Say Cheese

Last week, I went to the beach with Mr US and Mr NYC. It was a semi-frou frou place in Beirut, but since it was a week day, I didn't mind. When we got there, there was a woman posing for pictures at the bar, with her friend behind the camera. She kept moving around to make sure that her precious handbag was in every shot - a hot pink Chanel - because, of course, there is no other reason to post pics on Facebook if you can't show off that you bring a Chanel purse... to the beach. This is not an exaggeration, readers. This really happened. Imagine... posing for pics to highlight your designer handbag AT THE BEACH! I think I have seen the epitome of superficial materialism/ stupidity/ desperation.

Now, let me be clear. There is absolutely nothing wrong with owning a designer handbag. I love my bags. But I don't feel the need to a) take pictures of them and post them on Facebook and b) tote them to the beach (of all places). This is mainly because a) I have a life and b) I know that there are more important things going on in the world than who has the latest designer purse.

Women from a certain segment of Lebanese society need to wake up and realize that most people outside their little bubbles care about how much money they have about as much as they care about what Amanda Bynes has been arrested for since she went bat-sh*t crazy. Who is Amanda Bynes, you ask? Yeah, exactly, I rest my case.

MadGlam was over the other day and we were exchanging horror stories about these supposed 'society' women and how they abandon their kids to the care of housekeepers so they can galavant around town getting manicures and attend mindless society events to show off about their bags, jewelry and extravagant vacations. I avoid such events like the plague. I'd rather hang out with the ghosts of Saddam Hussein and Qhaddafi. But Beirut is a small town and you hear things.

When I look around and see what is happening in the world, what is happening in our backyard, and then I see how these women behave, I become totally disgusted. I want to ask these women, aren't you tired? It must be so exhausting to always be in competition with your so-called 'friends'. Why try so hard to out do everyone when there is always going to be someone who is richer than you, prettier than you, thinner than you and - not that you care - smarter than you.

It is so freeing to just be who you are and to surround yourself with people who accept the real you. Step out of your bubble for once and see. 

Beiruti Beach Bunnies

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

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.