-03-27T13:46:00.013+02:00

The time has come for me to renew my yearly gym membership, so I have been exploring my options and checking out a bunch of other gyms. But, after visiting pretty much every viable health establishment in my area, I have come to the conclusion that where I'm at now is the best option for me. So, yesterday I asked for the new price list for this year and was really surprised at the major hike in membership prices. I took a closer look at the membership fees to see if I qualify for any of the reduced rates and, of course, as the average singleton, I get NONE.

I noticed a special corporate rate, one for college students, people who own a chalet or cabana on the gym's hotel premises and a day rate for those willing to come between 7am and 4pm. The one 'special deal' that really irked me, though, is the one for 'couples.' Why do they get a reduced membership rate?? I asked if I qualified for the rate if a female friend joined the gym with me, and the answer was no, it has to be a boyfriend or husband. 'How prejudiced,' I said, to which the admin guy replied, 'Well, why don't you get married?' Yes, because that seems to be the solution to every problem if you have the terrible misfortune of being single.

It's not enough that people in this country make singles feel bad on a daily basis - it's come to the point where you can't even take a sip of juice without hearing 'farahtik this' or 'akbalik that.' I suppose that the prospect of being happily single is a notion most Lebanese cannot fathom (it's about 4.45pm and I have already heard inshallah nufrah minik ya raab about a gazillion times). And now, to top it all off, we are being made to feel inadequate at the gym, of all places, simply because we don't have a significant other!

The difference between the 'couples' and 'singles' rate is not huge - just $20 a month - so it's not like it's going to make or break me. But, it's the principle of the matter! Why should I have to be with someone in order to get a discounted price? There should be one rate - a human being rate - that applies to ALL people, great or small, male or female, single or attached. So I say to the Movenpick gym - yes, I'm talking to you - show some respect for your single members. We are just as worthy of your special rates as anyone else, in my humble, albeit single, opinion.

Lebanon Blues

2009-03-25T13:57:00.003+02:00

I know the world was waiting in eager anticipation yesterday for yet another super thrilling installment of Trashy Tuesday, but I was unable to keep my blogging obligations because of illness. For the umpteenth time since moving to Lebanon, I am going through a bout of food poisoning. Yes, yesterday was pretty bad, which got me thinking about really bad days. The thing is, you never really know ahead of time when a day is going to go bad, but I usually have a sense of foreboding that starts with a series of telltale signs.

On any given workday, I know it’s going to be bad when:

-- I oversleep. I don’t know how this happens, since I have an 'internal' alarm clock and never sleep in accidentally. Technically, I always wake up on time, the problem with me is actually getting out of bed. I always think I have five more minutes to spare before its imperative that I roll out and start to get ready. I know it’s going to be a bad day when that five minutes ‘accidentally’ turns into 50 and I have basically two minutes to make a deadline. The end result is frantically spending the day in front of my laptop in a tracksuit (okay, pyjamas) that’s seen better days and seriously bad hair.

-- I’m running late (as usual) on the way to a meeting and I’m sandwiched in between a truck in front of me and an ancient taxi moving at a snail’s pace to the right on a two lane road. I try to weave my way out of such obstacle courses as soon as they arise, which usually results in offensive hand gestures and rude comments mouthed through windshields from others on the road. Although, it could be argued that my driving warrants such reactions, nothing ruins my day more than someone swearing at me on the road.

-- I need to pick up a check (YEY!) and all the parking lots are full and there are no free spots on the street. Unlike 99.9% of Lebanese, I don’t have the balls to park illegally, especially with the recent swell in ticket hungry cops. With all the criminal acts going on in the country, for some reason haphazardly parked cars seem to be the number one concern for our police officers. Murder, theft … what are these next to the virtual goldmine of parking violations? Nice to know that to our men in blue ‘keeping the peace’ only refers to parked cars.

--When I have to share an elevator. Okay, this may sound a little weird, and perhaps slightly petty, but I absolutely hate sharing the elevator with people I don’t know. When I’m on my way to a meeting, I just can’t be bothered to make pleasantries with other people. Plus, if there’s someone in there with you, you can’t fix any embarrassing fashion mishaps that you may have missed in your haste to get ready. Not to mention that stopping on other floors delays you if you’re running late (as usual) – it’s in those final seconds that I feel the most anxious to just get there already. I get so annoyed when I’ve waited for what seems like forever for the elevator to arrive, only to have two people come in with me: one going on the first floor (which irritates me to no end because, seriously, who is so lazy that they can’t climb one flight of stairs), and the second going on the floor just before mine (which I can’t stand because that only gives me one floor to primp in front of the mirror).

Oh well, sometimes bad days happen to good people. When the nasty stuff begins to hit the fan, just remember that, in the infamous words of Scarlet O’Hara, “Tomorrow is another day!”

The Rocky Diaries

2009-03-20T12:59:00.011+02:00

In my quest to get as lean and fit as Rocky, I have, on and off over the past 10 years, been a member of one gym or the other. I tried out pilates for a while and yoga, worked out on my own, but nothing seemed to get me into Rocky-worthy shape. Over the past two years, though, I've been working with a personal trainer in an attempt to finally reach my goal fitness level.

Despite the 'rigors' of my workout regime, however, I feel only slightly fit. Although I go a minimum of three times a week, I've never really quite gotten there, for some strange and mysterious reason unbeknownst to me. I do the requisite 30 minutes (sometimes more) of fat burrrrning, followed by either lower or upper body weight training, either with my trainer or alone. I even do over a hundred crunches for the rock hard abs that it appears I will never have. Eye of the Tiger ringing in my ear, I have even tackled the sinister stairmaster, and other such ominous looking machines, all to no avail.

Adding insult to injury is that fact that my gym is full of geriatrics - average age 67 - so I don't even have the excuse of being distracted by hunky fellow members strutting their stuff in front of me. The advantage, however, of going to a gym popular with senior citizens is that for the first (and probably only) time in my life, I'm the hottest girl at the gym. And I don't say this out of conceit - it's easy to claim that title when your stiffest competition is a 90 year old widow. No lie!

I guess I should be a little more honest in revealing my gym-going habits. Challenging routine - check; workout at least four times per week - check; personal trainer - check; workout for at least an hour - check; proper diet - uhmmm, no comment. Okay, so maybe the whole 'perfect body' thing is not working out for me so much because my average gym routine looks something like this:

Please notice gym bag in background!

Can I help it if a Burger King just so happens to be right across the street from my gym? The average person needs some serious Herculean will power to resist stopping in for a Chicken Royale and fries after emerging from an arguably challenging workout absolutely starving to death, which tends to be the case most of the time for me. And every time I drive out of the gym, there it is, in big red letters, just calling out to me, "Take a bite out of me, I promise I won't make you fat." Yeah, right! Stupid burger and fries. The Achilles heel of my fitness program. The thorn in my never-going-to-look-like-a-supermodel side. The 500 calorie obstacle standing in the way of my life-long dream of looking like an Olympic athlete. Yes, those dreams are gone now. And it's all because of you, damn Burger King!

And you want to know the funniest thing of all? I prefer McDonald's.

Trashy Tuesday

2009-03-17T18:37:00.011+02:00

This week's installment of Trashy Tuesday is chock-full of, well ... trash! Did you expect anything less?? First off, there was the catfight at the auditions for that show that epitomizes excellence in television - of course I'm talking about America's Next Top Model! What other show on TV exemplifies such high standards of broadcasting material? Such profound dialogue, intricate plot lines, sophisticated acting capabilities. Oh wait, I forget, it's reality TV ... They're not acting stupid and vacuous, they actually are vapid morons! My bad!

Hmmm, I digress... Anyway, apparently a huge catfight erupted in NYC outside where auditions for the new season of the show were taking place. Three charming ladies were led to 'glam' prison cells in the hottest accessory du jour, handcuffs - let's hope the NYPD are a little fashion forward and used the far hipper clear plastic strips rather than that yucky shiny metal kind that would surely have clashed with their chic 'off to prison' outfits. Two other hopeful contestants were rushed to hospital and the show's ubiquitous host, Tyra Banks, responded by saying she was 'concerned' about the melee. Good to know that Tyra is so on top of things.

I guess not everybody likes a good catfight

Speaking of TV, one hunky star of one of my fave shows, Gossip Girl, was caught on film in a most compromising nasty position. Hah! I know what you're all thinking, but get your minds out of the gutter. The nasty I'm referring to is much less suggestive and a lot more literal. Just take a look below...

Oh Ed Westwick, how well did we love thee ... before you decided to pick your nose in public and disgust us all. Your portrayal of Chuck Bass made us weak at the knees, but this?? This just makes our stomachs weak - and not in a good way. It's a called tissue - USE ONE! To help you out, I've even posted a pic to remind you what they look like.

What is with these celebrities and their less than stellar track record with hygiene? Why, just the other day I was watching an interview with yummy morsel of the moment, Rob Pattinson, and I was revolted to see huge sweat marks under his armpits. He went from swoon worthy to ewww worthy in seconds.

YUM!

YUCK!

Hello ... deodorant anyone?

Well, that's all the scoop from this week. Until next time, you know you love me. XOXO, Writer Girl!

Closets for Hobbits

2009-03-16T12:12:00.011+02:00

I had recent conversation about closet space in Lebanese homes, which is basically non-existent. This led me to believe that most interior designers are a) dumbass males who think that most women only possess three t-shirts and a pair of jeans; b) dumbass males who think most women are hobbits; c) evil males who have conspired to torture women with any sense of fashion by providing them with no space for their clothes, shoes and accessories; d) sexist morons who don't think that women actually live in homes. What were these idiots thinking?? That women are bag ladies who wear one outfit while pushing the others around in a shopping cart?

My closet space is laughable. Just take a look at the below, which was the original closet for my room.

PUHLEEEZZZEEEEEEEEE!!! What kind of moron thinks that any woman is supposed to fit a summer and winter wardrobe + shoes in this microscopic, sad and sorry excuse of a closet?? And what if it was to be shared by a second party?? HAH - can we say disaster? Thankfully, I don't have to worry about sharing closet space, but imagine having to cram your clothes into this pathetic thing. What a joke!

I know many other women face a similar nightmare, which is why each season, we are reduced to packing up and unpacking clothes in accordance with the weather change. What a bloody pain, not to mention waste of time! I was fortunate enough to have another wardrobe made to accommodate my winter clothes and shoes, but still, I NEED MORE SPACE.

This second wardrobe still leaves me wanting for MORE - more space!

If only there were a closet fairy we could pray to. All we'd have to do is place that new sweater that we couldn't stuff on the shelf under a pillow, and in the morning we'd wake up to a walk-in closet that would even make Carrie Bradshaw jealous! Ahhhh, well, a girl can dream, can't she?

Until then, we must suffer through crappily designed homes and beg the idiots in charge to consider, the next time they take on the design of an interior living space, seven letters: F.A.S.H.I.O.N - it's a word, look it up!

The Talk Show Experience

2009-03-11T11:33:00.009+02:00

First off, I apologize for not posting another installment of Trashy Tuesday, but I was out of my office most of the day and just didn't have the time for our Hollywood friends.

Also, I was anxious about my televised interview on the Nataloo show! I had to speak for nearly 10 minutes in Arabic and it was really nerve-racking to say the least! Thankfully, it was not live - I actually went to film the segment about two weeks ago. It's a talk show format, with the host, Nathalie, and another main guest asking the 'minor' guests (like me) questions. I told the guest booker before I was confirmed as a guest on the show that my Arabic was borderline terrible (especially the accent), but she said it was fine and that Nathalie would help me out and that I could also resort to English whenever I was stuck. So, agreed to do the show to promote my book, Miss Guided: How to step into the Lebanese glam lane.

The behind-the-scenes at the filming of a talk show is quite interesting - even if this was only a local Lebanese one. I first arrived and was guided to the greenroom, where the main guests, Nidal al Achkar (a prominent theater owner and director of plays) as well as some painter and an ad executive were already sitting. Everyone seemed really nice. Then the host came in and I was whisked off to do my hair and makeup. I liked the hair, but thought the makeup was DREADFUL. I was plastered with black eyeliner and eyeshadow paired with a silver shadow. My eyes looked like tiny little slits. And to top it off, he put ORANGE lipstick on me!! Lesson learned: when making a TV appearance, always bring your own makeup kit or risk looking like a slanty-eyed pumpkin!

After that, it was interview time... Considering that the entire thing was in Arabic, I think it came out okay. I will post it as soon as I've managed to upload it and you all can be the judge!!

Until then, you know you love me. XOXO, Writer Girl!