The Un-Princess Diaries

I think the daylight savings somehow affected my brain activity last week. I didn't even know it was daylight savings. I had brunch plans with NSS and her brood. I was in the kitchen, looked at the microwave clock and thought, wow, I have like 2 hours to kill, let's do some housework .

So, not to pull a Gwyneth Paltrow or anything, but I'm just not used to housework. I relayed this to my co-worker, who then put on a British accent (it sounded kind of Swedish) and said, "Oh, did you used to have servants do that for you?" And so I responded, "Um, yes." He was a little surprised, but you know, in Lebanon, many people do have housekeepers - it's not uncommon. Anyway, of course, in the past I have had to scrub toilets and do laundry and sweep floors, etc, but it's been a while. I have been doing just fine since I moved, though. There was hick-up with a blanket I put in the dryer that got a thick layer of lint stuck to my new sheets. But other than that, I have been managing.

That Sunday, after the blanket debacle, I decided to take care of an old cast iron skillet my parents had in storage and gave to me. It's been sitting on my kitchen counter top for weeks, waiting to be 'seasoned' to remove the rust. I looked up the instructions online and followed the steps: 1. put layer of cooking oil, 2. line bottom of oven with aluminum foil, 3. heat oven to 325 degrees, 4. place pan in oven upside down and leave for an hour. Fine, done.

One hour later, I go retrieve my DIY work and see that even though I used the aluminum foil, the oil had seeped through and now black gunk was super-glued to the bottom. I tried scrubbing it, but nothing came off except for my manicure (which I'm beginning to think are a waste money with all the manual labor I'm doing). I spied a self-clean button on the oven and thought, Great perfect. This should be easy. I pressed the button and went up to get ready for brunch. Five minutes later a loud, deafening noise goes off. I was a little stunned at first, but then realized, Oh, burglar alarm. And although I should have been panicking that there may be an intruder in my home, I was more concerned with the noise bothering my ancient neighbors.

I checked the alarm and it was fine, but I still had no clue what the sound was. Daylight Savings Brain. After a  minute, it clicked: smoke alarm. So I rushed downstairs and saw that the self-clean had totally stunk up my entire living area and caused the smoke alarm to go insane. How do I stop this? I asked myself. Believe it or not, some random movie scene popped in my mind of a broom being waved in front of a smoke alarm. See, you do learn stuff from movies!

So, I'm standing in my living room after opening the windows, waving this broom and gagging on the stench, and finally, finally, the ear-piercing alarm stops. Two minutes later, it goes off again. Back with the broom waving, and so I just turned off the self-clean. I looked again at the microwave clock with broom in hand and thought, Hmm, I still have an hour, so let's sweep the kitchen floor. I swept the floor and then mopped and felt very domestic and proud of myself. Then I picked up my phone to check my messages. I saw the time (which had switched automatically) and freaked out.

WHAT? I have 15 minutes to get ready and arrive at the restaurant for brunch! I immediately called NSS and said I was going  to be 15 (Lebanese) minutes late (i.e. 30 minutes in real time). I explained the whole smoke alarm and problem with the clocks and told her that I'm sure the power must've gone out to explain the missing hour. She then says, "Anissa, it's daylight savings, how could you not know." OMG.

To say I felt stupid was an understatement. I was starving, my 'clean' sheets were covered in fur, the house stank, and my oven looked like something from the Walking Dead died in there. But hey, at least my kitchen floor was clean.


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

The Lebanese Princess

Sometimes, I really miss Lebanon. I know people reading this might get the wrong idea about me, but living here is definitely different from life in Beirut. Yes, Lebanon is behind in so many ways, but we live a pampered lifestyle, which I'm not saying is a good thing (so please, no hate mail). It's just that it is a big adjustment when you move. Even if you live alone there, you're never alone, alone. Car issues? Call dad or your brother to take care of it. Plumbing issues? Call dad or your brother, who then calls Abu Handyman to fix the problem.

I know, I know, but I am not a terrible example of a feminist. I am a staunch believer in equal rights, equal pay, equality in the eyes of the law. But does that mean that I have to shovel my own driveway from the snow? Does being an advocate for women's rights mean that I have to do manual labor?

This has been tough to get used to. I have always been independent, paying my own bills, etc, but when it comes to yucky stuff (see above), I always deferred to someone else to take care of it. Not because I'm incapable, but because I can't be bothered. I mean being alone, alone, sucks. In Richmond, you can't call dad to please call Abu What's-His-Name to come fix things. I have to do it myself, which - did I mention? - sucks.

For example, last week we had like eight inches of snow (we're getting more tonight). I could not get into my garage and I nearly broke my neck walking down the steps of my house to my car. I did not even have the foresight to salt my steps. I didn't even know there was special salt for the outside.

NSS called and asked where I was. I told her I was going to the grocery store to buy salt. She asked why, so I told her about my snow/ice problem and she started laughing. She was like, "Um, you can't just buy table salt." Oh. "Unless it's kosher," she quipped. "Really?" I responded, relieved. "NO," she said like I was world's biggest idiot. "Go to Home Depot."

So I head over to a hardware store and see giant burlap bags outside, praying this wasn't the salt I needed. How was I going to carry that to my car? It's not like Abu Somebody will do it for me. Luckily, they have small bottle sizes that even a wimp like me can carry. The guy there told me I would need two for my driveway. I gave him my Lebanese I-know-you're-trying-to-sell-me-something-I-don't-need side glance, convinced I only needed one. He shrugged, handed me the one and wished me luck.

So, of course, I needed two. But it did soften the snow a bit so I could ram my car into the garage. I drew the line at shoveling. I am not a prisoner in a Siberian detention camp! I was just so proud of myself that I got in with just the salt, until my car skidded and I hit a door in my garage. I still considered it a success.

I did manage to change a light bulb in my garage using a ladder all on my own. I was going to wait for the always reliable Dr JH to come and do it when he next visited, but then thought, nah, I got this. The glee I felt when the light came on was really undeserved. I felt like I was Thomas Edison. I proudly proclaimed to NSS, "I changed that light bulb all by myself," as if I had actually invented the light bulb. She wasn't impressed. "Now you need to change the filters of your air ducts."

Wait... what? Doesn't Abu Help-Please do that?


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

The Fabulosity of Anissa

Mr. B inspired me the other week. He is great at combing through headlines in the local papers in the 'Root, posting them on Facebook and then slamming them. I particularly love the ones about Lebanese who have achieved a modicum of success in the arts and are completely in love with themselves. I don't understand why most of those people are born without the modesty gene. I guess the ego gene is just far too dominant. It made me think of how I would be if I were one of those people that thought that paid for followers and one newspaper article meant I was a 'star'.

So, sit back, relax and enjoy the article (that could have been) with Anissa the Fabulous.

Disclaimer: I realize people not familiar with the local Beirut papers will not get the sarcasm, so I just want to emphasize that this is a satire and I don't think that I am the world's greatest anything, except maybe worst cook.

Anissa Rafeh is a vision sitting on her comfortable sofa, the sun shining through the windows in her luxurious townhouse in the uber glamorous city of Richmond. "Do you like it," she asks me, as her fingers caress the lush white cushions. "It's Laz-eh Boiyh," she says with her upper crust accent that just drips with class.

We start talking about her great passion: writing. "Writing is my passion. I am so passionately passionate about it. I write passionately about passionate things because I am a passionate person who approaches everything in life with passion," she explains. "My life is writing; writing is my life. We co-exist in harmony in my soul and in my heart... which is full of passion."

Her phone then pings and she picks it up. It is a common sound for her, as she receives an endless (not really) amount of mail from fans (or her mom) each day, telling her how much they adore her blog and relish every word that emerges from her perfectly manicured fingertips.

She reads the screen and giggles charmingly, as if to herself. "Oh, this fan just said that my writing touches his soul. And that I am the mirror image of Elizabeth Taylor when she was in her 20s. Ha ha ha," she trills in modesty. "Surely he miss-typed and means when she was in her 30s." Yes, she is that modest. Such compliments clearly embarrass her (not in the slightest).

Her blog has recently caught on fire (she accidentally burned her laptop with a scented candle from Bath & Bodyworks). Just yesterday, it recorded five unique visitors. Yes, you read correctly, five. This, of course, is an amazing accomplishment. What other blogger can boast such phenomenal numbers? 

"Yes, it's true. My blog is just so popular. People stop me on the street all the time (to ask for directions). They could stop anybody and ask where the mall is, but no, they ask me. It's their way of saying, 'Hey, we recognize you but don't want to embarrass you, so we're using this excuse just to get to talk to you.' I get this all the time, but that is the price of blogging fame."

Writing about her amazingly exciting life of going to work, shopping at the mall and being in awe of Target (which she so classily pronounces Tarjeh) have made her an internet wunderkind. Not many bloggers can boast such a fascinating life. To prove her immense popularity, she has one million (minus 900,960) followers on her blog alone. She used to have a huge following on Instagram too, but a 'glitch' in the system brought down her 500k followers to five. 

"My (non-existent) followers were devastated when they were suddenly dropped from my page. I still don't understand what happened and I'm working to fix this horrendous situation. Luckily, I don't feel alone, because Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian have had a similar problem. Oh, the injustice of it all," she said, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. 

When asked why she thinks readers are so attracted to her one-of-a-kind, unique, nothing like it at all blog, she pauses briefly and carefully ponders her well thought-out, original response.

"I think it's about my passion, which I don't think I properly emphasized before. My reader(s) feel it through my passionate writing, and this is what draws (all five of) them to my blog. Yes, it is all about my passion. Did I mention my passionately passionateness passionate writing yet?"

How eloquently said. 


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh

Oh George, it could've been me!

Did I say 'could've'? I meant 'should've', it should've been me! I mean seriously, George, if you were going to end up with a Lebanese chick, why not me? Like your present fiancee, I too hail from the glorious mountains of Lebanon - albeit, the other side of the mountain, but many would argue that it is, in fact, the prettier side. I also speak Arabic (kind of, sort of) and French (bonjour!), and although I've never tried a case, I do object to a lot of things (there are how many calories in this caramel macchiato? I object!).

Admittedly, the similarities stop there: I wasn't born in Lebanon like Amal, no, I was actually born in Kentucky, like you. Ha! See how much we have in common? Also, I'm not a fancy lawyer, but I do own fancy handbags. And I'm not British, but hello, I have about three or four Burberry bags, and that's close enough. Oh, and I went to a British school for seven years and can do a killer accent. Just ask Mr. B, who as a native can vouch for my totally authentic Englishness.

I'd also like to point out that I have been a loyal fan since you played Falconer on the TV show Sisters, and remained loyal while you played Dr. Ross on ER and saw all your films. Ok, you got me. I missed The American. And the March of Dimes. And The Monuments Men. And Ocean's 512. But I really liked Syriana. And that movie where you played the lawyer that fixed things for bigwig clients, kind of like the male Olivia Pope, but without the affair with the president and designer shoes.

So what if over the years my dedication waned ever so slightly. Yes, I had a brief thing with Michael Fassbender. But in my defense, did you see the Jane Eyre remake? I mean, who wouldn't, right? And then there is the whole Benedict Cumberbatch thing. I'm going to plead the fifth on that one on the grounds that I may incriminate myself (psst, hey Ben, ignore this, I still adore you!). Despite these, um, transgressions, when I wrote my book and my publishers posted my biography on their site, I gave a shout out to you (as my future husband) and only you. But were you even remotely appreciative? No! So ungrateful, George, really.

Yes, so I should be the one wearing that ring and going to parties with Cindy Crawford and her husband. On second thought, Cindy still looks amazing and if I wanted to feel bad about myself, I could just sit in front of the TV and watch Victoria's Secret commercials all day. (OT but don't you just hate it when you're watching The Mindy Project and you think to yourself, hmm, I could eat a lovely bowl of ice cream right about now, and then that commercial comes on and you're just like crap, no more ice cream for me?)

Ok, I digress. You still with me, George? No? Well, you should be! (Psst Ben, call me!)


Follow me on Twitter @anissarafeh 

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. 

Sex, Lies and the Internet: Part II

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

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!

Easy As Pie

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!!!

Sealing the Deal

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?

Hearts and Red Teddy Bears

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!).

Love, Actually

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!

Lebanese Don't Love Rock N' Roll

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

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

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

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!

Botox and William Shakespeare

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??

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!

Tales from the Ladies, Part III: Unibrow Ape Man

And now we come to the third and final installment of Tales from the Ladies, with this letter from the delightful Pixie Minxie, who was traumatized after a particularly horrific evening with Unibrow Ape Man. This one's a doozy, readers. Poor Pixie - 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 I: Mr He's Just So Into Himself

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!