La Poulette

It's all about location, location, location, my dears.

2005-12-11T22:45:00.000Z

Which is why I'm outta da blogspot hood and off to my glamourous new gated community in Wordpress:

http://www.lapoulette.com/

Mi casa es su casa.

Unfortunately, I'm not QUITE ready to share how I made a fool of myself in front of the Commissioner.

2005-12-08T11:24:00.000Z

The lack of posting should be attributed to excessive drinking and socialising at various Christmas parties. I have a life and, it appears, a bottomless thirst for alcohol. I did think I'd outgrown this juvenile drinking phase in my student days. Darn it, I was wrong.

The good news is that my move to Wordpress is imminent. I've been working on filing my posts under various categories, one of which I'd entitled "Shame is my name". With all the stories that took place over these last few days, I dare say it won't stay empty for long.

Like a (chocolate) virgin no more

2005-11-29T10:02:00.000Z

If you ever plan on looking me in the eye and telling me you take chocolate seriously, you had better have a Belgian passport to prove it. It takes one to know one and back in the day a naive, clueless version of my current self would have probably been much like you, dear non Belgian passport carrying chocolate lovin' reader. How I would take pride in the fact that I never covered my ice-cream in store bought chocolate sauce, but would always go to the pains of melting some dark chocolate in a dollop of milk and a blob of butter. That long-gone version of me would indulge in a Snicker bar a day, snootyly shunning inferior Croatian brands of my sweet brown addiction. I even considered strangling my mother when she innocently substitute milk chocolate for dark chocolate in her cake recipe on one memorable occasion - and remained completely and utterly incapable of understanding the grave error of her ways when confronted with this blasphemous behaviour to boot!

Granted, I was on the right track. But my little efforts in the way of chocolate snobbery were pathetically reminiscent of a small barking Chihuahua who is falsely convinced that it's shrill yapping is no different to the grown-up growl of a Rottweiler gearing for an attack.

Alas, thanks to Mr. Schumann and the rest of our wise founding fathers who came up with the great European project, I have been fortunate enough to discover the chocolate lovin' nation that are the Belgians. These people might look deceivingly Christian, but don't be fooled. In truth they pray to the god "Chocolate" and I am right up there with them, lighting my fudge candles in the first pew. Sayonara Snickers! Goodbye Gorenjka! I am moving on up in the world, people, and nothing less than Pierre Marcolini will do henceforth. If you think I'm referring to some local chocolatier, I can only scorn and pity your plebian ignorance and suggest you give this post a miss, and go back to munching on your Choco pops. Because we're not talking about some ordinary run of the mill chocolatier here. We're talking artiste. In Mr. Marcolini's world chocolate is not viewed as something as banal, as passé as mere food (puh-lease!). Allow me to illustrate: the man produces seasonal collections, in the fashion sense of the word, tongue firmly NOT in cheek. His flagship store is located in the chic Sablon area of Brussels and comes in the form of a three storey building where you can see chocolate creations displayed as though they were Cartier jewelry (and yes, some of them contain gold, which everyone knows is totally edible). Just in case you're still not convinced, the prices will surely drive this comparison home.

As always, my mission here is to serve and enlighten. As a Poulette public service I therefore hereby present you with a few rules that should be observed should you ever swing by Brussels and pay cher Pierre a visit:

- please don't bother entering the chic Marcolini establishment if you're not outfitted in your latest Prada rags. For the hopelessly unhip and boringly bourgeois among you, a classic Burberry scarf will do;

- please keep your voice down to a classy, reverential whisper at all times;

- please refrain from revealing your lack of cool factor by only purchasing a single cake;

- please understand that the cakes only come equipped with a sign informing you of the awards they've been bestowed with - NOT an explanation of what they actually consist of;

- modeling agents: please do not bother trying to recruit the supermodel like staff. Pierre has them hooked on free chocolate samples;

- please do not question why or how ingredients such as early gray tea, violets and basil are incorporated into chocolate. They are. It works. Stop talking and have yourself a mouthful instead;

And finally: don't mention the word Godiva. Ever. Because any whisper of chocolate cred you might have had, will fly straight out the window just like THAT.

The sort of thing I couldn't exactly Ask Jeeves.

2005-11-25T11:44:00.000Z

Should one be bored at work, one might have a number of scientific questions pop up out of nowhere. A few such examples might include...

a) Exactly what type of hormonal imbalance is responsible for having women of a certain age decide that a short perm with a mahogany rinse is a Good Idea? Furthermore: can we put this behaviour down to the same culprit that causes them to view leopard print details a good way to spice up their wardrobe? Or worse yet, stir-up pants delightfully acceptable? Perhaps I should ask my mother. Or her friends. Or my boss. Or perhaps not.

b) Do regular sessions in a sunbed involve the obligation to prance around the girls locker room at the gym stark naked for an unnecessarily long period of time? And if so, would my theory that the greater the intensity of the tan the longer the said period hold any water?

c) Is a long period of living abroad with the possibility of never returning to the homeland reason enough to suddenly stop caring about political affairs back home? Whatever the answer, is it acceptable that one should feel a weight has lifted off ones shoulder should one finally choose to do so?

d) Is there some etiquette regarding responding to comments and should one adhere to the maxim that all men deserve equal treatment, hence all comments should be granted a response? Would the fact that one has such thoughts flittering through ones brain in the first place suggest that one is, perhaps, slightly far gone? Which opens up a whole other bag of worms called blog stat jealousy and virtual friendships - but perhaps I should leave it at that for now and let sleeping dogs lie.

The show can't go on.

2005-11-23T22:16:00.000Z

The cool thing about Belgian architects is, they love their light. Most apartments come equipped with large bay windows and every room of my humble abode has a natural source of light coming through some cleverly devised source or another, while the open space kitchen/living room/dining room boast wall to wall floor to ceiling windows on one end and a huge semicircular lot of windows on the other. As a DIY challenged single girl I had qualms about living here when I first moved in, but if poor people elsewhere can live without a roof over their heads I can certainly make do with curtainless windows. So no, there's no unexpected Poulette-like twist in the tale at this point, for indeed I did manage quite well. The human capacity to adapt is amazing people, I tell you, ah-maze-ing, and pretty soon I was living my own little Truman Show in my very own little glass box. I'm not a complete doofus mind you, so I was vaguely aware that the neighbouring apartments had a pretty clear view of the goings on within my castle. But bah! reasoned I, it's not like these people know me so why exactly should I care (because most people are born with a healthy sense of shame, you might cry out in reply, but perhaps this story will shut you up and you will realise that my sense of proportion in life can be way off at times)? And I didn't. What I did do was a number of embarrassing things we all do when home alone (oh no bitches, don't you go all hoity-toity on me and pretend you don't. Because I know. You do). So yes, I practiced some Britney dance routines to her videos in front of the TV. Uh-huh, I did my yoga stretches too. There might have been some mouthing along to the lyrics of my favourite tunes into empty beer bottles invovled and I wasn't always careful about ensuring that only my fully clothed body would be in plain view. Ok, here goes: UNTIL. Until a few months ago I went down to my friendly local White Nights DVD rental place, told my friendly local DVD rental guy I'd forgotten my membership card, to which he replied: oh never mind, you live on Rue xxxx xxxxxxxxx right? Wicked meaningful wink. Wicked. Meaningful. Wink. I mumbled my reply, grabbed the DVD in a floury of activity and left, my brain empty save for the flashing red letters that read: NOTE TO SELF: BUY CURTAINS.

Y'all will no doubt be pleased to note that the remains of the Poulettes modesty, they have been preserved since. That said, with all the action that was going on in front of the TV earlier while the Pussycat Dolls were rocking on MTV? I'd say my DVD dude missed one helluva show.

Picture: a handyman installs the Poulette's curtain rod with the masterful touch of his large tool.

Queen boy

2005-11-17T10:57:00.000Z

She could feel someone's gaze upon her. She looked up, flipped her hair and two myopic pairs of eyes locked across the smoky bar. The rest, as they say, is history.

If this sounds like the begging of a cheesy romance novel, don't be fooled. It is in fact a true account of how I met my Brussels based Gay Best Friend (GBF), J. I still remember that our first conversation revolved around Flemish-Waloon politics and when I questioned the animosity between the two he dismissed it with the words: "Oh we're all Belgian, we all have the same Queen and we all love our Queen!" I've yet to meet a Belgian who gives the Queen a second thought, but at the time I figured that he must know a thing or two about such things, most notably because he later confided "Darling, I want to be an ambassador!" Guess the fact that the boy had just majored in engineering and was working as an advanced mathematics teacher at the time should have made me take his political opinions with a pinch of salt. But whadda ya know, our friendship blossomed without further ado regardless. Soon we'd be holding regular meetings with a bottle of wine at the Ultime Atome or splurging on oysters, champagne and a dark chocolate truffle with raspberry sauce at the Belga Queen. Amateur relationship psychology would usually be the predominant theme of the evening and oh how we marveled at our own brilliance when we came up with what we perceived to be priceless nuggets of wisdom such as "Some men are like shellfish - it's hard to get them to open up, but if you succeed, you just might find a pearl inside" (and yes, I can hear y'all retching). Don't think we stopped there. No effing way José, we buuuuuuilt on it further until we came up with such ridiculous concoctions as "Shellfish are like bison - they need lots of space". Cue grave nodding so as to allow the wisdom of this profound truism to sink in. Hey, I never said we were the smartest peas in the pod, but dammit, at least we looked good doing it.

While all this was taking place, J. changed his professional aspirations from ambassador to Opera director (he did a brief stint working for the Opera de la Bastille in Paris), until the discovery of my salary kicked his capitalist pragmatism into overdrive and he promptly decided that the EU institutions were the only way to go. Good luck, I thought with no shortage of smug superiority, because everyone - tout le monde - knows that the only way to get a job at the institutions is through a fluke of gross negligence by the human resources department (as was the case with me) or by being an EU enthusiast who sets his mind on this goal before deciding to enroll in engineering school. HR flukes, they are rare. But two years on since our first meeting, my favourite Flemish Pretty Boy is a rising star at one of the Institutions and his career prospects have him laughing all the way to the bank. Incidentally this also means that we see a helluva lot less of each other, as it just so happens that he's now stationed in the far off land of Italy.

So anyway, let me cut to the chase: the truth of the matter is that only three of the Poulettes real-life friends are aware of her secret life as a bloger. But after careful deliberation at the Poulette headquarters here in Brussels, it was unanimously decided that perhaps this little milestone merits another coming out.

*Peeks from behind the door and waves shyly*

HI DARLING!!!!!!!!!!

You could be my flamingo cause pink is the new kindda lingo

2005-11-15T23:27:00.000Z

Things have been pretty busy here at La Poulette - first the beau chateau, then Paris, then London, a brief period of intense studying for an 8 hour exam last Friday and the immediate subsequent escape to a girlie week-end getaway in Amsterdam. Funny how surprising it is to discover that one does have a life beyond blogging after all.

But fear not my diehard fans, the site shall resume back to its normal, regular self (cue earshattering collective sigh of relief from the Poulette's gazillion readers) and hopefully migrate to a superior Wordpress location ASAP - it's what I call jumping on the bandwagon before the train leaves the station. Considering that this blog wasn't seriously expected to last beyond a week, the template was never a major concern. Now that things seem to have spun beyond my control, however, I feel that that the times they are a-changing and the template should follow suit. I still maintain that pink and Poulette go together like banana's and peanut butter, which is to say, like, totally. But shadewise I'm thinking less Barbie more Babe, less Hello Kitty more Chanel Chance, less Paris more Proteus... with some luck, all coming to a Poulete near you bientot.

The bow shatow

2005-11-07T20:52:00.000Z

Drive a good two hours out of Paris towards the East of France and you will pass through a little village by the curious name of Colombey les deux églises, which translates roughly to Colombey of two churches. It's a picture postcard little place, full of gentle rolling green hills and neat little stone houses. The two churches the name refers to are actually the village church and what used to be a fair sized monastery adjacent to it. The cemetary in front of the church bears the grave of none other than good ol' Charlie boy - that's General Charles de Gaulle to you and me, chère lecteur. Mere mortal frogs lower their gazes in reverential awe at the mention of the Great Man, some even dream of blowing their savings on a pilgrimage to the sacred village of Colombey, home to his grave AND his childhood home. What Mecca is to Islam, Colombey is to French patriotism. Alas, not all the little people are privy to the privilege and many die a death of unfulfilled patriotic duty, a sorrowful ending of dreams unrealised.

The Purebred gentry of this world, however, bears no such pilgrimatory ambition. Nay, it prefers to aim a tad higher and make C2E the location of its cosy little country home. However, in keeping with the capricious nature of the blue blooded sort, these folks aren't going to settle for just any old country shack, non, non, non et non siree Bob. A home away from home is all about location, location, location, mes chers, and the Purebreds will be damned if one of the églises in Colombey-les-deux-églises won't have their name on it (or at least on the mailbox out front). Bad luck has it that the church has already been taken by the pious clergy, hence the former monastery, it will have to do.

And so it came to pass that a certain Poulette spent the Toussaints holidays warming her feet in front of an open fireplace in a former monastery in Colombey-les-deux-églises. Oh the bliss of being woken up by chirping birds as opposed to the ubiquitous beeping scooters of the city of lights! Oh the joy of feeding a suitably grateful half-jawed stray cat every morning, noon and evening (although one might choose to leave the petting to the Purebred, henceforth known as The Man Of The Iron Stomach)! Oh the coziness of an indoor open fire allowing one to indulge in a BBQ in the depth of autumn (albeit bearing the cross of eating ones roast beef rare to avoid murderous glares from the Purebred should one deign to asks for well-done)! Oh the crispness of the autumn wind as one embarks on long walks in the countryside! Oh the Frenchness of the breakfast bauguette from the village boulangerie coupled with home-made Purebred cranberry marmalade! Oh the joy of a perfect wine and cheese combo that wraps up a delicious dinner every night! Oh the yawn-inducing drive-me-to-drink boredom of it all! Because after four whole days of this - yeah, sure, pleasurable - little getaway, were we effing ready to head back to civilization. The place, where a laptop comes connected to the INTERNET! The place where watching DVD's and TV is a guilt-free affair! The place, where cooking is not the only dubious source of entertainment!
If nothing else, this experience has taught me a few important lessons: a country creature, I am not. The 'burbs, they are creepy. And you can take the cityslicker out of the city, but you'll never take the city out of the Poulette. No matter how fiercely it burns.

PS: by the way, does anyone actually get the title of this post?

Only the shadow knew.

2005-10-26T08:38:00.000Z

Each time he leaned across the table I found myself just inches from the perfectly preened topiary that was his 3-day shadow, the startlingly bushy monobrow and the fleshy purplish lips. Everything about him screamed MOI rich young Saudi sleazeball playa and TOI - if you play your cards right - my woah-MAN. He was showing more cleavage than S. (a.k.a. Exhibit a) and I, which on that particular evening just happened to be saying something. His hairy chest was adorned with gold bling galore and his hair was slicked back in a way that let you know his monthly wet-look-hair-gel bill helped keep the hair cosmetic industry in business. Since he happened to be friend of a friend of S.'s who'd come to Brussels alone for the night, the task of entertaining him for the evening inevitably fell upon us. An adventure, we couldn't resist, Playa Boy could have done worse. We quickly fell into the required adoring-escort-service-girlie-giggle routine, took the fact that he'd interrupt our conversations with regular trips to the bathroom so as to indulge his snow addiction in stride and we knew how to drown that Don Perignon at the VIP club he'd suavely hustled us into by paying the doorman a modest 200 euros - as one does when one is secure in the knowledge that money does indeed grow on trees.

Mad Magazine used to run a comic series entitled What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men?The Shadow Knows. It featured various social situations with people acting appropriate to the occasion, while the shadow projected on the wall behind them revealed their true colours. That evening S. and I were model hostesses, providing Saudi PlayaBoy with the perfect dose of appropriate ego-stroking feminine behaviour. But projected discreetly on the wall behind us, our shadows slapped their knees in hysterics throughout his Who da Man? act and rubbed their hands in glee at the bottomless hilarious-anecdote potential of the evening. Which reached its climax when he leaned across the table once more, a gleam in his eye, his voice lowered to the sort of confidential tone used among friends who...understand...each other and said: "Don't you just love the feeling when you look at your reflection in the mirror before going out and think to yourself: Man! My shit is TIGHT, tonight!"

Oh how we smiled coquettishly at that, oh how we laughed conspiratorially along with him, oh how our eyes sparkled, mischievously flashing "Playa, your shit is tight and our shit is tight and we hear ya, Big Daddy!" But what evil did lurk in the hearts of us two girls at that moment?

Bunny gets some Honey

2005-10-21T10:04:00.000Z

Now, I don't claim to be an expert in the field, or anything. But in my humble opinion, I would have to say that this promo video * does a slightly better job than my old favourite. No?

*Enter site, click on the girl standing on the right and choose the "play the whole video" option. I would file this under "Viewing not suitable for work" - unless you work in the adult entertainment industry, that is.

Not that there's anything wrong with it, Jerry.

2005-10-17T12:42:00.000Z

On my way from work, I come across a human specimen that could only be described as a type. It is not gender specific and is surprisingly ubiquitous in this day and age, although - for reasons yet to be determined - one can find an unusually high concentration of its ilk in the town of Ljubljana, Slovenia. I call it The Crunchy Granola Birkenstock/Flip-Flop Loving Hippie Throwback. It's easily recognisable by its penchant for ponchos (bought in a market in Peru) and all things hemp. The look is ethnic style meets Bob Marley, for a set of dirty dreadlocks represent a highly desirable fashion accessory in its Crunchy Granola world. Despite the nubile age group of the majority of its members, a keen observer would be led to believe that procreation is not high on its list of priorities, for it works the asexual look with meticulous care, as it cruises about its urban environment on its preferred mode of transportation - a customised beat-up vintage bicycle. Where feeding habits are concerned Crunchy Granola is all about vegetarian market produce and organic home-grown weed. Its holiday destination choices are a tad trickier for the modern anthropologist to understand, however. In the Crunchy Granola world a holiday is not about leisure but about the search for new spiritual dimensions. It spends a lot of time-off in Amsterdam, but don't be fooled, this is only a holiday in a I've-come-to-research-the-latest-trends-in-organic-home-grown-marijuana-production kind of way - the westernised nature of any European city is otherwise looked-down upon. But no Crunchy Granola is considered a true card carrying member of the Hippie Throwback Club until it has made the obligatory pilgrimage to India (the Poulette is not currently on a diet, but could someone pass the barf bag regardless, please?). No need to expound upon the reasons, the added value of the destination being, however, that it can simultaneously stock up on bags of incense, Hindi poetry and Zen attitude.

Crunchy Granola and Poulette don't have much to say to each other. But the Poulette knows that Crunchy Granola Birkenstock/Flip Flop Loving Hippie Throwbacks need love too and feels it is the least she can do to send it this postcard and refer it to the wisdom of the Manolo, who will perhaps have more success in enlightening it on matters of the dreaded poncho and the cringeworthy Birkenstock.

I like to call it the margarine of tax.

2005-10-12T18:51:00.000Z

Apart from never having to join the ranks of taxpaying citizens, another perk of the Eurocracy is the fact of free language courses. During working hours (je gloate). So every Tuesday and Thursday I trudge off to the Commission for my 2 hour French course with a bunch of other Eurocrats. The regulars include a couple of generic Italians, the obligatory dumb brunette (minus the good looks in this case, but my hands just itch to slap her every time she opens her cakehole), a Greek who finds every mildly humorous sentence uttered in class disproportionately funny and a red faced German in a short-sleeved shirt with a breast pocket where he likes to keep his collection of pens. Practical, you know. Before you grimance in sympathy let me assure you, I'm entirely used to all this by now! Hell, I hardly notice it anymore! However my experience in class the other day gave me some major food for thought.

First: Italian stallion next to me inquires after my mother tongue and when I reply Slovenian, he's all oh so then you speak Czech too? I say that in fact, no, I don't. He thinks this over and triumphantly remembers that Slovenia actually borders on Italy. He beams. I think: whadda ya want bambino, a pat on the back? A gold star? But apparently he has other plans. He hands me a flyer for a Salsa party with a sleazy Joey Tribianni see YOU there grin, utterly nonplused, breathtakingly unashamed about his recent demonstration of stupidity. I know, better bloggers than moi have already attempted to shed more light on the eternal Slovenia-Slovakia mix-up. But in the very cradle of the EU? Have things really gotten this bad?

Second: our teacher asks us to make a little show-and-tell presentation about any subject we choose. It's the Greek jester's turn and his presentation focuses on his stamp and coin collection. Don't get me wrong, I was quite the stamp collector myself once upon a time - but that was when I was 9 and had no life. This guy is in his early fifties and he talks about his stamps and coins as though they were his first-born children. As I'm suppressing a guffaw at the sheer ridiculousness of this notion, I notice that everyone else is intently absorbed in his tale. And oh, it gets worse. Because when the teacher asks whether anyone else has a similar hobby, turns out they all do. There's the Middle Eastern guide book collector on the far right. The old postcard collector in the back. And although he stays quiet as a mouse, the bearded guy in front of me is meticulously collecting dandruff on his lapels, I'm sure of it.

The Poulette concludes in quiet resignation: welcome to the Eurocracy, bitch! The tax-free life? All myth. You pay your dues all right, just in different form.

The despair of Heidi Fleiss, part II

2005-10-12T18:02:00.000Z

I was disappointed by the lack of interest the first time round. Hence, I hereby present single girlfriend exhibit b: welcome to Slovenia! Bear in mind that I'm giving you people an exclusive sneak preview offer before I move these babes to e-bay, mokay?

The despair of Heidi Fleiss

2005-10-10T18:37:00.000Z

The Poulette, she has a number of gorgeous, smart, sexy girlfriends, girlfriends who on top of all these qualities also posses a sense of humour. They are blond, they are dark, they are Flemish, they are Slovene, they are Slovak, they are all of superior quality. If the Poulette were a man, she would climb the highest mountain and swim the deepest ocean to take these girlfriends out. Alas, these girlfriends, they have no boyfriends. These girlfriends, they go to bed at night alone and by day they Skype the Poulette to inquire whether she might know of any Purebred friends, who would be single and fun and presentable. No, they seek not the man of the power! The man of the muscle! The man of the status! The man of the money! The man of the celebrity! Not at all! They seek but the man of the intellect, the man who does not take himself too seriously, the man of the honest simplicity. They will even venture so far as to overlook the man with the lack of dress sense, for they are wise enough to know that in this department at least, men can be molded like play dough.

The Poulette, she has found this man, albeit one with an aristocratic twist. She is a generous girl by nature, alas her generosity, it has its limits. But woe is her, for her bottomless altruism will not allow her to sleep soundly at night knowing that there are 3 gorgeous chiquitas out there still in search of Mr. Right. What to do, wails she into the empty night, WHAT TO DO?!

Picture: single girlfriend exhibit a, Welcome to Flanders.

Crack open a can o' Fanta, cause it's officially my orange week.

2005-10-07T17:37:00.000Z

So I'm indulging in an increasingly rare Friday afternoon past-time (shopping) and I decide to check out the menswear section of the store I'm in for gift potential. Of all things a pair of slippers catches my eye (let's never talk about this again and file it under a moment of temporary insanity) and I'm just about to put them back on the rack when a tall figure blocks my way. I look up and there's Archie himself: flaming orange hair, translucent skin and eyelashes, all tall, lanky and comic. His limbs are all over the place but he's gazing at me earnestly from behind a pair of plastic prescription glasses. I notice that he's just pulled on a sweater from the store since the price tag hangs of the sleeve and while all these thoughts are coursing through my brain I hear him ask in French "Excuse me, what do you think of this sweater? Does it fit me well, do I look OK?". Too startled by this stranger soliciting my fashion opinion (has to be said, he came to the right place!) I stutter back "oui, c'est joli!", which is the only phrase that comes to mind, although upon closer inspection, I'm not all that sure. It's bright orange (he must have picked it out to coordinate with his hair) with thin brown horizontal stripes running across. It does have that Jarvis Cocker geek chic potential, if only it weren't worn by a geek. Because on this guy it's all geek, no chic (and borderline freak). He beams with delight at this news but apparently I wasn't enthusiastic enough for his liking. "So you really like it, it's not just, like, whatever, right?" At this point it's too late for me to backtrack so I decide to stick with my original opinion. Besides, I was slightly flattered that he'd pick me as his impromptu fashion advisor. "Pas du tout, moi j'aime bien!" I assure him as his pale face lights up and he walks away satisfied. I continue shopping halfheartedly, but the episode leaves me restless. Because what I'd really like to do is get up on my tippy toes, pat the poor sod on the head in a reassuring motion and tell him honey, save yourself the pennies. That hot date you're preparing yourself for? If she's willing to overlook those translucent eyebrows, the endless limbs and lo, even risk getting poked and jabbed by all those protruding bones of yours, why, I'm sure you can just throw on any old thing and she'll love you just as you are. But hey! Thanks for asking.

Orange you glad she fried herself silly so I could write this short post?

2005-10-04T20:27:00.000Z

She's back from vacation and it looks like it was someplace scorching. Except at this point baby girl glows in the dark.

Coquette spotting

2005-10-03T10:02:00.000Z

It's a nice Saturday and Purebred and I are just leaving Le Bon Marché, trendy and Bobo and with-it as we are. We cross the street towards the Metro station deep in conversation, when Purebred interrupts me mid-sentence, his gaze transfixed by something or someone in front of him.

"Isn't that... could that be...." he stutters, but by this time the subject of his fascination had already passed us by and he turns around violently,still transfixed. I reluctantly crane my neck to follow his gaze - nothing I hate more than being interrupted - only to be greeted by the sight of a girl, pug on leash in tow, strolling towards Le Bon Marché and sporting the most formidable - yet strangely familiar - red curls I have ever laid eyes on. In a rush of excitement realisation strikes and we breathe a drawn out awestruck "COQUETTE!" in unison in pretty much the same breathless tone we would have employed to say "J Lo!" had Mrs. Anthony just passed us by, cadaver instead of pug in tow. THAT ladies and gentleman was my very first blogger celebrity sighting and let me tell you, running into J to the Lo would have had nothing - nada, niente, niet! - on this.

What the poor girl would have thought had she been aware of the stir she'd caused while happily going about her business, oblivious to the two pathetic bloggerspotters behind her, is a different matter altogether. And probably one I'd prefer not to delve too deeply into either.

Strike a pose!

2005-09-29T14:24:00.000Z

The journey of my childhood development was a meandering road full of weird and unrelated pit stops. My first love was Snoopy and I was convinced that my life depended on collecting any crap that came equipped with his image, be it a transparent plastic red sun visor (it was the 80's after all) or a cheap badge depicting Charlie Brown with a "Good grief!" thought bubble floating out of his head. By the time I hit the tender age of 11, poor Snoopy was ruthlessly pushed aside in favour of Madonna. I was smitten for the next two years and my parents looked on reluctantly as their sweet preteen daughter started to transform into a miniature trash slut of the Desperately Seeking Susan variety and - to add insult to injury - trample all over her atheist education with a collection of crucifixs around her neck. For all I cared, they could as well have been Swastikas. I bought my first make-up kit at Marks & Spencer and painted my lids indigo, which would invariably prompt my brother to ask who'd beaten me up (I'd just shoot him a scornful look - lord haveth mercy on the clueless ignoramus - while he'd hoot away in laughter). I hosted and attended sleepover parties where my friends and I would practice our dance moves to Lucky Star, shaving our legs and don face masks.

And then came the sophisticated age of 13, when my BFF B. from Belgium and I came to a mutual decision that it was time for our big break: MODELING. We were cute enough I guess, but small and skinny and decidedly unmodel like. Did that stop us? You bet our sweet preteen little asses it didn't! We collected pictures of a then bushy-browed Cindy Crawford and tried emulating her poses in front of the mirror. We spent hours scouring the yellow pages and calling up modeling agencies until we realised that we'd get nowhere without a "Book". Enter amateur photographer in the shape of my father. That Saturday we applied our make-up like pro's and struck sultry poses in front of the camera, as daddy dearest clicked away. In retrospect, I've got to admire the poor sod's patience, not to mention his self-control in maintaining a thoroughly serious - professional, B. and I agreed approvingly - straight-faced demeanor. The photos were presented in an elegant black folder and we painstakingly typed up our general statistics on the front page. I put my eye colour down as "hazel" and my hair as "chestnut" - way more glamorous sounding than boring old "brown", I noted in satisfaction.

Incredibly enough, a seedy little agency agreed to take us on and a few months later B. went on to do a minor appearance in a Fuji Film ad (much to my chagrin). But I liked to comfort myself that I almost got a lead role in a Johnson and Johnson advertisement (not tan enough, the agent finally dismissed me briskly as I held back my tears), which is, like, totally cooler anyway.
Things were just starting to take off when BFF B. had to move, a cause of much tearful good-byes and promises to write and keep in touch. We did; and for a grand total of 14 years no less, without ever setting eyes on each other in the meantime.

Today B. is a hugely successful (to my chagrin) senior consultant at a hot shot consulting agency in Amsterdam. But I like to comfort myself that I am a humble ************** in Brussels, which is, like, totally better paid anyway. We see each other every few week-ends and turns out she's still a skinny little thing, whereas I am a relatively tall, erm, normal sized thing. But were my dad to turn up equipped with his camera nowadays to suddenly interrupt one of our bar hopping excursions, I'm sure we'd both still be more than willing to flash him one MEAN little pose. VOGUE, bitch.

Gay week

2005-09-27T11:21:00.000Z

My friend, whom I shall call the Rainbow Warrior for the purpose of this blog, is in town. The Poulette, one time fag hag extraordinare, has gone cold turkey lately, so the opportunity to get back in touch with her gaylord side is more than welcome. Question is, can she handle it?!

See, last time the RW was here, it was Heidi Fleiss all over again. For a grand total of three weeks my apartment was transformed into a gay brothel - except that no additional euro made its way to my bank account as a consequence. I am not sure exactly how many strange men found their way to my apartment and made good use of my Grankulla futon canapé and to be perfectly honest, I don't care to find out. What I do know is that The Bitch Downstairs was given further confirmation that Eastern European girls are indeed the sluts she took them to be. I also know that going to work during those days was hangover hell and the fact that my beverage of choice was Belgium's finest 8,5% beer Judas (trust me - that name is there for a reason) didn't help matters any.

Anyway, this time around things have been a tad calmer. I came home at 5am on Saturday morning after a night of gay barhopping - first Homo Erectus a favourite haunt of mine, not only because I'm usually presented with a rose upon entering (girls are a rare breed in those parts), followed by Chez Maman, a dark little establishment where drag queens descend the stairs above the bar - as if straight from heaven - and bellow out their karaoke favourites. It's loud, it's cheap, it's brash, it's wonderful. That same evening we took the last train to Antwerp and made our way to the coolest club in the world, where we danced until 6am, just in time for the first train back to Brussels. All the time in between has been spent watching trash television (painstakingly downloaded and brought all the way from Slovenia) of the likes of The Simple Life and Wife Swap.

So yes, coming to work on Monday morning was no cause for celebration, but at least I was hangover free. There have been no signs of the gay brothel to date and I'm glad that I've finally let my inner fag hag out to play. It was long overdue, after all. And yet... why am I still thinking that going to the Purebred's middle-of-nowhere-country-house-with-no-entertainment-value-whatsoever this coming week-end might not be such a bad idea after all?

The poulettisation of the Kokoška*

2005-09-21T08:35:00.000Z

Easing into the francophone lifestyle was no great feat. Let's face it, consuming large hunks of delicious cheese can hardly be considered torture, I always had a penchant for a good pain au chocolat, my derriere can stil take in the nasty one-croissant-a-day habit I've developed and I'm even starting to like the persona I seem to acquire whenever I speak French - the sing song melody of the language turns me into a politer, more good-natured version of my usual self. Turns out the hardest nut to crack has been adapting my reserved, peoplephobic Slovenian self to the touchy feely Frenchy way. I'm talking air kissing here. If you were to count all the kisses I've given and received in a lifetime, it would probably add up to half the sum of those I've dispensed and accepted over the past two years.

Trust me, the begining was rough. I got myself into many an awkward social situation when I would stick out my hand upon being introduced to new people, only to see a bewildered look cross their face. I soon realised that kissing would have to become my modus operandi, but I could never quite shake off the cold contraction of my body at the first sign of an iminent kiss with a stranger, friend or foe (no, I could almost hear it bellow, nooooooooo!) Coming to work I would have to kiss my colleagues hello and come 5 o'clock kiss them good-bye. Going to a party and meeting new people would entail a flourish of kissing activity right and left. I'd arrive at my friendly neighborhood bar only to wait a lifetime to order my drink, what with the complicated procedure of kissing each and every waiter I "knew" beforehand. My second meeting with the Purebred parents and already we'd be air kissing like there's no tomorrow.

Just recently I had lunch with one of my former bosses. And what do we do? We kiss. Kissing the hiearchy, people! The superior! Is it me or is there not something borderline indecent about that? Oh but I leaned in and offered first my right then my left cheek like a veritable pro, dahling. I even pulled off the appropriate smiling expression, said ca va? at the correct interval and did it all in one seamless offhand motion. No small acomplishment.
Strange thing is, you'd think coming back to Slovenia would be a relief. And what happens? Each time I meet people I know, I have to fight off the urge to kiss them. Dig in my memory and remember the once familiar gesture of stiffly sticking out my hand. To strangers, foes and weirdest of all, friends. But oh how I long to nonchalantly lean in and smack them two big ones, one right, one left.

* That would be Slovene for Poulette.

The unpopular girl's guide to dating

2005-09-19T20:55:00.000Z

My first boyfriend was a pale, sickly looking kid, with white blond hair and milky blue eyes. He was almost a full head smaller than me, but I was grateful that there was no metal in his mouth and that someone would actually give me the time of day in the first place. Beggars can't be choosers, I figured. He sent me a love letter via his best friend, painstakingly written in large biro font on green stationary with pictures of dinosaurs running along the margin. The magic words (Will you go out with me? Love, Mark) sent a rush of excited shivers down my spine. But I played it cool. I was no geek, but I wasn't exactly popular either. Mark, on the other hand hung out with the "in crowd" occasionally and had recently gone out with a seriously popular chick (Dawn Jaya, a name forever etched into my memory). I reasoned that a) I would get a boyfriend, despite being a skinny, boobless 12-year old late bloomer and b) if I played my cards right, I would climb a rung or two on the popularity ladder - a major preoccupation of every kid at my international school.

We met by the water fountain at lunch, both of us accompanied by our best friends for moral support. I popped a huge pink bubble with my gum and haughtily let him know that I would think about going out with him. We talked about history class for a couple of minutes and just before making my way back to homeroom, I informed him that my mind was made up and the answer was yes. His tiny Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed in relief - the boy could not afford the humiliation of being turned down by someone with as little market value as myself either - and just like that, we were officially a couple.

During the initial phase of our romance (that would be day one) my jelous girlfriend convinced his friend to ask her out as well. He resisted, but she was a feisty German creature who wouldn't take no for an answer. The poor kid finally conceded and we both squealed in delight knowing that the awkward obligation of "going out" would be made less so, as it appeared that double dates would abound. The romance lasted a week or two, during which we would meet after school and talk behind the gym. At one point the boys tried to teach us how to skateboard and Mark protectively took my hand to ensure I wouldn't fall. The following day the whole school was abuzz: Poulette and Mark were holding hands! Poulette and Mark were holding hands! I shrugged the comments off disinterestedly (what's a little hand holding for a girl as experienced in matters of love as myself?) and feigned boredom at the whole affair (really people, why all the hoopla?). In reality I was worried sick. Sure the hand holding was exciting, but suppose we would have to move on from there? Suppose he wants to stick his tongue in my mouth and discovers I haven't a clue as to what to do with mine? Suppose he even wants to put his hand down my shirt (something I'd been warned about in my Judy Blume novels) and - horror of horrors - discovers that my chest is just about the same general shape and size as his own? There was but one answer to my dilemma: break up pronto. It would be a shame to loose a boyfriend, sure, but I was additionally egged on by my German friend, who felt that she was loosing her grasp on her own man and was craftily suggesting a double dumping. If you don't dump him, she warned, he might dump you and think of the consequences on your popularity! I was convinced. The event took place just before the last period, history. I'm dumping you, I said. Fine by me, he retorted. But rumour later had it the bravado was just a front and that he'd cried over the end of our little affair after school. Not nearly as much as when Dawn Jaya dismissed him, though...

Slovenians perpetuate stereotypes? Never!

2005-09-15T09:48:00.000Z

It was one of those first real summer days this July, when the clouds had finally cleared sufficiently to allow some rays of sunshine to peep through and give me an excuse to finally bring out my summer gear. Lord knows I'd waited long enough. It was a Paris week-end and the Purebred and I went for a little walk around the uneventful 15th district. Which, as far as I was concerned, was a good enough reason to don my new denim miniskirt and a pair of ultra high strappy wedge sandals.

So there I am, lookin' h-o-t HOT (or so I imagine) and lookin' down (both literally and not) on all those Parisian babes who are all casual and comfortable in their little flip-flops. No flip-flops, for me, no siree Bob! This chicita, I thought in discreet self-satisfaction, understands the importance of the heel and what it does to a girl's sex appeal. And I'm not teaching you anything that hasn't been said a thousand times before: elogenates the leg, showcases the derriere (or should I say trunk?), ensures a svelte silhouette, etc, etc, etc.

I felt like the leggy Mira Sorvino in Mighty Aphrodite. And I desperately wanted the Purebred to know this, to understand that he has a girl of superior quality by his side. That, unlike all those flip-flopping babes surrounding me, I am one of those rare few who is still willing to suffer for the sake of beauty (this sentiment enhanced all the more because I knew deep down that this was not in fact the case - but I'd paid good money for those shoes in better days and I'd be damned if I wasn't gonna get some wear out of them). Question was, how does one convey these thoughts delicately and indirectly without making oneself sound like a frivolous, self-involved airhead?! One has her ways.

"I so don't understand how all these girls can just walk around town in flip-flops" I start tentatively, my voice just the right combination of indignation and boredom, pleased with the sneaky, indirect way I'd managed to broach the subject.

He considers this thought for a moment. Looks at the casual, carefree girls all around. Takes me in head to toe. "I don't know..." A pause. "Actually I find high heels to be kind of typical of Easter European girls". This said in a casual, unsuspecting, almost bored voice as though he'd just said actually I think it might rain tomorrow.

But I'm thinking Easter European girls? EASTERN EUROPEAN GIRLS? In my world, telling someone that they look like an Eastern European girl is tantamount to calling them a cheap slut. I my world, the image of an Eastern European girl is that of a scrawny, mousy looking babe with fried peroxide blonde hair and dark roots - the worst dye job imaginable in short -, a girl whose jaw seems to be permanently working on a stick of gum, a girl who sports garish leopard print tank tops, faux leather miniskirts and cheap gold jewelry, a girl who - yes, granted - wears high heels, except hers are chunky and come attached to the cheapest plastic sandals imaginable. You know how people say that just before death you have a film of your entire life flash through your mind and you suddenly understand? Me, I had a film of my entire adult expat life go through mine and in each and every scene there I was, unsuspectingly satisfied in my various overdressed trying-too-hard outfits, meeting the Purebred kin and the Purebred friends, hoping to make the impression of the cosmopolitan girl who blends in like butter, while they look at me smiling, but afterwards gossip sotto voce "That the Purebred's new girlfriend? From some Eastern European country, is she? Slovakia? Yes, yeesssss, it does show, doesn't it?". It was like seeing an old photo of yourself from the 80's, all stone washed jeans and big hair thinking you're all that and some sugar on top, but in retrospect it's just faux pas after faux pas after faux pas. And by god, I understood.

Pile mine high and make sure it doesn't jiggle

2005-09-09T11:33:00.000Z

I'm watching Dismissed on MTV, a show that makes me feel about 100 years old because I inevitably find myself muttering under my breath and my words go somewhere along the lines of what is the world coming to with kids today acting like autistic retards and proudly displaying their stultifying antics for the whole world to see, is there no shame left?, when I witness the following exchange between two just such youths on my screen:

Gum-Chewing Blonde to White Boy in Ghetto Gear: doncha bullshit me about what kindda personality a girl gotta have, cause I know you guys just look for tits an' an ass, yo.

White Boy in Ghetto Gear to Gum-Chewing Blonde: chill, chill, I ain't sayin' dat... a honey's gotta have 'em hooters and pack some junk in her trunk, but gimme some brain too, yo.

And I'm thinking: Junk in her trunk? As in ass, butt, bum, derriere, lower back (if you will)? JUNK IN HER TRUNK? Is this guy for real? I know some people would beg to differ, but sometimes you've just got to love MTV for its sheer educational value.

Becoming Heidi Fleiss

2005-09-07T08:22:00.000Z

What do you do when a single girlfriend comes to Paris for the week-end? You pimp her off to someone you've never met, of course! Key ingredients:

- one blogger whom your match-making intuition feels would fit the bill pefectly

- one ready-for-anything (and I mean anything!) Single Slovenian Girl

- one convincing e-mail to be sent off to said blogger with tempting proposition (blind date with gorgeous babe)

- one Mastermind pimp in charge of organising the whole affair (yours truly)

- one reluctant-to-tag-along Purebred

Venue: midnight in a bar by the Montparnasse. Situation: threesome facing the door is apparently the all-male party eagerly awaiting the arrival of your charge. You march inside, all eyez curiously on your posse, and suddenly it hits you: I must look like Heidi Fleiss, star new prospect on one side, surly bouncer (a.k.a. The Purebred) on the other. AND BY GOD HOW YOU UNDERSTAND EXACTLY WHY YOUR AMERICAN DOPPELGANGER WAS WILLING TO RISK A JAIL SENTENCE FOR THIS! Verdict: PRICELESS.

In case you are interested: romance did not blossom and another one of my match-making projects went down the toilet. However was it all worth it for the fulfillment of a dream, a bizarre adventure and a great night of partying? Honey, if it's good enough for Heidi, why then it's good enough for me.

On second thought: the green eyed monster, c'est moi.

2005-09-06T07:30:00.000Z

I knew she'd get on my nerves the minute I sat myself down across from her on the Brussels-Paris Thalys. She was a thin, delicate creature (big annoyance factor - nothing a voluptuous woman hates more than a flat, skinny one). Pretty enough, sure, but her body language made it apparent that she considered herself nothing short of beautiful - major annoyance factor. A Le Monde lay spread out on the table in front of her unread, while she was busy talking with a middle age man seated to her right. She was a lawyer linguist, she told him, as I made myself comfortable on the other seat. But she has two masters degrees, one in political science and the other in general culture, she hurried on as the seeds of hate that had just been planted in my head slowly began to flourish. Yes, she's only twentyfive (a modest, rueful smile spreads across her face), but she's already planned her career: she's given herself five years time to study for the bar exam, which means she can pass it by the age of 30. And the message between the lines flashes: I'm gorgeous AND intelligent AND ambitious. I'm gorgeous AND intelligent AND ambitious. Oh the little bitch had it all figured out, while I sat watching, reminded of the fact that it had only just recently occurred to me that a career is perhaps something I should be working on. The man kept coming up with new questions - such a young piece of ass and so eager to talk to him! - and she was more than happy to oblige him: a star pupil confidently counting off the multiplication tables. She listened to his questions intently, lips thoughtfully pursed, head slowly nodding in understanding and then promptly fired off the replies, her face the epitome of righteousness, her eyebrows jumping in animation, her fingers twirling the delicate gold necklace at her throat. When the conversation finally waned, she reluctantly turned back to her newspaper, lips still thoughtfully pursed as she read, the expression on her face changing subtly in order to convey the emotional impact of each news item (disapproving shock via furrowed brow at news of Katrina; an indulgent smile of amusement coupled with disbelieving head shaking at the latest Bushism; mild surprise by way of raised eyeborws a the current stock market figures) - the picture of a girl forever aware that a possibility of a film camera following her every move isn't that far-fetched.

Oh what I wouldn't have given to give that pink cheek of hers a firm, resounding slap that would wipe that self-righteous smirk right off her face. How I would have loved to magically produce a situation that would stir her self-confidence just a little, that would make her perfect self-contained little world just a tad less so. But then she closed her newspaper, fished her handbag from under the seat and stood up. A position that gave me a nice full view of her ill-fitting cheap polyester pant-suit. And then came the piece de resistance, the icing on the cake: she turned around and I was greeted by the sight of a disproportionately large derriere. Not the type that reaches out back, 3D style. No, the type that remains flat but expands out to the sides only to produce extra large hip issues. The worst kind. Especially on an otherwise skinny, breastfree frame. My hate suddenly dissolved in a wave of satisfaction and relief. Well, you know, what can you do - the poor girl.

Because I can so use all the compliments I can get, THAT'S why!

2005-09-01T14:45:00.000Z

While walking to work one cold winter morning last year, a garbageman from a passing truck gave me a head-to-toe once over and let out an appreciative "Ohlala, c'est juste mon style!" He was, of course, referring to my outfit, not to me. And this on a day, when I left the house satisfied in my conviction that I did indeed look rather stylish. Not to come across as a snob or anything (snob? moi?!) but a garbageman? Really?! Why do I have such a hard time picturing this little exchange ever taking place in Slovenia? Why would I not be surprised if the man in question had a copy of Vogue Homme waiting for him at home? And why - despite a gargantuan effort to fight the sentiment - did I feel just a tad flattered?!

I did always wonder what it would be like to brandish a nightstick, some handcuffs and deliver the Miranda.

2005-08-30T14:44:00.000Z

There I am, nursing my happy hour beer at the Place Luxembourg - the after work Eurocrat congregation area - and everything seems just fine and dandy. The unusually warm temperatures and scorching sun have brought all the Eurocrats outside and a keen observer will soon notice that each bar located in the square has its own special brand of the Eurocrat creature hanging out in front. O'Reilleys caters to the old fogey who's been pushing the European bureaucratic wheel for the past twenty years and needs to drown his boredom in afternoon pints. Q is a tad more classy in an empty sterile way, just right for the likes of former European Parliament president Pat Cox (you gotta love my casual name dropping) to sneak in for a quick beer, safe from prying eyes. The newly opened Coco boasts a somewhat "hipper" crowd, whereas the anglophile Grapevine is a veritable incarnation of Little Britain (but where is Vicky Pollard?). At the very edge is classy Ralph's, trying hard to attract Eurocracy's beautiful people, but only coming up with young wanna-be's who've turned it into a meat market with European attitude extraordinaire (classic pick up lines include: so whadd'ya think of the Commission's green paper on the Services of General Interest?).

Anyway, so there I am at the Grapevine, pint of beer in hand, a perfect view of the crowd from each bar within my line of vision and I just know, I know that something is missing, but I can't quite put my finger on it. At which point my gaze stops on my British drinking buddies, each one sporting a cheap faux silk tie that probably came in a pack of 3 for 9.99 euros at H&M and it hits me: where the hell is the fashion police? Because the place is just teeming with hard-core criminals, fashion arrests right and left waiting to happen and atrocious crimes being committed as I speak. And yet everyone seems completely oblivious, as though this were just the normal state of affairs, as if they had every right to sit there in their ridiculous outfits, as though their little Eurocrat bubble was self-sufficient enough to stand taking absolutely no heed of real world developments such as Couture (say what?) and Dress Code (come again?).

I won't even bother touching upon the can of worms that the old fogey's by O'Reilley constitute. Suffice it to say that they entered the institutions back in the 70's at which point their concept of time froze, trapping them in their double breasted tweed suits forever. What worries me more is the younger crowd, the people who should, by rights, still be linked to the real world by at least the thinnest of threads. I can forget and almost forgive you the eurogeek speak pick-up lines. But could you please invest in a pair of leather shoes without those practical rubber soles if you want to converse with me?! The rain in Brussels, it never ends, but do you see me coming to work in a practical pair of green wellington's? Na-ha. Permit me if you will, to return to the subject of cheap H&M ties for just a sec. Hot on a high-school graduate pauper donning a suit for the prom. Not on a seasoned Eurocrat who earns triple the average Belgian wage on a bad day. Particularly when paired with polyester suit from selfsame store. The list goes on. Flips flops to the office anyone? Why not, it's a free Europe, the Eurocrats cry. And flood their offices in flip-flops they do, flipping and flopping away, revealing all manner of cringe-worthy nail shapes, toe lengths and in one memorable case, foot fungi. I have witnessed dark-haired girls walking down EU institution corridors with knee length skirts that revealed unshaven legs. I have laid my eyes upon gipsy skirts at serious meetings, mustard coloured men's shoes paired with black socks, holes in the sweaters of high powered officials (what business do they have wearing a sweater to work in the first place!), navel revealing shirts on girls who obviously were not simple interns, I have witnessed - wait for it! -slippers in the workplace (you heard me: slippers).

And then suddenly the lightbulb goes on, revelation strikes. My ranting and raving? My Puma's, kitten heels and lack of mascara? IT AIN'T THE PRODUCT OF AGE, GIRLFRIEND - IT'S BRUSSELS, BABY.

IT challenged

2005-08-29T07:21:00.000Z

I switched on the word verification function to avoid spam comments and in typical airhead fashion also managed to unknowingly switch on a function that allows only team members to comment. Anyway, problem duly fixed so any would-be commentator out there (hello? HELLO? Anyone?) can go ahead and show me the love!

Celebrating Love in Leuven

2005-08-28T20:02:00.000Z

If you're ever in the mood to while your Sunday afternoon away nursing a killer hangover, I suggest you spend most of your Saturday in the city of Leuven, drowning a mixture of champagne, wine and Duvel beer at a Belgo-Irish wedding. My recollections of the evening in question are dim - and I prefer to push the few memories that do come floating above the alcohol riddled fog back to the darkest depths of oblivion. Which would work if the Purebred had not had the lack of grace to remind me of a couple of shame-inducing souvenirs earlier. My antics on the dancefloor apparently included bottom slapping (my own and that of my girly friends) to the tune of "I like Big Butts" - I seriously hope I at least managed to keep the "yiiiii-haaaaaaaa!!!" that I just know was on the tip of my tongue the moment palm met bottom to myself. This was followed by a brief episode during which I decided to spice things up by picking up a microphone and mouthing along to the lyrics of "Ice Ice Baby" (rap moves included). The grand finale saw me (elegantly clad in black satin cocktail dress and killer heels - yes, heels!) laying my head on the table and sleeping like a baby as the party around me continued in full swing (a Poulette classic).

My only source of comfort is the fact that I was in good company: at some point the groom willingly had his toenails painted a vampish red by the bride; one single girl went so wild in her drunken pursuit of the bride's bouquet that she strategically positioned herself in a standing position on a chair 2 meters in front of her fellow competitors (yes, it worked); and the Purebred himself participated in the old "caterpillar" dance without complaint. 3 weddings this season down, 1 to go (next week-end). But after all this extertion, I suspect the funeral will be my own.

Damn, the kitty cat's tight!*

2005-08-25T19:31:00.000Z

Like most couples in their early thirties who think it's time but aren't quite ready yet, my friends Husband and Wife got themselves a cat in lieu of a kid. It was an elegant silvery-blue Russian purebred number, with the sort of lineage that puts the French aristocracy to shame. And just like all doting young parents they fed it, played with it, cared for it, loved it and argued about how it should be brought up. The big question was: would it procreate or not? Wife dreamt of a pack of baby kitties, which she would give away to her friends. Husband - forever the rational Frenchman - was adamantly against. It appeared that high level hoity-toity cat breeding was a right kerfuffle: the only worthy tomcat with equally immaculate lineage lived in the south of France and demanded 200 euros per roll in the hay, which is significantly higher than the going rate of the ladies of the night in Amsterdam's red-light district. Between that and the air tickets the whole endavour would represent no insignificant financial burden. But Wife remained unyielding in her altruistic desires and while the negotiations were taking place, the cat was left in limbo hell. By her second season in heat, things were getting unbearable. She would spend days letting out heartwrenching moans that bordered on the indecent. She would nuzzle up to unsuspecting guests and were they to grant her with that obligatory pat on the head she would respond with dilated eyes that seemed alarmingly full of longing and promise. To jazz things up further she soon took to peeing all over the place, which unsurprisingly started to wreck havoc on an otherwise calm and loving relationship.

As with any problem child, extreme measures were called upon. After urgent consultations with the family veterinarian, a strategic course of action was decided: matters would be taken into their own hands via a pair of surgical gloves, a thermometer and some fast moves. The idea? Catch the cat, hold it down and stick the thermometer up its kittycat thus providing their baby with that much needed relief of sexual tension. People, I hear that question on your lips and the answer is yes, they actually did it (like any loving parents would). Three times (like only a perv boy would). Is it just me, or does that qualify as rape? Because if that be the case, I can now add bestiality prone deviants to my list of friends.

* find me some nastier lyrics and I'll find you a stylish Eurocrat

Dr. Jeckyll and Miss Hyde, c'est MOI.

2005-08-23T19:26:00.000Z

Have I mentioned that apart from having a super cool apartment with a g-normeous terrace, I also happen to have just one, single neighbor? One and one alone. Say it: one. You'd think this would enable me to be just a little more lax about my level of noise emission. You'd think this would make my life just a tad easier, make the idea of throwing a party, oh, not such a big deal shall we say. You'd think I wouldn't have the bad luck to chance upon the biggest bitch within a fifty mile radius. Damn wrong, you'd be. Say it: damn wrong.

It all started within the second week of my moving in, when I'd finally acquired a shitty 150 euro stereo system to break the silence of expat bachelorette living. The sound power my little Aiwa machine is capable of churning out ain't nothing to write home about. And too many years of living with my parents have taught me to enjoy listening to music even at moderate volume. Not moderate enough to keep from disturbing the Neighbor Bitch's siesta, it seems. My peaceful shower conducted to the gentle thumping beat of Moloko was interrupted by insisted rapping on the door. I ignored it (a lady doesn't meet the neighbors wrapped in nothing but a towel), but when I ran into her in the corridor a week later she introduced herself pleasantly enough and added "If I ever get too loud for you, feel free to knock on my door and let me know". Which I was soon to find out translated roughly to: if you ever make so much as a peep I will feel free to bang on your door until the cows come home and I make a believer out of you, girlfriend.

And rap, ring and thump she did. My late night enjoyment of watching Xibit and co. pimping up someone's ride on MTV would suddenly be interrupted by annoyed knocking. An evening gossip session with a friend would be put to a brutal halt by her insistent door banging. For a full year and nine months not a week would go by without me being reminded of her bionic hearing, frazzled nerves and sexual drought (might I add that it's been two years since our conaissance and I've yet to see her receive a gentleman or lady caller). I finally decided to ignore her altogether: two can play the game, you dried-up Flemish bitch, says I and decides to embark upon a whole new strategy: full ignoration. I let her thump and bang until the fat lady sang. I let her wail in front of my door ("Hello! Hello! It's eleven o'clock!" - I don't need you to tell me the time, petasse!) and hopefully develop a blister on her index finger from her unceasing bell ringing. I would even start watching TV with the volume a good notch higher.Yet I underestimated the bitch. She's a nasty, feisty, bitter old thing and the cat and mouse game continued until I one day found myself having an enjoyable phone conversation when the banging commenced anew. "It's e-leven o'clock, I am trying to sleep!" whined she from behind my door.

I'm a good-natured mild mannered girl, I am. Perhaps even too close to the right side of shy and timid instead of outgoing and extroverted. Calm and peaceful for sure. At that precise moment, however, something deep within the darkest recess of my otherwise zenlike mind snapped. "I AM JUST ON THE FUCKING PHONE!" roared a voice that apparently emanated from my throat. Next thing I knew, I'd dropped the receiver, ran down the corridor and started banging on her door. That will teach the old hag, thinks the newly awakened monster within as I hear it bellow "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR IF YOU WANNA TALK! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" Banging away like there's no tomorrow. Utter silence from the other side. I thumped the door one last triumphant time, wrapped my performance up with a hoarse "Fuck you, bitch!" and returned to my floor, drained yet strangely triumphant.

Save for the time my dad first took me to Toys R Us and bought me a brand new purple BMX ? Best damn day of my life. Say it!

Awkward is the new spontaneous

2005-08-22T21:17:00.000Z

I know you want it, baby. I know you do. But what will it be? The simple black elegance of the Primo? The sophisticated allure of the Avante? Or is it the subdued refinement of the Spirit that takes your fancy? Oh but no matter - each one of these babies is, after all, a "clever, beautiful and solid piece of design and engineering". The word you're looking for here is: centerpiece. Any prone-to-blushing damsels out there need not worry however, for your Avante / Primo / Spirit slides easily under any bed, should you choose to remain discreet about your acquisition. As for the torture-device-meets-exercise-machine look (so hot right now), allow me to dispel your worries with a breezy wave of the hand for yes, it has been "doctor tested and endorsed" (Hear that noise? It's the sound of a collective sigh of relief). So go ahead! Kiss that ol' mattress monotony good-bye and say hello-oh to the new definition of sexual spontaneity: I hereby present you with....

The LuvSeat

Leave the technical descriptions for later - they ARE priceless - and scroll straight down to the clincher, demo videos 1 and 2. Viewer discretion recommended.

Lock 'im up and throw away the key, I say!

2005-08-19T08:20:00.000Z

I don't claim to be the most interesting nor the most exciting person in this world. And although there are one or two of you out there who enjoy reading this blog you'd most probably be disappointed were we to meet for a little tete-a-tete. There is something wrong with my timing when I speak, my words often come out in a somewhat confused garble and whenever I hear a recording of my voice,we-ell, it ain't no music to my ears, I'll tell you that. Nonetheless I'd like to think that every now and then, I do have something interesting to say and am capable of holding some rather enjoyable discussions with people. Alas, there is at least one person out there who would beg to differ.

It was a few years back when I would be a regular face on the Ljubljana night-life scene. As is the case in a city of 300.000 inhabitants, one thus gets to know various regulars of the scene, which often include a number of shady characters. Ž. was one such person, all sex n' drugs n' rock n' roll (I was always a tad doubtful about that first point though). He also happened to be highly intelligent, well read, with an enjoyable sense of humour. So when I met him after a long while in a shady club in the wee hours of the morning you may well imagine my joy, for I knew another interesting conversation would be on the horizon. We had ourselves an pleasant chit-chat, during which I embarked upon a long, and to my humble opinion, rather interesting discussion about matters that elude me now. I leaned in and spoke in his ear to make sure he would hear me against the backdrop of pounding music. I waved my arms about to punctuate my words. I ignored my drink and flipped my hair, my face lit up in awe of the brilliance of my own words. When I was done, I finally looked at him expecting to see his close-set eyes flashing in approval, his mouth braced with a comeback that would only serve to confirm the greatness of my words. Instead, I was greeted with the sight of him fast asleep. I will not bother describing my reaction or the subsequent demise of our friendship. But 9 years on I still ask myself: what the hell was he thinking? That sleep is a rare commodity, so this was as good a time as any to catch some z's? That he'd steal himself a precious few minutes for a power nap and wake up just in time to hear the end of my boring tale? That the monotonous drone of my voice was indeed a very agreeable substitute for his sleeping pills?

Whatever the case may be, I found out a few months later that he'd been arrested on some drug charges (I kid you not). Sometimes, just sometimes, there actually is justice in this world.

I hereby pledge allegiance to the Pill

2005-08-17T19:41:00.000Z

I had to postpone the holiday which was to take me to my Evil Lair slightly and ended up spending the first few days of vacation in Paris. I've been spending most of my week-ends there for the past year, but have still failed to make it to the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Jardins de Luxembourg, the Sacre Coeur... then again, my trips to Galleries Lafayette have been more than plentiful. So what do I do with my first day of vacation in Paris? Go to Paris Disneyland ofcourse! Listen, grown people are allowed to have fun too and I remember that my trip to Disneyland in L.A. as a kid (ok, a preteen.. ok, ok, I can't lie, I was 14, mokay?! You got a problem wit dat?) was a blast. However age has take its toll and I was soon to discover that my view of Mickey's homeland had changed dramatically (oh childish innocence, where art thou?).

Let's ignore the fact that I was so sure I wasn't strapped in correctly during the terrifying Space Mountain ride that I ended up squeezing my handbag between my thighs in quiet terror and subsequently breaking the screen on my beloved Canon Ixius (one 400 euro 29th birthday present: destroyed - but I was secretly pleased with the strength of my inner thigh muscles, mmmmmhhm, that's exactly how pathetic I am). Let's forget the disturbing fact that Disneyland Paris is a scaryly exact replica of the LA original down to the last Mickey head etched into the pavement. Let's even forget that instead of being greeted by 1000 watt I-am-cheerful-come-hail-or-high-water Classic American Disney Employee smiles we were given the surly French treatment. Nope, the truly disturbing factor were the visitors. Upon seeing the gates of Disney's kingdom close behind me, I suddenly had the eerie feeling I had entered the Twilight Zone - it was as though all the people were exactly the same as in the outside world - only different. For one they all seemed heftier than your average Parisian - I am not talking American fat (LA Disneyland was a veritable fat farm on a day off, with everyone desperately gorging on junk food with reckless abandon), but the clientele was a pretty well fed bunch nonetheless. However the true horror lay in the fact that everywhere I looked my eyes fell upon the sight of the typical middle class satellite family:

- pater familias in khaki shorts, oversize advertising t-shirt and fake Teva's brandishing his obligatory videocamera (objective: shoot boring footage of kids no one will ever care to watch): check

- harrowed mother desperately trying to keep the kids in line, her clothes loose, her hair a wild mess, having long since abandoned any notions of vanity: check

- little girl in brand new polyester pink princess outfit and plastic tiara (both courtesy of the Disney store around the corner) confidently licking her popsicle as though it just went without saying that she was nothing short of the belle of the ball: check

- little boy sporting a pair of Mickey mouse ears with "BRAT" written all over him, menacingly looking to see what mischief he is going to get up to next: check

There have been times in the past when I would be recklessly careless about using birth control. Those bone-chilling days of folly, they are OVER.

The Purebred Tax

2005-08-17T16:38:00.000Z

You'd think a lazy girl like me would opt for a leisure holiday where she would indulge in the sins of sloth, gluttony and greed. You'd think you'd find me lazing by the beach smelling of coconut oil and daintily dipping my feet in the water every few hours. You'd think you'd see me dress up in the evening dancing away until the wee hours. Well newsflash: you'd be oh-so-wrong. If you cared to throw a glance my way last summer, you'd have seen me lugging a 15 kg backpack up the French alps. My reward at the end of each day would be taking it off, putting up a tent and wolfing down a meal consisting of powder and hot water which would magically transform into a concoction of actual food (beans and mashed potatoes; spaghetti bolognese; pork and rice) after some major stirring (NASA technology to my rescue). I was safely tucked in my sleeping bag by 21.00 most evenings, trying to catch some uncomfortable z's until the early morning wake up call the following day. Sound like torture to you? As a matter of fact, it was worse. 4 whole nights and 5 whole days of it, no less. And just why exactly would I subject myself to something like this, you ask? Why? I'll tell you why: twas nothing less than the pursuit of that age old adage called LUUUURVE, my friends.

Now I've definitely done my fair share of stupidities in the pursuit of men. I was a stalker, staking out bars and street corners in the hope of seeing objects of my desire. I was one of those girls who would call and hang up the phone (oh the shame!) on unsuspecting pimply boys. And yes, I confess, I would even hitch-hike all over the damn country to see a certain sportsman I desired in action (he barely knew of my existence). Regularly. Sometimes my shameful games worked (sportsman inexplicably caught!), other times they bombed. But I liked to think that everything I did still had some limits of sanity to it and if nothing else it was done back in the day when teenage insanity dictated my actions. Hence, almost cute and forgivable, non? Which is something my little escapade last year certainly was not. Firstly, I was 28 not 18. Secondly paying good money, sacrificing 5 days of annual holiday leave and risking permanent back damage are not exactly minor details, especially as my purebred French object of desire happened to be in a relationship at the time. Really, what were the odds? Nonetheless the gods of good fortune were on my side for a change and conveniently enough his babe couldn't join us for the occasion, so the two of us were to share a tent during the trip (we were to be four: considering the load we were carrying and the weight of a tent, this was not the time or place for shyness or prudes: 2 tents for 4 people had to suffice. Complain? Moi? Certainly not!) It's not like I had much of a plan either. A five day hike is hardly the ideal occasion for man seduction: no showers, no make-up, unshaved legs and hair so greasy I could have squeezed enough oil to fry an egg out of it. Nothing sexy about a girl in a fleece sweater and a rainjacket either. By the end of the first hour of hiking I was already deploring my decision as the steepness of the Alps became a reality and as the backpack straps started to etch a permanent groove into my shoulder.

But lo and behold: apparently the very idea of an outdoorsy girl ready to take up the challenge of the French alps appealed to him so that my insane plan actually worked: yadda, yadda, yadda, girlfriend ditched, deal clinched and less than a month later I was officially the proud girlfriend of a purebred Frenchman.

Yes it's love, yes it's bliss, yes it's been oh la la and je t'aime ever since. But people, hate me not, for the taxes that I pay for this, they do not come cheap. As things stand, it looks as though I am doomed to a lifetime of spending my summer holidays trudging up some mountain trail like a happy camper, pretending to enjoy the view when all I wanna do is fling off my backpack, burn my ugly fleece sweater and flee to the nearest beach. This year at least my negotiations had brought down the length of the hike to a »mere« 3 days and substituted tents for mountain refuges. Nonetheless it looks as though this is as good as it gets. Sure, that certain je ne sais quoi that a Purebred brings into ones life may be priceless, but girls! For the love of god, choose your seduction techniques carefully. Very carefully.

Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you adieu*.

2005-07-20T23:10:00.000Z

That's right, I'm off to my evil lair and I'm taking the Purebred with me. But I'll be back in three weeks time and we'll talk some more about my plans for world domination. Muahahahahahahaha! Muahahahahahaha! Muahahahahhahahahahahhahaha! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

*Dr. Evil in Goldmember

Had I known, I'd have told him to stuff his phalic shaped pizza where the sun don't shine.

2005-07-20T16:17:00.000Z

There was a certain pizza joint/drinking hole in a small Slovenian town that I would frequent occasionally back in the day. It so happened that I once spent New Years there with a friend. "Big town chicks" didn't often venture into this middle-of-nowhere small town and we were somewhat of an attraction. The principal pizza maestro at the place was a fellow from Montenegro who went by the name of "Crni Nuri" (Black Nuri) and who for some reason enjoyed presenting the two of us with phalic shaped pizzas (timidly abstract at first, but decisively more detailed as the night and the alcohol consumption wore on). By the end of the night, the patrons and the staff were all one big happy family and pint-sized, dentally challenged Crni Nuri was seated at our table drowning tequila slammers and recounting anecdotes. "Next time you want to get yourself a burek at the train station in Ljubljana" he said in lieu of farewell, a drunken leer in his eye, "tell 'em Crni Nuri sent you". I smiled politely trying to focus my eyes and prevent the room from spinning out of control. "You tell 'em" he insisted threateningly. "Everybody knows Crni Nuri!" - and off he trudged towards the snow-filled horizon. I took this to mean that these magic words would open up a world of free burek to my heart's content - and although I wasn't the biggest fan of this greasebomb, it didn't sound like such a bad deal nonetheless.

A couple of months later, a night of heavy drinking in the company of someone I was desperately trying to impress had a group of us shuffling towards the 24-hour burek pit-stop by the train station. I volunteered to be the one to stand in line to order and when the subject of my attention offered me money for his share, I waved his bills away breezyly, with a mysterious "don't worry - it'll be on the house", hopefully leaving him with the impression that he's in the company of the kind of chica who knows her way around. My turn came, I placed my order with the Burek man and added a meaningful drunk little "By the way, I'm a friend of Crni Nuri's".

Cue blank stare. "Who?".

My self-confidence wavered. Surely he hadn't heard me right. "Nuri? Crni Nuri? Erm.. he used to work here?"

It occurred to me that I wasn't even sure whether this was true. Burek man just stared at me as though I was the village idiot while the line behind me grew increasingly curious. "Will that be all?" he offered finally. The bored, impatient look in his eye - look little girl, I've got a bussiness to run here - convinced me that any further attempts at jogging his memory would be in vain and possibly only result in further humiliation. I mumbled something in the affirmative and dished out the last of my hard earned babysitting cash.

Back in the car I dealt out the greasy Burek's as though things had gone as smoothly as I'd planned and was appraised with newfound respect - yes, here was I girl who knew people in all the right places. My purse might have been empty, but I wasn't going to let the lying bastard by the unlikely name of Crni Nuri steal my thunder or spoil my reputation. Had I known then that good contacts aren't sufficient means for a girl to seek her way into a man's heart, I would have spared myself the bother.

And the bitch did.

2005-07-19T19:32:00.000Z

Yesterday, I reached a pivotal moment in my life: I decided to buy a pair of flip flops. I've already made my feelings about these little eyesores clear on previous occasions. And just for the record, I don't find them any better looking today. It's just that they're so (dare I say it?) comfortable. There would be nothing too remarkable about this little event if it were just a fluke, a freak of nature, an accident, shall we say. Little digressions into the realm of bad taste are permissible, but lately, this is starting to become my modus operandi. I don a mini skirt and heels and it occurs to me that I just can't be bothered to go out knowing that my legs will be aching within 10 minutes. And a little voice inside my head whispers: give it up, Bitch! I contemplate which shoes to wear to work, put on my sensible pumps, but then a longing glance at my Puma's stops me midway. And the voice, here it is again, just a little more insistent this time: give it up, Bitch! Skipping breakfast used to be the norm, for there was no other way to get to work on time if I was to put my make-up on properly. Now, I munch on my Special K thinking it's not as though anyone will notice whether I'm wearing mascara or not (oh the barefaced lie!). Enter the voice, louder by the minute: give. It. Up. Bitch.

There was a time, when I would gladly suffer in the name of vanity. Fetching some milk at the neighborhood store was reason enough to dab on lip gloss. Freezing temperatures wouldn't deter me from wearing a flimsy dress on a Friday night about town. And I spent 3 nights of non-stop dancing at the Valkana beach festival of 2003 in 10 centimeter heels. Without complaint.

Alas, the glory days are over. The ten centimeter heels are out and the kitten heels - my last desperate attempt to claim my femininity - are in. The big 3-oh is just around the corner and I hear a pair of Muji flip-flops calling my name. Meanwhile the voice gives one final triumphant cry: GIVE IT UP, BITCH!

Slovenia dreamin'.

2005-07-18T14:49:00.000Z

The Slovenian ex-pat, he is not happy. He has found himself in this expatriate predicament inadvertently, you see, and lovin' it he sure ain't. It's not that he would give it up, god forbid no, he exclaims - living in Brussels has given him the little financial boost he needed, just the ticket what with ownership of that covted two-bedroom flat in Domžale and the Volkswagen Golf being almost within his reach now. It's just that living in Belgium - he purses his lips thoughtfully and shakes his head in slow dissaproval at this point - well, it's just not Slovenia, is it? There's the weather, all rain, rain, rain and not sufficient sun or snow for his liking. Then there's the blacks and the Arabs - it's a good thing he lives in the quiet eurocrat residential area, but just seeing those faces when he ventures elsewhere makes him uncomfortable. You just never know with these people, do you? And the Belgians? He waves his hand in disgust: don't even get him started! They either speak French or Flemish, they don't understand the concept of good service, plus they have all these internal disputes that remind him of former Yugoslavia (here he smiles, wistfully - one can at least identify with something in this god forsaken country!). And the milk, don't let him get started on the MILK! In Slovenia the milk tastes of milk. Here it's....different. Funny. Nothing like back home. As for the coffee - why, it's downright undrinkable. Lucky for him, visiting friends regularly supply him with good old Barcaffe, cause don't nobody know how to do coffee quite like the folks back home. And when it comes to work, he prefers to mingle with his own people. The Eastern Europeans, oh they're downright laughable, all wide-eyed amazement given their opportunity to live in the West and all - it's still an event for them, he confides sotto voce, whereas for him, the world weary Slovenian, it's all just a matter of been there done that. He chuckles benevolently to himself as if to say who can blame them, the poor sods, having never set foot abroad before (he has spent many a week-end shopping in Trieste of course and even ventured on a summer holiday to Greece on one unhappy occassion)! Then there's them Spaniards and Fins and Germans with their strange little habits and ways. He prefers to keep contact to a minimum, although there is that nice Austrian fella in the legal department who speaks Slovene and knows all about local Slovenian politics - he's not too fond of Kučan either, hahahaha. It's a good thing he has made many like-minded friends here, otherwise he would never make it. And the holidays are just around the corner too, he adds cheerfully - off to Croatia it's gonna be, his family has a caravan there and they've been spending delightful summers in the same camp for the past 15 years. Then an agitated look flashes across his face: if only one didn't have to put up with those Croatians, though....

For its delightful buttery taste was so worth the humiliation.

2005-07-18T13:01:00.000Z

Back in the day when I still called Ljubljana home, shopping trips to Klagenfurt were also an opportunity to grab a breakfast at McDonald's (Slovenian McDo inexplicably doesn't do breakfast). I once got up super early just to catch the 11 am deadline. Finding a parking spot proved to be a nervewracking experience as I helplessly watched the final minutes tick by. Sheer luck somehow still had me find myself in line at McDonalds at precisely 10.58. By the time my turn had come, it was 11.02 and the pimply faced kid behind the counter flatly refused to serve me breakfast. Only until 11am, you see. I huffed and I puffed. He refused to yield. I cursed the bureaucratic Austrian mindset and the inflexibility of the American fast-food production process and reluctantly resigned myself to a rubbery McToast. I'm hatin' it.

Fast forward to Brussels 4 years later. The scene: Pain Quotidien, a chic little boulangerie/patisserie/sandwicherie, where Saturdays and Sundays are reserved for their delicious breakfast of soft boiled egg, croissants, jams, chocolate spread, coffee and freshly squeezed OJ. Generously served until 12 o'clock. 12.00 that is, not 12.01. For should you dare venture there at 12.01 and be so bold as to ask for a breakfast special, well, don't be surprised if the snotty waitress gives you a disgusted once over and tells you that if you were expecting to eat breakfast, why, you had plenty of time to get your lazy fat ass out of bed and into their place of business before the deadline. Not in those exact words, true, but in no uncertain terms nonetheless. Extremely sorry mademoiselle, they just don't serve breakfast anymore. You may want to point out that surely they couldn't have run out of eggs and croissant at precisely noon. You may huff and you may puff. But yield, she wil not. I subsequently vowed to spend my hard earned euros elsewhere next time, which is why this past Saturday morning saw me sauntering towards my neighborhood bar, L'Ultime Atome, at a leisurely pace. I found myself a nice table outside and opted for a delightful little continental breakfast. No, the bored waiter (all slouchy skater jeans and attitude) informed me; they only serve breakfast until 12 o'clock and it's five minutes past the hour now. This time I didn't huff, neither did I puff - nay, I begged and to my surprise eventually wore him down. But not before he gave me a paternal lecture on how all rules are there for a reason and how, in the same vein, when something costs 5 euros I can't expect to simply pay 4.50 for it either. I didn't bother pointing out that by selling me a breakfast after the deadline they're making money at no extra effort or cost to them; nor did I give him a little lesson on the concept of customer is king, which is one they surely forgot to teach him at waitering school - I gritted my teeth and remained polite, sacrificing my integrity for a croissant instead.

The rainbow warriors

2005-07-14T17:50:00.000Z

My friend J. can be quite a dresser, when in the mood. Hell, he even makes his own clothes here and there and I've just recently learned that he counts jewelry making among his favourite hobbies. It's just that when he's lounging about at home his dress sense is somewhat specific, shall we say. An old t-shirt (preferably one that he's owned since primary school), an old pair of shorts and flip flops. I've never been a particular fan of flip-flops since I find something mildly indecent about the way they expose your feet - all flat and naked and vulnerable. His are particularly fugly since they also happen to be the dog's favourite toy. But hey, to each his own and I accept - if not respect - his choice of footwear. Until the cold weather kicks in, that is, and he decides to team it with a pair of socks, like so:

Hey, if it's good enough for Kevin Federline...

There are too many things wrong with this look to enumerate (notice the pose of casual indifference, though), so I decided to take things into my own hands. If the man wants to team sock with flip-flops, let him! But let's at least make things a tad more comfortable down there.

Euuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuw!

I find these socks so abominably ugly that I knew there must be some practical purpose to them. And all it took to find out was a die-hard flip-flop fan.

Ok, so I could've done without the second helping of ice-cream. Shoot me.

2005-07-13T18:59:00.000Z

We are having dinner with the Purebred's brother and his wife in Paris. One tries to impress, therefore one tries to don a suitable outfit for the occasion - a simple halter-neck summer dress should do the trick, one thinks. A tad tight, but one imagines that one has enough confidence to pull it off. One is youthful enough, no?

Dinner involves the brother and the wife, their 7-year old kid and another couple with a cute little 8 year-old girl. We eat, we drink, we eat some more, we talk (or rather they talk - I smile at the appropriate occasions and make a few brave attempts at formulating sentences in French). The kids do whatever it is kids do in the playroom and finally go to bed. Which takes some help from the adults, so I duly volunteer to help the Purebred with the task (my college babysitting experience should come in handy, I think pompously. Plus, one should never miss an opportunity to score extra points with the Purebred kin).

Oh they are cute, the kids are, cosy in their little PJ's, all smug and snug in their little kid beds. Then the little girl looks at me, turns to the Purebred and asks:

- C'est ton amoureuse? (Is that your girlfriend?)

Awww. He smiles, confirms cheerfully and continues tucking her in. But the little one's curiosity hasn't been satisfied. She eyes me suspiciously turns back to him and goes:

- Elle est enceinte? (Is she pregnant?)

The smile plastered on my face freezes into place. The Purebred laughs and tries to make a joke out of the situation, but his words rush past my ears. The little. French. Bitch.

One will give one's skinny halter-neck summer dress to people who's stomach doesn't blow up after one helping too many. But one will surely not save it for a little girl who will never fit into it anyway, given all the croissants and foie gras she's being raised on.

Lesson no. 1: Dodge the Doo

2005-07-13T13:44:00.000Z

It took me a meager four days to find my dream apartment in Brussels - and I'm talking the perfect apartment in the perfect building on the perfect street in the perfect area for the perfect price. Unfurnished, modern, airy, full of light. Ok, so I had a little issue with the fact that the floor was covered with creamy white wall-to-wall carpeting, but when you have a barbecue friendly 20 square meter terrace leading from your dining room, who's looking?

I went to see my landlady the day after the deal was struck to sign my contract and it just so happened that her office was conveniently located in the ground floor of my future residence. She was an elegant, well-off Belgian dame and the modern office of the architect studio that she ran only served to reinforce this image. Which made it all the more strange that the place stank like a mother. Not an obvious stench, mind you, this wasn't the type of aroma you almost get used to due to its continuous presence. No, it was the type that sneaks up on you from behind, takes you by surprise and envelopes you in its stinky atmosphere, before rushing off only to return a few seconds later. Now you smell it, now you don't. I decided to ignore it and feigned interest as the landlady embarked upon a painstaking explanation of each article of the standard-issue contract (in the slow, well-enunciated French reserved exclusively for foreigners and mental patients). I smiled. I nodded. I jiggled my foot, impatient to get out of the stinkhole and off to the top floor - my floor.

20 minutes later I was off the hook, contract signed, keys in hand, merrily exploring my new pad, mentally planning the interior design (oriental boudoir meets Ikea) and the menu for the house warming party (Spanish tapas or Lebanese mezze?). I scoured every little nook and cranny, checking all the details getting acquainted with the feel and the smell of it. Uh, the smell?! It suddenly occurred to me that the stench of the office hadn't disappeared. I sniffed the air trying to put my finger on the source when something caught my eye. I had left little brownish shoe shaped stains all over the carpet where I'd walked. Did I mention that the carpet was white? Yes? How about wall-to-wall? That would be the type that you can't just pick up and drop off at the dry cleaners, you see. As a chill slowly made it's way down my spine I reluctantly lifted my foot to inspect its sole and sure enough, there lay the neatly embedded remains of what must have been a giant dog turd.

First lesson of big-city living: LEARNED.

Hairy monsters

2005-07-12T09:21:00.000Z

My route to work is a 20 minute walk, which makes its way through a chic little square filled with trendy restaurants and bars, meanders through the heart of the Bruxellois Congolese community and ends in the dull Euro quarter, home to the EU institutions. Within this kilometer of a route one passes everything from hip designer stores to filthy, old-fashioned shoe-repairmen, to what seems to be the official congregation area of the local drug dealers (I naively took them for a bunch of friendly dudes who spend most of their day just hanging out at first). I enjoy all of these features, but I have to count the numerous African hairdressers and beauticians that dot the Congolese area as my favourite. These make up for their shabby interior with ambitious titles (Institut de Beaute Nefratiti) and never seem to suffer from a shortage of customers. Indeed, the men's barber that goes by the alluring name of Espace Ambiance looks more like a jolly neighborhood pub and one where the beer has been replaced by scissors and pomade at that. But what I have a particular soft spot for is their unique attempt at promoting their services through bizarre window displays. The Body Shop was the first beauty company to advertise its products solely by these means - when it comes to the domain of beauty services however, these establishments are hot on its heels. My personal favourite has the entire length of the window display decorated with decapitated plastic heads, sporting various style of African braids on distinctly Caucasian faces. Which is almost acceptable until you notice the men's section. It starts with this:

Two-tone hair anyone?

... gets progressively more bizarre ...

He's a model and he's looking good.

... Until you reach the clincher:

Pink beard braids are so 2005.

If designers continue to take their inspiration from the street, my heart goes out to all the fashion victim men out there. But remember where you heard it first anyway.

The hand job

2005-07-09T18:10:00.000Z

I refused to believe it at first, but after five different individuals came to that very same conclusion independently of each other, I had to face the truth: I have hands that look like they should belong on a 5-year-old. It was somewhat painful when a friend of mine first dubbed them my embryonic fingers. But by the time my boyfriend exclaimed, a propos of nothing, "why do you have kid hands?!" on our third date, this sort of reaction was nothing but parr for the course.

Its not as though I have Anna Wintour-like freakishly small hands. Its just that their general shape refused to evolve with age. My fingernails are soft, small and cut straight across - no file has so far succeeded in transforming them into ladylike ovals, for they stubbornly break upon contact (go limp and peel away would be a better description, perhaps). They are attached to pudgy fingers, which somehow always end up smeared with penmarks, followed by smooth veinless hands (women tend to have slim hands with a few elegant veins popping out here and there when they move their fingers - I, however, have to clench mine spasmodically if ever asked to provide this proof of femininity). Growing up, I always thought that I would someday become a real woman: fill out, grow curves and obtain feminine hands. The first two predictions came true eventually, but the final metamorphosis is a long time a-coming.

I came this close to true womanhood only once. During a brief period of youthful folly I decided to take fate into my own hands (no pun intended) and correct my shortcoming via artificial means. Enter fake nails. The beginning looked promising:

reasonable price: check
encouraging results on others: check
simple procedure: check.

I was assured that they last at least a month and what the hell, you only become a real woman once, why not opt for the long variety, I reasoned. The minute my new set of Rouge-Noir claws was in place, however, it became obvious that something had gone inexplicably wrong. Even the most untrained eye could not help but notice that those vampish fingernails had no business sprouting off those childish hands. To add insult to injury, my hands were rendered useless, for I failed to take the practical implications of long fingernails into account - typing, washing dishes, picking things up became next to impossible and instead of newfound elegance I was suddenly faced with newfound clumsiness. The month, in my case, turned into a week, as I helplessly watched my acrylic fingernails break off one by one only to reveal the paper-thin originals underneath.

This painful lesson marked my first and last foray into the pursuit of digital elegance and I have since learned to embrace my "kid hands". One can always hope that liver spots will do the trick someday.

Blisters beware: armed and dangerous

2005-07-07T13:34:00.000Z

Shoes are my vice and blisters are the price I pay for my weakness. These have been the bane of my life and the open-toed season of summer is particularly hellish. This is a time when they don't just provide a painful reminder of my vanity, but also destroy the aesthetic value of my feet to a degree that no pedicure can salvage. Up until a few weeks ago, I had to endure these periods by hiding my ugly source of shame in my Puma's as I waddled (sauntering is not something one does when robbed of ones heels) to work, jealously watching other girls showing off their tootsies in carefree hip-swinging, open-toed oblivion.
That is until. Until I discovered what is probably their little secret and one that comes in the form of a little French godsend by the name of Compeed. An invention, my friends, that has made me relish the arrival of any blister big or small. What these babies do is beyond comprehension, but suffice it to say that the seemingly unremarkable bandages provide a comfy little cushion between your injury and the torture device that is your shoe, release some kind of medication as they hang on to your skin for dear life and best of all, become almost completely invisible once stuck into place. The rush at the moment of application is incomparable, for it involves immediate pain relief followed by the sense of victory that only the unlikely merger of comfort and aesthetics can provide. Vanity wins over nature. Good overcomes evil. Beaten my body into submission, oh yes, I have.

Rules are, of course, meant to be broken.

2005-07-05T12:42:00.000Z

I started a blog to kill time by way of marginally constructive means. I like to write, however I am too lazy to write for my own pleasure - with this nifty little piece of web technology though, my brilliance will be accessible to an infinite mass of - mmmokay, not. Nonetheless I have at least found myself one prospective reader in The Purebred (or Pure Bread, as he prefers) and as I am well aware of his exacting standards, here are my blog rules:

- If you have nothing interesting to say, shut your cakehole. One should not bore with the trivial details of one's daily life. For no one gives a bleep. Indeed, one who writes such things is unlikely to have much of a following in the first place.

- Me, me, me - NON MERCI. Permission to shoot me if self-involvement ever starts to pollute these innocent baby pink pages.

- Ranters shall be prosecuted. Nothing wrong with occasional bitching but spare us the perpetual neurosis - bitterness should come with age and I still have a few good years ahead of me.

- Me blogger, you commentator. Which is to say I have no business filling up my comments box with my own comments (Oh the shame! The desperation!). As a rule of thumb, answers to comments should never exceed the number of "real" comments. I mention this with good reason, for you wouldn't believe the things I've seen elsewhere.

Consequent likelihood of low posting frequency on these pages: HIGH.

Hence my inexplicable craving for a shot of Cointreau.

2005-07-05T09:08:00.000Z

Count three doors to my left and you will find the office of a Russian colleague. A pretty big boned blonde, with masses of bouncy curls, somewhat bulging blue eyes and a tan that seems to grow a deeper shade of orange with each passing day. It struck me as only mildly artificial at first but by yesterday I could no longer bring myself to look her way, as usually happens when faced with someone sporting a hideous disfigurement. Give her an airport traffic controler's fluorescent orange suit and her face will blend right in. Pass her a tangerine popsicle and you will be hard pressed to notice it against the background of her day-glo skin. Were I altruistically so inclined and courageous enough to look her squarely in the face, it would do my heart much good to place a warm hand over her shoulder and have us a little heart-to-heart about the pros and cons of self-tanning and the value of taking all things in moderation.
Has to be said though, it does bring out those baby blues.