New Year's WHATEVER!

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

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

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

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

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

Party Time ... With the Flu!

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

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!!