...a guy grab you by the waist, drag you off the dancefloor, walk over to the bar, grab two Tequila shots, do the shots with you, and then ignore you altogether?
What's the fucking point of that?
I've been wondering for two days now and I still don't get it. Any ideas?
And why would said guy bite into the lemon before taking the shot?
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Monday, 28 January 2008
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Come on baby, so we can dance this groove...
Even a socialist backwater can produce sexy lounge tunes. Here are Sweden's Plej, with "You".
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Four Hookups and a Funeral
Just joking. Relax, I'm not that bad. Just couldn't resist this title. But what a crazy day it was.
My mom had decided to go to the funeral after all, and so we decided to travel together.
Waking up early, getting into my formal dress, I discovered it was pouring outside. This always seems to happen at funerals: curtains of rain, and shivering under an umbrella as the casket is lowered into its final resting place. I was thinking of Guns 'n Roses' November Rain, without Slash, that is.
And the rain kept on coming: driving towards Amsterdam, it got so bad I had to slow down sometimes as vision declined. Then, finally, we got lost in the posh suburb that surrounds the cemetery as the roads were broken up and cars were directed onto bike paths. We arrived a few minutes late, but it turned out my cousin and his new Russian girlfriend had run out of petrol, much to his father's anger. LOL. He then got lost as well, and in the end couldn't find a place to park.
And it kept on pouring. We were shepherded into the chamber for the ceremony, where eulogies were held that made me reach for the sick bag. I mean, the deceased wasn't a saint, so why do we posthumously have to pretend it was the case? I know a funeral is no place to be truthful or critical, but in these speeches an unrealistic fantasy creature was sketched that in no way resembled reality.
So after the ceremony, the casket was carried outside, into the pouring rain and dropped into the family slot beneath the beautiful pines. It really is an amazing spot.
Afterwards, we all met up for drinks at a quaint old restaurant near a dune, a place I have fond memories of. My sleazy Swiss relatives, friends of my grandma and a nasty old queen who used to go to school with my uncle were all there. The old homo was definitely checking me out. Gross.
We left rather early, pleading distance. My mom dropped me of at my place, and I went back to casual clothing. Then prepared myself for a night on the town. I was in predator mode, which usually means I'll do something stupid.
Getting tanked on wine, cocktails and the occasional brewski, bored by the club, the music and all those guys I have seen too many times before, even though there was some cool eye contact with the boy I have been eyeing for weeks, I moved in on a cute Indian exchange student, and we spent the night together.
No, he wasn't as good as Barbie.
PS. I have decided not to get my tongue pierced. For now. Reason? Too scary.
My mom had decided to go to the funeral after all, and so we decided to travel together.
Waking up early, getting into my formal dress, I discovered it was pouring outside. This always seems to happen at funerals: curtains of rain, and shivering under an umbrella as the casket is lowered into its final resting place. I was thinking of Guns 'n Roses' November Rain, without Slash, that is.
And the rain kept on coming: driving towards Amsterdam, it got so bad I had to slow down sometimes as vision declined. Then, finally, we got lost in the posh suburb that surrounds the cemetery as the roads were broken up and cars were directed onto bike paths. We arrived a few minutes late, but it turned out my cousin and his new Russian girlfriend had run out of petrol, much to his father's anger. LOL. He then got lost as well, and in the end couldn't find a place to park.
And it kept on pouring. We were shepherded into the chamber for the ceremony, where eulogies were held that made me reach for the sick bag. I mean, the deceased wasn't a saint, so why do we posthumously have to pretend it was the case? I know a funeral is no place to be truthful or critical, but in these speeches an unrealistic fantasy creature was sketched that in no way resembled reality.
So after the ceremony, the casket was carried outside, into the pouring rain and dropped into the family slot beneath the beautiful pines. It really is an amazing spot.
Afterwards, we all met up for drinks at a quaint old restaurant near a dune, a place I have fond memories of. My sleazy Swiss relatives, friends of my grandma and a nasty old queen who used to go to school with my uncle were all there. The old homo was definitely checking me out. Gross.
We left rather early, pleading distance. My mom dropped me of at my place, and I went back to casual clothing. Then prepared myself for a night on the town. I was in predator mode, which usually means I'll do something stupid.
Getting tanked on wine, cocktails and the occasional brewski, bored by the club, the music and all those guys I have seen too many times before, even though there was some cool eye contact with the boy I have been eyeing for weeks, I moved in on a cute Indian exchange student, and we spent the night together.
No, he wasn't as good as Barbie.
PS. I have decided not to get my tongue pierced. For now. Reason? Too scary.
Primary Colours, a European view
Barack Obama's the greatest political talent in the USA today.
Now watch them nominate Hillary.
Come on, you old soldier. You can win this thing.
I don't like plastic, not even in flip-flops.
Now watch them nominate Hillary.
Come on, you old soldier. You can win this thing.
I don't like plastic, not even in flip-flops.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Confessions on a Cell Phone
A little episode from last weekend.
Quick snog on dance floor.
Longer snog in street.
"I want your number," he says.
Hesitantly, I give it to him.
Walk home. Mobile beeps.
My reply:
This is what I get back:
But the next day I do decide to text, just for the heck of it (OK, I was bored):
Well, fuck you too. Learn to trust your instinct...
Quick snog on dance floor.
Longer snog in street.
"I want your number," he says.
Hesitantly, I give it to him.
Walk home. Mobile beeps.
Am in the car on the way home, really want to meet you again soon XXX
My reply:
Fine, tell me when it suits you[I must say I hid my enthusiasm well... NOT. LOL]
This is what I get back:
OK have a headache going to sleep please text tomorrow XXX[Complaining about headaches? Diva alert...]
But the next day I do decide to text, just for the heck of it (OK, I was bored):
Headache gone? ;-)
Yeah, yeah, was up at three splitting headache and still had to see my bf
Well, fuck you too. Learn to trust your instinct...
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
RIP My Grandma
Just heard my grandmother passed away last Monday night, a few day short of her 97th birthday. We weren't really close, since my mother and her haven't been on speaking terms since about 1991. In the Eighties she was a great grandmother to me though.
I have mixed feelings about it, she was old, couldn't walk, deaf, and could hardly speak any more. She passed away peacefully in her sleep, so in a sense it must be a blessing: I wouldn't have wanted to continue living much longer in that state.
She was the last true protestant in my family: she had grown up in a cold, hard-hearted Calvinist environment, with a family who wouldn't accept my grandfather, who was an atheist of Jewish descent from the slums of pre-war Amsterdam. She always stayed devoutly religious, even though she changed over to the more relaxed Dutch Reformed Church, in a way I, with my southern Catholic ways could never really understand.
The funeral is on Saturday, there will be family bickering (probably about inheritances) and it won't be pretty. My family is absolutely dysfunctional, and my mom refuses to go: "they'll all just have a go at me".
So I'll be representing my side of the family, even though it's a long drive. It's the least I can do.
I'll be wearing my ring on the other hand that day. My one concession to protestantism.
I have mixed feelings about it, she was old, couldn't walk, deaf, and could hardly speak any more. She passed away peacefully in her sleep, so in a sense it must be a blessing: I wouldn't have wanted to continue living much longer in that state.
She was the last true protestant in my family: she had grown up in a cold, hard-hearted Calvinist environment, with a family who wouldn't accept my grandfather, who was an atheist of Jewish descent from the slums of pre-war Amsterdam. She always stayed devoutly religious, even though she changed over to the more relaxed Dutch Reformed Church, in a way I, with my southern Catholic ways could never really understand.
The funeral is on Saturday, there will be family bickering (probably about inheritances) and it won't be pretty. My family is absolutely dysfunctional, and my mom refuses to go: "they'll all just have a go at me".
So I'll be representing my side of the family, even though it's a long drive. It's the least I can do.
I'll be wearing my ring on the other hand that day. My one concession to protestantism.
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