Girly girls' reasons

Some days ago, an English e-friend asked me about the Spanish translation of the expression “girly girl”. I couldn’t give him an answer. There is no such equivalent for that in Spanish.

I wonder if you girls have ever tried to explain to a guy why women spend their lives so lost into masochist beauty procedures just for the sake of being pretty. I’m talking about plastic surgeries, draconian diets, painful waxings and shavings, itchy hair dyings, cruel high heelings, suffocating tight clothings … Obviously, our main reason is to please men. But there are also others that should not be neglected.

As a woman, I have the answer to some of these questions -I am also one of those who spend some time torturing themselves with a round brush and hot hair dryer in the mornings or applying sticky moisturizing cream all over after the 7AM daily shower-.

But the one situation that another male friend of mine didn’t understand at all was why women would enjoy going topless at the beach. Why would we want to take the risk of burning one of the most delicate parts of our bodies while standing the looks of the surrounding stalker males who have heard the unavoidable call of nature, pretending they're not looking?

If you’re a man interested in the answers to these transcendental questions in a girly girl's life, maybe this short story will shed some light on the topic:

Some years ago my aunt Mary gave me a white micro bikini that she got for free with a fashion magazine. It was so small that she didn’t even think it would fit me. But I tried it and whoa, it was just perfect.

That summer I spent a week with my friend Julia at Cadaqués, Dalí’s immortalised and beautiful coastal village in the North of Catalonia. Of course, I didn't forget to put in my luggage the white small bikini that my aunt Mary gave me.

Julia and me found some nice rocks to sunbathe at the beach, where nobody would be bothering us. The sun was burning and I needed a swim. I went into the water and left my body loose, floating lazyly. A light aircraft crossed the sky, dragging a banner advertising some stuff I can't remember, under the slogan "Be yourself". And it immediately triggered something inside me.

All of a sudden I had that sparkling hot streak of mine that takes me by surprise and changes my docile and predictable behaviour, pushing me into wild mischief. I can't help it. It's stronger than me.

I slowly submerged into the water, pulled one of the ribbons of my top and undid the knot around my neck. Then, I repeated the operation with the ribbon on my back and let the waves do the rest. My white top floated on the water for some seconds, and after being carried away by the waves, slowly sank disappearing into the sea.

I dived a bit further away. It was amazing to feel the water freely running all over my body. It was sensual. It was morbid. It was daring. It was proudly reasserting my feminine condition in such a powerful way that I really enjoyed. I felt very much myself.

It was a state of mind. A naughty and rebellious provocation; the full satisfaction of being phisically explicit and doing something still considered reprehensible, just fot the sake of doing that.

When I went back to my towel, Julia asked me:

- You wore a top before, didn’t you?
- Yep.
- Where is it?
- Not on my boobs, as you can see.
- You lost it into the water?
- Nah. I threw it away. It was suffocating me.

She stared at me thinking I was crazy.

Since then, I always go topless at the beach. It means to me a lot more than just the pleasure of getting suntanned boobs.

Goodnight to you, wherever you are.

The Aussie draughtsman

Rick's charcoal sketch of my facial features

I like Aussies basically for two reasons:

First: I worked with them for two years and they were excellent colleagues.

Second: Rick. Let me tell you why:

It was a beautiful Monday morning at the harbour. I felt the salty soft breeze blowing on my face. I sat on a bench at the breakwater, to hear the violent force of the waves as they hit the dam and watch the sea meeting the sky in the blurred horizon. It made me reach an incredible sense of spiritual wellbeing.

As I was peacefully enjoying the moment, my harmonic meditations were abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone who was struggling with a huge city map he couldn’t fold, opposite to my bench. I sniggered. He smiled, gasped, crumpled the map up until it became a big paper ball and threw it into the nearest litter bin, hitting a basket. Then, he took his small backpack with the Australian flag on top and flung himself into the bench.

- I give up –he said to me, overdoing gestures, just in case I didn't speak English and the sign language would do-
- That was a cool free shot. Can I help you with your unmanageable map?
- Hey you speak English!
- Yeah, I think so.
- Excellent. My name’s Rick and I come from Melbourne, Australia.
- Nice to meet you Rick. My name's Leni and I’m local. Is it your first time here?

Rick was a lecturer at the Faculty of Arts of the Melbourne University on sabbatical leave, travelling around Europe.

We laughed managing to tame the rebel map. Then, he took me for a coffee at the Aquarium and showed me the large list of museums and art galleries he had visited downtown. Almost immediately, he kindly offered me a private guided tour of the Modern Art Museum, the last one he was planning to visit before flying back to Melbourne the day after. I hesitated.

- That’s the least I can do to thank you for being so nice before, when you helped me with the map –he said-
- That’s ok, Rick. I don’t charge helpless foreigners for my services.
- It’s very nice of you, but I insist.
- I suppose I can’t refuse, can I? –I asked-
- No you can’t. That would be quite rude–he answered laughing-

I had no choice. And fortunately I accepted: I had the most wonderful visit to the MOMA I could ever dream of. While we were having the second coffee of the day, Rick took from his backpack a charcoal pencil and sketch-pad and stared at me.

- I wonder if you could do me a little favour -he said –
- Be careful with what you ask for. I may charge you now.
- Hm. I’d like it to be altruistic, I have a small budget.

I smiled and nodded, a little bit worried about finding out what he had in mind.

- I’d love to draw a sketch of you. I like your facial features.

I didn’t object. For ten minutes he stared at me, silently measuring up the distance from my forehead to my lips, the shape of my chin and size of my eyebrows. After he had mentally outlined senses and feelings as the invisible elements that formed my expression, he went back to his sketch-book, where he hectically drew my … facial features. When he finished his work, he said:

- Done. Wanna see it?
- Yes, for sure.

I was flabbergasted. That was a faithful portrait of me.

- What can I say … it’s just beautiful.
- You don’t need to say anything. You’re beautiful -he said-
- Well, thanks but I … I meant the picture.
- I know, but I meant you.

Needless saying I went red as a beetroot, but really enjoyed the compliment.

Rick was flying back to Melbourne the day after.

- Goodbye sweetie. Come over to the Antipodes some day and visit me. I’d love it.
- I’d love it too.

I haven’t made it there yet, but I will.

In the meantime, Rick and I e-mail and chat on Skype. It sometimes feels just as if we were sitting on a bench at the breakwater, hearing the violent force of the waves as they hit the dam, watching the sea meet the sky in the blurred horizon. It makes me reach an incredible sense of spiritual wellbeing.

Good night to you, wherever you are.

The successful blogger's manual

Excuse me for the vocabulary, but can someone please tell me what the fuck should a blogger do to get more comments, apart from being patient?

Of course I’m very happy with my three regulars, but I’d like this blog to become a place to meet, communicate and interact online for some more people apart from the four of us. And none of these things are happening.

My baby blog is cheap and nasty, I know. The pictures are pixeled, the formats are lost and there are too many video links to Youtube. This hasn't helped me making it more attractive visually. But I was so enthusiastic at the beginning and posted so much before I could learn about it that I got burnt out too early.

I've been blogging for two months now. Currently, I get five or six hits a day: 3 from the faithful good old regulars; one from my silent lovely Northern friend; one more from the weirdo who googles “tits and arses” every night and sometimes a hit or two from people who just pop in by mistake. Two comments tops. Nobody dares to show. Is it really that crappy?

I asked two experienced bloggers for advice and here's what they recommended me to do to give a boost to hits and comments:


FIRST: TELLING EVERYBODY.

I did. But that was not enough. I’m especially disappointed with family and friends, who were very enthusiastic at first, but soon stopped visiting. “Fuck them” -I thought- . This is why I gave up doing the Spanish version. Do you think they noticed? Of course not.

Oh, and then there’s the anonimity thing. How many times do I have to tell you guys that anyone can comment and remain anonymous?


SECOND: VISITING OTHER BLOGS AND COMMENTING ON THEM, TO GET THEIR COMMENTS IN RETURN AND THEN LINK.

I must say this recommendation comes from someone who said to me he would not link to my blog and kindly asked me to remove my link to his blog. The reason is that I used to write about virtual worlds. The problem is what happens if someone finds out weird stuff. I’m allowed to comment on that other blog though, but anonymously. At first I was only upset for the rules that were imposed to me, but then the whole thing made me feel really terrible, especially the night I removed the link.

I had a look at the Technorati Top 100 list, to visit the best and most commented blogs. The ranking is as follows:

1st-"Boingboing" (cultural curiosities)
2nd-"Pharmaceuticals online"
3rd-"How to make money blogging"

Are those really the best and most commented blogs in the net? Unbelievable.

I didn't give up and visited other blogs. I suppose it’s really easy, but boy, I must be too thick: just look at the results of one of my visits to the blogsphere in search of interesting stuff:

 “The Nahariya’s family blog”. Don’t give a shit who the hell they are.
 “The Diary of XXXX-English conservative candidate-“, I’m not into politics. Not even in my country. Least of all conservative.
 “The secret diary of XXX XXX”, a guy who works for a Silicon Valley’s high tech company and thinks he’s such a cool alpha male. Boooring.
 Movie blogs like “Diary of the dead”, latest remake from George A. Romero’s horror film. Eek!.
 “Jaimie’s diary” where Jaimie, a 18 year old American girl writes about her teenage growing pains. Not really my thing.

And so on.

If this is a matter of time, I give up. I have a real busy life, I'm very short of time and take away my writing and blogging time from sleep. I can’t spend hours and hours surfing the net in search of interesting blogs to link.

And yet I spend a considerable part of my sleeping time googling, youtubing, myspacing and mercilessly racking my brains to write more stories for the fucking blog that nobody reads.

I ask myself if this is really worth the effort. I don’t mean to be rude to the people who comment and visit, I really appreciate your participation; but to be honest, it would be less time-consuming for all of us if I opened a website –which I’m seriously considering- where you could have a look at my stories -the ones I intend to publish- without me having to post or you having to comment. That would be the end of my short blogger’s carreer, I know, but a lot less discouraging too.


THIRD: ADDING SOME SEX POSTS.

That was just brilliant. I was reluctant, but I did. (See my post “Adults only” of last 31st december and listen to “The boss and the secretary”, Adam Sandler's horrendous audio sketch, whose link I included). I made a huge mistake when I published that. The story is supposedly very funny, but it couldn’t be more vulgar. Anyway, nobody has read it, not even yourselves I supose, so no worries.


FOURTH: NOT LOOKING AT THE SITEMETER.

Yes, I must confess I look at it all the time. Why shouldn't I? I don’t get much feed-back, at least I’d like to know how many hits I get every day. Burying my head in the sand won't solve the problem.


So if you don't mind me leaving now, it’s getting very late and I need to sleep.

I start early in the mornings and unfortunately, I work for a bunch of arrogant egomaniacal uncultured overpaid idiots who think the entire world revolves around them and spend all their time hanging around, reading the newspapers, holding endless stupid meetings and hogging it all on doormats like me.


Do you understand now why I need to blog?

Goodnight to you, wherever you are.

Ladies' nights

Those who can't fuck properly, keep out!

Some men think women are beautiful incomprehensible hormone packs all dressed in glowing colours in a monthly pissy mood. I won't discuss that tonight, but this time I'd like to show you what a group of evil women did to a young man on a Saturday night and how he displayed his seduction abilities to fight their wicked strategies:

Once a month I go out on a ladies’ night with my five best friends. That month we agreed to nominate the guy with whom we would happily repopulate the Earth in the event of a disaster causing the massive destruction of life and matter.

We had dinner at a fancy restaurant downtown and after two bottles of red wine, Jude Law was approved unanimously as the gorgeous winner, followed by Clive Owen. We all agreed that if they ever happened to pass our way, we would share them peacefully.

In the club where we had a drink some time later, a big guy approached me and asked me if I'd fancy a dance with him. He must have been some 25-28 years old. A bit young for me, but that was the story of my life: my look is childish and kids can't resist me.

Before I continue, I must say I never dance with strangers. In fact i don't even talk to them, but my plastered friends encouraged me to accept his so tempting offer, cheering me up in the most unapropriate way, which I won't reproduce here, for obvious reasons. I had to accept the dance and quickly think of plan B: the best harmless way to get rid of my gullible victim, just in case he became nasty.

-Paedophile-whispered my friend Suzanne in my ear-
-YOU BITCHES ... -I answered-

The guy was really daring: His name was Simon. He immediately asked me what my name, occupation and mobile number were. My friends were cracking up, but I was kinda seriously urban roleplaying.

After a long dance, drinks and conversation, I thought of writing down a false mobile number in a paper and give it to him. Old trick, I had done it many times before when the guy didn't pass the exam. But Simon was not exactly blind date material, believe me. So I decided to give him a chance and my real number, expecting not to regret it.

-There you go, Simon.

-Cool. Can I call you up tomorrow babe?

-Try it and see what happens. But not before lunchtime please, I may be sleeping. I must go back to my friends now.

-Sure. I'm leaving too, it's late. I enjoyed the dance and the chat, Leni. You're really sweet. Bye for now.

And he kissed me goodbye. I gasped; I didn't like it that fast; yet he thought I was fascinated by his kiss. I was, somehow, at the whole thing. My friends were dying of laughter.

The day after, as promised, Simon called me up. It was 11.30 AM and I was at the kitchen, having my morning coffee.

-Good morning baby. How are you today?
-Good morning, Simon. I'm fine. And you?
-Perfect. I'm sorry to call you before lunchtime, but I wonder if you'd like to join me for lunch. No obligations honey, but I'd love it.

Oh shit, how could I possibly say no? I was beginning to think that he looked a bit like Jude Law and that I wouldn't mind to happily repopulate the Earth with him in the event of a disaster causing the massive destruction of life and matter.

Good morning to you, wherever you are.

Me, Pucca and my new Blackberry

Last week they gave me a brand new Blackberry Pearl 8100 at work, on exchange for my old hefty wad Motorola.

“Good”, I thought. “Some cutting-edge technology at last!”. Mobile phone, Internet, SMS, e-mail, bluetooth, TV channels ... all in just one small device.

But boy, I’m supposed to carry it with me anytime and check my e-mails with the bloody thing when I’m away from my laptop.

I get around 40 e-mails on a weekday. How am I supposed to read them in a 2-square inches liquid crystal mini-screen? It's gonna be murder!. What about silly attachments? I just love them. Am I going to be able to watch them in the tinyminitelly?

Needless saying this evil whatsit makes me available anytime to my demanding boss.

And last, but not least: my little Pucca doll phone charm and mini-jingle bell.

Pucca and I have been the best of friends over the years, from my first old junk fat Nokia until death do us apart. She's always been hanging from her strap, tied to my cellphones.

I freaked out when at first I couldn't find the spot to attach her to the Blackberry, but I'm persistent and soon found it. I tied Pucca's strap, and there she goes now, happily swinging and tapping on my tummy, as she always did.

I feel much better.

Goodnight to you, wherever you are.

You can't always get what you want

When I first met Jules he was 42. He was one of the partners at the lawyer’s office where I worked as a legal trainee.

He was hot Londoner, a steady, distinguished, witty guy and a perfect gentleman. He would always wear that London School of Economics rugby team scarf -dark burgundy and blue- from his student days. I really fancied him, and knew he had that soft spot for me too. We used to chat, and he would often joke about him and me having an imaginary affair.

I was a bit worried about the possibility of getting involved one fine day. He was 17 years older than me and a partner at the company where I was working. I didn’t know how to handle the situation, so I decided to just laugh at his jokes and wait for his next moves. Nothing worth mentioning happened.

Two years later, in September, I found a new job and unfortunately we lost track. But I was invited to the company’s Christmas party. Jules sat beside me and broke the ice asking:

-Are you happy with your new gig, baby?
-Sure, I am.
-I hope they're treating you like a princess.
-Course. I’m up to my neck in paperwork.
-Excellent. You know we miss you here, don’t you?
-I know, but I’m very much desired over there too.
-Not as much as I do desire you back.

It was nice to be in the innuendo front again. We had red wine, presents, Christmas carols and kisses under the mistletoe; we had so much fun. When the party was over, Jules offered to give me a lift and I accepted.

It was a long way to my place. When I was about to get off the car, I suddenly thought I needed to say something to make up for loss time. I racked my brains, but all I could say was:

-I wanted you.

He kept silent for a few seconds. I thought I definitely had gone too far. He looked into my eyes, smiled, and to my surprise he said:

-I wanted you too, babe.
-Why didn't you tell me?
-I told you a zillion times.
-No you didn't.
-I did, honey. I am amazed at how easily you forget.

I gasped. He left me speechless.

The story had a happy end, as it logically should: Jules changed the tense from past to present, and rephrased to "I want you now", which was crystal clear to me. As for the rest ... well, you can imagine.

But unfortunately, sometimes it’s hard for us to decode other people’s words when speaking figuratively and listening to a foreign language. Unfortunately too, golden opportunities rarely show up more than once in a lifetime.

So please, always speak clearly and never miss a chance.

Goodnight to you, wherever you are.

Life in a fishtank

That fishtank at the entrance of the chinese restaurant where I have lunch some weekdays, is really disgusting. Right after Christmas, I could count up to eight goldfish and three black ones with really large fins.

It’s obvious to me that the big fishes regularly eat the small ones. Last Monday only two goldfish remained, while the black ones looked considerably fatter. Moreover, I never saw a dead fish lying on the sand and algae at the bottom of the tank. Only SpongeBob SquarePants and the green plastic diver guy, always watching over the treasure trunk.

Last Monday I ordered the set menu. The waiter, way too smiling, served me the boiling soup of the day, a couple of spring rolls fried in rancid oil lost in my dish, followed by an indecent chop suey mountain and two pineapple slices that should have been natural, instead of a pair of tasteless yellow blocks that suffered from a painful chewing process into my mouth, until they turned into two genuine pieces of scouring pad.

I felt morally entitled to punish the restaurant’s cook for mistreating my poor little tummy and perfect teeth. So when I passed by the fishtank on my way to the exit and the waiters were not looking, I spat the two pieces of scouring pad into the water. I immediately regretted having done so. After all, what had those pretty lil' fishes done to deserve that treatment?

You're probably asking yourselves why did I do that. In all honesty, only and exclusively for the sake of fucking the restaurant's owner. A superdoormat like me deserves some sadistic amusement from time to time.

I crossed the streets packed with cars. A crosswalk means nothing in this city. If you want to put your life at stake, this is the right place to do it. It only takes the guts of putting your foot on the pavement.

It was only 3,30PM and the thought of going back to my desk to face the pile of papers on it made me sick. That deadly dull existente of mine was wearing me out.

Just like the pretty lil' yellow and black fishes, SpongeBob and the green plastic diver guy at the chinese restaurant's fishtank, I had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

Goodnight to you, wherever you are.

My dark

I have discovered very recently that I am obsessive, jealous and posessive as a viper. I'm always very generous when it comes to money or material things, but when people or love are at stake ... those who I consider mine are ONLY mine and I wouldn't share them under any circumstance.

Teachers, boyfriends, bosses, I won't stand them offering smiles or attention to another woman. Not even as a flirting joke.

So no matter how silly the situation may be, it really pisses me off. But I'm so cool that it will never show, I know how to hide it.

You must be wondering what the hell have I smoked tonight, or if I hit my head against the wall and why am I posting this. The answers are: nothing, no, and fortunately because nobody will be commenting on this post and the mute regulars already know me, so no prob, i can let off steam, this is my blog after all.

You think I'm proud of it? No, not really. I actually hate being like this but I can't change. And it makes me suffer like hell.
But that's the way I am and that's what I get from life and even from my Second Life.

No questions, please. I'm not in the mood. Now download and read one of those beautiful stories at left, and forget what I just said.

Good night to you, wherever you are.

Soul and understatement

There’s a wonderful little book that I’ve read some time ago (“How to be an alien”, written by George Mikes and published by Penguin books) that describes it perfectly. I can’t resist reproducing here the chapter called “Soul and understatement”:

“If a continental youth wants to declare his love to a girl, he kneels down, tells her that she is the sweetest, the most charming and ravishing person in the world, that she has something in her, something peculiar and individual which only a few hundred thousand other women have and that he would be unable to live one more minute without her. Often, to give a little more emphasis to his statement, he shoots himself on the spot. This is a normal, week-day declaration of love in the more temperamental continental countries.

In England, the boy pats his adored one on the back and says softly: “I don’t object to you, you know”.

If he is quite mad with passion, he may add: “I rather fancy you, in fact”.
If he wants to marry a girl, he says: “I say … would you …?”
If he wants to make an indecent proposal: “I say … what about …?”

"An exagerated cliché", you may think, especially if you're English.

Yes, you may be right. There are hundreds of them, for all nationalities. All based upon general and personal experiences, so they're quite subjective.

Over here we're suposed to be lazy, chaotic, temperamental, warm-blooded, passionate people and a long etcetera that includes not very nice features. But we do reckon some of them as a representation of the average Spaniard.

There's some truth in it, of course. But living abroad and travelling proves that topics are not a hundred per cent true: Italians are suposed to be warm-blooded; Scandinavians, cold; Germans, perfectly organised and rigid-minded. And again, a long etcetera. Personally, I think it's dangerous and unfair to generalize.

But going back to understatement ... I must admit I have a soft spot for that form of speech in which a lesser expression is used than what would be expected. A charming English cliché, in my opinion. It triggers my imagination and makes me think.

And it always makes me smile.

The thirteenth day of Christmas

Yesterday my –probably- future partner in virtual life was quite worried because I hadn’t removed my Christmas tree from his flat. He is English, and in every part of Britain it is held unlucky to keep Christmas decorations and ornaments after the twelfth day -the 6th January-. My fault not having thought of it, because I had heard of that before. I respect other people’s traditions and customs, so I immediately picked up the tree and stored it in my inventory until December.

This particular superstition doesn’t affect me –I’m not English-. Just like Friday 13th, black cats, or shoes on the table. We have other different superstitions here, all of them irrational, funny and even a bit weird.

At home it’s Christmas until the 6th of January –that day the Three Wise Men bring toys and candy to the children who behaved during the year. There’s always something for the grown-ups too, if they behaved-. That’s the reason why we keep all the Christmas stuff after the twelfth day.

Back to real life, while I was driving to work this morning, I could see Christmas ornaments, lights, cribs and baubles all over the city. As far as I know, in the Canary Islands they keep the Christmas lights until the month of February, for the Carnival celebrations. Lazy people, but very practical. And they call them the Lucky Islands.

Fortunately, we are all immune to foreign superstitions. We have enough with the amount of bad luck we may get from our own beliefs. But just in case, I would observe them too.

9/11

It was 9/11 2001 and, believe it or not, it was my birthday. I went out to lunch downtown to a Mexican restaurant with some workmates. The present was a nice watch, a tiny one, exactly the size I wanted. I was picky about that particular thing. It was 2PM and nothing remarkable had happened yet, apart from my birthday.

Today I found the tiny watch in my jewel box and the whole story came back to me. I never wear it. I know it's a shame, but it reminds me of that day.

My car ran out of gas on my way back to work, so I stopped by a petrol station to refuel. I gave my credit card to one of the cashier girls. They were having the most amazing conversation:

-I heard it in the news, a plane crashed into a skyscrapper office building in New York. There are casualties. Maybe thousands. -she said aghast-

They stared at each other. The people at the queue came away bemused.

-Comeon, thousands. You mean hundreds, not thousands, right?

The girl that spoke first shook her head nervously, insisting. She really meant thousands. Someone at the queue asked what had happened and the answer was that a plane had just crashed into one of the Twin Towers in New York.

I signed the ticket, put the credit card back in my bag, rushed to the car, started the engine and quickly switched the radio on. I was appalled.

Everybody was watching the news at the office, on that huge plasma screen TV in the conference room. To our horror we saw live how the second plane crashed into 2WTC. Someone said "When they say truth is stranger than fiction, they mean this, don't they?". That guy was so right. And that was happening to the most powerful country in the world. It was so unbelievable.

I rushed to my desk to email my friends in Houston and L.A., many miles away from New York, but I needed to make sure they were ok. I asked them to reply asap. And they did. They were fine, but logically going through a real ordeal.

NY's skyline changed dramatically and an unjustified war was about to start.

The world was no longer the safe and happy place it used to be and my birthday was just the insignificant anecdote of the gloomiest day in history.

Finders keepers, loosers weepers

My friend J. has a serious problem with a specific type of shoes: flip flops with soft plastic spikes in the inside, the kind some people use over here to go swimming.

J’s flip flops are great, but the thing is that when he wears them, he gets powerful hard-ons from the massage on the sole of the foot. He found out last summer, when his mom gave them to him in July, as a birthday present.

The first day he wore them, he caused a sensation at Marbella’s beach. He was so embarrassed he had to dive into the water, where he cooled off some minutes later.

Same thing happened to him the second day.

At first he didn’t relate his organic reactions to the flip flops. He enjoyed happy and satisfactory sex in his life, yet he was naively asking himself if he had suddenly become a sex wonder.

The third day he put them on, he realised what the reason for his sudden chubbies was. Concerned by the possibility of becoming the first flip flop addicted case in history, he decided to give them away.

His youngest brother is the current owner. Happy as can be, he doesn’t give a damn about addictions and usually walks on them only before a night of sex.

J. now regrets having got rid of them, but his brother wouldn't give them back to him.

Not for all the tea in China.

At a crossroads

I’m virtually single again, and this is the news of the day.

Yesterday, after a 3-months' relationship, I broke up with my Dutch partner, who has been suspiciously missing and out of reach for several weeks.

I must say I’m rather selective, non-commital and reluctant to engage in my virtual life. I prefer just being friends.

Virtual guys have always been really daring and they never cared a tiny bit about what my marital status was: I always had someone knocking at my door.

Now there’s that sweet and steady English writer that I met virtually only one month ago, who happens to be very fond of me. He is not a wanderer or an adventurer like the friends I had when I was a baby avi. He’s … quite something. And he would like to partner virtually.

So here I am again, between a rock and a hard place. And yet so happy.

Beth Orton – Touch me with your love
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRa5HgfdQeA

January fool's day

It was raining hard. I was listening to some Ofra Haza’s songs as background music while doing some boring stuff and having my second coffee of the day. It’s certainly not the best music to listen to at 8AM on a working day at your office desk –too hypnotic and spacey- but it’s very relaxing and appropriate for a soft start after having spent 10 days off.

Love song – Ofra Haza
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AnYV0WFpiCg

All of a sudden, I got this strange message from a workmate, in my business e-mail account:

“In case of flight delays … this is what XXX airlines have arranged to entertain the passengers”.

The attachment incuded several pictures of hot stewardesses. In each slide they were wearing less clothes. In the last one they appeared completely naked. I knew the guy, but to be honest, this was not the sort of e-mail I would expect from him. Anyway, I’m not easily scared. It made me laugh.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fmz4W1GXzh8

I had a look at the e-mail addressees, and I could read “ALL” –meaning “All the staff”-. Obviously the guy intended to send it only to a small group of friends, but hit the wrong key by mistake and sent a massive email that was received by all the company staff, including the bigwigs. And believe me, we’re quite a few people here.

I could figure what a terrible time this guy should be having. And everybody around thinking he was a creep.

Creep - Radiohead
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxpblnsJEWM&feature=related

Some weeks ago I spoke to the CTO about the danger of those massive emails, and I suggested him to set up a display message to be shown before sending them, asking something like “Are you sure you want to send this email to –whatever the number of addressees is-?” in order to avoid tremendous errors like the one that happened this morning. He said to me “Hm, yes, I’ll think of it”. Mañana, of course. That horrible national habit of ours.

So the e-mail sender guy called me on the phone and ask me if the GM had got his message. He was in a panic and freaking out.

“Yes, I’m afraid he got it”–was my answer.
“Hm. I wonder if you would be so nice as to delete that” –he said.
“Well, I know you are in a horrendously awkward situation now, but I can’t do that. I’m sorry, it’s his correspondence. I only delete his spam and acknowledge receipts. Even if I did, he would soon find out. Someone would tell him about your email and that would be a lot worse than deleting it.”

I felt terrible, but I couldn’t do what he was asking me to.

You can’t do that – The Beatles
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLjIyaOZgQA

“Now listen –I said to him-. I know you’re having a rotten time now, but it will pass. If I were you, I would report immediately to your boss before he finds out through a third person. So let me do this: as soon as the GM gets in, before he checks his emails, I’ll explain to him what happened. I’m sure he will understand. You hit the wrong key, that’s all. It could have happened to anybody. We all send silly attachments to our friends. But I’m sorry, I can’t delete the message.”

The guy was disapointed, but I could feel he was somehow relieved. Ten minutes later, the GM got in.

“Good morning” –he said-
“Good morning, euh … there’s a small issue I’d like to tell you about before you start working. Nothing important to be bothered, but I think you should know”
“What is it” –he asked-
“One guy has just sent to all the staff an email including a silly attachment by mistake. He hit the wrong key in error, and sent a massive e-mail”
“What is the attachment about”
“Euh … naked hot stewardesses” –I smiled-

He checked it and saw the naked girls with only the airline company bonnet on in his monitor.

“What a fucking idiot” –he whispered, rolling his eyes.
“It was completely unintended”
“I don't doubt it, but he should have done it from his personal e-mail. Get me his Manager on the phone. Now.”

I called him on the spot. To be honest, I was really worried but thank God nothing really serious happened.

After the in-house mini-scandal and jokes, massive e-mails have been definitely restricted to a very small staff group, and the CTO had his people working on that reminder message to avoid sending wrong e-mails to all the corporation. It’ was a happy ending after all.

It was our private April Fools Day here, anticipated to January. I sincerely hope this never happens to you.

Have a good day, and please be careful with the keys you hit before sending an e-mail, wherever you are.

No rain – Blind melon
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmVn6b7DdpA