I tapped into their central planetary database named “Google”.

Heyho everybody

It’s summer, I’m not feeling so hot (get it, I’m real funny, aren’t I?) and so I’m sorry for the not-so-very-inspired post. But I’ve been checking my blog stats and found that people type in really weird and funny things over at Google and seemingly end up with my blog listed way up high. I have no idea how this happens exactly, but it sure is entertaining.

I thought I’d share the funniness (is that even a word) with y’all. Here’s what you can type in to end up here.

men in corsets and heels

Yowzy, yowza, seems like if you are following your fantasies on the net, the Golden Lasso is the place Google wants you to be!

latino boys men

I have no recollection whatsoever of ever typing the word “latino”, but somewhere, I must have, right? This searcher was probably not counting on hitting a blog like mine, or…?

crying drag queen

Reminds me of that awful Bloodhound Gang song “A lapdance is better when the stripper is crying”. This search just makes me feel like the person searching is a cruel, sadistic gay-hater who is probably only a cruel, sadistic closeted gay. Or maybe the Bloodhound Gang was searching for some inspiration. Or maybe I just have too much imagination.

hot teenage girls in princess leia priso [sic]

latin boyz

superheroines slaves

arabian slavegirl

Am I alone in thinking a lot of internet porn scavengers are unwittingly ending up on my blog and losing a lot of wanking time? Poor fellas. If so, I apologise. But I don’t publish my porn on the net. I only write some on personal orders. I kid you not. I’ve actually done that, writing custom-made porn. It’s a lot of fun.

jasmine got captured by jafar

Aaah, the Disney crowd mingling with the internet porn crowd. Isn’t the internet a wonderful place? You are all welcome here, my childrrren (imagine me doing a Russian Dracula accent).

slave leia stories the velvet chain

Welcome, Star Wars fans! However, if you are a fan of the prequels, please leave immediately by clicking here and never come here again.

god created the faithfu [sic]

god created arrakis to train

And we’ve got the Dune fans in the house! Woot! Hey Dune fans, leave a comment before you leave next time, I lova ya LOADS!

project runway esm

This one is just weird, man. Why would anyone put together the name of that Heidi Klum show and my school’s name? As far as I know, no one ever told me “you are outtt, auf wiedersehen” while I was standing in line in the canteen. What was the searcher hoping for? Weird, dude, weird.

tim curry – football – tennis – blogspot.

Again, completely hilarious and out of nowhere. When have I ever mentioned tennis on this blog?? I’m more of a badminton kinda girl anyway. But seriously, what was the searcher hoping to find here? I’m pretty sure Tim Curry doesn’t play football or tennis anymore (if he ever did) and he probably doesn’t blog either, right? Maybe the searcher was hoping to find some fan fiction incorporating his fetish for Tim Curry with his favourite sports and his favourite blog provider. No idea. But I got a good laugh out of it.

And finally, the most hilarious one of them all, the one that indeed leads you to this site, albeit being a really, really bizarre search:

eugene dogs golden puddle

Again, the first association I have with these keywords is pornographic and kinky. You too? Good, I thought I was weird for a second. Oh wait, I am weird. This one really reminds me of two things: first, a Gilmore Girls dialogue.

Lorelai: Heh, you know what I just realized? “Oy” is the funniest word in the entire world.

Rory: Hmm?

Lorelai: I mean, think about it. You never hear the word “oy” and not smile. Impossible. Funny, funny word.

Emily: Oh dear God.

Lorelai: “Poodle” is another funny word.

Emily: Please drink your drink, Lorelai.

Lorelai: In fact, if you put “oy” and “poodle” together in the same sentence, you’d have a great new catchphrase, you know? Like “Oy with the poodles already”.

Rory: Hehe.

Lorelai: So from now on, when the perfect circumstances arise, we will use our favourite new catchphrase:

Rory: Oy with the poodles already.

Lorelai: I’m telling you, it’s knocking “Whatchu talkin’ ’bout Willis” right out of first place.

Doesn’t eugene dogs golden puddle remind you of that as well? It’s just as Dada. And the second thing this reminds me of, is a phrase Miriam and I spun off from “Oy with the poodles already”. We figured “slinky” is another hilarious word. And then we figured it’d work well with Lorelai’s catchphrase. And so our new catchphrase became: “Oy with the slinky poodles already”. Ok, so this is far-fetched. Not more than that funny search above.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

Think of a bee. You are its knees. You waft through me like a summer’s breeze. Can I come round on Tuesday please?

Hello everybody

Sorry I haven’t posted in a little while, I travelled to Munich last Sunday and have been busy doing a lot and nothing at all. Since my previous summer vacation plans seem to have fallen through to a very large extent, I decided to go to Munich and see my family. And when I’m here, I don’t like to open the computer a whole lot, so that’s why I didn’t post in the past few days.

I was getting some serious cabin fever back in Zurich. My Hashimoto’s Disease still has me in its somewhat relentless grip and in Zurich, with everybody gone, I was alone at home most of the time, without the energy to really do some of the fun things one can do in Zurich during summertime. I figured that if I was going to have to lie around a lot, I might as well do it with my family. This saves me energy and money in terms of a lot of chores, like doing dishes or shopping for groceries or simply cleaning the flat. Here, these are divided (more or less) into four, which I appreciate a lot. Plus, I get to see my darling cutiepie dog Babette and that alone would have been a reason to come spend some time here. That and the break-free, subtitle-free cinema. I’m simple that way. Give me a dog and some quality cinema and I’ll be happy.

The only thing that bums me a little bit is that since I’m going to spend such a long time in Munich, I won’t get to see Olli. And last time, as the time I tried it before, when I wanted to ask him out, he wasn’t working that day. Just my luck. He starts university in late September as far as I know and so I don’t know when I’ll get to see him again…

Otherwise, I’ve been very content here so far. So much so, that I haven’t even started calling my friends yet. It always takes me a while to settle in fully and I don’t see my family a lot, so when I do, the first few days I prefer to just be with them. It’s funny, but this summer, my family really seems to need me a bit. I’ve already reorganised and de-cluttered the living-room with my dad and further plans involve doing the same with my parents’ study, tutoring my baby brother in English, organising statement of accounts and shampooing the dog.

Speaking of my baby brother: he’s got his first girlfriend! Puberty with its bouts of raging despair and “nobody understands me” shtick has really hit him hard in the last years. Now, his skin is finally clearing but apparently, that isn’t helping much. Except, of course, that it was probably beneficial in finding a girlfriend. For two years, his main complaint in life was that he was misunderstood and nobody loved him or ever could. I’d always thought I’d been impossibly whiney about that myself back in the day, but that was nothing compared to his despair. And him being picky didn’t help. Picky at that age, you ask? Yes, picky at that age. He’s shy (and that’s an understatement) and so he doesn’t like girls who are extroverted and out there. He’s a bit uptight and so he doesn’t like girls who flaunt their goods. He says slutty girls like that are the worst thing ever. On a quick tangent: it’s so weird for me to have such a conservative brother.

Oh yes, and he doesn’t like girls with brown eyes, because he hates his own brown eyes. He has adorable dark chocolate brown eyes but he would sell his soul for a pair of baby blues. The trouble with introverted, demurely dressed, blue or green eyed girls is that in all likelihood, they are shy as well. Or as hell. Heh. Needless to say, he wasn’t having any luck with the ladies. Now he’s finally met one who fancies him, they are officially together. They barely hold hands and they don’t even hug hello, which in my (apparently perverted) eyes is more of an acquaintance and less of a relationship. But my parents and brother stress that taking it slow is not a bad thing. My brother’s problem, however, is how to take it to the next level, given that they don’t even hug. It seems that his sweetheart has given some signs that she would indeed like to kick things up a notch, but she doesn’t really know how and she expects him to do it. Which I do understand. If you’ve given the signs and the guy has (as my brother did) read them accurately, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be him who takes the next step. My baby brother however, is afraid. Deathly afraid. He wants to kiss her but he is scared to death of doing it. He has quite low self-esteem and I think he’s scared he won’t be a good kisser. Other problems include: thinking he’s no good, thinking he’s not interesting, thinking he’s got nothing to say, wondering why she’s even with him and doubting she’ll stay with him once she finds out all of the above. Oi vey.

Last night, he had a meltdown because she is coming over here after school, to spend the afternoon with him and take a walk with the dog. He was yelling, my mum was yelling and my dad and I were shaking our heads. Finally, I sent my yelling mum away and my dad left the kitchen with her and I stayed with my brother, whispered to him at first and then talked to him about what was bothering him. I told him he had lots to talk about, for example theatre, which he likes going to a lot. He said it didn’t matter because he has no idea or profound reason for going and so he can’t talk about it properly. To which I replied that one of the wonderful things about being in a relationship is that a partner will always bring out aspects of your personality and being you never even knew existed. I told him to just take it easy and let it flow. I said that if she found him dumb and uninteresting, she wouldn’t be with him and he could trust that. I sounded like a self-help guru alright, but I suppose it’s what he needed. He then calmed down and went to bed.

Still: dude was complaining when he didn’t have a girlfriend. Now dude’s found a way to make himself miserable because he has one. And if he keeps this up, she probably won’t stick around. OI VEY.

Live long and prosper, peace out,

Anna

Little Latin boy in drag, why are you crying? (update)

Fasten your seatbelts mates, ’cause today, I’m taking you on a trip to Drag Land.

I am fascinated by drag. Yes, drag, as in drag queen or drag king. This year, as you are all probably aware, I shot my first short film for a film class. I’ve talked about it quite a bit. Who I didn’t really mention much was the teacher of that class. She’s a Swiss filmmaker, who has studied in New York (among other places) and has had the honour of studying under Kieslowski, among other noted filmmakers. She lived in Colombia for some years and has shot her films (mainly documentaries) all around the globe. Interestingly, in light of what I will talk about next, her name is Gabriel Baur. She is a woman, but her first name is indeed spelled like the male version of that name. This wasn’t a typo.

We were sitting in her production office at the beginning of the year and she taught us some basics of filmmaking. Then she showed us an extract of her latest film: Venus Boyz. I was mesmerised by it. For years, I’d been thinking: men have it so easy being drag queens. It’s so incredibly easy to put on a wig, slather yourself in make-up, don a dress and slip into high-heels. It’s easy to emulate a woman because there are so many different styles to choose from and so many ways and examples as to how to be womanly. Transforming into a man, I think, is not as easy. Mainly because today’s men’s wear is quite dull and repetitive. Suits are suits, shorts and t-shirts are just that and even a biker’s outfit doesn’t have much room for innovation or change. Now, please note that I am speaking in generalisations here. I am also documenting my mindset at the time, which I have since then slightly revised. Generally, however, this is how it breaks down for me. And it’s not only a question of male attire being rather boring (compared to the 18th century for example). Men also tend to have rather repetitive mechanisms and mannerisms. Women run a huge gamut. Shy, coy, girly, butch, femme, crazy, diva, frugal, indulgent, brainy, emotional, sexual, virginal and many, many more. Women are all that and more often than not, they’re a combination of more than one of those characteristics. And it all makes them seem like a true woman. But think about it, while you’ve got so much to choose from if you want to play a woman, what would you pick to make the world perceive you as male? That’s right, you’d talk in a deeper voice, grunt a little more, scratch your crotch area and make cruder jokes. Not exactly a vide variety of choices and certainly not as fun to emulate as a woman.

In a nutshell: I used to think men could have easy fun being drag queens, but what about if girls wanted to do the same? And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know girls did the same.

When I was a child, I loved playing dress-up. I preferred playing with Barbies instead of baby dolls because Barbies had a myriad of outfits. But playing dress-up was something amazing to me. I could become older (not so much a concern nowadays) and impersonate all these different characters. I remember how my dad, a photographer back then, used to snap me every once in a while when I was disguised. And I did it all: from 19th century duchess in red velvet pill box hat with veil, over Arabian princess, to kinky Cupid (naked with just chains – god knows where I had those from – black mask and an old riding crop). I don’t particularly remember dressing up as a boy (there were so many female characters to explore!) but I do remember thinking how stupid and cowardly it was that boys never dressed up as girls.

In highschool, I participated in two theatre productions. I had done one earlier, in primary school, where I had played Athena, much to my delight until my toga fell apart in the dancing scene and I was left humiliated and my classmates never stopped beating that dead horse for years. Anyhoo: I did two proper productions in highschool and in both, I had a male part. The first was a troubadour. The play was about different incarnations of love throughout the ages and tales and the troubadour’s role was basically the moderator who introduced and commented on the different scenes. I had a great time doing it. I was dressed all silly, had a tambourine and got to improvise a lot. The second part, which was more significant, was that of a middle-aged man whose, if memory serves, daughter was getting married. The play had four people in it, the daughter, her fiancé and “my” wife. All were played by girls. But I think I was the only one happy about playing a man. My best friend at the time was playing the fiancé and for her, it was putting on a suit and saying the lines. I, on the other hand, really worked on my character. I devised a way of walking for this man, a way of carrying his pot belly (gotta use what you have, right?! ), a deeper, more paced voice and slower, bigger, stronger gestures. I constructed a history for him, which nobody but me ended up being interested in. He was a bourgeois, so that was why I gave him some lion-ey traits, but what wasn’t I took from myself. I tried imagining myself as a middle-aged, well-to-do man and what I would be like in that situation. What would I like, dislike, indulge in, etc. I loved preparing for this character and I took it very seriously on one hand, but on the other, I had a blast doing it. If I can say one thing for myself, it’s that in most situations, I have a gift for finding the fun or the humour in something serious. I think I just know quite well when to keep the seriousness at bay and that has been beneficial many times. The day we went costume shopping was a hoot! The Turkish salesman looked at us with a “heathens!” expression on his face as we tried out suits, belts and shoes. One detail I recall from my man make-up: I didn’t wear a wig. I had very long hair back then, to the butt long, and I tried a variety of styles to make it disappear. Anything with a wig looked silly, it looked like a girl in man’s clothes. And then I just tied it together in a nape-of-the-neck-ponytail and let it be. And it worked. It didn’t look silly anymore. The nights we performed, I strapped down my breasts and the illusion created was great. I even got to Hollywood-kiss my wife. So these were my first experiences with drag.

But back to the beginning: I saw Venus Boyz and it was tantalising. Drag kings! I never knew they existed and suddenly, I got to see this whole cultural movement of women who were dressing up as men. Just like the queens, they have contests, clubs, bars etc, etc. And just like the queens, as they paint their eyebrows and stuff dildos in their briefs, their mindsets change when they are in drag. I like drag because to me, it symbolises an incredible freedom of expression and at the same time, it allows you to slip into another version of yourself. You experience a set of completely different rules and restrictions but magically, this is precisely what sets you utterly free.

Now originally, this post was going to end here. But I’ve thought of something else I’d also like to slip in at this point. May seem random, but work with me here.

I love men in skirts. And I love men in teddies. And yes, I mean straight men.

I think there is something so sexy about a straight guy with the confidence to pull off a skirt, sarong or teddy. I am a HUGE (yes, I had to capitalise) Rocky Horror Picture Show fan and Tim Curry in his glittering teddy, pardon my French, makes me cream. Is he gay in the movie? No, he’s definitely bi! A dream come true right there. Barry Bostwick, who plays Brad, and Peter Hinwood, Rocky, are sooooo hot in their corsets, fishnet stockings and feather boas. Sure, they’ve been put in them by Franknfurter, but these boys work their heels! And what’s that about a straight man in a skirt or sarong? Yes ladies and gents, they exist. I’ve seen them with my own two eyes. The first times (yes, that’s a plural) I ever saw them was back in highschool, when I was doing Model United Nations. I did it twice and both times, at the farewell dance, there were guys in skirts. I remember one in particular, who was strikingly handsome. I had worked with him all week and thus, seen him in a dark blue suit all week. During that week, he didn’t particularly strike me as anything. I think the most thought I gave to his looks was something along the lines of “hey, that blue suit really brings out his blue eyes”. On the night of the dance, he was transformed. This serious, definitely straight, bordering on boring young man came in wearing a snug orange t-shirt (the nice, warm, spicy kind of orange) and an ankle-length, plain red skirt. He wore a surfer necklace and no shoes (in January!). I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He’d gone from blah to baboom! Suddenly, he looked as tall as he actually was, his blue eyes sparkled, his blond hair was perfectly tousled and his sculpted figure was unbelievably scrumptious. I spent half the evening secretly following him around and envying the girls he flirted with.

I deplore that men don’t wear skirts (or something similar) these days. I think most of them would look surprisingly good in them and the world is a more boring place for lack of that. Men’s fashion used to be just as imaginative and complicated and adorned as women’s at some point, but we lost that. It’s a shame really. And no, I don’t think it feminises men at all. In Egypt, almost all the men I worked with wore galabeyas, caftans of sorts, and they were more rugged and manly than most men I see over here. In fact, if I see another business student with ironed jeans, Todd’s loafers and a pink shirt, I’ll throw up on him.

I like the edges blurred between genders. I find that fascinating and exciting. It’s amazing what can happen when we shed the stereotypes surrounding our genders and push the boundaries of what is socially acceptable. I like manly men and I like feminine women but I don’t think that necessarily means conforming to set fashion rules. If there’s one thing I know, it’s this: being manly or feminine rarely has anything to do with appearance, but comes from within. And if it’s assured within, it’ll cloak an individual in an unmistakeable aura.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

ps: click here and here for two pictures of me as a drag king (well, kinda sorta) I took right after seeing the extract of Venus Boyz

pps: there’s a brandnew podcast waiting for you, link to the side!

Phenomenal cosmic powers! Itty-bitty living space…

Oh I come from a land , from a faraway place / Where the caravan camels roam / Where they cut off your ear / If they don’t like your face / It’s barbaric, but hey! it’s home / When the wind’s from the east / And the sun’s from the west / And the sand in the glass is right / Come on down, stop on by / Hop a carpet and fly / To another Arabian night /

Arabian nights / Like Arabian days / More often than not, are hotter than hot / In a lot of good ways / Arabian nights / ‘Neath Arabian moons / A fool off his guard / Could fall and fall hard / Out there on the dunes /

Remember that song? It’s the intro to Disney’s Aladdin. Lately, I’ve been enjoying a few blasts from the past. I’ve dug up The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin. I’ve also been watching a few old Sabrina the Teenage Witch episodes over the past months. The three Disney films I just mentioned were (and are) my favourite Disney movies ever. Ooh, Cinderella too. But I haven’t dug that one up yet. Anyway, I’ve been watching all this stuff and suddenly, I realised that these movies may have had a bigger impact on my life than I could ever have suspected.

First of all, they are interesting from a linguistic point of view. The Little Mermaid was the first Disney film I ever saw. Heck, I think it’s the first film I ever saw in a theatre! At least, the first I remember. I must’ve seen it in German back then, but I do remember also seeing an English version a few years later. As for all other Disney movies I saw in the cinema: I used to see them twice when I was quite young, once in German and then again in English. I have no recollection of the German dialogues, but I remember a lot of the English dialogues! Isn’t that strange? My snobistic attitude about only going to original versions nowadays must stem from back then. And what’s even more funny? A lot of expressions I love and use today when I speak English are from those Disney movies I saw as a kid. I never realised that until now! Even stranger? I’ve recently caught myself not only using an expression from those movies, but the intonation as well. I sound like Mrs Potts when I say “run along now”! And like the Beast when I say “If (insert condition here), then he/she/it doesn’t (insert verb here) at all!” Or like Ariel speaking to Flounder when I say “you’re such a baby!” (she calls him a guppy, but you know what I mean). Isn’t that the strangest thing?

My parents say that as a child, I was very sensitive to languages and also intonation. My dad once told me a story of how there was a little Japanese girl who came to our kindergarten for a brief period of time and when I got home the very first day she had been there, I pretended to speak Japanese. Obviously I just made words up, but my father claims my pronunciation really did sound like Japanese. I have a good ear for sounds etc, but I never thought that such childhood movies could have imprinted me the way they apparently did.

But there’s more than just linguistics.

Exhibit A:  the way I prefer to wear my hair. I roll and twist it inwards at the side, then tuck it all back in either a pony tail or a bun. It looks very “fair maiden from the olden days”. I discovered I could do that a few years ago and at the moment, my hair is long enough again for me to do that. I just thinks it looks soooo pretty. Then I saw Beauty and the Beast again and noticed: Belle’s hairdo is exactly like mine! Seriously, if you look at how her hair is made up, that is how I like mine best (when I take the time to do it that way). Ok, so I don’t put a giant blue bow in the pony tail. Other than that: carbon copy. Spooky…

Exhibit B: my unnatural love for girls in Arabian slave girl costumes (preferably in red). I have a thing for superheroines. And just plain all sexy female comic characters. Witchblade, Fathom, the Danger Girls, Lara Croft, Aphrodite IX, Wonder Woman, Supergirl, you name her, I love her. I recently decided to decorate my wardrobe and ended up with a wardrobe covered in superheroines. However: the skimpier the costume, the more Arabian and exotic looking, the more I tend to love it. And I love it when a superheroine gets in a sticky spot, where she is turned into a slave girl and then has to fight her way out of it. In Aladdin, the head-strong Princess Jasmine is captured by Jafar, put in a red outfit, shackled and given golden jewelry. I still remember seeing her made up that way, with an angry expression on her face and thinking: “this is the film’s best outfit ever!”. When I went to Disneyland that same year, they had Princess Jasmine costumes. I tried getting a red one, but they didn’t have it. The saleslady didn’t even know what I was talking about. So I settled for a Princess Jasmine Barbie and a blue Arabian hat with veil. To this day, whenever I doodle, scantily clad women with big breasts, long legs and at least one metal accessory (breast plate, knife strapped to hip…) appear everywhere. Last note on this one: Disney isn’t solely to blame for this one. Princess Leia in Return of the Jedi wears her greatest outfit when she is Jabba the Hutt’s slave girl. Her killing him with the chain from her own collar… meow! Lord knows I love Leia. I even got her buns done once.

Now we know where my slight (!) kinky side comes from. Nothing like knowing your roots, eh?

Exhibit C: wanting to become a journalist. Belle reads books with a passion (I did too as a child and still do). Sabrina becomes a journalist at college. I didn’t even remember that until a few months ago. I’m a little worried here: did I only want to become a journalist out of a strange, latent desire to emulate Sabrina the Teenage Witch? I wasn’t a huge fan of the show. I watched it on TV every now and then, but never really followed it season by season. Still, it makes me wonder…

Exhibit D: I love capes. And I lurve (know your Woody Allen) capes with hoods. Princess Jasmine wears one. Belle wears several. Supergirl has one. Princess Leia does too. Even Luke does! And Darth Vader, well, he rocks his black cape for sure, doesn’t he? I was a restless soul until I found a black velvet hooded cape at Camden Town Market in London, five years ago. Since then, anything cape-like immediately draws me to it. One of my coolest gifts last year? A short capelet with hood my mum gave me.

I’m amused and spooked at the same time by these influences. Nothing is ever lost, is it?

Live long and prosper (one of my favourite shows was Star Trek, what can I say), peace,

Anna

ps: have you checked out my podcast yet? What’s the verdict so far? I’m trying to come up with a good theme for the next ones. My offer for you to send in questions and comments you would like to hear me talk about still stands though

So it speaks… but does it dance?

Y’all, I’mma gonna share a lil’ sumpin’ with ya. I’ve only discovered this fun fact about myself yesterday morning and I just felt like sharing. I like good country music. Even contemporary country music. Sure, I’ve always liked Johnny Cash. Who doesn’t like Folsom Prison Blues? Or Walk the Line? Personally, my favourite Cash tracks are Tennessee Stud and Wanted Man. And I love most of the Nancy Sinatra country stuff. These Boots is one of the best songs ever. I do however have a hatred for Dolly Parton. I don’t like her songs at all and I just can’t get that bizarre face and those humongous boobs out of my head when I hear notes of hers. Dolly Parton freaks me out on so many levels.But what about new(er) country music? Frankly, I don’t know a lot. I know Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood (whom I just discovered this year). Shania Twain is very up and down for me. Some tracks of hers are just mushy and some are great. Man I Feel Like A Woman is beyond cool.

And then there’s Carrie Underwood. She’s got everything I secretly hate to admit I’m slightly *chortle* prejudiced about: she’s an American Idol winner. She looks like a Barbie doll. She’s from the South. And she sings country. And yet, I love most everything I’ve ever heard from her. I recently downloaded two albums of hers and I’ve started listening to them yesterday. Sure, a lot of it sounds similar. But country sounds similar to country. That’s simply how it is. And her country music is at least good country music. Of course songs like Before He Cheats or Last Name are songs that I particularly like. No, not because I ever got cheated on or got drunk, but because they’ve got some rock’n roll mixed into them. But even her more pop influenced songs (All-American Girl) and her all out, Christian country songs (Jesus, Take The Wheel or Don’t Forget To Remember Me) are songs I can’t get enough of at the moment.

If you’d told me three months ago that I would ever like a song entitled Jesus, Take The Wheel, I would have rolled on the floor laughing. No really: I do that. Just ask Miriam. As it turns out, Jesus, Take The Wheel makes me cry like a babe every other time I listen to it. And I’m not Christian. Jesus is to me a historical figure, not a divinity. Don’t Forget To Remember Me makes me homesick and weep.

My theory as to why I like those songs and that type of music? I like music with a story. I’m very lyrics-oriented and always have been. Most country songs tell a story or talk about a situation. And they do it in such a way that almost everybody (and certainly Americans) can very much relate to what is being said. Johnny, Nancy, Shania, Carrie, they all tell stories with their music. So yeah, I like country music.

You know what else I like? Podcasts. There’s one I listen to regularly and it’s awesome. She’s a pro and she goes into a recording studio to do it and I don’t, but… I’ve got a podcast! What? No? Did I read right? What is she up to now?

Well, my friends, Hashimoto’s has me in its relentless grip and I needed one more outlet with which to communicate with the outside world. And since I’ve got a bunch of people who keep telling me I should go on the radio, I figured I could give podcasting a shot.

In this episode, I basically introduce myself and the podcast etc. But what I thought up for the next episode, would be a Q&A with me. Leave your questions (they can be *anything*), or remarks you would like an answer or comment on, in the comments on this blog. Or write me an email at this address: ltkarawade@yahoo.co.uk NB: this is not my personal email address (that one is extremely well protected), it’s one I use for the internet, when I have to sign up on stuff. I do check it every day though, so your emails will definitely be read promptly!

I would love to hear from all of you. Please tell me whether you like the podcast, the podcast idea and if you want to continue hearing me every now and then. I think it’s fun but I’m thinking of you, my readers, my audience and if you don’t like it, it will most likely be buried. So let me know!!

Link to the podcast is here and in my blogroll – enjoy!

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

I’m not the subtlest guy when it comes to women and I probably said something insanely inappropriate, because you told me if I ever talked to you again, you’d break my kneecaps. Which just made me love you.

It’s ugly reality time here at the Golden Lasso.

I am in the process of doing something heinous. And not just that, no. I’m also being a traitor, a rat, a canary and an all around double agent backstabbing bitch to women everywhere. But frankly my dears, I don’t give a damn. On my shoulders, a female angel and a male devil have been fighting for many, many weeks. The devil won. The angel is still complaining (and the girly girl in me is agreeing strongly with her) but this time, the devil is the better of two evils.

And no, I’m neither possessed nor schizophrenic.

What I am doing is I’m not calling back. A few months ago, I mentioned a girl called Snowy on this blog. We went on a couple of dates (the second one of which she practically forced on me) and though it was tolerable the first time around, I was already majorly uncomfortable the second time. In between the dates and since the second one I have only been in contact with her per text messages and emails. On the plus side, I didn’t flat out lie to her. I really did have only a limited amount of time and I really am dealing with an enormous amount of changes, both things that have kept me from spending time with her. On the other hand, all that was quite welcome, because I felt (and still feel) a bit smothered by her and didn’t want to spend any more time with her. When people get a shine in their eye and a throb in their voice that makes them look like they think I’m their personal Jesus, it makes me wary. Sure, you might argue I could have told her I felt cornered, but to be honest, even that felt like it would have been too much contact and a drain on my energy. Which is about as low as it can get anyway.

Snowy has congratulated me for my birthday and told me that the next time we’d see each other, I’d get a present and chocolate. After my brief thank you note (I may be heinous, but that doesn’t mean I’m not polite… umm, yeah… something like that), in which I also, intentionally, wrote “you don’t need to get me a present”, she replied with a rather lengthy email message saying it wasn’t a problem, that birthday children get presents, that’s the rule, that she had found the perfect gift and that chocolate was an aphrodisiac. It was pretty rambling, but that’s the gist of it. It made me want to snap shut my laptop and run (if I had the energy to run that is). Are you kidding me? We’ve known each other only for a few months! I can’t even call it knowing her properly. We’ve been on two dates and she gets serious about perfect birthday presents? And the whole chocolate thing was the icing on that particular freaking-somebody-out cake. She seemed nice enough, but if chocolate turns her on, and let’s face it, the implication here is turns her on to me, then get me a shuttle to a place where there is no chocolate, stat!

Then there’s Blue Eyes, the guy I had a date with two short weeks ago. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was bored out of my skull and annoyed at the same time. And he wrote me a happy birthday text message too. I also replied to that one, which didn’t really help, I think. If anyone knows a recipe on how to turn down a guy who looks at you like baby geese look at the first thing they see after birth, please give it to me! There’s really no easy breezy way to do this, is there?

Snowy and Blue Eyes simply creep me out. If they have managed to leave such negative impressions on me in such a short time, I doubt giving them more chances will make the creepiness go away. Carola has beseeched me to at least give Snowy some leeway and show some clemence, but my gut is telling me nothing good will come out of it. Snowy just seems excessively needy and on the lookout for a female mentor. I’m not that person. As for Blue Eyes, he wants somebody to fill a huge void he feels whenever he is single. On top of that, I’ve got the weird feeling that he also wouldn’t mind somebody to burp him and tuck him in. I’m not that person.

And so I decided: fuck it. I grew some balls for the occasion and decided I’d do what so many men do and what so many women complain about: stop calling. Disappear as much as humanly possible and hope that it will blow over. Let some grass grow over it. And let time heal any wounds that may have been caused in the process.

Now, I’m not presumptuous enough to believe this course of action I’ve embarked on will actually leave a lot of wounds. I certainly hope it doesn’t. I’m not proud of myself for doing this, but I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes, cutting something out of your life radically is the only way of moving forward. With these two, I feel like I have no other choice. I dread a lengthy explanation of my feelings and motivations never to see them again and so, I’m not calling back. Gentlemen, thank you for welcoming me in your ranks.

Ladies, don’t despair, you haven’t lost me either. I’m very torn about the whole Olli issue and completely over-analyzing every little thing he does or does not. Should I be bold and ask him out now, risking to either get completely rejected or find myself with yet another man who just wants to be friends? Or should I keep the status quo, be satisfied with what I’ve got and wait till I’m prettier to ask him out? Which, bear in mind, could take a few years until the full transformation is complete. He made a remark the other day about how our bodies age whether we like it or not and thus how important it is to have a good head on our shoulders. Still, I like him so much, I’m really scared of being turned down by him. Yikes, whatever will I do?
Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

My horror, for their beauty. My hell, for their little slice of heaven. (updated)

Boys and girls, this post will give you some unsolicited, but damn good, advice.

Have you been in the mood for a little misogyny lately? How about condescendence and unbridled patriarchalism? Have you just craved to be shown a world in which superwomen, who have been powerful and saving the world for millenia, find true happiness in being housewives and soccer mums? I bet it was just yesterday, that you thought to yourself: “If only I could find a film this summer which will show me how true love is poison and passion is dangerous. If only there were a film out there portraying how evil love is and how it just ruins everything, for everybody!” If so, my friends, look no further than Hancock. Hancock will make all of these wishes come true, and more. And more, you ask? How is that possible, I couldn’t dream of more! But wait, you can! What if I were to tell you that not only will you be served this delightful mix of pessimism and sexist, misogynystic dinosaur thinking (name that nineties movie), but to top it off, you could have, say… a plot foreseeable after only ten minutes of film? And just for shits and giggles, I’ll throw in villains so pathetically bland and weak, it’ll make your heart sing.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been Hancock’d. It’s too late for me, but you can save yourselves. Please learn from my mistakes and don’t make them as well. Save your hard-earned money for something like… half a litre of petrol. Or an afternoon at the zoo. Maybe a new lipstick? I know, a new pair of boxer shorts! Or buy your dog the organic dog biscuits. Or your cat some suped up catnip. As long as you steer clear from that Hancock’n bullshit (whoa, pun alarm!), you’ll be good.

Now excuse me while I go whip my back with a cat o’ nine tails.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

ps: it’s been a long time since the muse kissed me poetry-wise, but it has happened tonight (probably an allergic reaction to all that Hancock crap) and so my poetry blog has finally been updated with a piece – hope you pop by and enjoy what you find (a French dictionnary might come in handy for those of you who don’t speak it to perfection) Cheers!

Do you hear this, Mr. Anderson? This is the sound of inevitability.

Hello my friends

So, the inevitable has happened: I turned 23. Luckily, the pendulum swings both ways and to make up for my dreadful date with Blue Eyes on Friday, I had the bestest birthday in the whole wide world (say it in a 5 year-old voice) yesterday. Well, it’s pretty much neck on neck with birthdays 22, 16, and 8. I have never had really bad birthdays as you can see.

Quick trip to Friday: Blue Eyes is not as cute as he managed to make himself out to be before the date. Physically, I don’t find him as attractive (except the eyes and the smile, those stay). That would not concern me as much, but he’s got an annoying personality. We didn’t talk *about* anything. He talked about himself most of the times, telling me stories from his school years, his military years, his family, yadiyadiya. And to add insult to injury: he’s got the best numbers memory ever. Which means that when he tells one of his, oh, five hundred million? stories, they go like this: “Well, I had been with her for 2 1/2 years… no wait, not quite, we met in October, so at that point, it was 2 years and 4 months. Then she had to go do a language course in England for a month. The night before she left, I tried having sex with her again. She wouldn’t have it, said she wasn’t ready. Then she took the plane at six o’clock. By eight, she had to have landed, by 8.30, she would have been past customs, by 9 she would have been in the tube which means that by 10 at the latest, she should have been settled with her guest family. So we had said she’d tell me she’d arrived safely at 10.30, but I waited and nothing happened. Then it was 11, still nothing. Midnight, still nothing. 1am, 2am, 3am, 4am. At 4am she finally called! She’d had sex with a guy she met at a club. So not twelve hours after she “hadn’t been ready”, she had screwed around behind my back.”

Bored? Yeah, me too. I kid you not, this is how every story started and went on. After an hour with him, I wanted to stab my ears out with something sharp and then go drown myself in the Zurich Lake. Lawsie mercy! In between telling his stories, he did ask me a few things. But not: “what kind of food do you like?” or “what are you reading right now?” but “so do you have a similar memory?”. Which meant that essentially, everything I said was also just a recollection of memories. And for Pete’s sake, I know I can talk a lot, but this guy just about chewed both my ears off.

In the end, I did something I’ve never done before (nor want to do again, it’s pretty heinous). I pretended to get an sms by a friend, who was telling me she’d flunked an exam and needed to be comforted asap. My performance was Oscar-worthy. So we parted after 3 1/2 interminable hours. Not a quarter of an hour later, I got an sms from him saying: “I hope you had as much fun on the date as I did and that we’ll see each other again. And I hope I didn’t mess up”. I chortled. What on Earth was I supposed to say to that? I haven’t replied yet.

But on to more pleasant things: yesterday was my 23rd birthday. And I didn’t wanna turn 23 because *cue Jessica Simpson*: “23 is almost 25, which is almost mid-twenties!”. Tempus fugit, my dear friends, tempus fugit fucking fast. And my baby brother is 15 now (his birthday is a day before mine). It seems like it was just yesterday my little brother was born and that I got a wooden doll bed which the dog elected as her sleeping place and chewed all the posts off.

In the afternoon, Carola and I went shopping. I got a few summer tops (it’s so darn hot here), a new (30% off, woohoo!) George, Gina and Lucy bag in a beautiful light powder pink (called Bag Atelle) and a glorious, absolutely fantastic perfume. I don’t buy perfume often at all, because I’m very, very picky about scents and because once I’ve found something I like, I stick with it for a long time. But we were having fun sniffing our way through Globus’ perfume department and suddenly, we struck gold! Gold I tell you! Daisy by Marc Jacobs – a scent unbelievably playful, charming, witty, delicious and just plain perfect for my skin. I plunked down the money right there and went home with it. I even spritzed some of it on before going to bed, because that’s how infatuated I am. It says there’s wild strawberries, pink grapefruit, vanilla, jasmin, white woods and above all violet in it. Sounds like a lot of stuff but I swear, it’s mixed and balanced with true perfection. It’s like wearing wood sprites with a sense of style.

From Carola, I got the sweetest gift ever: a vintage cloth handkerchief in soft pink, with a floral design and a turquoise border. In orange print, it says “as tears go by” on the bottom. The note in the box said it’s one of only 50 such handkerchiefs, which are from the 50s, 60s and 70s originally and have been printed on now, to give it a youthful twist. Judging by the font they selected for the phrase, I’d say mine is a late 60s to early 70s, but it’s a bit hard to tell. Carola chose that one she told me, because I always cry my eyes out when we have a movie night. Isn’t that cute? I heart Carola. From my parents, I got a scanner, an external hard-drive and some much needed kitchen utensils! I heart my parents.

Then we went to Movie’s (our fave restaurant) and soon, my surprise guests started trickling in. In the end, there were 7 of us and we had an awesome time. After dinner, we went to get some refreshments and then sat by the Sihl (a river) for hours, being silly and having a ball. They all got me a card which, on the cover, said: “some things end, some things begin and some things never change” (which is a quote from Carrie Bradshaw) and on the back said: “you think you’re something special today. You’re wrong!! You’re always something special” which was by Carola. All the others wrote “Amen to that” and signed their names. I almost got a jaw cramp from smiling so much. Plus, we were seated in a part of the restaurant where the walls are painted with pictures of Hitchcock, a few of his leading ladies and looming right next to us, James Stewart with a telephoto lens. The perfect setting for a perfect day.

When I finally got home yesternight, I laid in bed thinking about aging and suddenly, two random memories of moments that I felt very intensely came to my mind. I’d like to share them with all of you.

I stood in the classroom, a little mesmerized. My eyes searched for the teacher, a beautiful and kind-looking woman. Madame Roubert. I’ll never forget her name or her flowing skirts, which always made her look as if she’d jumped out of the 1880s. She beckoned me on, told me I could pick a seat. I think I sat with Thomas and Hong-An. I looked around at the myriad of girls in this classroom. Only four boys and about ten girls. I felt a little uncomfortable. In kindergarten, I’d mainly been one of the guys. I’d been what can best be described as a princess tomboy. Always rough-housing with the boys but when the play involved heroes, knights and warriors, I was the warrior princess who had been caught by some overwhelmingly evil force and needed to be rescued. To this day, I seem unable to make up my mind about being either a warrior or a princess. Some things never change.

Once the parents were all gone, Madame Roubert let us play so that we got to know each other. Inevitably, the girls gravitated towards me whereas the boys displayed strange behaviour: they weren’t hostile, but they drew away a bit. I was taller than any of them and with so many more girls in the class, they must have felt intimidated. I wanted to tell them they didn’t need to be intimidated, that I was one of them, their ally. But they were so far gone already. I faced the girls and tried to play with them, socialise. It went well for a little while and then I must have tripped or dropped something. “Putain!” I swore. Madame Roubert hadn’t heard, she was busy comforting a little 5 year-old boy who was crying. The girls all stopped in their tracks and suddenly, I felt the world change around me. They went quiet first and then started giggling like Japanese schoolgirls, with their hands in front of their mouths. What was going on? Why had we stopped playing? One of them, I don’t remember who but it could well have been Caroline, finally went up to me and said: “You don’t say that. You say purée.” I was confounded. At home, everybody said “putain” on a daily basis. That was the real, accurate swearword. Why not use it if it was accurate? Why did my family use it, if it was bad? Why substitute it with something as silly as “purée”? “Mashed potatoes!” and “whore!” certainly couldn’t express the same sentiment, could they? But “putain” was not socially acceptable. I felt it in my guts, that I would have to wear the first mask ever in my life. This was school and I wasn’t free anymore. Kids here were different than the free spirits of kindergarten. Those girls were serious, Catholic and prudish. If I wanted to stand a fighting chance, I’d better conform. So I took a deep breath and passed an invisible hand over my face. There, the mask was in place. For the next four years, until I reached highschool, I said “purée”. But all the time, I was only playing a part. I was counting down. I said “purée” until the day I was old enough to use “putain” again in public. And when that day came, I said it with delight. And soon, as the first year of highschool trickled along, even though the girls were ostracising me, it took them over. They also started saying “putain” and finally, I’d had a revenge I hadn’t even planned on. They lost their innocence just like they had forced me to lose mine, back when we were six years old.

Hassan the Tiger had been called away from my trench to build a tripod over a grave shaft and suddenly, Hassan the Second Trowel had found himself promoted to First Trowel. He was happy at first but his expression changed when he realised I couldn’t plumb and take notes at the same time, that I needed a second hand. Hassan the Tiger usually did this. He knew what to do and Little Hassan probably wished right now that The Tiger was there to teach him. But he wasn’t and I said the inevitable: “Hassan, I need you to plumb for me today”. He smiled and imperceptibly shook his head at the same time. I knew what his hesitation was. If he failed this test of prowess and faith, he would be the laughing-stock of all the workers on the site. From the First Trowels to the lowliest basket carriers, he would sink in all their esteems. I used the Voice on him to convey a clear message of immediate necessity and cajoling. “I can’t do it alone Hassan. I will show you how it’s done and then we will work together on this.” The basket carriers all around held their breaths. They knew what I had proposed was an honour and a dance on eggshells at the same time. They were waiting for the show to begin. Curtains up, I thought.

I selected two basket carriers and placed them diagonally apart from each other, at each side of my trench. If Hassan truly were to fail, he wouldn’t be alone in his demise. Two of the ranks of basket carriers would be blamed as well. I had too much affection for him not to give him this extra security. One was to watch the
thin cord on the nail to the north of the trench. Neither the nail nor the cord could slip and it was his job to make sure it didn’t happen. On the south west corner, the second boy held the cord in place. He was to make sure the cord was even, not tipped and I attached a small water level to the cord, so he knew which position to keep it in. It was promotion day all around. Little Hassan gave me a grateful but worried look. I gave him the plumb and a string, made him tie the two together, showed him how to do it so that the plumb’s weight was evenly distributed and didn’t hang crooked. He passed the first test without a glitch. I could have done this bit myself, but I needed him to feel secure enough to tackle the real challenge of plumbing accurately. At first, I let him go for it. I didn’t want to make him appear pussy whipped in front of the workers. He summoned his will-power and began. He was emulating what he had seen The Tiger do a thousand times and his mimicry wasn’t bad. But he didn’t know how to brave the wind. It was time for me to step in.

We stood close to each other, in our private spaces. My hand lightly laid over his. I could hear his breathing, shallow and excited. Beads of sweat trickled out from under his white baseball cap and were caught by his scarf. His jugular was pumping under his grimy neck and he swallowed hard. I felt the sweaty stickiness of his trembling, dusty, dirty hand under mine. Little Hassan had probably never been this close to a Western woman before. Or any woman for that matter. Physical contact between us and the workers was rare and that’s an understatement. We didn’t wear trousers that revealed our ankles or T-shirts that revealed our shoulders and upper arms. It wasn’t appropriate. But I needed my measurements and I needed them to be accurate. I didn’t speak a word and pushed the inspector and the others away and out of my consciousness. Little Hassan would have much to tell about this day once I was done. I focused on him and he focused on me. I spoke calmly and adjusted my Voice so only he could hear my words. It’s just you and me baby, you and me till the end of time…

I squeezed his hand slightly and gave him a secret smile. Then I started to slightly jerk my hand and his, up and down, up and down. This movement steadied the plumb in the wind. And suddenly, everything fell into place. I let my hand linger on Hassan’s for a split second longer and then withdrew it in a stroking motion only he could perceive. The others around us were fascinated and they all felt something big was happening, but they didn’t know how big it was for Hassan. They would never know. I turned to a tiny basket carrier who had been given the responsibility to hold my book and whose fingers were clutched around it. Such was his awe that I almost had to pry it from his hands and only at the last moment, when I almost had it back, he seemed to awake from his daze and let go of it hurriedly.

I took a few more steps back and opened my book at the sketch I needed. I smiled at Hassan who was positively beaming by now. “Kullu tamam?” I asked. Everything alright? “Aiwa. Kullu tamam” he answered seriously. “Kwais” I said. Great. Then I let it be his turn to be the big man. He called the numbers out to me in Arabic and I dutifully wrote them down. The next day, when Hassan the Tiger returned, he found his Second Trowel proud and beaming. “Guess what I can do now!” Hassan the Young Man said.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna