The boy above my bed.

Guys, this post is really not my doing, again I am little more than a translator here. All the wit and linguistic splendour really comes from my delectable friend Julia, the cotton candy girl. This is my much preferred job description for her these days as I find plain old journalist just a tad boring. And though I will admit that whether you know the story behind the name or not, it has the slightest stripper notion attached to it, I still like it and know she doesn't mind.

I ended my Tuesday last week with a Facebook status saying Today yoga kicked my ass, YSL broke my heart, and now poor pasta has to make it all better. I should add that I don’t mind at all having my ass kicked in a yoga class. What happened on the runway at the Saint Laurent F/W 2013 show I did mind a whole lot.

Let’s start from the beginning. I adore Yves Saint Laurent. And more than just the brand I adore him as a person and what he has created and inspired over the years. I have a picture of him in Morocco over my bed, which admittedly has raised some eyebrows of men guests who have shared stayed in my bed. I think why not? Though not generically handsome, he is endearing.  A bit nerdy, a bit innocent; a hipster in the true, original meaning of the word. To call him the godfather of all hipsters would make sense. He made it cool to be uncool way before it became cool to be uncool. He was also a prime example many times that really anything is possible if you set your mind to it. An awesome combination if you ask me. Why not have him to be the last thing I see before I go to sleep, so I can dream and spread my wings with his inspiration in mind?

Over my years in New York it was part of my job to watch and attend shows.  Whoever was designing for YSL at the time, some collections I liked, some I was indifferent about, but I pretty much always felt that I had missed out on the best part of it: The time when Yves Saint Laurent himself designed and pretty much made fashion history with each and every collection.

Now my fashion days are long over and I don’t really care all that much anymore. There are few collections I still watch, but I view them completely different now. I can get excited about Hedi Slimane’s first collection under the Saint Laurent name just because I had found a new future wedding dress when I saw his Witches of Eastwick dresses. It didn't matter to me that when you put them in context with the history of brand, they didn't quite spell YSL, I just liked them for me.

But when I looked at his latest collection, I actually just wanted to curl up in bed, clutch Yves’ picture to my chest, hold him tight and say I am sorry, I am so sorry! Then I wanted to write a letter of condolences to Pierre Bergé who had to sit through the show and put on a brave poker face. Nothing felt or looked right about it, nothing even whispered YSL. 

What made it worse was that nobody but me seemed to care at all. Maybe I was a day late with my reaction, maybe critics weren't overly enthusiastic either, but in general I felt rather alone in my dismay. That was till I got a message from Julia. She started the conversation by telling me she found a wedding present for me. Which was exciting because it implied that there is at least one other person who has not given up on me eventually finding Mr Charming (I call him Mr as being a Princess seems tedious work, so I don’t want a Prince.) Then she answered my unspoken question and wrote no, under no circumstances would I get it as a birthday gift, I would just have to wait and find HIM first. Then we spoke about yoga and after we moved swiftly on to the actual important part of the conversation, which inspired this post:

Julia: And btw: can we talk about Slimane. I almost - and that’s NOT fashionjourlistexaggertaionnonsensetalk (her word not mine) – started to cry this morning and (now she is moving into German, I shall translate) hope they kick him out of Paris latest by day after tomorrow. I would throw him in the Seine. Though that would be sad for his photographic skills.

Here comes the time for me to admit that I always mix up Hedi Slimane and Raf Simons. Scorn me if you want though I am pretty sure I'm not the only one. There is just something about the two that makes them like Tweedledum and Tweedledee to me. So I wasn’t quite sure yet whether to agree with her, because I didn't mind the Dior show all that much. Just because it didn't blew me away, didn't mean he – Raf as it turns out – deserved a future as French fish food.

Me: He is the one doing YSL? I always mix him up with the other one. If yes, then I will help kick him out. Pierre Bergé surely started crying?

Julia: I thought about this immediately and Madmoiselle Deneuve probably got a fright and went for a smoke first. Mon dieu! (that’s how she writes – don’t you love her??) But we will talk about this horriblehorriblehorrible horror tomorrow in detail.

In case you wonder, yes, this whole conversation happened on Whatsapp but we already had a Skype date lined up to discuss further.

Me: I am so happy you exist… I couldn’t even find anyone on Twitter to gossip and share my sorrow with.

Julia: True! But those are all cretins (Her word, not mine. I didn't even know it existed and thought she made it up. Sorry if you are on Twitter. Don’t be offended, I'm sure you weren't one of them and just really busy last Tuesday not to respond to my tweet), who cannot differentiate between something they would wear themselves or something that puts the entire identity of a fashion house to the grave. Love you!

Me: Wise words though if I wanted to look like Courtney Love I would buy Marc Jacobs!

Julia: Funny! I said exactly the same today. But we knew already that we are soul mates!!

And that we are. Detailed report from the two candy cotton soul mates about the current state and future of YSL to follow.

P.S. As it is now a few days later I can report that there was no talk of Mr Laurent whatsoever during the Skype conference. We decided boys in our bed were more important to discuss than the one above it. 

Happy happy for Miss Cotton Candy.

Ja, ja, I know I said I usually don’t do birthday posts…whatever… I hereby declare birthday posts the new 3D pop-up cards! We all pretend we don’t want one, but secretly we are dying to be young enough again to qualify to get one. Luckily there is no age limit for a birthday post. Not that the receiver of this post should be worried as she is only my age anyhow. Wink*.

A birthday post (toast to follow in private) to my most wonderful, cotton candy friend (read the whole story why she is called such and how to spell cotton candy in Arabic here) , Julia – happy Birthday!

Wishing you lots of …

…and something cotton candy colored:

…and of course:

I love you dearly my friend and am so happy and grateful to have you in my life!
xxa
 *Yes, I actually wrote wink. Sue me.

Chicken McNuggets.

Morocco is many wonderful things, but it didn’t seem very animal friendly to me. I’m not a vegetarian so I didn’t mind that the only meat free food option was overcooked vegetable couscous. I did however mind seeing little monkeys on a leash, horses in front of carriages baking in the sun as well as chameleons and tortoises in cages at the beauty stalls in the souks. I didn’t dare to ask what they were used for, but imagined their ultimate purpose to be horrible concoctions of ground chameleon powder and made by order tortoise combs. I thought it saver to refuse to buy anything at any place with still-alive animals. In case you wonder why I didn’t feel sorry for the snakes and I guess to be PC I should – I don’t like snakes and don’t care for them at all. Sorry.
Then there were all the little donkeys, carrying heavy loads and sometimes us lazy tourists, goats tied into a tree for a picture-taking-money-making-scheme, and the scrawniest little kittens, which I wanted to take home with me. EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. The scrawnier and smaller the better as the more I would be able to fit in my luggage. And so everybody back home could get cute little kittens as presents and not rely on my non-shopping abilities at the souks. In the end they were all too cute and I decided to rather take none than leave any kitten behind.
And if all of this wasn’t disturbing enough, we then found these little chicks in Fez:

Since posting this on Facebook they have created a storm amongst my friends and to my astonishment conquered many hearts. The general mood goes from WTF? to How do they do that? and then to I want one!. Well, at least my friend Alex expressed these three stages in one comment. Yesterday Julia and I were simultaneously browsing through my Morocco and skyping.

Julia: Ooooooooh. What is that? 

Me: What is what?

Julia: The little coloured things?

Me: Oh, they are chicks.

Julia: Ooooooh, how cute!!! But why are they coloured?

Me: So kids will buy them. For 1 dirham. They are like live Tamagochi. Isn’t that horrible?  

Julia: Nooooo, they are sooooooooooooo cute. You should have totally gotten one!

Me: But it’s horrible! I almost called PETA. They even put them in little plastic bags with only tiny holes when you buy one. 

Julia: Jaaa, but not for long, only till you get home. You should have gotten a pink one!

Me: And then what? Hide it in my shirt and take it on the plane?

Julia: Yes, totally!

Considering that I wanted to take a gazillion scrawny, little kittens home hidden in my luggage and my cousin once carried her rat in her jacket pocket from Cape Town to Germany this request is actually not as outrageous as it may seem.

Me: Taking a pooping, little chick and put it in my shirt for a 30 hours plane ride? Are you serious?

Julia: Yes. (Pause) Okay. 30 hours might be a bit long, it’s so little.

Me: Yes. So that’s why I didn’t take one. Plus it’s still horrible.

(Pause)

Julia: I wonder what it will be when it grows up.

Me: A chicken?

Julia: Will it still be pink?

And that leaves us with the question if also a chick needs to get its roots done every four weeks.

Of models on fire and Helen of Troy.

I was just told that I am funny and should become a female Perez Hilton. This coming from my journalist friend Julia, I feel really flattered and so here you go…

My first question which I was still good to ignore yesterday – what are all the models doing in Cannes? I do understand the symbiosis between fashion and film and thus the mingling and meddling of models and actors, but seriously? There shouldn’t be more models than actresses clad in silk and lace on the red carpet. And yes, I still count Diane Kruger to the former. Thinking of her as Helen of Troy still makes me grind my teeth. Or take Milla Jovovich – has she done anything noteworthy movie wise ever since the Return to the Blue Lagoon? They are by far the best examples of models turned actresses as they have actually put foot on a movie set or two. I guess that in itself gives them sort of validation of being at Cannes, but the rest… Surely there are enough hot actresses that the eye candy factor is taken care of, non?

Anyhow, excuse the little ramble… I just had to get it off my chest.

So now back to the glitz and the clothes and oh wait, the first is actually the perfect combination of the above mentioned ladies. Because back in the day when I was little and playing Helen of Troy or Greek Goddess or something to this extend, I would take a nice sheet, wrap it around me and end up looking something like this:

I did not take the sheet, wrap it around me, and pretend I was an actress on a red carpet. Just saying.

And if you are model, just a proper one, not a model turned actress, and yet you feel the need to grace the world with your attendance, please try to look different than an Oompa Loompa in her boilersuit.

Cheryl on the other hand looks like Katniss, the girl who is on fire.

I like how her dress is melting into the red carpet. Kind of cool, so it doesn’t even matter that I have no idea who she is or what she does or if she has any good reason in my books to be there.

That was all that was new and exciting for now. On a final thought though, I just wish to add: Sneaker shoe still life - I did it first, Mr. Big Shot Cannes Photographer!

Left: sneakers in Platbos forest, May 11th. Right: sneakers in Cannes, 2 weeks later.

Trailer trash.

Even with only posting my little broken heart story once yesterday, I got more page views than usual which actually concerns me a bit. Or is it just that everybody else is down too and misery seeks company? Either way, I wasn’t so miserable yesterday when I left the office at 3pm to check into the Grand Daddy Hotel with my boss, her daughter, their neighbours, and Julia to watch Princess Bride open air and spend the night here:

I was a bit concerned that any boy might be scared of that much pink, lace, and ruffles, but as Sebastian attested – it’s cool. Mind you, he is only 13 so this opinion could still change, but for the time being he was quite content to hang out.

There was no question that Julia and I would like it though, except that moving the amount of pillows from bed to couch took 10 minutes.

Amusing naughty bears in the neighbouring trailer…

My birthday cake substitute thanks to Eugenie’s carving skills:

Sparkling night view.

Manhattan-esque morning view:

Thanks to the tinted window my camera goes Instagram/Hipstamatic/iPhone App I don’t have.

A little me.

It’s a ramble, but I think you will forgive me. Just have to get it off my chest…

I think the reasons for heartbreak are eternal and with history repeating itself will remain timeless. I do find a small comfort in this fact. Just knowing that I am not the first person and won't be the last to feel how I feel and why I feel this way. I do feel bad for women though ten, fifty, one hundred years ago who couldn't listen to Adele yet, because that girls knows about heartbreak alright. Listening to her makes mine at least seem a bit more insignificant and not so much to write home about.

All good things...must come to an end. Which is something I knew except yesterday when we were watching the movie All Good Things and I complained what a horrible, depressing movie it was. Thekla asked me if I wouldn't have guessed considering the title. I didn't. My knowledge of English sayings is a bit limited and it made me very upset to see Ryan Gosling as a psychopath with no warning.

Regardless though I will admit that my heart is neither truly broken, just a bit scratched, and things weren’t always good, which was the reason why they had to come to an end. That is life. Sometimes there won’t be any sexy time (trade mark creation used courtesy of Thekla and Julia) in a pink lace trailer, but a girlfriend on your side to eat macaroons in bed with instead. Which is not a bad way to spend a Monday evening after your boyfriend just broke up with you…

The good life.

My birthday has come and gone. I am a year older, probably none the wiser, except for the knowledgethat I am loved. I did know that before of course, but being spoiled silly always helps to remember.

I do think people know by now that I am not the biggest fan of standard birthday cards. I like the ones from a select few i.e. my mother and Julia as they are usually something to keep and bring out at times when I need to put a smile on my face. No difference this year and I wanted to share with you the poem from Joseph Beuys Julia shared with me:

Anleitung zum guten Leben

Lass dich fallen, lerne Schlangen zu beobachten. Pflanze unmögliche Gärten. Lade jemanden Gefährlichen zum Tee ein. Mache kleine Zeichen, die "ja" sagen und verteile sie überall in deinem Haus.
Werde ein Freund von Freiheit und Unsicherheit. Freue dich auf Träume. Weine bei Kinofilmen. Schaukle so hoch du kannst mit einer Schaukel bei Mondlicht.
Pflege verschiedene Stimmungen. Verweigere dich "verantwortlich zu sein" - tu es aus Liebe! Mache eine Menge Nickerchen. Gib Geld weiter. Mach es jetzt. Es wird folgen. Glaube an Zauberei, lache eine Menge. Bade im Mondschein.
Träume wilde, fantasievolle Träume. Zeichne auf Wände. Lies jeden Tag. Stell Dir vor, du wärst verzaubert. Kichere mit Kindern, höre alten Leuten zu. Öffne dich, tauche ein. Sei frei. Preise dich selbst.
Lass die Angst fallen, spiele mit allem. Unterhalte das Kind in dir. Du bist unschuldig. Baue eine Burg aus Decken. Werde nass. Umarme Bäume. Schreibe Liebesbriefe ...

I only found this art card with an English translation:

I am not sure where the translation of the title comes from as I would have called it “Recipe for a good life” or something to that extend. It also raises the question why Beuys would want me to watch snakes as per the German version. Not that I think snails are much more appealing, but in terms of appreciating and learning patience and slowness they make a whole lot more sense. Unless you can think of an important lesson one can learn for life from snakes. I am lacking a bit in the fantasy department here…

Dress rehearsal.

… and then there was the dress. Finally. Sorry it took me so long, but after all I do have a birthday party to plan.
If you are a guy, you may want to give this story a miss and go back to the one with the Tortilla and if you are a girl…well, I am sure you know the feeling. The feeling you get deep down when you find a perfect dress. The feeling when it seems like the stars align and you get a glimpse of what heaven is all about. For you anyhow.

This happened to me on Sunday. I was killing some time because I was getting my shipment from Italy aka my friend Alessia from Rome, meeting me for lunch and bringing me pasta and Bacio. The real parmesan cheese managed to get intercepted by customs yet another time, but the thought makes me too sad to explain any further… So there I was buying Ike his 5 year old ‘big boy’ birthday shirt from Country Road and then had a quick look around myself. There it was on the shelf and just a little while later on me:

Though I called it my early birthday present to myself to validate the expense, I immediately had to wear it out to the meat party. Excitedly I told Ian about it on the phone before he fetched me. In hindsight I know it was a rookie error to expect any praise from a boy for something that is not barely covering my bum cheeks, my breasts, or is made out of sheerness and lace.

Ian: Wow – you got a new nightgown.

Indignantly I complained to Julia on the phone, the person who I know would understand me and more importantly the dress. Arriving and meeting at Tjing Tjing the dress was inspected by her and she just started to shake her head at Ian.

Julia: This does not look like a negligee!

Ian: I said nightgown not negligee.

Who would have known that a South African man knows what a negligee is?

Meat in the city.

I had a bit of a funny weekend. Not bad, but a bit odd at times. Many lost jokes too and even more really silly ones. A true example from the Fleisch Fest Julia, Meike, Ian, and I went to yesterday afternoon:

Me: Julia, look there is the bread master!
Julia: Who?
Me: Jason. The master of the bread, I told you about him!
Julia: Yes, but which one?
Me: The one who looks like a biker though he is a baker.

Silence.

Both of us: Boah haha ha ha ha. 

The burnt Cosmos may have helped to make us appreciate this comment more than usual.

On the note of burnt Cosmos: Did anyone else know a Cosmo gets burned? As in put on fire. Apparently the girl next to me at the bar with the tattoo knew, she looked very non-fussed by the bartender’s actions. I on the other hand felt a bit offended by the dirt in my drink topped by the dirt in her looks when asking her, why if it was an essential part of a Cosmo they never showed it on Sex and The City. Considering we were at Tjing Tjing and no one, but me would ever admit to being so uncool as to watch SATC*, I probably deserved that look. No one, but me and Julia actually, because when I told her about my newest discovery from the cocktail making world her first question was how she could have missed that during six seasons of SATC. I love how great minds think alike.

Other than that there was lots of running after meat and then eating what we caught. None of us is a lady or has any shame and Ian just really likes meat, so we rather ran than to feel left out with empty plates. Which ended in multiple food comas and a whole lot of left overs, because as usual in situations like this post war times – there is actually enough for everyone.

In addition my tortilla scored a 7.0 and I bought the perfect birthday gift/dress for myself. More about all of this tomorrow as I actually have birthday invitations to finish.

*If it makes me sound any cooler – I had to think quite long about this acronym and every time I mention the show I always get confused whether it is called “in the city” or “and the city” as both would make perfect sense to me.

Dancing delights.

Herve Leger was in Brackenfell yesterday. So was Gianni Versace. At least that's what one could assume when seeing the amount of tight, short bondage dresses and skirts, and the fact that they actually still make white pleather loafers and people who buy them. Though that is unfair to Gianni as I think he would have rather died than use pleather. Ups. Pardon the pun.

In case you now wonder what on earth I'm talking about here – I was being a very good girlfriend last night. So good that after buying Turkish Delight on the market this morning, I was promptly dubbed a German Delight.
When meeting someone new, you not only meet a new person but also a whole new life with an array of friends, habits, and hobbies. Have I mentioned that I don't have hobbies? And happily so, but apparently I am an exception in this world. Though I might be an exception with no hobbies, I'm also someone who is at least for the time being trying to please the new man on her side, which brought me to Brackenfell last night.
The new man likes to dance and though I'm spared the Salsa moves, in the search for Sokkie we ended up deep in Afrikaner land where people don't speak the same language as I do and I can't even sing along to the songs.
After me sitting quietly in the car for 40 minutes, praying that we may stay lost forever and just drive around aimlessly for the rest of the night, I found myself in a dancehall. That's what it is called and there is no other way to describe it. Make a time warp and picture a dancehall. A big dance floor in the middle, tables and chairs on the side, pictures of Elvis on the wall, bar in the back room, smoking allowed.
I thought I came prepared and only realized then and there that I have had no clue. Though I am not a complete rookie and didn't attempt to even ask for a Cuba Libre instead ordering a brandy & coke just as Thekla taught me. When in Rome.... The first sip immediately took me back to 1995. Every Friday we would order entire trays of 'whiskey cola' at Metro as they were on special for DM 1. Or maybe DM 2. Either way dead cheap and thus even more delicious for poor students.
After that first sip it was easy. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow and enjoy the ride back in time. A time when people line up on the dance floor and dance a routine, because after all Johanna and I would do the same back in the day when the Backstreet Boys were still socially acceptable. A time when girls like to channel Britney Spears and wear dresses that you would consider a t-shirt once you are in your thirties, and a time when it is perfectly agreeable to walk like an Egyptian in an attempt to shake things up.
Then there was the actual dancing and I guess the torturous months of Tanzschule back in the day did pay off after all. Though by far no expert, I managed to not fall or slip and was even twirled quite expertly a few times. All in all a perfectly enjoyable evening outside my comfort zone.

The only thing that would have made it any more enjoyable would have been a certain girlfriend on my side. For the moments in between the dancing when I wanted to sit back with yet another brandy & coke and watch. For the moments of delicious gossip when I wanted to stare incredulously at the white pleather loafers. For the moments when I wanted to turn to my friend and say: “I wonder what good old Herve would have said to see knock-offs of his creations worn by the Brackenfell youth.” And this person would have laughed and known exactly who and what I meant. 

...My friend, you know who you are and I will take you on this travel when I see you in a few weeks!

Things in my head.

Apparently my absence has been noticed. I apologize, it already feels like forever when I last wrote. The truth is I had a rocky start into the new year or at least that's what it felt like inside of me every morning when I had to get up. There was nothing to write, I couldn't, because I actually didn't feel very funny or that I had anything to share. 

Since yesterday things are looking up though. Something just shifted and here I am again, sitting in my chair. I just took my Dad to the airport and now I'm by myself in my little flat for the first time in a month and I don't know whether to laugh or to cry. The flat is clean, the mess (of two people sharing a small space, I don't blame my Dad!) is gone and I miss it already.

Work is crazy and I need to remind myself to breathe constantly and that things always work out in the end.

A new guy with all the craziness, the butterflies, the unanswered questions, the insecurities, the smiles, and everything that goes along with getting to know someone, letting someone new into your life.

...bits and bobs here, I seem not to be able to string a coherent story quite yet... I will work on it on the weekend and that's a promise...

Two announcement that already make this new year quite rocking and that need to be made:

I have my own yoga spot from next week onwards. I will call it: Come sweat with me! And it's Tuesday nights at 19h30 at Jai. I don't know if anyone except me wants to do yoga that late in the evening, but I sincerely hope that once Miss Julia will be back in town, I will have at least one student...and she will be back in town very soon and for very long – hurrah for my soulmate friend Julia, who is coming back in February!

Enough bits for tonight. I'm off to watch a movie, eat quesadilla, and not speak for an evening.

Rainbow coloured bookworm.

I don't think me and my life are very colour coordinated. My favourite is to wear black and navy together and I think that would piss off serious colourists. I guess I can put on a snotty face though and say I know better because of my time with Italian Vogue. Or I can just not care.
Lately I have been seeing lots of interior magazines though showing people's bookcases which have been colour coordinated. To me that is just as good a way of organizing your books as any other and it definitely looks prettiest. Mind you, most of these people have bookcases big like the entire Hogwarts library, but I just thought to myself – why not me too?
The whole plan was further inspired by Julia and our nightly trip to steal a ladder in Berlin. Sorry, I am not allowed to write this as we didn't steal it. We just took it with us as it was lying on the street and did not seem to have an owner, unless you think the neat pile of bricks next to it would indicate otherwise. Though I wholeheartedly agree with Julia, if you don't tie your things down in a city like Berlin, it is kind of your own fault if your ladder gets stolen in the middle of the night by two slightly tipsy girls on heels.
She wanted the ladder to use as a bookshelf. I should add that it was a beautiful, old, shabby ladder – very vintage chic. A few weeks later I got an email from her with a picture of the ladder/bookshelf. To make it look neater she had also covered all her books in uni-colour wrapping paper and re-labelled them in neat handwriting. I was quite impressed. I think last time I actually covered a book in paper, I was in primary school and one would get a lower mark if having uncovered school books. Also, I tend not to have the patience for projects like this (one mirror from the DIY project is still unpainted on the floor under the table; my attention span for stuff like this is just short). I did however have the patience to do this:

I think I got lucky that my local book collection isn't big yet and it took me all of 7.5 minutes. Otherwise more floor space might be occupied by books now. Now...someone please call ELLE Decor!

My cotton candy friend.

The words in this story are not entirely mine. I’m actually just translating and adding my two cents of wisdom. I shall be quoting my lovely friend Julia. Julia is quite a new friend in my life though we are from the same town, went to the same school and also share a lot of friends. For some odd reason we never really met. That was till she approached me for an internship in Cape Town. The email she sent me was ... interesting. I should mention that she is a writer and fashion journalist by day and I believe a secret superhero poet by night. There was lots of mentioning of rays of sunshine and feeling like cotton candy. I was a bit baffled. I am if anything only a neo-romantic. I don’t even like red roses and someone to explain their feelings as cotton candy was a bit over the top for me.
So I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when she arrived. What can I say? We fell in love. Like two girls who are just meant to be friends. Like when the universe is shaking its head wondering ‘Dah, why didn’t I think of the two of them earlier?’ kind of friends. With this friendship I came to love her emails cotton candy and all. As a sign of appreciation I once even send her a list of cotton candy translated into every known language.
This was just the prologue to what this is all about. Basically two single girls wondering why no one wants us. That sounds more than a bit pathetic, but is essentially true, especially on rainy days. As Julia rightfully says how is it possible that women like us don’t have to get a hidden identity to hide from all the suitors? Why is EVERYONE finding that one special person (sometimes even more than one!), but we? Two women, who are funny, who you can take to a bar and drink vodka till the wee hours of the morning when you need cheering up, who are smart and warm, who still appreciate the tree in front of the house they grew up in yet want to discover the whole wide world. Who can cook yet know the best restaurants in town and own the appropriate wardrobe for both – the restaurant and the beer fest in his parents’ village. Who will invite him on an overnight trip to Paris instead of just dreaming about being swept away by Prince Charming. As she said, it’s not coquetry, one just can’t help but wonder.
My I added wisdom to that: even Jennifer Aniston has a boyfriend these days. It’s no fair! I shall not dwell on the fact that she stole him from his live-in girlfriend of 9 years, but do wonder if she thinks karma will cut her some slack and let her get away with it after Angelina. Though I may add I’m definitely team Angelina and stealing or not, Brad picked the right woman. Enough celebrity gossip.
Julia concluded with the fact that regardless of how exciting our lives may generally be, sometimes you just want to have potatoes with green sauce, someone who takes you in his arms and tells you without words that everything will be alright even if we you just have potatoes and rain again tomorrow. That is Julia for you. Poetic even in describing the darkest scenarios. Me? I just replied whether I could substitute potatoes for pasta, because if not I’d rather stay single.

Pasta or not aside, she did also describe to me the dream scenario, the perfect man and the perfect life for me. I’m not going to repeat it here as it made me cry and feels too personal. I will add it on the ‘list’. It’s nice to know that I have a friend who not only knows me so well, but can also put my wishes into words for me. They seem a lot more tangible once in writing than chasing cotton candy dreams. Thank you, my حلوى القطن* friend.

*Cotton candy in Arabic. What else?

P.S. In case you are wondering – I would have loved to include pictures of us, unfortunately Mr. iBook is still in a coma and I haven’t practised my computer CPR enough to wake him.
P.P.S. I had just send this post to Julia to get it 'approved' and she not only replied that she felt touched and liked it, but also send me an air kiss a la Julia: