Wednesday, January 10, 2007
I Don't Want Any More Feta
There comes a time in your life, every now and then, when having wonderful cheekbones just isn’t enough to shake the blues, when you realize that you might as well be a lampshade at social gatherings since your language limitations prevent those present from discovering that you have a great personality to match those great cheekbones.
You’re reduced to smiling like a moron all the time, which is fine for an advertisement for some ubiquitous, barely legal painkiller/religious cult/incontinence pad, but not if that smile is masking your sheer boredom.
I funking hate being a foreigner sometimes, even though I do *heart* Athens (see 10 Reasons) and a few days ago I had a huge I-want-to-leave-but-I-don’t-want-to-leave breakdown. There is no food in the abode, and three weeks worth of laundry that needs doing, all signs that I, for the moment, couldn’t give a flying cheese pie about the perks of Greek living.
Crappy old American sitcoms playing on daytime TV did nothing to alleviate my forlorn state, as did those idiotic Barbie doll-a-like female hosts that abuse my retinas on every channel.
If they must insist on opening their mouths to release the garble which makes me grateful for once to not understand the language while flashing their bad bleach and boob jobs at me, the least they can do is balance that with some hot scantily clad maleness. I thought Greece was supposed to be a democracy!
I need chocolate… lots of it… preferably administered by Antonio Banderas clad in naught but a fig leaf. For now though I’ll make do with some at-home TLC and after-class hot chocs with the babes from Intermediate II. I’ll be back to normal in a day or so.