You must understand, I’m not a fan of new age, conspiracy theories, predictions, any kind of mass manipulation systems, but bear with me.

It was supposed to be a cataclysm of sort – a natural disaster or a nuclear holocaust by the end of 2012.

Well, nothing happened. Yet Change is obvious, I agree. And it’s like this. As economic climate is tragic, people are supposed to ADAPT. You succeed or you fail.

And failure is NOT loosing your job, but coping with it. Finding a new path, finding a new purpose. Enjoying what you have, when you lost more or less the material comfort.

Staying sane. I’ve seen people going completely out of their minds, becoming mean and filled with vile, hurting both others and themselves. These are the people who didn’t make it.

And there are the ones who found valves to vent. They turned towards charitable causes, art, family, friends. They found new hobbies, passions and reasons for joy and peace.

Some seem weird, some are benign.  But they are GOOD. They are the fuel that keeps one sane.

I read again American Gods by Neil Gaiman. It has new meanings now. It’s about forgotten Gods, recent Gods that are already obsolete and Gods that are scared they will become forgotten and replaced.

From all over the world, from every age of humanity. By the way, have you ever thought how come everywhere and anytime people believed in something they couldn’t see or touch? And they relied on miracles and prayers and sacrifices of some sort?

Now it’s the time to find new Gods or to turn ourselves toward the ones we new. Whatever you choose, believe. Believe with all your might. Believe in Good, in Kindness, Patience, Laughter, Joy, Sun, Moon, Night, Rain, Flower, Cat… whatever makes you tick.

You’re not supposed to have imaginary friends after a certain age, or you might get diagnosed with some kind of mental illness.

I have an imaginary assistant. She lives in my brain. I can describe her rather thoroughly: she has a small face with pleasant yet common features, she has a shiny straight hair with bangs. Her bangs are cut straight and are supposed to fall like a curtain, but because she removes it with her hand often, is a mess. She has a plain blouse, I think it’s a grey twinset and a plaid midi skirt. I don’t know why.

Her work place (my memory) looks like the waiting room of a private detective from a 40s Hollywood movie. The ones with Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. Think Maltese Falcon and similar.

It’s all wood – old and dusty, almost colorless with time. It has filing cabinets from floor to ceiling FILLED with files. I put the files in there. For decades now. I had no system, so it’s very hard to find a specific file.

Files on movies, books, songs, personal memories about lost lovers or friends, places I’ve visited or things I did. Some are bright pink and tied with a pretty bow. Some are dark and gloomy, like a November sky. Ranging from my first pair of heels to long-term relationships. Cats. Dogs. People. Beaches. Quotes. Jokes. Rumors. Some are a few days old, yet they are thrown in the back of a drawer out of reach, some are 30 years old, yet they are close and handy.

My poor assistant is very efficient. She moves fast among the drawers stuffed with files and she finds what I’m looking for. She’s quiet like a mouse, she’s my personal female version of Radar from M.A.S.H.

When I have a lapse, it means that she searched for the file all night long. I wake up and suddenly remember, but she’s exhausted, sleeping with her head on her heavy wooden desk.

Sometimes she’s out to lunch. Or she’s in love with a boy and she forgets herself walking hand in hand with him in the park during working hours.

As time goes by, she’s less helpful. Maybe she’s getting old too, maybe she’s bored and blasé with her routine job. True, I replaced some of her workload with Google search, but still, she has a heavy-duty job.

I just sit in my office and shout for various files:

“Hey, what’s the name of the guy who plays Sid in Ice Age? The Colombian very talented guy?”

“Who’s this lady talking to me? What’s her name and where do I know her from?!”  

I need her more and more often and she’s growing more and more tired. I should grant her a leave. Maybe give her an all expenses paid holiday in a posh resort. Or at least a gym subscription.

Or a retirement plan.

Farewell 2012 and good riddance! It was probably the worst year of my life or at least this is how it seems.

Beside personal troubles, sorrows and mere disappointments, it was sound proof that this world should come to an end.

Instead of less commercial vs more spiritual, it was exactly the opposite.

First, the most watched video of the year, a South Korean who struck gold. Nobody understands this humongous success.  

What people don’t consider is the strength of social networks. This is the only secret. It’s NOT the most stupid song on earth, nor the worst dance.

Almost every year humanity was blessed with a stupid song: ai se eu te pego, ketchup song, el meneaito, the penguin dance, dragostea din tei, macarena, lambada…

Just that at the time they were reaching people on TV and radio, on videocassettes or God knows what.

It wasn’t measurable, that’s all. So here’s your “CHANGE”: now you can count how many stupid people fall for a stupid song.

Adele – that overinflated Celine Dion with her lame music. As far as I can tell, it’s a one album wonder, I don’t think we’ll hear from her soon. She’ll be rolling in such deep, I don’t think she’ll ever come out again.

She’s not the first Brit with a short story. Long before she died, Amy Winehouse vanished. Where’s Duffy? And probably many more I didn’t even bother to notice.  

Talking of Brit – they had a glorious year – with the Olympic Games directed like a Hollywood blockbuster and the glamorous Jubilee celebration.

Over the pond, Obama was reelected. Not as spectacular as 4 years ago and somehow predictable, but anyhow, cheers!

And last, but not least, the munchkin that took the web by a storm, the most famous meme, so ugly that she’s adorable, the little kitty named Tardar Sauce.

Over 25 years ago, Garfield was born, but he’s just a drawing and far less of a bitch. Times have changed, it’s so much harder to be a genuine hater, as so many bloggers and artists adhered to this trend.

And here comes this ugly puss and makes us all laugh and forget what a miserable year this was.

God bless Grumpy Cat, she saved us all from the Aztec Apocalypse and incurable stupidity.

Have a smarter 2013!

More than ever, fashion turns into a fantasy realm, with fabulous creatures that don’t belong anywhere in an unemployment line or a discount store.

Leading the pack are Miuccia Prada and Marc Jacobs with their interpretation of Edwardian outfits and surreal hats.

But there are others, an entire pack of story tellers that wrap us in yards and yards of silk, velvet, brocade, cashmere, precious leathers, feathers, furs, sparkling sheer deceiving fairy dust…

Oh, and the jewels… More opulent and spectacular than ever to match such high fashion.

It’s like a luxury denial. The oversize replaced the tight, skinny and tiny. Generous coats, large pants, sheer flowing and billowing shirts. The tall boot replaced the bootie. Bags grew in size, gloves, hats, sunglasses, everything, from the everyday clothing to each and every accessory.

Like stage costumes – opulent, visible, loud, dramatic.

Now… what I DON’T get is who the fuck is buying more expensive clothing during recession?! I completely admire the endeavor. But to what end?

I mean… are we supposed to watch it simply as art and entertainment and carry on hunting for bargains? Most likely.

There’s an entire half of planet not affected by financial disaster. Arab countries soaked in oil, Asian markets filled with new and old money.

What we can learn from this amazing display is that sometimes is fine to dream. Nobody expects us to walk the streets in turn-of-the-century costumes and hats the size of my car. Just to allow ourselves an escape from mundane, bleak pessimism.

And yes, buy a hat. Listen to some jazz. Watch a superheroes movie. It can’t hurt.

Sometimes you should have champagne, though you’re on a soda budget. Fuck it, long live decadence!

In my lap, my favorite Romanian magazine, curled around my feet, a fluffy sweet cat, and on the radio, music from an old movie I love very much.

While sipping my creamy exquisite espresso, I leaf through pages of design and style, and I recollect the Italian film that charmed me as a teenager, when I didn’t have my own love stories and I craved on fictional ones, even sad ones, when love dies and Venice crumbles.

And life happens to be absolutely completely flawless.

For an hour. In the morning.  

Just in 24 hours, two of my best friends called me “mother of all bitches” and completely “Samantha” (the character from SATC who behaves like a ruthless man hunter).

The first statement was due to utter surprise, because I was all mushy about a wedding. I like both the bride and the groom and I really truly believe they are the real deal, not just a cliche.

I was gratulated with an incredulous “YOU of all people?!”

Whaaat? I have a heart, I’m not all bitch. And against all odds, I told you before, I’m a romantic. I do believe in true love.

I just don’t believe in forever. I believe in a moment of passion, of shared joy. Actually time has nothing to do with it. Forget about it completely.

Hold on to the words, the laughters, the caresses, the things you both like and discuss till dawn, the completely natural and uninhibited way you make love, when nothing seems out of place, the perfect choreography that celebrates love.

Recently I read an article written by a famous sociologist who was very upset that she hears more and more often the expression “just sex”. She says it’s demeaning. It’s true.

There’s no such thing as “just sex”. It’s desire, prelude, courtship, flirting, passion, performance… It’s no “just” involved.

Well, unless you are really unlucky and he’s “just this long”, or she’s performing “just” boring sex.

Wow! See? I’m dual! In almost the same paragraph, I turned from softie to bitch. Told ya!

Went to my beloved London. Loved me back as always. Visited Hamptons Court for a Katie Melua concert.

Overwhelmed by the atmosphere. The music, the wind, the castle… amazing.

Saw Lion King, the musical. Clapped my hands like a euphoric child.

Ate great food, walked till my legs were swollen like tractor tires, laughed my head off, had beer and stuffed with various types of chocolate cake.

Bought great jeans from GAP, according to tradition. Bought stupid things just because they were in London. Didn’t mind.

Came back. Saw Rock of Ages. Reminded me of teenage and youth. I mean youth in years, ’cause I don’t feel a day older than 14.

Started aqua gym. Got a tan. Look and feel great. Gathered great pictures & great memories.

Don’t even bother with political games that poison the social networks and mass media. I don’t believe any of this shit. They induce paranoia, it’s all just make-belief, no stake, no gain, no loss, no control.

Heard about 3 people that had strokes. All three around my age. Two recovered, one is in a coma.

A former colleague of mine died under suspicious circumstances. Overdose or suicide. Much younger than me.

I don’t want to end up like this.

On the other hand, I don’t believe half of the suddenly illuminated people around me. They get it wrong or they just hide behind a cool ideology.

I try to live a beautiful life and remain quasi sane.

What I wasn’t prepared for was that life beats the show and the comedy that my life is. So on Thursday morning I heard the best joke in a long time that goes like this (I shall try not to waste the savor in translation).

Two old friends meet for a beer and one of them starts complaining:

- I don’t know what’s wrong with me, i’m saying the wrong thing all the time.

- How come?

- Well, I was in the park the other day with my kid and a lady was selling colorful balloons. And I wanted to admire them, but it came out: “wow, great boobs!”

- Oh, something similar happened to me, I was having breakfast with my wife and I wanted to say: “honey, would you pass the butter?” and I heard myself saying: “you fucked up my life, you miserable bitch!”

*** 

Later the day, I received this image that I couldn’t resist posting on FB, as I found it irresistible:

***

Here I need to break the story with a moment from the actual show: the classic moment when a man is sent for tampons by his wife and he’s embarrassed beyond words to ask the druggist.

So he mutters: “I need tampons…” with the inevitable answer/ question “What kind?” where the man usually feels like shouting: “the ones that plug the CUNT!”

*** 

Moving on with my day, I made a trip to a studio for a recording. I asked the receptionist to get me a cab. I didn’t listen what she was saying but after she hung up, she said: “3 minutes”. I asked “where from?” (as in from what company should I expect the cab?). The answer was: “from out front”. I snorted amused and darted out to laugh properly.

In the evening, FINALLY, the actual show, where I really, truly believed I shall have a stroke or choke with laughter. I drank a bucket of water and was still blue in the face.

We continued the evening to a wonderful restaurant and back home.

The next day, I was supposed to buy a bottle of alcohol for preparing a specific drink. From my entire shopping basket, obviously, the alcohol wasn’t perceived by the code bar reader. So the cashier started shouting: SECURITY! COME CHECK THE ALCOHOL PRICE! THE LADY’S ALCOHOL NEEDS A CHECK!!! WHAT KIND OF ALCOHOL??? IT’S JUST ONE KIND, GO TO THE ISLE! THE PRICE FOR THE LADY’S ALCOHOL!!!

I was leaning against the counter thanking God I didn’t buy tampons, condoms or vibrators. I just looked like an alcoholic middle aged lady, one of the many so who cares.

So that’s how my stand up hour turned into 24 hours of perpetual laughter which I felt like sharing with you. Never pass an opportunity to laugh, keeps you young for longer! 

Let’s take it from the top.

It seems there are 4 types of stories:

extraordinary stories about extraordinary people

extraordinary stories about ordinary people

ordinary stories about extraordinary people

ordinary stories about ordinary people

The last one is hardest to make interesting. From this point of view, Seinfeld is amazing. It’s a story about NOTHING with ordinary people. OK, I admit it’s indisputable value.

However, MASH is about extraordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, trying to stay sane in the midsts of chaos. The humor is different and the heroes are inspirational. Heroes in the original sense of the word. They survive the horror with pranks, sex and alcohol. They don’t become mean and selfish, but continue to save lives, to recognize good from evil and so on.

Yesterday a friend of mine told me I have the uncanny ability to identify the “good” in people and an equal disability to distinguish mean and ugly. Well, this pleases me immensely.

During the weekend I attended a seminar on discrimination. At one point, the speaker mentioned fairy tales, where the princess patiently waits for her prince to save her and this is not healthy for the little girls.

First of all, I wrote on this subject long ago. Second, I disagree. At least as a child, she should believe there’s a prince somewhere. She has an entire life of disappointments afterward.

Even at this age, I do believe in heroes. No, not in the Prince Charming that comes to my rescue. This is bullshit. But I believe in Superman and Hawkeye Pierce. I believe in people with minor flaws and major qualities, people who can make a difference, extraordinary people with extraordinary stories.

For me, my superheroes are my beloved ladies who have infinite resources of strength and beauty to save animals. I recharge from their shining light and I feel better about myself just because i’m allowed in their presence.

I admire the artists I know, because I’m rich and filled with joy to listen to their music or watch their works of art. Most of them are narcissistic selfish creatures, but I don’ give a fuck. I love them as artists, they are so much more necessary to this species than some mediocre decent people.

So there you go: I’m surrounded by Seinfeld characters every day: mean, petty, stupid. So I need the sanctuary of heroes. That’s why I prefer M.A.S.H.