My Oscar Nomination

I haven’t told you this yet but I was supposed to have been nominated for an Oscar by now. I don’t know why the Academy are so late. Actually, let’s be honest. Won an Oscar. I was supposed to have won an Oscar by now. For best original screenplay. Not the adapted shit. People taking somebody’s story and win an Oscar and drink champagne all night while the real creator remains a nobody watching from home in their PJs? No, not for me. I mean, I am fine with the fact that nobody will know who I am and will just use my acceptance speech time to go pee. “Who’s that old fat lady barely making it up the stage? Nice movie though…I’d never have guessed.” 

Ever get that thing where you watch a documentary and you find out about cool people who could be next to you at the super market and you wouldn’t have a clue? Like ‘wow this lady was the owner of the first gay bookshop in San Fransisco.’ If you aspire to become famous one day or you know you will, use the meantime to have as much pizza as you can. Famous people don’t eat carbs. They also don’t drink water during award season so they don’t bloat and look fat. Heard that somewhere. I am definitely not ready to quit carbs or water, if an Academy member is reading this, please give me a few more decades of pizza. Thank you.

Truth is, I haven’t written my Oscar script yet. I guess life happened. Is this an excuse? ‘Life happened.’ It sounds so cool, mysterious, existential. Something an artist would say and you think “wow…he’s so intricate…” (and then you’d fall in love with them and end up paying their rent) What happens when life happens exactly? I wonder sometimes. Is it a code phrase for I am lazy and tired and will never reach the impossible standards I set only to fail? What do you say when people ask you what you do? “Well, I’m about to get nominated for an Oscar so I’m polishing my speech”. What do you guys put off? Are you living your best life? Do you know what you want?Hmm…

Maybe it was the 90s that ruined us all. The perfect representation of perfect. The movies depicting our infinite potential and ‘anything is possible’ penetrating our being. Affluence and dreams all over the place. Julia Roberts almost making it to college using the money she made keeping company to Gere for a week whilst exercising the oldest profession in the world. Unfortunately, he climbed up the staircase with a mouth full of thorny roses so he doesn’t lose the catch with the long legs, and now we’ll never find out if pretty woman would’ve made it to Harvard. Matt Damon mopping floors despite being a genius who finally got the kismet he deserved, living life in sunny LA with the understanding, brainy, daddy’s inheritance girl. This was my teenage food. Practically raised by Hollywood, it’s natural I have my Oscar speech ready. I am of course editing things here and there every year but when I get to do it, it will be amazing. 

The thing is, you start with the best intentions and then life happens. You fall in love, you fall out of love. You earn some living, you go broke. You chase that promotion…one more slide and I’ll turn the laptop off for the night, one more draining corporate dinner and I’ll go on a diet, one more unpaid overtime and I’ll quit. I don’t know which one more is the last one. Somehow life happens and you forget about it till the next time. If only you were a prostitute on Sunset in the early 90s…things seemed so easy for her. Maybe where we are and what we do is enough. Maybe you just want to be calm, and fed, and cuddled. Whatever feels right for you is right, you know? Hope you’re having a great day, living life on your terms and feeling as happy as you allow yourself to be, dreaming as big as you dare to dream. I’m all for that. You should be too.

The Things we Do for Love

I am not really here. I have set up the timer for this (master)piece to go public. This very minute, I am probably cursing the moment I agreed to this trip in the mountains while trying to get reception to see if the timer worked. On a serious note, I’m either hiking up a slope, or dead and buried. The second is the good scenario. Check back in a few days, I will put a picture up. If I made it, that is.

It all started when my love and I were trying to figure out where to go now that we finally can go somewhere. If you’re reading this in 2035, these are the covidays. (this little word play will be very cool in 2035) We didn’t want to be the first occupants of a hotel room and I haven’t lost the weight from the endless lockdown dinners and alcohol, as well as the quitting of the smoking (thank you, thank you) so bikini being out of the question, we left yesterday for my man’s house in the woods. 

Now, you must understand that this place is a sought-after location, everyone you mention it to makes some kind of woohoo sound. So, I am considered a very lucky girl. Only my man likes hiking and climbing and whatever it is people do when there’s a good enough slope and they have a pair of strong (and hot) legs. Me on the other hand, not that thrilled with nature altogether.

To clear the air (see what I did there? clear air?nature?), I am happy. I am probably having a great time as you’re reading this, there’s a lot of wine and some shopping of folklore things like wooden bowls and honey jars (any kind of civilisation will do at this point). The problem is my ass is too big and although I haven’t smoked in 5 months, it’s probably very challenging to take my pleasantly rounder body up a hill.

You see, the first time we went up there, we only dated for a couple of months. I was still pretending. Let me tell you, I am very convincing. If you see me in the mountains, you think my real name is Heidi. BUT! I made the mistake to be very enthusiastic, and I also spent the lockdown months saying shit like “what a shame we missed the season, we have to wait for next spring to go hiking on your beautiful mountains” I thought I was safe because who knew I would still be the shame of the seashore in June. (say ‘shame of the seashore’ three times with your mouth full of Doritos)

So here we are, as with all questionable things in life, I tried to translate it into, a good chance to lose some weight, to ground myself (some yoga trend I saw on YouTube), to make nice bouquets of flowers, to buy some local produce to stuff my cupboards for the summer. It doesn’t sound half bad, right?

It probably worked lying to myself and I have done all these things and I have had a great time, jokes aside. But wouldn’t you agree that the best place in life is sitting at a busy-street café, like in Le Marais in Paris or East Village in Manhattan (you get the point) smelling good, sipping your beautiful coffee (ugh! coffee is the best), watching  people go by, your shopping under the chair, friends gather and you just laugh your way to wine o’clock when all the little boutiques start closing for the day as the sun goes down. Isn’t what you just read like a massage to your soul? (sigh)

Here’s to the things we do with those we love, to the memories we make with our people, to beautiful sunrises over the mountain tops and to wine with friends on sunsets. Here’s to all people getting a chance to witness what the world has to offer, regardless of colour, of who they love, what God they do or don’t believe in, and how big or small their ass is. Here’s to life in high and low altitudes and here’s to you still reading this, you are wonderful.

UPDATE: I made it back, see proof below:

Yes, we made it up there!

Previous Masterpieces


Deconstructing breakfast, the most important meal of the day

The Love you Know

The fantasy love

You start off young and innocent. Your sole reference of love is through movies, songs and Chalamet’s latest paparazzi photos (or Brad Pitt for the old and tasteful). You go to bed dreaming of scenarios that haven’t happened yet. You are in love with the love to come, sweep you off your feet, handsome and kind, with eyes only for you. He is also ideally older, he is artistic yet logical, he has a job but he windsurfs half the year. He loves travelling but he enjoys pizza and a movie at home. You get the point. He’s fictional. His mission is to keep your appetite for love alive till you actually fall in love. He serves his purpose, he’s not just a pretty face. Well…

The first love

Take a moment and blow a kiss towards the direction of you first official boyfriend. If you just did that it means you know where he is, which means he is not that exciting, which means good thing you’re not still together. I never understood how two people can be together from their teen years till death. Is this still a thing outside African tribes or remote Mongolian villages? Don’t you guys change along the way? Don’t you acquire a taste for new things? No curiosity for the world around you? Yes, I’m talking to you, not the chief of the Amazon. Obviously, why would one leave the Amazon or the African tropical forests? 

The unavailable love

It usually finds you in your late twenties. If you don’t learn, it might still be visiting you in your thirties, and then risk getting used to it. Ideally, the unavailable love is there to make you a better person towards yourself. It is a spell you need to break to find happiness. It comes and goes in your life without guilt, you are always in agony you might lose it for good, you bend over backwards to please it, to change it, to win it over. Everybody feels sorry for you, but they never tell you. Even though it probably doesn’t deserve you, you believe it’s the best you’ll ever find. Needless to say, it never works out. Grow up.

The good love

The love that makes your heart grow and little yellow flowers spring out of it with the most delicious perfume, singing a pretty tune. Good love is free of stress. Good love never makes you question whether it’s real. Good love is quiet and selfless. It’s light and comforting and cuddles you like a baby. Good love is easy if you’re ready, hard if you think you don’t deserve it. Good love always says, “don’t worry if you fall, I will catch you.” If you’re there, it means you have been through the bad shit, and you could finally see good love. It means you love yourself. Take care of good love when you find it.

The quotes plague

I’m a fraud today, I could try to convince you I’m worth your while, but maybe you should read something else.  If you’re still here, you must know this has nothing to do with Camus. I googled ‘famous quotes’ and got the 100 most popular. I don’t know who decides, maybe it’s Google statistics, maybe some hairdresser reporting from the field, maybe they count the stickers on gym mirrors and offices around the world. You can already tell I’m biased cause I am. Let me show you why.

The greatest glory in living, lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” Nelson Mandela did not say this on a Monday back at the gym after a lazy Sunday watching Netflix and eating burgers. He was in prison for 27 years, 18 of which without a bed or plumbing. (yes, take your time) So, please stop abusing the poor man next time you post a selfie showing off your biceps and new tights made from organic microfibre cotton that keeps your sweaty derriere pores unclogged.

“…If you look at what you don’t have in life, you’ll never have enough.” I laugh with this one, like I secretly laugh at all my rich relatives who complain about the bill on their eight-course dinners the morning after. PLeeeease people! And Oprah girl…what is it you look at that you don’t have? Let me come over so we can look at it together. And then she goes on to say the one that makes me think of her employees with compassion. “You know you are on the road to success if you would do your job and not be paid for it.” It seems everyone is on the same boat with Oprah, working and barely making the rent. Don’t we all feel blessed? I’ll leave it to that.

Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.” Mother Teresa, you sound like my teabag messages. By all means, come over for dinner, I’d love to make you happy. Don’t mind me, I can listen to you complain about your love life, your work, your unpaid electricity bills. Bring your friends too, I can find something for them to feel happy over. Maybe the jeans I grew out of during quarantine. What about me Mother? Is Mother even your real name? Have people in the CIA ever checked with anyone about this? 

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched – they must be felt with the heart.” Sorry to have to break it to you Helen Keller, you are blind. Also, very sleek how you slid the sense of touch in there so we don’t accuse you of bias. I believe 2020 Brad Pitt is one of the most beautiful things in the world and surely someone is touching and seeing him. If only I knew who so I can sell it to the tabloids and get rich. Blind Helen’s quote reminds me of when my mum wouldn’t allow me Cola as a child. I’d go around to people drinking it, looking at them in disgust (yes, very adorable little girl), saying ‘How do you drink this thing?” By the way, thanks mum, less cellulite than any one I know, but what an annoying snobbish little brat you made.

But then comes Mr Lama who says “The purpose of our lives is to be happy.“Yes, Dalai, that’s what I’m saying..If you’re not happy then everybody will leave and trust me, they won’t be happy either. Hear that Mother? Could someone from the CIA contact me? It still doesn’t sound like a real name. “Love the life you live. Live the life you love.” said Bob Marley once, sitting under a palm tree, watching the ocean, loving the life he lived. I’ll have what he was having. I’m sure I’ll love the life I live then too.

Disclaimer: I might be extra grumpy this Sunday, I’m on a diet. Bear with me, cause “Every day is a new beginning”.

Another abused quote nobody ever believed about themselves


They chased you to have it, you didn’t care about it. You threw it away when they weren’t looking. You eventually grew to love it and now it’s what gets you up when the alarm goes off, OK maybe after coffee. There are some people who claim that they can’t eat anything first thing in the morning but we’re not going to refer to them, they’re not humans.

Perhaps the most popular breakfast is a slice of bread with something. No matter where you are in the world, you can get bread with something. Jam, marmalade, syrup, cheese, nutella, you name it. You have it at home, at hotels, you toast it, you grill it, you have it as it is. Bread is the friend you call and they’re always there. Not the exciting friend, but the one who always helps. The one who sticks around for life. The boring but trustworthy friend. That’s your bread. Treat it well.

I know you thought cereal would be my most popular breakfast, but no. Cereal is what you eat when you think you eat healthily, when the almond milk in the fridge is about to expire, when you wanna have some coco pops (I wish I got paid for this, I have spent so much on you damn coco pops, give me something back!) Anyway, you get the point. Ever since cereal have been accused of high sugar and salt, they’ve been downgraded to guilty pleasure category. So they threw in some fruit, but everybody knows that fruit is not breakfast. Fruit is fruit. So, yeah, way to go food industry geniuses. 

And don’t get me started with granola. Granola made her appearance in popular culture about fifteen years ago. It was there before, yes, but not everybody had it. It’s still cereal but somehow sounded cooler. Read this in Paris Hilton voice. ‘I’ll have a granola bar, I had my granola, did you put some granola? Let me grab my granola and go. Gotta get me some granola’. I think we’ve worn out granola in our lives as much as I have abused it in this paragraph. Nuff said about granola, it’s not extraordinary anymore, just like kale. They’re probably somewhere together, having drinks, sharing stories, crying on each other’s shoulder.

Let’s all stand up for our next guest. The omelette. How many times have we set all our hopes and dreams on the omelette? She is the versatile queen that gets us closer to our goal. That bikini body, that dress size, that I-will-not-get-hungry-for-the-rest-of-the-day-with-this. You have it with spinach and ricotta, you have it with avocados and peppers. You have it with two yolks and four whites. One yolk, three whites for the daring math lovers amongst us. You sometimes cheat and you slip a little slice of bread under her (oops). For our vegan friends, you have it with that egg replacement that comes in plastic. I have it with cheese and maple syrup and lovely guilt-free bread. Hooray!

OK, I know I have to say something about all the shakes and the pancakes and you think I’m crazy putting the two opposites together but let me stop you right there and tell you these two have more in common than you think. More than half of social media videos is of skinny people, who love pancakes and pretend they eat them. These same people, are also the ones who prepare protein shakes every morning with frozen berries and vanilla extract.

To get even more confusing, they put up photos of themselves indulging on pancakes, only the fork never touches their mouths and we never learn what happens to the pancakes like we never learned what happened to Brad Pitt after he shot Kevin Spacey in Se7en. (If this is a spoiler, you’re too young, probably eating fruit for breakfast, in which case I’m old and bitter and glad I ruined it for you) What I meant to say is that pancakes and shakes have been abused by their eaters and pretend-eaters and they’re better left alone. They can go find granola and kale. Form a therapy group. Have AA meetings for Abused and Abandoned foods. 

Well, what’s left to say when nothing’s left to say? Maybe some clichés? Like breakfast is the most important meal of the day? Eat in the morning like a king? Eat breakfast to get your metabolism going? Really? Some people have bacon for breakfast. Their metabolism has packed her bags and gone. I’m not the one to judge, but be careful what you eat cause it sort of determines the rest of the day. Unless it’s a Sunday, or a bank holiday, or somebody’s birthday, or an anniversary. I’m sure we can find something for each day. Whatever you do though, stop watching those what-I-have-for-breakfast videos. They’re made by aliens. You know, the ones who can’t eat anything first thing in the morning.

Sunny breakfast at Les Palettes, Annecy, France

The consumer you’re trying not to be (but you are)

The demanding buyer

You know those times you want to buy something but you don’t really want to buy it so you’re lying to yourself thinking “I will buy this coffee machine when they make it in blue, with red dots and matching ceramic mugs. It’s exactly what I need” Never going to happen. You don’t want to buy it. You can wait till it wakes you up in the morning and brings you the coffee in bed if you want. You don’t want to buy that coffee machine. Close the window. Go to sleep. Stop lying to yourself.

The perfect life

Then there’s the aspiration purchase. The things you want to buy cause you want to start doing something you saw in a movie. “I want to buy this pan to make crepes on Saturdays when we relax on the sofa having coffee.” First of all, the one who makes the crepes, doesn’t relax unless they are actually in a movie. They are on the pan, watching the dough, making sure it’s out on time. Second of all, if you really have an uncontrollable urge to make crepes, you don’t need a special pan. Not all people have a special pan but they still make crepes. Move on. This pan is not for you. Also, you sound pathetic.

The e-shop gambler

I have this theory. If you wait long enough, the Sephora site will go up to 50% off and that’s when you’re going to go on there and finally buy all the products you’ve had in your basket for weeks. The beauty sites actually cause a domino effect. If one drops the prices, they all do. Like cheerleaders hating each other.  It’s beautiful.  Keep repeating the affirmation ‘I don’t need you; you need me. I have nothing to lose, I can wait forever’ It works, really. Eventually the prices do go down. It wasn’t you though, they would have done it regardless. Sorry to spoil the magic. 

The influencer trap

My all-time favourite is the thing you think you want to buy cause someone else has it. You’ve watched that gorgeous vlogger put that honey oil on her hair one too many times and oh does she look good. Let’s clear the air here. Paying eighty dollars to get her hair oil is not automatically going to make you her. The oil, as expensive as it might be, will not give you the perfect body/house/lifestyle. It’s not the oil you want. So, stop eating those cookies at midnight and go run it off. Are you choosing to remember her perfect hair routine but intentionally forgetting she eats only kale? It’s all a lie! She’s not that happy either. And I’m sorry to break it to you but her products don’t deliver in your geography. See? Fundamentally wrong. Move on.

My pretty coffee mug, bought on impulse

Dedicated to my mum who taught me to only buy pretty things. Happy Mother’s Day!

The younger sibling, a spaghetti western

I know I know, what a cliché! Nobody cares! Well, some people care. I care. I know most of you secretly care. Anyway, I need to vocalize to heal so I’m gonna go for it. 

I am six years older than my first brother. (This is a nice first-grade sentence Nat, what a start.) He was actually born when I was in first Grade. It was November and that piece of information shouldn’t matter at all had it not been the day in November before my birthday. That’s right. I should have known right there and then that things were about to change. The day before my sixth birthday is when the rest of my childhood birthdays would end. Shared cakes, candles, presents and pocket money, parties with sweaty two-year olds running around, the works! 

It was a long time ago, many of the things that could get social services at your doorstep, were absolutely fine back then. Like five-year-olds buying cigarettes and beer. We even returned the beer bottles for something like 2 cents a bottle as soon as we could count. I feel old writing this but also lucky to have witnessed that era but also even older now that I wrote about how lucky I feel. Anyway.

He was supposed to take over the chores from me. Finally after 10 years of rounds to the super market I was ready for a promotion. To my surprise, he knew his rights by instinct. He said no to all the chores, he never carried beer bottles or bought cheese. He only went to the local grocery store to buy chocolate or ice cream for himself and that was that. He was well ahead of his time. I admire him for that now. I wanted him returned to sender back then.

First of all, he doesn’t know how lucky he was to have me. I had nobody, OK? No inspiration, no role model, nobody to steal a car from to take my friends for a ride before I even had a license. Nobody to get me into clubs, nobody to give me love advice. Nobody to kick. Nobody. He came along and it was like I accumulated all this wealth of knowledge and all this wisdom just to pass it on to him for free from Day 1. And what did he do? When he was old enough to hold his number two, he got all the meatballs our grandma hid in the oven for when he showed up.

I’m sure he is enjoying all the attention he is getting right now because that’s what the younger siblings’ middle name is: Attention. Either too much or the lack of. Attention in the good things and no attention at all in other things like what time they got home, why they need all this money, which friend is in their room. Things are even better for them if the first child has been an angel, in which case she has. Then parents are even more clueless cause they don’t realise how many things could have gone wrong. 

You see, the second baby is royal. They are the I-will-do-it-right-this-time babies. And they know it. The second baby always knows they have it good. That’s why they usually just eat and sleep. Cause they know they got nothing to prove. They are there to be marvelled and spoilt. End of story.

According to Adler (Wikipedia), the Austrian psychiatrist, firstborns are “dethroned” when a second child comes along, and this loss of perceived privilege and primacy may have a lasting influence on them. With all due respect, before you shameless secondborns reading this start calling me on my issues, I would like to send a message to Mr Adler or his grand-children more like that I do not belong to this category. I have no issues with my dethronement, I’m just writing a public article about it a few decades later.

Tomorrow marks the first day we are free to go out after two months in quarantine. I’ve already planned what I’m baking to celebrate.  My brother is coming over. I’m probably gonna cry. He’s not. He’s gonna laugh at me crying over seeing him. That’s what younger siblings do.  You pave the way and they laugh at you and then they eat all the cake you made but you still love them to death. This is how it is and how it will always be. And it’s fine by me as long as he stops to fetch some beer on his way here.

I swear I’m not pulling his hair back there.

On marriage

When my grandma was presented with her husband-to-be one evening, she packed a bag and ran for the hills (almost). She woke up the morning after and quietly made her way to the next village where the train station was (and still is).

My grandma might have been on to something. Something that had to stay dormant for another generation because her parents had a horse carriage. They caught her before she had a chance to hop on the next train to freedom.

Her only consolation was that my grandpa was tall and handsome with green eyes. He looked like an old Hollywood dream. Like the Greek edition of Clark Gable minus the weird moustache. (Just when you thought Gable couldn’t get any better) This was 1955 after all.

Arrangements aside, I believe -and you can pretend to be expressing my opinion and not yours- that every woman wants to get married when they love somebody. Not to own them so much, as to feel they belong, like under Law. At least, they want to get asked. To be given a chance to say no even.The classic case of ‘I don’t wanna marry him, I want him to want to marry me’. I know you’re smiling right now cause you know what I’m talking about.

Once, a long time ago, I got so pissed off at my boyfriend for not asking, I went and bought my own ring. He never found out. I thought, “I’ll get my own ring. I love me.” Of course when he started showing commitment, it was too late. There’s a window for stuff like that. There’s a fast-approaching expiry date too. Men, read this part again please.

I believe we pretend not to care about marriage to prove we’re cool and avoid coming across as pushy and needy. A girlfriend of mine has a box with baby shoes. He doesn’t know. They’ve been together for 14 months. Maybe he’s reading this.

I also believe men genuinely do not care. It’s like dessert. You ask them if they want any, they say no. Ten minutes later you bring it to them and they eat it. Men are that simple. I love men for that.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to put on a gown and drag him to the city hall or some church or something. You’re not cake. I just mean don’t take it personally if they don’t ask. It’s not that they don’t want to marry you. They do. They just haven’t thought about it. See? Men are simple. And by simple here, I mean stupid.

My grandma’s marriage lasted till death did them part. Of course she’s still with us, going strong at 87 which proves men rather be dead than married. Also, this is not what I wanted to write about today but the news was on about how many wedding guests you’re allowed to have now and apparently the limit is 250. So I guess it’s important to you guys to get married. Not to me, obviously. I’m just the girl who bought her own ring. Cause I love me. Go ahead. Repeat daily and stay safe.

She seems to have taken it well, 11 years in.

Living together; the struggles of true love

First of all, let’s get one thing straight. I live with the perfect guy. I do, it’s true. Not because he’s gonna read it (he doesn’t read everything I write, it’s called self-preservation) but he truly is perfect cause he always allows my drama to unfold before his eyes, enduring it stoically. So I will be writing this piece with sincerity and boldness like a champion.

Now, about you. If you have decided to move in with your partners, congratulations. I don’t mean it entirely ironically. It takes some balls cause we are talking about settling on some pretty basic stuff here. We’re talking about bowel movements, alcohol cravings, spontaneous crying and sudden existential crises. In other words, all things essential.

Also, the little things. Like you can’t go to bed without brushing your teeth cause they’ll think you’re disgusting. It takes a few months before you rebel against your perfect image and say to hell with it, I’m bored. Same as the first morning you don’t make your bed or you don’t do the dishes before they get home. If you’re there, well done you! You are finally yourself!

Chances are though, you still pretend on some things. Like you pretend you’ve always recycled glass. Paper is one thing, but glass takes extra commitment cause you need to wash it more thoroughly, it takes up space and it’s heavy to carry. Also, glass recycling bins don’t come as often. You’re thinking to yourself, isn’t paper enough? Paper saves trees, what does glass save? Where does it even come from? Seriously I have no clue.

Recycling has nothing on food though. Especially when you’re really hungry and you decide to make an omelette sandwich. Only now you have to ask them too if they want one, which of course they do cause who in their right mind says no to an omelette sandwich. So now you have to wait longer to eat, you make theirs first to show you care and also because you don’t want to have yours cold. Always start before you feel famished. That’s my advice.

We can beat around the bush for hours but by far the biggest problem in a cohabitation situation is the fart. The one you so desperately need to get out of you but can’t. I don’t know what level of intimacy you need to reach in order to let this one free but I haven’t reached it yet. I sometimes sneak a few short ones when he’s on the phone so clearly not listening for anything else around him (yes, I’m at the mastery level of control, I am able to customise the duration). When he snores I can slip a few staccatos in between his mezzo fortes. Farting is important to me obviously and we should talk about it more often and more openly.

What is also pretty hard, is if you are a natural born drama queen. As a sole apartment occupant, you opened a bottle of wine for yourself, put some heavy eyeliner on, wore a satin red robe with nothing underneath, some Edith Piaf in the background and walked around the rooms drinking and crying till you got thick smudgy black lines running down your cheeks at which point it was imperative to go stand by the window, stare at the pink evening sky and wonder whether your best days are behind you and if this is your best life. Now think of the above with your man in the house. I know, right? Ridiculous.

The other thing I realised lately is the bed myth. You are not sleeping in a double bed. No. A double bed is when you have double the size of a single bed all to yourself. You are in a single bed my dear and you haven’t realised. You’re 12 again. You feel tense and uncomfortable and you cannot put your leg on a 90-degree angle. Unless he gets up earlier than you in which case you get a few hours of stretching bliss say between 6-8am.(you can also fart during these hours) Other than that, the starfish sleeping days are O-V-E-R. Sorry.

I was thinking of forgetting about this article all together this morning when he came to bed to wake me up and then he turned the coffee machine on and left my favourite mug there for me to pour some …I felt guilty for trashing all that for a few farts and a stretch in bed. But it’s true, it’s all true, you just don’t care as much anymore, you enjoy it the days you can still have it like when he goes out (in the normal realm of things) or when he’s on a trip or something. The truth of the matter though is that there’s nothing like the arms you love around you when you share the couch for a movie. If only he could sometimes scoot over a few more inches and turn the volume up a bit so I can finally fart.

This is the safe distance if you need to fart while he’s on the phone.

Never lend a book and other stories…

So, I’ve been thinking…I recently put together a few of those ugly IKEA shelves, you know, the ones everybody has in one colour or another.I put them up and created a little wall space for books. Books I love and want to look at on my way from the sofa to the dining room table. Books my friends will consider pretty sophisticated when they visit. Books that make me feel good just for having. I’m kidding. Sort of.

Jokes aside, I read most of them some of them if we’re honest…there’s one however, I’ve put off forever. A book I will open on my deathbed just to prolong the inevitable. ‘I’m not ready to leave this life just yet, I haven’t finished David Foster Wallace!’…even his name is long. One thousand seventy nine pages in the smallest font. I’m writing this in words so the number doesn’t scare you. Like many fools out there, I’m thinking of taking on this daunting task during quarantine but even this won’t last long enough for me to finish. Long being the operative word here..We’ll see…

Generally, books are the item you are socially allowed to love and shit all over its identity at the same time. They’re perfect saucers, balancing laptops high enough to watch the movie based on your book, put under rocking furniture, holding doors open, keeping doors shut. I’ll stop now cause I don’t like embarrassing books. I love books. I love them especially cause each book has a story. (this must be a term in literature)

There’s always the one you bought cause a lover was reading. Let me tell you, he wasn’t. He was pretending to read cause you were pretending to be an avid reader. That’s why it didn’t work out between you two and now you’re stuck with his stupid book. Then there’s that book you bought from JFK before boarding cause it would be so cinematic to read something sophisticated like a Barthes or a Foucault and ponder on life at 38,ooo feet. While in reality, the baby won’t stop crying at the seat behind you, the flight is bumpy and you have exhausted your limit of in-flight booze while maxing out your credit card buying bracelets off the plane magazine, all at a desperate attempt to soothe yourself.

My favourite kind of book though is the one you’re so guilty about, you hide in the bed drawer. You read it cover to cover in 14 hours straight and you remember everything. Every couple of years you take it out and read it again just to relive the story. It’s trash. It’s a trashy book. OK, there are no trashy books (well) but let’s say that having read it doesn’t make you Fran Lebowitz. You know it and I know it and you know I know cause I’ve done it too.And if you’re bold enough, like I am, you’ll put it on your shelf between the Franzens and the Murakamis pretending you don’t need to pretend.

So I put these shelves together, which I now love, with my half-read collection that I’m not guilty about. I’ll keep buying cause books are beautiful and I can’t believe I have gone on for so long without falling into the cliché Waters quote. Let me just take it a step further and tell you this as cringe-worthy as it may sound. If they don’t have books, fuck them anyway cause you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover (told you, cringey). Anyway you didn’t go there to read, did you?

If it works out, buy them some. Just make sure you don’t lend. If you lend books, it’s like a curse. They never return. Not to your friend, not to the person who saved your life. Buy them again and gift them if you must. If you lend them you have to buy them again anyway. So, please, trust me on this one and never lend books. Or sofas, but that’s a completely different story. Another time.

I know you’re looking for my guilty pleasure right now.