I represent my sign with a rigor worthy of a better cause.
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.
Last Thursday I was supposed to attend a one man show with the best stand up performer I’ve ever seen. I was prepared for an hour of incessant laugh – I’ve seen his shows before and I already knew I’ll laugh my head off.
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.