The Suitor, Francesco Beda

At my first job in Canada, I met a lovely Mongolian girl a few years older than me. Cute, tall, slim, educated, smart and single. And also terrified that she was turning 30 and there was no suitor in sight.

We were working in a cashmere store, so most of our customers were high-income professionals. Every now and then, we would have handsome and fairly young men come in to buy gifts for their wives or girlfriends. They would spend 400-500$ without blinking on a pretty sweater or a cozy wrap for the special ladies in their life, with that little private smile on their faces. You could tell they were imagining the surprise and delighted “ooh’s” and “aah’s” of the women about to receive the fluffy bundles of luxury.

My coworker was flirting discreetly with all of them. With each attractive man, you could tell she was hoping that the gift was for a mother, sister, cousin – anything but a wife  or girlfriend. But that was hardly ever the case; the hunky high-earners were usually taken. One day, after a particularly attractive male customer left the store with a 700$ cape for his fiancee, she turned to me and burst out, almost yelling: “You know, I wish I could understand! How do these men pick? What is inside these women that makes such men propose to them?!”

I already knew she was feeling frustrated, but the bluntness of her phrasing, “what is inside these women”, only made me shrug in sympathy. It was as though she was picturing a divine assembly line where some women simply got better parts than others, both inside and out, and felt like she had been shortchanged somehow. She knew her looks were decent, so she was wondering if there was something inside these wives and fiancees, some sort of hidden trigger that made engagement rings shoot out of Tiffany boxes.

I have seen many such cases of anxiety. It’s not acceptable for a woman to talk about these feelings openly in a modern society, because it makes her look desperate and pathetic. Luckily, I come from a more traditional society which, for all the evils of its anti-feminism, does generate juicier gossip.

The Suitor, W.D. Sadler

I was entering my teenage years when my first cousin was in her early 20′s, with a Law degree in her hand but no ring on her finger. She was a cute little thing, barely five feet tall, with a loud mouth and an energetic personality. A social butterfly, she never had a problem hooking up with eligible young men; the problem was that none of them would pop the question. Every holiday, she would invite one of them to spend a few days at her family’s country house, hoping that the festive times would end in an official commitment.

The family would start preparing a few days in advance, as though they were expecting  a royal visit. They would turn the house upside down, vacuuming, polishing, scrubbing and ironing, because God forbid Prince Charming should see a speck of dust! They were old-school people who genuinely thought that a fingerprint on a glass might put off a man who was almost on bent knee. If it were that easy, Lysol would be more expensive than Chanel. At one point, I saw my cousin scrubbing with soap a corner of the attic where they didn’t even have a light, and wondered if I, too, would go insane like that when I entered my marriage years (and I did, but it took other forms).

And then there was the food! It was all supposed to be a lavish display of my cousin’s domestic skills, to reassure the fortunate aspirant that he would be well-fed once he married her. She and her mother would rise at the crack of dawn and proceed to baking and roasting as if they were preparing for the actual wedding. The mixer was buzzing incessantly, bags of supplies were being crammed on tables and counter tops and steaming trays and pots were being carried into the larder. On top of that, mother and daughter were at each other’s throats. My aunt and uncle were notorious cheapskates, and the matriarch counted every egg, every drop of vanilla essence and every cup of sugar, while screaming at my cousin: “It’s too much! Too much! Your father doesn’t shit money!” The old shrew would harp at it until my exasperated cousin would run away to our grandmother and have  a crying fit in her comforting arms, shaking her dark curls and cursing the day she was born. I was always hot on her heels like a nosy war reporter. Grandma would call my aunt and yell at her: “Leave the child alone!”, and then I would follow my cousin back to her house to observe some more scrubbing, chopping, mixing and screaming.

The shouting matches would last exactly until the lights of the boyfriend’s car would flicker at the gate. My cousin would dry her tears and reapply her lipstick, my aunt would check her hairdo and my uncle would take his solemn pose. Because he’s always been like that, solemn. By the time Prince Charming showed up at the door with the cheap flower bouquet and the even cheaper box of chocolates, the house was gleaming, the table was full of appetizing platters and the family was a picture of tenderness and harmony. As for me, I was happy that I could finally eat from the delicious cakes and hopeful that the boyfriend might leak a cigarette or two my way.

Despite such superhuman feats of domestic prowess, the boyfriends would easily smell the dysfunction and pretense, and would vanish soon after the family holiday. This happened several times over until, at the ripe age of 27, my cousin decided that, no matter what, she couldn’t end up a spinster, and cornered the last “special guest” to come to the family reunion into proposing. I wasn’t there, but my father told me that it was pretty much “yay or nay?”, at the dinner table, in front of the whole family. The poor schmuck agreed to marry her, instead of digging a hole in the ground and burrowing his way to China, like a smart man. She didn’t love him and she wasn’t even attracted to him. She just really, really wanted to be married. They had a beautiful wedding and a terrible marriage that ended with her cheating and ripping him off.

The Suitor, Leopold Schmutzler

When I was in college, a rich family friend married off his daughter. She was a sweet, delicate girl, but rather plain-looking and socially awkward. The groom was dashing and brilliant, but nowhere near as wealthy as her father. Although he was, without a doubt,  sincerely in love with her, he was somewhat despised by her family for not bringing more cash into the marriage. Even so, their desire to see her married trumped any material expectations. At the wedding, right in church, her father whispered to a select few: “At this point, I don’t even care if she gets a divorce. At least, she will have been married.” My jaw dropped at the cynicism of his words, although I should have known better. Luckily, the two are still together, and quite happy, from what I hear.

When I got engaged the last time, to a Mexican man, my father was so happy that he threw a party. He started dreaming of barbecues with his son-in-law, studying the history of Mexico (just in case Miguel Hidalgo’s name might pop up at the wedding reception) and ordering grandchildren like they were take-out. He finally admitted that the whole family had been feeling sorry for me that I was over 25 and not married. When my engagement broke, he quickly “forgot” everything he said, and I didn’t bring it up again either.

The Engagement Ring, J.S. Fox

Ahh, too many stories and too little time! These colorful, dramatic manifestations of marriage fever are probably more common in countries that are a bit behind the times. I’ll be the first to admit that Romania is one such country; not shockingly backwards, but it is a bit. However, when I look at the billion-dollar wedding industry in North America, at the myriad of bridal-themed shows and at the representations of single women in the media, I have to wonder whether the difference lies mostly in how open we are with our feelings on this topic.

I want to get married very, very much. There, I said it. I am 28 and a half, I have dated, I have also been single for long periods, I know what I’m looking for… I’m ready. And I have been for a while. That being said, I am also very afraid of making a bad choice. I have never truly wanted to marry a particular man. Sadly and foolishly, I have said “yes” three times, when what I meant was just “maybe”, and I have put myself through a lot of pain. Deep down, I knew each time that it wouldn’t work out, and that is why I never got too excited about planning the weddings either. Looking back on it, all I feel is relief, relief that I didn’t walk down the aisle with a lesser love than I needed.

The last man I dated was very eager to settle down. He thought he was in love with me, when, in fact, I simply happened to come his way. At one point, I playfully engaged in a description of my ideal wedding. I think he thought I was including him in the picture, but what I was seeing in my imagination was just a walking tuxedo with no head. Things fell apart; there came the sadness, and then, again, the relief.

Temptations are not always easy to fight. I’m not getting any younger; a dual income would sure make my life easier; my parents would be happy; I wouldn’t have to sleep alone anymore; something exciting would finally happen in my life; I would get to decorate my dream home. All good things. Except that, if I don’t have the right man by my side, all these good things would act as spotlights, there only  to make my unhappiness shine brighter.

I haven’t met him yet; of that I am certain. I may never meet him. I may wake up one day alone and well past my sell-by date, picking out cats at the animal shelter and ordering needlepoint patterns off of Ebay. But one thing I know for sure: I will never regret not settling for Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right. I have too much respect for marriage to actually do it, unless I am madly, hopelessly, undeniably in love.

The Engagement Ring, Alfred Thompson Bricher

The national flag after the communist escutcheon was cropped.

It’s been 22 years. Between the 16th and the 22nd of December 1989, the Revolution that put an end to communism in Romania claimed over 1100 dead and more than 4000 wounded and constituted the only blood-shedding regime change in the Autumn of Nations.

As a child of that time, the personal film of my Revolution is a broken one, and the magnitude of the events is reflected in meaningless details of my daily life, just like a tsunami can be reflected in a single drop of water. Like all my generation, I had to learn the facts from history books. The painful images came to me via television, and, later, via youtube videos.

I witnessed history in the making when I was too young to understand what was going on. I’m no Marjanne Satrapi, and my memory is nowhere nearly that precise. Had I been a few years older, I would have registered many more details. Maybe that is why, even now, when I am approaching the dreaded 30 and getting bummed at every new gray hair or hint of a wrinkle, I still feel a bit of envy at those who are old enough to have a clearer picture of the 5 days of turmoil.

I was only six years old then, still in kindergarten. Ceausescu, the Dictator, was somewhat of a mythical figure for me and children my age. The heavily-airbrushed face we saw at the beginning of every schoolbook. The idealized portrait in every classroom. The name uttered emphatically at every school event. He was as real and unreal to us as Santa: we all knew that he existed and that he was almighty, but he was removed from the realm of our everyday existence.

One year, I think in ’88, I remember that the school was being turned upside down in preparation for his birthday. Every corner was cleaned and polished, broken furniture was replaced, the garden was manicured and the walls were painted. One of our teachers, an exotic beauty with artistic skills, covered the walls with colorful images of fairytale and cartoon characters. She even painted our lockers – I had Snow White on mine. We were rehearsing patriotic songs and speeches round the clock. I didn’t know what all the fuss was about, until, overwhelmed with joy, I understood: they were coming! The Beloved Leader and his formidable consort, Elena! With her perfect hair-do, like an impenetrable helmet, and her pastel suits, she seemed the most beautiful woman in the world to me. In retrospect, she looked more like a tamed Gorgon, with the snakes neatly swept around her head. But, hey, I was six, don’t judge me.

They stood us up. I remember standing on the stairs and singing Happy Birthday with the other children, but there was no birthday boy. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t come, and where they had to go that was more important than the festivities at my small-town kindergarten. Later that day, an older girl came to our class with a tray of fruit; we each got half of a banana and a quarter of an orange. Some children wouldn’t eat, because they didn’t know what the fruits were. I knew the oranges, but I wasn’t sure about the bananas; I suspected they were some sort of sausages.

I loved my communist kindergarten uniform – the Patriot Hawks would be the roughly translated name for kindergarten pupils. The uniform was a hideous orange-navy-red combo, and the thick, synthetic fabric made us itch and sweat. Older kids, the Pioneers, wore nicer uniforms: white shirt and red tie, with navy pants or accordion skirt. Ahh, that was the dream! I never made it that far, because the Revolution came and ruined my fantasy of becoming a Pioneer and twirling around in the accordion skirt.

Ripped off from latrecut.ro, with many thanks, and only because my own parents didn't bother taking my photo in uniform.

I don’t remember having heard the word “revolution” before. One day, I heard my parents and neighbours talking heatedly about people “going out on the streets” in Timisoara, the starting point of the uprising. I thought, “what’s the big deal, I go out on the street every day!” The next day, looking out the window of my class, I saw groups of soldiers marching. “It’s a war!”, I shouted in excitement, “they’re going to war!”. I was hoping they would win – little did I know that they were being sent out to shoot civilians! My kindergarten teachers let us play freely and gathered in a corner, whispering in agitation. We turned the classroom upside down, and, by the end of the day, we were throwing chairs and chanting profanities. War could go on forever, as far as we were concerned.

At home, we went to visit my neighbour, an insufferable moron with a loud mouth, and watched the uprising on TV. I saw people running from police, and lots of street fires. A rumour spread that the water reserve had been poisoned and that only bottled mineral water was safe to drink. I remember being very thirsty and waiting for my mom to boil the tap water and cool it before letting me drink. Words like “revolution”, “freedom”, “terrorists”, “hooligans” were swarming in my head, and I wasn’t sure which one was bad and which one was good. The catchy revolutionary songs made me happy, because it made grown-ups laugh when I sang them.

News came that Ceausescu and his wife had been arrested, then tried and executed, right on Christmas Day. By then, I knew that they were bad and that it was they who wouldn’t let us have enough cartoons on TV, so I was happy that they died. Revolution-schmevolution, but Tom & Jerry was a serious issue! I also remember seeing carols being sung on TV, something I had never seen, because religious expression had been banned in the media.

Other than that, there was a lot of agitation and excitement. People were gathering everywhere, trying to predict what would happen next, discussing the news and the rumours. I recall loud voices, heated political debates, words too big for me, and an overall feeling of joy and hope. Teenagers wished they had had the chance to go out and stand up to the bullets, like the youths in the big cities where altercations had taken place; they were old enough to have actually done it and too young to understand how lucky they were that they didn’t have to. A few old people expressed pity for Ceausescu and his wife, or for the three children that survived them. I looked at those people in disgust; obviously, they did not get what the Revolution was about (Tom &… I mean, freedom).

After the winter holiday was over, I went back to kindergarten. The senior teacher, the one who had been the most ardent and vocal supporter of the Dictator, sat us in a circle and held a long and pompous speech about how we were now free of the atrocious regime of the tyrant who had sucked our nation’s blood. I’m sure she was equally honest both before and after, because that’s just how some people are.

Sometimes I wonder what the children of the Arab Spring will remember, and if this age of communication will help them register more details. Speaking of, I would be curious to hear what my Romanian friends remember about those days, if they haven’t deserted this blog completely.

A wish of peace to all the families who lost loved ones at the Revolution. I am afraid to imagine how our life would have turned out without their sacrifice.

“I firmly believe that there is no good way to reject a woman”, my best male friend said, in one of our conversations about relationships. “Whether it is in person, by phone, or by email, no matter how delicately you try to treat her, she will always find fault with the way you did it.”

A while ago, I got rejected by a man I liked very much, in favor of another woman. By email, but that’s alright with me, because it would have been way more humiliating in person. While I was still going through the mainstays of any love rejection, like not being able to eat (not the worst side-effect, I have to say), picturing that other woman as a supermodel with an IQ of 200, and wishing him to go completely bald before his wedding day, the part that got me the most upset was the way he ended his email. “Best wishes in finding someone who makes you happy! You are a terrific person and deserve all the good things that life can offer.”

You are terrific (just not good enough for me). I hope you find someone that makes you happy (as long as it’s not me). You deserve the best (just not the best of me). Thanks, thanks a mil’! I feel so much better now. I really needed you to validate me, and now it’s all fine. That’s why you don’t want me, because I’m too much of a good thing.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being patronized. I know who I am, I know what I have to offer and I also know what my shortcomings are. I didn’t even question his decision to go for the affection of another woman. When I met him, I was going through a very stressful period in my life, and I am aware that I was not very easy to be around. Although I instantly liked him, I was moody, defensive, shy and suspicious. Besides, since I’m still struggling to build a life here, I don’t have the best credentials on the dating market. I know that. If he found someone more appealing, so be it. Rejection is part of the game. But, for God’s sake, don’t humiliate me even further! You’re not trying to comfort me, you’re just trying to feel like less of a jerk. Which is downright stupid and pointless, because simply preferring another woman does not make you a jerk.

I don’t think people understand how hurtful these words can be. They are meant to soften the blow, but they just make it worse, by throwing a veil of hypocrisy over the whole thing. What was once a genuine connection is then coated in a slimy veneer of politically correct bullshit. Putting make-up on a bruise doesn’t stop the throbbing pain.

I can honestly say that, for a while, I did not wish him to be happy with this woman. In fact, I hoped he lives to regret his choice. I hoped they fail each other royally. I was sad, angry, disappointed, jealous, insulted, I missed him terribly and I felt physically sick. How could I have possibly played the gracious loser part without feeling like a complete fraud? When I get over a man, yes, I may wish him the best, or I may simply never think of him again, but then the pain was still fresh. But I know I was expected to return the same cheap, empty well-wishes and hide the fact that I’m human. That would have been the proper thing to do. I did not return them, and I’m sure he thought that was petty of me.

That being said, he was hardly an exception when it comes to dumb ways of wrapping up a delicate situation like that, so this text is not really about this particular man. I have heard such words almost every single time I was rejected. You’re wonderful, I value your friendship, you deserve a better man than I, I have feelings for you, but I don’t know what to do with them (shove… ass, connect the dots), et caetera. It’s the standard nowadays. Two people who once looked each other in the eye are expected to engage in a ridiculous game of emotional curtseys, like two grotesque Victorian puppets. You feel like you’re not talking to the real person anymore, but to a caricature of them. It’s the ultimate kitsch that Kundera was talking about, and it’s even sadder when it comes from someone whose intelligence you used to admire. It needs to stop!

I once met a man, back in Romania, and we hit it off. We had a lovely time together, but he soon had to relocate for work reasons. We decided to try the long-distance thing, but it was too hard for him to be alone for such long periods. He met someone else, and broke up with me by text message. It went something like this: “I don’t think this is working. I met a nice woman here and we’re moving in together. It’s a bit soon, but I need to split the rent anyway, so I thought, why not. Thanks for everything.” Chapeau! Many would say his message was callous, but I think it was genius! It was so honest and so raw, that I couldn’t even get mad at him.

There is no painless way to reject someone, it’s true. Hell, it even hurts if you get rejected by someone you don’t like, let alone if you have feelings for them. But some ways of rejection are more respectful than others. Be compassionate, but don’t patronize, don’t lie, don’t feign noble feelings, when, in fact, you couldn’t care less. Don’t even say you’re sorry, if you don’t mean it. You are entitled to seek happiness wherever you can find it, but don’t condescend to the ones you jilt by throwing them crumbs. Is that so much to ask?

WARNING: The following blog post contains disgusting details that may give you nightmares, or, at best, destroy your appetite. The situation to be described is nowhere near as sexy as the article photo may lead you to believe!

For the past two months, I have been living with a Spanish girl of similar age. I needed a roommate, so I posted an ad on Craigslist to rent a room in my apartment. She responded enthusiastically, saying that she needed a room urgently and she was willing to move in the same day. Because I was pressured for money, I accepted, before even having a  meeting with her to see if we would be compatible. Big, big, big mistake!

She brought her stuff in that very evening, telling me that her previous roommates had kicked her out. She was quite an attractive girl – tall, athletic, with delicate features, sporting a black bob that gave her physique a note of French chic. Attractive until she opens her mouth, that is. I instantly disliked her way of speaking and acting – fast, aggressive and loud, with a hoarse masculine voice, but I thought that maybe the long period of living alone had made me intolerant. Also, I thought that her bad English might have been skewing my perspective and making me less patient, and I really didn’t want to be that kind of person. So I took her in and hoped for the best. After all, I wasn’t looking for a  friend; I just wanted someone with whom to share the rent and cohabitate peacefully.

Now, because of the sheer number of outrageous things I have witnessed, I have decided to write them in the form of a bulleted list, to make for an easier read.

• The first shock came when, the same night she moved in, she shared the full list of her physical ailments. The words “mucus” and “fungus” were mentioned a lot, suffice it to say. Also, she expressed an unusual level of comfort in my presence, by casually belching and hawking loogies (see the aforementioned mucus), which she still does, all the time. I didn’t think that I would ever be in a situation where I had to google for the expression “to hawk a loogie”, but I guess I should thank her for helping me enrich my English vocabulary.
• The second shock was when I realized that she has little use for the bathroom door. This mind-blowing realization happened one day when I was in the kitchen, making my lunch, and she was talking to me about something. I see her walk to the bathroom, lift her skirt, let down her panties and sit on the throne, all while continuing her sentence. And we’re not even talking about a no.1 here… really. At a certain point, she even elicited my thoughts regarding her intestinal processes: ” I don’t know what is this, only water come out of my butt, no es normal, ay?”. Accompanied by demonstrative noises. I warned you it would be gross.
• In the same heart-warming vignette, I remember her wiping, getting up and NOT washing her hands. Shaken, I could only whimper: “Wh… what are you doing? Please keep the door closed… and wash your hands.” She just shrugged and laughed. And this was not a one-time thing, no sir! It even happened this very morning.
• Onto to the fungus. Toenail fungus, that is. An annoying condition that can happen to anyone and is not always an indicator of how clean or dirty a person is. But: please don’t describe it to me, and, for Heaven’s sakes, DO NOT wipe off your toenail polish with my tea towel!!! Actually, do not put my tea towel anywhere near your feet, even if you are a foot model for Dr. Scholl’s! Needless to say that the towel was immediately discarded; now, if only I could erase that memory from my brain, it would all be fine.
• Back to the bathroom issues. I am taking a nice shower after a long day of work, when I hear an anxious knock on the door: ‘Ana-Mariaaaaa (that would be me)! I have pipi! I come in!” I don’t care where you’re from, but that is not acceptable; if you’re older than 5, you can hold it for 10 damn minutes. Should I even bother mentioning that she didn’t wash her hands after?
• After several such incidents, I had enough and told her to wait for me to come out. I rush through my shower and then I tell her she could go in. “No problem, I use the balcony, I had much pipi!”. At 9 in the morning. I hope to God no neighbours saw her.
• Flushing the toilet is not mandatory, as I have learned, if it’s only a no.1, or a really small no.2.
• I know there are people out there who think that farting and/or burping is cute. I am not one of them. Not even when a person I love does it, let alone a virtual stranger. Not even when children do it – well, except the baby farting a cloud of talcum powder in that viral Youtube video. My roommate seems to disagree though, and she even told me: “A mi, me encanta la naturaleza (I like natural behavior)”. One evening, she went out in the balcony and started farting loudly and laughing, enchanted probably by her own naturaleza. Then she started screaming : “Soy una pedorra, soy una pedorra!”, which would translate approximately as “I am a farting bitch, I am a farting bitch”. I apologize to any Hispanic neighbours I might have, and I deeply sympathize with their trauma.
• A true free spirit in her manifestations of both anger and joy, she once expressed her excitement upon hearing a  piece of good news by… dry-humping me. I was lying on my bed, and she just jumped on top of me and rubbed against me. Again, please disregard the article photo; I swear to you that it was not sexy! I’m not gay, but even if I were, I’d aim higher than a crass stink-bomb like her.
• My kitchen is a biohazard. The floor is sticky, dishes are put back in cabinets only half-washed, with food scraps on them, the meat grill is covered in stinky, hardened chicken gunk (after a while, it smells like manure, evocative of idyllic countryside scenes), and the pot-pourri of aromas is further complemented by hints of steamed broccoli, garlic, marijuana and garbage. Which she never takes out; that is, apparently, my job, even though I have hardly cooked in there since she moved in.
• Expanding on the garbage topic for a bit: I don’t know how in the world she does it, but she generates an impressive amount of the nastiest garbage I have ever seen; it’s as though it’s oozing out of her pores. We are talking about that kind of pungent, soggy trash that leaves a sticky drip trail behind when you take it out. Am I crazy for wanting even someone’s trash to be clean? I probably am. One day I took it out of the can, tied the bag in a knot and just left it in the kitchen, to see if she takes it out. Three days later, it was still there. Finally, I took it out myself, praying to catch an empty elevator and not subject any neighbours to the incredible funk rising out of that bag.
• There’s more to say, but I will end the list of the hygiene transgressions with this particularly painful confession. One day, I brushed my teeth at 3pm, before going to work. Around midnight, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth again, before going to bed. Only to see that my toothbrush was wet. Wet. After more than 8 hours. Wet. The she-beast had used my toothbrush!!! That did it for me; I just started crying and talking to myself. I could not believe that she had done the unspeakable and broken a tabu that people hold even when it comes to their most loved ones. I didn’t confront her, because I was afraid I would get violent, and there’s no stopping me if I get that far. I found a spare toothbrush that I now keep safely in my room. The other day, I saw she had put her hair comb in the jar that still holds my old toothbrush.
• On one of our rare trips together to buy groceries, she was looking to buy some depilatory wax. We stop in front of the cosmetic aisle at Wal-Mart and look for it, but she couldn’t see her brand of choice on display. She starts explaining to me that she was looking for a special type of bikini wax and, probably fearing that I was too slow to understand her, she squats in the middle of the aisle, spreads her legs and starts mimicking how she does the waxing process, by rubbing her hand against her lady bits: “like this, Ana-Maria, I do like this, I take all hair out”. People were staring at us, and I just wanted to dig a hole and crawl in it.
• She fancies herself an amateur psychotherapist/medium/artist. While I do agree with the “psycho” part, the rest is a bit of a stretch. Not that I care, be delusional all you want, if it makes you happy. But she is hell-bent on diagnosing the myriad of mental health issues that she believes I suffer from. Every week, I get a new diagnosis: anxiety, depression, sociopathy, various neuroses, paranoia; you name it, I have it. And the irony is that she is probably right, I probably do suffer from many of those now, because of her. So she decided that I needed to cleanse my aura through yoga, and insisted that I do some exercises with her, because she felt attacked by my negative energies. After 20 minutes of breathing on dopey music, I couldn’t take it anymore and I shared my skepticism regarding everything New Age. But she hasn’t stopped trying, God bless her, she won’t rest until she has me all sorted out.
• Despite my obviously fragile mental health, she was generous enough to extend me her friendship, and I was callous enough to reject it (that was probably my sociopathy at work). Not that she took it calmly: my refusal to accompany her to parties and other events was met with screams and slammed doors. Apparently, I owe her my friendship and my time. I know rejection hurts. So does living with Satan’s spawn for two months.
• Hell hath no fury like a woman… like this woman. One day she threw a fit because she didn’t like the way I had said “hi”. Come to think of it, most of her communication is done by yelling, gesticulating aggressively and throwing accusations. Reading the accounts above, one might wonder why I didn’t stand up to her. I tried, but all I got were temper tantrums.

The language barrier did make things more difficult. Her English is quite poor and, while I understand Spanish well and even speak a bit, I cannot express complex ideas. I would not go that way again. You cannot have a rational discussion, or even an argument, without a common language. And don’t come to my country if you can’t speak the language! Just kidding, but a few more months with her could turn me into one of those people.

Before you even ask: yes, I told her she had to leave, and she is moving out next week. I found another roommate, a very nice Mexican guy with whom I had the chance to talk at length and share the rules and expectations I have. I am counting the days (eight!) until she is out of my life for good. And no, I do not hate her. She is not a bad person at all, just very messed up by years of drug abuse and by the fact that her parents, though financially very well-off, didn’t bother to teach her basic decency. Typical wealthy brat who got out of control, but still thinks the world owes her reverence. I don’t have a closet full of designer clothes like her, but at least my parents cared enough to educate me.

Have I brought this upon myself by not meeting with her prior to taking her in? Definitely. Am I a bit uptight, a bit intolerant? Maybe. But what I wrote above has not been exaggerated in any way, and I still believe, out of the two of us, I’m the one easier to live with. I shared this story partly to vent, partly to serve as a cautionary tale. Read it and weep or laugh, but learn from my mistake. Your home should be a safe space where you unwind and recharge, so take special care when selecting a roommate. No cohabitation is perfect, but from imperfect to downright nightmarish there’s a long way.

For as long as I live, I will not forget the two-month inferno that I experienced with Imma. In a twist of irony that only real life is capable of, my roommate’s name is Imma. Short for Immaculada. The Immaculate.

I’m not a fan of recipes outside the kitchen. I raise my eyebrow at the life coaches and gurus who claim to have distilled life’s complicated mechanisms into simple, bite-size rules and principles. Self-help books are the worst gifts you could give me, and I won’t even try to hide my disappointment. I don’t believe in easy, foolproof ways to think and grow rich, get the love I want, exorcize my ex, win friends or influence people. Recipes don’t work. Mantras don’t work. Telling yourself that something is real does not make it real; it just makes you delusional and it makes Rhonda Byrne rich.

I will, however, listen to the advice of wise, experienced, well-meaning people, as long as it’s not pushed on me. I may not follow it, but I will take note of it, think about it, and maybe use it in the future. These everyday sages (not to be mistaken for the busybodies, know-it-all’s or concern trolls) who walk amongst us fascinate me. The people who let out the inescapable, uncomfortable, undeniable truths that our foolishness or vanity tries to silence. As sensitive as my ego is in general, the words of such people never offend me, because I know they come from a place of wisdom and honesty.

I’m not one of them, but I would have liked to be. I used to dream about working as an agony aunt for a big magazine and helping people with the depth and clarity of my infinite wisdom. I have played that part for my friends numerous times – without having the skills or experience for it. “Dear Abby”… but this Abby was every bit as clueless and shallow as her audience.

And now I’m playing again. I’m playing agony aunt to myself and to whomever is in for it.

“Dear Catintherain,

I have wasted a lot of time and invested a lot of hopes in relationships that drained me emotionally and for which I made one bad decision after the other. I was left with nothing other than bitterness and weariness to love again. I have recently met a man whom I think might be The One, but I’m afraid it could end up in another train wreck. How will I know if we stand any real chance to be happy together?

Sincerely yours,

Catintherain -Vancouver, BC”

“Dear Catintherain,

As I’m sure you know by now, there are no guarantees when it comes to people. A person can pass all the tests you give them, jump through all the flaming hoops and still disappoint you terribly in the end.

However, if I were to dish out some advice that might prove useful to you, I would suggest putting your relationship(s) through a few trials. Three, to be precise. Mind you that they reflect my own experiences and priorities, so I do not claim that they are universally applicable.

The first (and most obvious) test is meeting the families. If either of you lives in proximity to their family, it’s more than clear why a meeting is necessary as soon as it’s appropriate. But, even if the families live far away, and you or he won’t have to have regular contact with them, it’s still very important.

I am in no way suggesting that you judge a person by their family; God knows we all have our share of weirdos, alcoholics, oafs or intolerant people in our families, and we wouldn’t like to be judged by the way they are. However, there are other things you need to look out for: how he is around his family and how he treats you around them.

Years ago, I was engaged to a Frenchman (not that the nationality is of any relevance). Part of what attracted me to him was that he had lofty ideals of chivalry and he was constantly talking about the importance of leading an independent, vibrant and dignified life. He even had aristocratic roots and sounded like he had just descended from a 19th century novel – what bookish 22 year-old girl could resist that?

It took us two years until I finally went to France and met his parents. Though polite and affable with me, his mother had a strong hold on him, and that was very clear in his shaky, obsequious behavior towards her. My romantic hero was a total momma’s boy (he was 37 too…)! His dad was a crass cheapskate who took us to a crappy restaurant with stale food and dirty tablecloths. After all, I’m Romanian, what do I know from restaurants?

At one point during my visit, his mother initiated a chat with us and told me upfront that she thought our engagement was premature and that we should put it off. I was waiting for my fiance to say something, to stand up for me, to act like a man. He kept his eyes on the table throughout her entire speech, his cheeks all red, his chin quivering, and he did not say one measly word. Back then I felt like crying with anger and disappointment, although now I know that the revelation of his weakness saved me from a life of misery with him.

… there’s more. Beyond the visible signs of his dysfunctional relationship with his family, there was something deeper. I remember sitting in his mom’s elegant salon, having a trendy appetizer, making small talk – all normal activities- and feeling something inside that was telling me to get the hell out of there. There was something wrong with them, all of them. All my healthy instincts were telling me that something was off, not on a personal level, but in that entire bloodline. It was there, in the salon with us, hovering, like an entity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Later I found out that serious mental issues were running rampant in his family tree: suicides, addictions, chronic depression, you name it, they had it. Last time I heard from him, they were all in therapy, popping antidepressants- he, his brother, his parents and their partners. I’d rather marry into the Addams family. I’ll never doubt my instincts again. I have learned that my inner alarm doesn’t just go off for no reason.

The second trial would be to spend a major holiday together. If you care about special moments and marking important occasions, then this is one you don’t want to skip. Now, some people may not have cultivated the habit of celebrating various occasions, and that could be due to their upbringing, stressful lifestyle, or not having had someone special with whom to hare such moments. You must not hold that against him, as long as he is open to learning and clearly enjoys it.

However, if he genuinely is the “it’s just a day like any other day” type, you might want to be careful. If you end up with him, you may be looking at a long line of lackluster birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases, Valentines and other holidays. These days that are supposed to bring a little colour to our lives may turn out to be as grey as the rest of the year.

One particular boyfriend from college comes to mind. He was a very good guy, but he was also Mr. Ultra-Casual. He scolded me whenever I dressed up, he mocked me when I set the table in a nice way – not as in crystal and silverware, but as in paper napkins and a candle. He made it clear that my wearing sexy underwear was wasted on him, he was happy to live on bread and bologna, and his idea of a holiday was staying in and zapping the remote. He was neither poor, nor cheap, but he had no festive sense at all. His Christmas gift for me was a set of meditation CDs with sounds of nature (I’m not even remotely into anything New Age) that “some guy at work was selling”. Although I cared for him, I knew we had no future. Call me shallow, but that is how I felt.

My last fiance did not want me to celebrate our first Thanksgiving together… because he decided to go on a diet that very day. Even when I offered to cook a diet menu, he still objected. Then I realized that it wasn’t really about the diet – he just found such celebrations tiring and pointless. He was happier to sit at his computer, eating from plastic containers. May the Force be with him, he was a nice man, but I think it was for the best that we parted ways.

The third test would be to go on vacation together. I’m not talking a week-end getaway here: I’m talking an actual vacation, as in more than five days, with travel arrangements and everything, preferably to a place neither of you has seen before. Being on unfamiliar territory can reveal sides of someone’s personality that may not be visible in day-to-day life.

I remember that, when I was 13, I went to the seaside with my mom and our close family friends. I had always considered them a model couple: they were smart, professionally successful, and they seemed to treat each other with kindness. Oh, boy, was I in for a  show during that vacation! They constantly bickered over everything and made each other’s days complete hell. She thought he was an inflexible grouch and a killjoy. He thought she spoiled the kids too much. He was a stern, meticulous man and a bit of a  neat freak. She brought along a ton of junk for the kids, bought some more on the trip… and decided to keep a wheel of cheese in their hotel room, for snacks. No refrigerator and no AC – this was Romania, 1996 – and she insisted on keeping the windows closed, to protect the kids from drafts. Their room stunk of cheese, sweat, algae and dirty clothes, topped with a dash of communist hotel mildew. The kids were screaming, the parents were fighting, everybody was miserable. It was the stereotypical family holiday that you may hear described in the routine of a cynical stand-up comedian. Only it wasn’t funny, because it was real.

I realized then that they didn’t really like each other. At home, they were distracted by the daily worries and responsibilities which kept the wheels in motion; on holiday, their incompatibility shone brightly and made them question their marriage. And with good reason, too. 15 years later, they’re still married and still miserable.

Another thing that can bring on interesting revelations is if something goes wrong during the trip. Delayed flights, lost luggage, messed up reservations, unexpected things that can turn your plans upside down. Obviously, no one wishes for such annoyances, but, should they happen, keep an eye open for his reaction. Will he get mad and take it out on you? If you’re the one who made the mistake, will he rub your face into it? Will he pout and refuse to be flexible? Don’t stay with a man who makes it all about him, who throws tantrums or who would ruin your holiday together just because things didn’t go exactly as planned. Stay with the man who is happy to just be with you and who is smart enough to make the best out of a bad situation.

If he passes these three tests, I say marry him. But what do I know? I suspect it’s never this simple, but maybe you’ll get lucky. If there are any other amateur agony aunts (or uncles) among our readers: please don’t be shy and share your wisdom.

Yours truly,

Catintherain”

Lately, I have rediscovered the pleasure of listening to music the way I did in my teens. As in actually listening to it, instead of using it as a background for my web surfing, my reading or my chores. Because, somewhere along the way, I lost my compass, and all music became elevator music to my ears, just a lifeless mush that served only to drown out the street noise. Too stressed and preoccupied with all sorts of practical issues, I felt guilty about enjoying anything that broke my focus.

However, since things have taken a turn for the better in the past month, I have started to recapture the true spirit of music, and now I can’t get enough of it. My playlist is now a ridiculous mix of styles and genres, going from pop to opera to metal to show tunes and so on.  And this list here will be exactly the same, incoherent, inconsistent, inconsequent and incongruent. I know words. On top of that, it is probably (and unapologetically) uncool, but it’s not like my blog is on the cool hunters’ watch lists. Hell, not even my lifelong friends read it regularly!

I picked the songs I listen most to on Youtube so I can link to them. Obviously, ten songs don’t even come close to covering all my preferences, and I am leaving out a myriad of artists that I adore, from many different cultures… including, umm, mine. But there will be time for that as well.

I tag Esperanza, Reggie,  and whoever else wants to take it.

10. Leonard Cohen – The Tower of Song

Leonard Cohen is my all-time favourite singer. He’s already 76, and I don’t know how much time he has left. He was in Romania twice, and I couldn’t be at his concert either time. He was here last year in December, and I was completely broke. If he comes to sing in Vancouver again, I promised myself to do ANYTHING to get to his concert. From baking muffins to surrogacy…. ANYTHING!

9. Jim Croce – Operator

One of my favourite songs ever, by the ugliest handsome man ever. Without having read his biography, I found myself envious of his wife and every woman he might have loved during his short life. His was the voice of a man who could love above and beyond the measures of us average folk. Or maybe I’m just being a naive 28 year-old teenager. But, if it’s only an illusion, I wish someone fooled me like that for a day, or even for an hour.

8. Madonna – Like A Prayer

I wouldn’t call myself a Madonna fan, but I do admire her career and her incredible staying power, and there are definitely certain songs of hers that I’ll gladly listen to. I picked this video because I think it was her greatest moment, and one of the best moments in music video history. Plus, she was the ultimate naughty Catholic girl (well, she and Marie Simas ), before she went nuts.

7. Rammstein – Tier

Simple. Because I am a Rammstein fan, and because Till Lindemann is shirtless in the video. Rammstein are good, but not that good to be above sexual objectification. Till wouldn’t mind it, I’m sure. You don’t maintain and expose that kind of body if you mind being objectified. Meanwhile, if a man said that, I would want him tarred and feathered a.s.a.p. Ahh, double standards.. gotta love ‘em!

6. Everlast -Saving Grace

I think we can all agree that Everlast is no looker, but, with that uber-manly voice, who cares? I would use the Romanian expression “to sing from the balls”, but I’m so delicate that I’m afraid my laptop would crash. I usually don’t care for TV show theme songs, but we have to admit that this is a damn good piece! Also, he gets extra points for hating Eminem.

5. Otis Redding – Try A Little Tenderness

Some people don’t like this song because of the lyrics. But, as one who has always fancied older men, I can’t say that I’m bothered. I love the song, and I could listen to it over and over again. And I have, and I will, and haters can go kick rocks.

4. Smokie – I Can’t Stay Here Tonight

I’m not sure quite how famous British band Smokie is in North America, but in Europe they are part of the “oldies but goldies” group. They were huge in my parents’ generation, and young people my age like them too. I am particularly fond of this song, because I have a black belt in long-distance relationships and I used to need a soundtrack to feel sorry for myself. Not going down the LDR road again, but I’ll always love Smokie.

3. Puccini – Turandot – Non piangere, Liu (Placido Domingo, Leona Mitchell)

My all-time favourite aria from my all-time favourite opera. In this scene, Calaf comforts young Liu who tries to deter him from gambling his life at the hands of the ruthless Princess Turandot. I have loved opera ever since I was six and started playing my parents’ vinyl records with Rigoletto and famous arias, but I only discovered Turandot in college. I would like very much to see a really good staging of this opera live one day. One of the things on my bucket list.

2. Beethoven – Moonlight Sonata

Seven months ago, I met a man. A tall, thin man, like an endless birch tree. A graceful and sad man, like one of the Swan Princes in Andersen’s story. Every gesture he made was like a note in this perfect sonata, because some people just can’t help the music in them. And, even though it’s all over between us, this piece will always remind me of the Swan Man… the Music Box Man.

1. Metallica – Enter Sandman (Live in Moscow, 1991)

We usually wish to be younger than we are, but this video is one of the few things that makes me wish I were a bit older. I was only 8 when this concert took place and Metallica were at their very peak. But I know that such concerts were not mere musical events in the Eastern Europe of those years, they meant so much more! My eyes tear up when I see the emotional reactions of the Russian fans, and so early after the switch to democracy (or so they imagined… yikes). When I got old enough to go to concerts, Metallica had already cut their hair, and, just like Samson, had lost their power – may their die-hard fans forgive me. But still, they will always be music royalty to me and to hundreds of millions of people worldwide.

I haven’t seen my mother in almost two years, and I miss her greatly, even though we chat every day. She said she would come to visit me in July, and I’m already counting the days, because there are so many things I want us to do, and so many places I want to show her in beautiful Vancouver. Strolling, shopping, dining, sightseeing, talking until late into the night – I can’t wait for it!

The anticipation is not without anxiety though. I know that everything I have done here will undergo a severe inspection, and I will hear my share of criticism. If anyone knows how I could forge a career in less than 3 months, or where I could rent a nice boyfriend with marriage plans, please let me know! Because, beyond the Hallmark-card imagery and mandatory sentimentalism, I think it’s good to acknowledge that many of us have difficult relationships with our mothers. I sure do, and so do most of my friends.

No person in this world can push my buttons like my mother can. Two days under the same roof and we’re at each other’s throats – good thing she’ll stay at a hotel when she comes here! If I’m ever in a situation where someone needs to break my cool, just have my mother call me and say any sentence that starts with “If only…” – I guarantee you that in 5 minutes I’ll be reduced to a screaming, tearful mess. Sometimes, a mere inflection of her voice is enough to set me off. I feel that she lives to nag and criticize me; she feels that I suffer from paranoia. We’re both right. And that’s not just my story; I have seen it around me many times.

Mothers have this power because they really know us. They may not know our tastes and interests that well, they may not know -or want to know- our values in life, they may not always get us the right gifts (turtleneck sweaters three years in a row!), but they know us. The thing that irritates me most when my mother criticizes me is that she’s usually right. She couldn’t name three things I like, and yet she knows me better than anyone and can see me clearly even when I refuse to look at myself.

We did not spend much time together as I grew up, due to her tight work schedule, and much, too much of that time was spent fighting anyway. The moments when we actually got along were few and far between, but, when it was good, it was really good . She taught me things, although, when I’m angry, I say she didn’t. She taught me that the people you love always come first. She taught me to never let a special day go unnoticed; despite the frequent money troubles, she always did her magic whenever there was a holiday or birthday and managed to make it nice. She taught me that the best gifts are the ones you give. She taught me how to set a festive table, how to wrap a present, how to be a good hostess, how to make a cake shaped like a bunny… many things. She is a great cook, can make a dress from scratch, she has a work ethic that is downright nuts, she can learn anything she sets her mind to, and she is a master of involuntary humour.

We don’t like each other all that much, our personalities clash dramatically, but that doesn’t mean we love each other any less.  Just differently, I guess, and more violently, since difficult relationships tend to be more intense. I remember that, a few years ago, she told me she was thinking of adopting another child. She wasn’t being serious about it, it was just something that had crossed her mind. But I was instantly struck with such jealousy and pain that I threw a tantrum and stormed out yelling: “Fine, adopt your precious child and be happy forever!” After the whole thing passed, I was amazed at how intensely I reacted.

I have come to terms with the fact that we’ll never have a smooth relationship, and that we’ll never be “friends”. No Gilmore Girls here, definitely not. But I know that, as long as I have her, I am never alone in the world. That there will never be anyone else who would sacrifice for me more than she would. That there will never be anyone else who will truly love me no matter what.

And, even though she can be a handful, she is also the smartest, strongest, most selfless, most admirable person I know. Despite our differences, I have never wished for anyone else in her place. I hope she knows that there is someone who will truly love her no matter what as well.

So, to her and to all the mothers reading this, I wish a very Happy Mother’s Day!

A few months ago, my blogger friend Marie Simas published her first book, “Do Tampons Take Your Virginity?  A Catholic Girl’s Memoir”, in which she talks about her experience of growing up in a traditional Portuguese Catholic family… and please take the term “traditional” as loosely as you can. The book is available on Amazon.com, in both Kindle and paperback editions.

Marie was kind enough to send me a signed copy, and I was kind enough to promise that I would write about it soon, and lazy enough to postpone it for more than five months.

I first read Marie’s texts on her blog, and I was hooked from my first visit. The brutal honesty of her texts, combined with a dark (but quintessentially healthy) humour, fascinated me, and soon I was checking her blog every day, hoping to find a new post. In October 2010, she published her writings in this collection of  short episodes.

The book is definitely not for the delicate or for the pearl-clutchers, as it includes quite a few scenes of physical and emotional abuse, rape, and adult language. Still, the drive to fight the oppressive family environment can be felt even in the darkest chapters. I guess some people may find it triggering, but I found it refreshing.

It is not a politically correct work by any means, nor is it an attempt to stereotype Portuguese families, or Catholic families. It is a deeply personal story, in which cultural and religious elements act mostly as spices, to add flavor. I’m saying this because I found parts that are hilariously similar to my own experiences and those of my friends, even though we’re neither Portuguese, nor Catholic. Tolstoy said that all happy families are alike, but is it possible that all crazy families are also alike?

An excerpt from the book (p.70):

“When my period finally arrived, I was fourteen. To my mother’s horror, I bought tampons, and never bothered using pads. Mother was convinced that I would lose my virginity to the tampons and that no man would want me if I was going to stick things in there.

My father, always an asshole, told me that I was a whore for using tampons and that I was going to die of Toxic Shock Syndrome”.

An excerpt from my life:

When I was fifteen, I came home with a box of O.B.’s. They were still considered to be an item “for women, not for young girls” and the biggest threat to virginity since the invention of the penis. My mother was horrified too, as were the female neighbours with whom she shared this private detail of my life, and we had a big fight over the whole thing. One of her favorite lines was: “I don’t want your husband coming to my door, and yell at me that I didn’t take care of you!”

That is also why I was never allowed to take horseback riding lessons, even though we lived across the street from the local equestrian centre, and courses were ridiculously cheap back then. First my mom agreed to it, but then a wise neighbour intervened and saved me from becoming damaged goods too soon. I don’t think I have ever thanked her enough.

Well, no husband of mine has come to my mom’s door to yell so far, since I’m still single. Or maybe that’s why I’m single? Is it one of  those “the chicken or the egg” situations? Hmm….

The scenes of parental abuse, which are abundant in the book, ring all too familiar to me, as they would to most Romanian people my age. We grew up under the “spare the rod, spoil the child” slogan (or, the local version, “I made you, I kill you”). If parents didn’t beat the crap out of their kids, they were considered weak and incompetent. From time to time, a parent had to make a public and physical display of authority, to let people know that they are in control of their offspring. Each family had its rituals – my mom kept a diary of all my transgressions, with the recommended punishments, for when my father would came home from his long-distance job; I heard of other kids whose parents would make them kneel on walnut shells, or throw them under the ice cold shower… a true creative outlet it’s what it was.  It was quite unusual to meet a  kid who didn’t get whooped and humiliated. I guess that made it a bit easier, knowing that it happened to almost everybody.

Marie did a great job in creating a strong and unique story, but I think that any person was raised in a very conservative environment can find something to relate to.  And those who didn’t can exercise their voyeurism, while counting their blessings.

So:

if you grew up with something that resembled a freak show more than a family;

if you got whooped for your own good, and are still waiting to see the results;

if the first things you learned about sex were as scientific as a snake oil sales convention;

if sex was explained to you mainly from a cautionary standpoint;

if you’ve ever said things like “good girls”, “bad girls” and worried about where you fit in;

if you are tired of sugarcoated messages, yet you’re not looking for anything hateful,

read it.

Enjoy love and chocolate! See you soon!

I’m spending New Year’s Eve alone. It’s not the first time this happens, but it is the first time I’m fine with it. The other times, I was either heartbroken and couldn’t stand the sight of other people, or,  as was the case last year, I didn’t have anyone to spend it with. This year I was invited to a party, but I am way too tired to drag my bones all the way there, in the cold, and stress about catching the last bus back home. So I’m staying in, with an old movie, a nice Martini and my thoughts.

Obviously, there’s no better time to look back at the year that has passed, and to think of how I want the new year to be. I’ve never been one of those people who claim to despise New Year’s resolutions. Oh, yes, I know most of them never come true, I know we don’t really get a fresh chance just because the calendar changes, but that moment of hope when we make our list of dreams is valuable and beautiful in itself.

2010 was hard, that much I can say. Bad job experiences, a broken engagement, endless money worries, homesickness and a  lot of confusion and heartache. But there’s always something to be grateful for, if you dig deeper. Like the moments when I was happy and in love, rearranging my house for a new life in two. And the romantic dinners, the movies, the birthdays, the laughter and the closeness. Or the time when I worked at the Olympics and felt part of something spectacular. That’s also where I met my wonderful friend Monica, who has been by my side through all the hardships. Or the fun dinners with Geoff and Tony, two of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. Or the visits to Cris and Irina, my Romanian friends, who have always been more than welcoming and supportive. Or the stimulating conversations with Nancy and Nila, the most fabulous mother-daughter duo in the Lower Mainland.  Or the long talks with my family and friends from far away – I’m so thankful that they are in my life, even if it’s through a monitor!

What am I looking forward to? Finding a better job. Stability and security. Carrying through some independent professional projects. Having more fun with my friends. Going to Romania to see my friends and family. Nothing wild and romantic this year, no great loves, no sandcastles, no Prince Charmings. You can’t plan those, it doesn’t work like that. Although getting engaged for the fourth time wouldn’t be so bad, I could turn it into a yearly tradition. If there are any smart, funny, exciting men who are interested – take a number, please!

I don’t want to end this post without sending some good thoughts to all those who are spending this night alone, and especially to recent immigrants, wherever they may be. Last year I spent this night crying and feeling lonely, wishing I had somewhere to go. This year I stayed home because of fatigue, but, if I hadn’t had an exhausting shift at work, I could have gone out and partied. Things DO get better, they really do. And it helps if you try to treat yourself with something nice,  even if it may feel pointless at first. I baked a rich chocolate cake, tidied up the house, lit scented candles, put on a good movie, I did whatever I could to make this a pleasant night. I wish I had done the same last year. You have to remember that YOU matter, even during the hardest, loneliest times.

Happy 2011! I’m leaving you with a song that is not ABBA’s “Happy New Year”. It’s the song that has carried me through my immigration adventure, by my beloved Tina: