He's Just Not That Into You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Biggest Loser

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

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

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

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

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

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

I rest my case!

Not So Secret Diary of a Beiruti Gal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touching Me ... Touching You ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's how Lebanese people watch rugby.

How far would you go ...?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blind Date-a-logues

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

The Spitter

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

The One that Never Was

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

Moped Guy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Porn and the Blowfish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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