Στην υγειά μας λοιπον !

Say what you want about Greek women, but ain't no one touching their ass without their consent. If you have never been to the UK and been hit on by drunk British boys, it goes something like this:

Him: Hello darling, you're fucking gorgeous
You: Thanks
H: Can I buy you a drink?
Y: No thanks, I've got one
H: Come on don't be such a party pooper, I.. Brett! Hey Brett! That's my mate Brett, he's fucking MENTAL!

(Some pointless and unfunny story follows about Boy and Brett's drunken escapades)

H: A nice girl like you shouldn't be here on her own.
Y: I'm here with friends
H: Come on let's dance (starts putting arms around you and grinding his groin into you)
Y: Please, I'm really not interested. (backing away)
H: Well you're a bit of an ice queen ain't ya. Fucking think you're better than everyone don't ya! Well fuck you you stupid bitch!

Not made up. I've had dozens of these conversations when I lived in the UK. Not to say I'm a beauty queen, but in the UK the done thing when going out is to get completely, mind-bendingly drunk, and then anything female looks good. Drunk British boys have no manners and no sense of decency. They think that just because you're in a club and in their vicinity, you are fair game to be chatted up, fondled and then abused when you say no.

I'm not one to advocate violence, but I can understand that certain parts of Crete in the summer must become quite unbearable for the locals with hordes of British tourists decending on their towns for cheap holidays, cheap booze and thinking that they can get away with the sort of disrespectful behaviour they display in their own country.

All I'm sayin' is I didn't know Sambuca was quite so flammable, and I'll be keeping that in mind the next time someone invades my space.

Image: http://ramblingspoon.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/FlamingSambuca.jpg

Rain Dance

At the precise moment I'm typing this, a brief, light rain shower is passing by. I tolds yas! So many years in a monsoon ridden country is good for predicting when the heat and humidity are going to break into rain.

Looking Ahead

There is no country like Greece for trash TV. In fact , my number one reason for recommending learning Greek is so you can watch trash TV.

The number one trash channel here is Star TV, which only just stopped presenting their sexual inuendo studded weather bulletin with a weather girl in lingerie. Men loved it, I loathed it. Telos panton, anyway, Star TV in the summer blankets every news bulletin with bikini shots of women at the beach.

Their number one news gathering strategy is to head to the beach with a camera and interview people about how hot it is. In between these vox pops they slice in up-the-butt shots of women's bikini clad asses, the skimpier the better! Let's not forget that the newsreader has to always appear with her breasts half in half out of whatever top she's wearing, preferably some cheap and shiny form of satin.

My younger sisters and two cousins spent much of their wedding trip down at the beach and not once, twice got approached by the Star TV camera, which then departed upon discovering they spoke no Greek. I was appalled. The wedding planning stole my chance to be on my favourite trashy channel. If only I'd been there!! I would have totally been like all "Man it's hot! And I got this colour because I use baby oil. Screw sun protection!"

With August though, even trash TV presenters have gone on holiday, including my all time favourite Rania Thraskia, who has either gone to the beach or gone off to have her baby. Rania is none other than the presenter of my favourite trash TV show, Koitao Brosta (Looking Ahead).

The format is a daily topic with an expert panel and a phone-in for the general public. I tell you, Jerry Springer, Maury, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle ... these people are nobodies in front of this show. The four of them put together would make up Rania's little finger.

Where else but Koita Brosta can I enjoy such delightful phone-in topics such as:

* I got plastic surgery to look like my daughter in law because I'm jealous that she stole my man son

* My bitch of a daughter in law gave herself the bad eye and lost her baby at 5 months. A baby boy at that! How dare she! So me and my son threw her out. But not right away, we let her stay one day before we threw her out. And no, Rania, actually you're wrong because I am more devastated than her.

* I'm 19. My parents don't understand why I want to marry my 46 year old lover instead of get an education

* All my friends are rich and do rich people stuff. I don't work, because I gave my husband the favour of doing him a baby, so he should work to maintain my lifestyle. We're EUR 100,000 in debt but so frickin' want? I want to go on an expensive holiday! We can just take out another loan!

* I regularly left my child at home alone all night while I went out to search for my good for nothing husband, and now I don't know why she's all like "You're a terrible mother!"

* I adopted a boy and now that I have my own child I don't want him any more. I told him he's not my child and I hate him, and he's such a little demon child he misbehaves all the time! Not because he's lashing out for attention Rania, no, he's just a bad child. He is not my child. My child doesn't behave like that

* My daughter in law is crazy because she called the police after my son beat her. She does not care at all what the village will say about my family the selfish cow! It's not like it was the first time he beat her, so I don't know what her problem is. But anyway, all women get beaten by their husbands, isn't it?

And so many more. Every day is like a new delight on her show. Sometimes the callers are so ridiculous, I wonder if they're just making stuff up. But who cares! I'm entertained!

I hope Rania comes back off her holiday soon, because I'm getting bored of watching repeats of shows I've already seen. My life would be a barren desert of seriousness without Rania.

Long, Hot Summer

Monsoon Weather - Various

Greece, for those of you who don't live here, goes into total shutdown in August. It's too hot for the industries to keep operating, and I swear, if they did it would be a crime against humanity in this weather, so this sets off a chain reaction where everything else winds down too.

The streets are pretty much deserted as whole neighbourhoods cash in their annual leave and depart to their respective villages for at least three weeks, often more.

The knock-on effect for someone like me who works from home is that I have nowhere to go now. Practically all my friends are either out of the city or melting in the sun and there is no bellydance class until September. You actually start to forget that other people exist in August. I'm just starting to come out from my wedding stress hangover and have not called anyone to thank them for their help/attendance/present.

With me sitting at home isolated I have nothing better to do than to try recipes out of Nigella Lawson's How to be a Domestic Goddess, a wedding present from my sisters that was obviously hinting at something. My match-box flat is bursting at the seams with so much stuff I periodically go on strike because I'm sick of tidying it. And my oven is broken and won't go beyond a certain temperature without tripping the main fuse of the flat so all my biscuits and pastry are coming out looking sickly pale.

So with nought all to do (apart from work, but who works in August! Someone should tell London that!) my favourite hobby is picking fights with Mr Zeus. It's the heat, the boredom, the not having a holiday destination with only two weeks left before we leave, the dog, my eyebrows, whatever! Anything and everything is fight fodder this time of year.

I have always said I love the summer, but yesterday I spent the day with rain sounds playing off the internet while I worked. I suppose I'm still reeling from the super sun exposure I got running errands before the wedding. I don't drive, so I have to walk everywhere, or wait for buses or taxis in the blistering heat. It was the first time in three years that I wished for rain.

No Money No Problems

Since we're all in the same boat, scrabbling behind the sofa for spare euros and wondering where the money goes every month, we might as well sing and dance about it.

We may be broke but we're happy, and at least there are still some free beaches in Athens!

Onwards and Upwards

So it's over. Words I never want to hear again:

1. boubounieres
   
2. decorations
   
3. bride
   
4. invitations
   
5. anything to do with one thing matching the other

Things I organised via the internet:

1. the wedding dress designed by me and created in the Home Country, which was made so lightly for the heat that I carried it around in a handbag.
   


2. the invitations in half Greek half English, printed in India and since I typeset them, the Greek part was full of mistakes. But so what. As far as I know no one turned up to the mayor's office at 11pm instead of 11am and that was my biggest error.
   


3. starfish charms for the wedding favours
   


4. marigold coloured tissue paper for decorating
   


5. mini incense and boxed bindis for the henna party favours
   


6. floating lotus lanterns for the beach
   


7. Maro from MAC on Ermou street, who I discovered via a comment on this blog and who helped me pick a foundation so perfect I looked airbrushed


8. MAC pigments in sample sizes from http://www.thebodyneeds2.com/

*Things that were not right on the day: Nothing

*My favourite thing about the wedding was: having all my family together for once.

*Now that it's all over I feel: Like I never, ever want to do that again as long as I live. Never. Ever. Ever. I'm so happy to be lounging around in my crappy clothes again, growing out my moustache and letting my fingernails break with abandon.

On the day itself I had a surprisingly good time. Not that I expected to have a bad time, it just was a lot better than I had hoped for.

When you're a bride, people break your balls about absolutely everything. It's worse being a bride who doesn't care much for weddings, because no one believes you when you say you're not into shabang type weddings and think you're just being a boring old fart.

The morning of the wedding was stress free and I was ready nicely ahead of schedule because I booked myself into a hotel and got dressed with my sisters. The rest was like a domino effect. Since the day started well it ended brilliantly with everyone in their swimming gear partying at a beach bar till the early morning.

Halfway through the party my sister and I walked past the bride from the other wedding party going on at the hotel of the beach par and couldn't help but laugh at the contrast. She was looking perfect in her white wedding dress, makeup and hair, and I was in a cotton beach dress, barefaced and barefoot. I had to show a little girl at the beach photos from the morning because she wouldn't believe her mother that I was the bride.

The next day though I was feeling major evil eyes so I burnt some sage and walked all the way through the flat with the windows and doors open, passing the smoke in every corner and all the cupboards. No jokes people, the evils were super bad. I got up at one point the night after the wedding and felt such a big weight press on me that I fell to the floor like a dead weight and couldn't get back up again. Mr Zeus heard the thud and had to come pick me off the floor because my legs had turned to jelly. You might say lack of sleep/low blood pressure, but it was evils I tells ya!

I will not give any advice for the bride, since it will all be useless anyway, except don't bother with diets. You will go through your own crash diet in the days before the wedding as the stress blow-torches the bumps and lumps away.

I will however advise you if you are a friend of a bride/groom to be:

1. Do not offer advice. Just listen



2. The bride will turn into a total bitch before the wedding. This has nothing to do with you. It's because she's sick of being asked unimportant questions and people freaking out around her about stupid details. Don't pay too much attention to the things she says when she's having a psychotic episode. She only means about half of them.



3. If you say you are going to do something, do it. The biggest disappointment for me when I was buckling under the stress was all the people who said they would help who then disappeared and turned up later to have a good time.



4. Do whatever the couple asks you to do, and don't complain about it. If you think you're tired you have no idea how exhausted they are.



5. In the days immediately before the wedding, take some food over. Otherwise the couple won't eat.



6. Take the initiative and fix any problems that you can fix yourself.

That's about it! I had a wedding day full of colours and happiness with the people I love all in one room. I would not do it again and I'm glad it's over, but I am equally happy that I had such a nice time. The mayor's speech before we signed the papers was very short but wonderfully to the point about respecting and lifting each other up and building a happy and secure environment for ourselves and our children. Many of the guests agreed that it was the nicest political marriage they had seen. So all's well that ends well.

ps. Al in Athens has left a comment here saying she wish she could have done more. I met Al through this blog, and we have since become good friends. Her gift to me were the flower decorations at the mayor's office, and there could not have been a better gift than the breathtaking job she did. Al, I could not possibly have asked for more than what you did as it was perfection.

Weekend Reminder

Don't forget to buy this Sunday's Kyriakatiki Eleutherotypia for DVD 2 in it's current 4 DVD Bollywood series. The first movie was Veer Zara, the second is an epic and a favourite of mine, Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham.

All four movies in this series are in fact extremely good choices. You could buy the DVD's for less on Menandrou street, but I believe by supporting ET in this endeavour, I am taking one step closer to the day that Bollywood movies will show in Greek cinemas.

Image: http://www.allzonedvd.com/bollywood/dvd/k/kabhie3.jpe

Greek 101

Now that I have reached a level where I can communicate in Greek, even with my terrible grammar, it amazes me just how pointless and restrictive most of the Greek we were taught was. We were never taught any slang or anything particularly useful and applicable to survival in Greece, such as:

* Go f*ck yourself you f*cking f*ck!
* Who lets all these bloody grandpas onto the roads on the weekend?
* It wasn't my fault
* Sometimes you make me so angry I want to break something
* I'm really not interested in going out with you
* But the meter says EUR 4.50, so I won't pay you a penny over that
* Two tzatzikis, four kebabs, three chips and ten beers. No, just us two.
* If you don't behave I'll break all your bones
* I'd like to speak to your supervisor.
* Anything to do with talking on the phone.

Instead, I can recall spectacularly useless modules where the characters sit politely around a table wondering what they will order, instead of the bloodbath that usually ensues when hungry Greeks order at a restaurant, and another where a customer goes to the DEH electricity office and meets an unrealistically helpful staff member.

What would have been much more useful and realistic was to start basic Greek classes with a handful of swearwords, which constitute roughly 50% of a conversation. Furthermore, Greek classes should have been held in the same room as another language class, or with three teachers who all talk at you at the same time to give a more realistic sensation of the way communication takes place here. You develop an amazing ability to track three separate conversations at the same time, and this is not something taught.

Also, I hate using my Greek on the phone, so a few classes dedicated to that would have been good, such as getting us to call the tourist office infront of the whole class or something.

Perhaps the most pointless phrase I was ever taught was to ask if there is a bakery nearby. You will always find a bakery in Greece, just walk 5 minutes in any direction. They're as plentiful as churches.

Summer Lovin'

As I type this, I am turning into jelly. Seriously, this life of not doing much at all is taking its toll. Gone are the days when I survived on a diet of pure garbage and had nothing to show for it. Time's a-moving on and at 27, the weight has now started to stick in places that previously had a Teflon-like ability to deflect fat.

A few days ago I got it into my head that taking the dog for runs would a) help me get fit and b) stop the dog being such a total asshole all the time. This project was unsuccessful because it is too hot to do anything, I am by nature a completely lazy person and the dog is by nature an asshole, and laziness and assholiness are not properties easily conditioned out.

I have also never been a fan of gyms. All those fit people being fit are far too intimidating to me. It's much less embarrassing to cough and splutter after two minutes of running with only my dog as a witness than an entire gym.

Other projects that have gone to seed are waking up extra early and going to the beach for a refreshing swim. It's so hot in the city right now that there were news reports of families sleeping on the beach last night because of the heat. I don't particularly mind the heat, except being without a car means running errands becomes a lot harder in this heat.

Tomorrow I plan on going to the much media maligned Menandrou street to buy mangoes, but let's see if the heat cancels out my drive to eat mangoes. I don't get the media horror stories. I go to Menandrou street all the time all on my own and no one has ever bothered me there. In fact, I only ever tend to see the police kicking up a fuss down there. I feel more uncomfortable in the snooty shops of Kolonaki than I do in Menandrou.

On more refreshing and sweet smelling news, Greece is now 10 days into a smoking ban that I would never have believed if I wasn't witnessing myself. On Saturday I enjoyed my first smoke-free night out in Athens and it was wonderful. I hope people keep up the pace, because no matter how much people here hate being told what to do, smoking is not good for you and as lazy as I am, I object to being forced to inhale a substance that I do not willingly put inside my lungs. My decision to poison myself on alcohol on Saturday was entirely mine and mine alone.

Finally, don't forget to buy this Sunday's Kyriakatiki Eleftherotypia for a DVD of 4 Bollywood movies. Count 'em, FOUR! Get yourself down to Menandrou street, buy a box of mangoes and enjoy a Bollyfest of unseen proportions in Greece!

Image: www.alienlovespredator.com

Growing Up with MJ

There is nothing to say about Michael Jackson that hasn't already been said. To me, his death was a particular shock because as a kid of the 80s, I grew up on his music when he was at his peak. He was the benchmark of a good dancer for our generation. When talking about someone who could dance, the defining test of if they were really that talented was if they could do Michael Jackson moves. How many childhood hours the world over were spent trying to moonwalk?

He was the only person me and my sisters ever wrote a fan letter to. I believe it was a critical dissection of his Moon Walker movie which we addressed to Michael Jackson, Neverland, America. God only knows where it ended up.

Our mother would go to the video shop and buy Michael Jackson music videos which we watched on an endless loop during our parents' afternoon siestas. This was before we had any sort of music channel in the Home Country.

People even teased me about resembling him and I once donned a pair of Aviators and white tape on my fingers for a picture, stood next to my Michael Jackson poster which is the only celebrity poster I ever bothered buying. It was flattering as a kid when he was still normal looking, but when the last comparison occurred just four years ago, I was deeply insulted.

As the years rolled on I abandoned my Michael Jackson fan status as things got weird and eventually he became not much more than tabloid fodder to me.

And then on Thursday night, as I was inspecting the skin peeling from my face from over enthusiastic spot removal efforts, my youngest sister rushed into the bathroom and told me that Michael Jackson had died.

It was only after that that I realised just how much fantastic music he made, and how much of that music appears as a backdrop to childhood memories and how my future kids would ask me where I was when I heard the news, the way we ask our parents where they were when Elvis died.

The Thriller video scared the living daylights out of me until I forced myself to watch despite my terror to the end and assure myself that the zombie does turn back into good old MJ. I defined what I wanted to look like when I grew up by all the women in Michael Jackson videos. Isn't it nice when you're a kid and you just think that you'll grow up to look like Iman simply because you want to?

And kids of today have no idea how cutting edge for its time the Black and White video was when the people in the end are all merging into each other, not even movies were doing that back then. As for that particular video, my sisters and I were beside ourselves with joy that an Indian woman got to dance with Michael Jackson in a video. Man, we knew the entire script to that video by heart.

And now all we are left from a life we literally picked and pecked to death is the music. At least I got to see Michael Jackson in the flesh for a few very brief seconds.

It was the late 80s and on one of our trips to the UK, our parents carted us off to Madame Tussaud's wax museum. Amongst the other attractions, a new statue of Michael Jackson had been unveiled. I was pretty young, but as far as I can recall the statue must have been stood under a spotlight because the rest of the room was very dark and gloomy.

All of a sudden, my mother shrieked "Oh my God! That's Michael Jackson!" I thought, yeah, it is Michael Jackson, it's his statue, why did you realise that all of a sudden? She repeated again that it was the real Michael Jackson and I spun around to catch a glimpse of the man himself flanked by bodyguards making a hasty exit as the crowd surged in his direction. That night, his clandestine appearance botched by my mother made the news.

When the news broke of his death and we sat together recalling how crazy we all were about Michael Jackson, I told her I wished she had quietly turned us around and pointed instead of notifying everyone in the room, causing his exit and making my one and only glimpse of Michael Jackson the back of him. At least I fared better than my older sister who turned in time to be hit in the face by Michael Jackson's shoulder bag and thus saw nothing at all. On our return to the Home Country, awe-struck friends told her she should never wash her face again.

Lying Under Trees, Looking At the Stars

I was a very little girl when we were dragged off one evening to see the great Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan who was making an appearance at our little town where nothing ever happens. Naturally all the mysticism and poetry went straight over my head and the only reason I even remember the night was because I was so bored and annoyed at being subjected to this fat man singing.

If only I knew back then!

Greek Tragedies

The following conversation took place in Greek:

Me: It would be nice to be able to wear those big sunglasses. Everyone looks good in those, it's hard not to look good in those!

Friend: Couldn't they make you a prescription pair?

Me: No, they'd apparently weigh too much because of the size of the lenses. But no big deal. On my next trip to the UK I'm going to see my eye doctor and get lentils for my eyes.

Friend: ...(looking blank)

Me: You know, lentils! You put them in your eyes and then you don't wear glasses? Come on! Your husband wears them too!

Friend: You mean lenses (φακόυς) not lentils (φακές)

http://tiny.cc/FAlZs

Bollybutton's Friday Beatbox

It's been far too long since we put on our dancing saris and busted a move. It's Friday! We got through one more week of evil Bollywood villains and plotting, giant bindi wearing mother-in-laws! What better way to express our happiness than through the medium of Bollywood dance?




Image: http://pics.livejournal.com/filmi_girl/pic/00095d8p

Find A Happy Place

After having my face practically ripped off my head, I thought I could not take any more wedding related shizz. But never say never!

Sore, irritable, and complaining to anyone willing to listen, I dragged my bridal ass downtown on Saturday morning to run errands, namely buying sugared almonds for wedding favours which I'm making myself (all that work and no one even keeps them afterwards) and picking up some fabric to make a dress for the casual part of the wedding day.

I went to the same shop I always go to for fabric and in the chit chatting about the fabric, I revealed what it was for. So the lady in the shop was kind enough to knock a few euros off the price since it was for a 'special occassion'.

On the ride home I was furiously running through all the things that were irritating me, like a kid picking at a scab. My thoughts sounding something like this:

* I can't BELIEVE I have to make so many of these favours when no one even keeps them afterwards!!

* My newly unblocked pores are sweating so much!

*Why is this flyer stuck to my shoe? Disgusting, melted chewing gum. Yet another thing to be pissed off at

* EUR 300 for hair and makeup? Are these people insane? I'll just do it myself and screw anyone who disagrees

And blahdy blah blah. It was a full on moan fest. I got home, threw the fabric into the washing machine to pre-shrink it and hung it out to dry.

A few hours passed and I forgot about the fabric. Finally on Sunday morning I remembered that I'd put it out but it had since disappeared from the line. Where could it have gone, one wondered.

Peeking into the back yard, I was horrified to see my poor dress fabric lying in a heap, crumpled and mashed into the mud of the yard. Yes, Brush-With-Death puppy had got bored of having no one to bark at and had a great time ripping a full variety of holes into the dress fabric, ranging from huge to teeny tiny. It was hard to find a square metre without some sort of hole through it.

I began to cry. And then I stopped. I rewashed the fabric and worked all around the holes to cut the pattern pieces. Not an easy task considering the dress is bias cut.

As a result of my pity party and lashings of negativity, all I did was attract even more bad luck. So from now until D day, I am no longer blogging about anything wedding related.Having found myself in a Catch-22 situation where giving my opinion results in people doing what they want to do anyway, and where not giving my opinion results in them insisting they know my opinion, then doing what they wanted to anyway, my new answer to any question is: "Do what you think is best."

I have adopted a zen-like attitude, a sort of mental hibernation. I'll wake up after the wedding.

Image: http://www.orbitcast.com/archives/head-in-the-sand.jpg

This is the Death Mask of Womanhood*

There are times when I feel so out of touch with woman kind, that I really wish that I too was interested in all the stuff that other women are interested in - hair, nails, shoes, salon appointments, stupid looking handbag dogs etc.

I am on the whole happy with who I am, but sometimes I wish I found this stuff interesting, or could at least fake my interest in it, just to join in with the gang and have things to talk about.

What I'm talking about is the kind of woman who has been taught the 'rules of womanhood' by her mother. Who never leaves the house without makeup, who goes once a week to get her hair and nails done, who complicates her life unnecessarily but can't come to grips with you being female, not being a lesbian, and not being interested in those things.

My mother owned one eye pencil, one lipstick, one blusher and one perfume. That's it. She replenished the same exact shade and brand whenever she was done, and she always looked pretty great to me. But you might as well be from the moon if you admit that philosophy to other women, especially in Greece.

The build up to this wedding is turning into an exercise of first time rites of passage in womanhood for me. Since the Wedding Beast has now reached the size where it is devouring me, one nerve at a time, I thought I might as well join in and try some of this stuff women keep going on about. It might even be relaxing! A facial for example!

Since the resident spots did not even flinch when I began applying expensive spot busters to them, carpet bombing was the only option left. So I turned to my crazy friend M from bellydance, who happens to be beautician, but the good kind, ie she doesn't wear 6 inches of makeup or have fake nails.

She gave me a long chat about how careful I would need to be with my skin because the melanin would leave marks that would take forever to fade if I went to someone who had no experience with ethnic skin.

Now, I trust M. I know that all this will be worth it at some point and that at least most of the spots were evacuated from their posts this morning. But oh my GOD. I've experienced less pain in the dentist's chair.

The first facial of my life confirmed for me that women are completely insane. I had the living daylights squeezed out of my pores and then M declared "We'll burn the microbes now" followed by the bone-chilling sound of electricity crackling. "What the hell is that!" I wailed as she brandished a torture device near me.

And then, dear reader, I lay there while my face was electrocuted. And not only that, I paid for it afterwards. Do you know what they call this treatment? High frequency facial treatment. I suppose no one would submit to it if it was called what it actually is: Facial Electrocution treatment.

My face looks like a hot mess at the moment. Every pore on my face is screaming "FUCK YOU" at me and has turned red, swollen and angry. I feel like crying when I look in the mirror. With M's follow up schedule, I'm sure things will smooth out and at least those awful bumps won't come back. But when my face looks like I stuck it in a bee hive, it's really hard to hold on to that faith.

Preparations for the wedding is proving very revealing in terms of all the awful things women do to themselves to 'look good'. I was happy with my face. Experiencing all that pain on my face of all places has made me feel violated - I wish I could go back to this morning before I knew that ones face could feel such pain.

It's also made me realise that the women who are into this stuff are fucking crazy. Why complain about how long it takes you to maintain your hairdo when you could just walk out the door after washing your hair? The sky won't fall, you know.

And manicures? Seriously guys, these don't even last more than two days. You pay money to make your nails look like your nails do anyway. When I showed my french manicure to Mr Zeus's grandma, she said "I don't see any manicure. Why didn't she paint them with a colour?"

The excuse is that all this rubbish makes women feel good about themselves. Why do I feel like the only person thinking "But the emperor has no clothes... he's naked! Why all this oohing and aahing over how great his clothes are?"

And if you are a woman who goes for facials, waxing, laser treatments, salon hairdos where they yank and pull at your hair all the time, facial electrocution and suchlike, I don't EVER want to hear about your painful period again. And give birth naturally! I don't want to hear about your pain threshold, you big fat liar! You can't torture yourself for years like this and then decide pain is something you can't handle. Liar, liar, LIAR!

With a face like this I am not leaving the house for the rest of my life. I think it's time to freak out my neighbours and start wearing a niqab.

*Disclaimer: I am pissed as hell this week. And especially today, when my face looks like fuck and smells like wet metal.

Image: http://www.prevention.com/pvnstatic-assets/images/298x232_article_size/beauty/298x232_LB_AAA_home_skcare_ST.jpg

Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad

This morning I got a nasty shock when I went outside to silence our dog barking. I admit he is a problem barker, but I was not prepared to find a piece of aluminium foil pushed under the fence containing two biftekia smothered with a rancid smelling blue liquid.

Without having the decency to come and talk to us about our dog's barking being disturbing, or even to leave a note, someone had tried to poison our dog. An animal that is only following its protective instincts. Lately I've been running errands in the mornings before work, and I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't been at home to check why he was barking and find him curiously sniffing at the "treat" left for him.

The people in the apartment building opposite saw me and my Greek sister (sister in law) shaking our heads over the poisoned meat and ushered us over. Apparently, someone in the neighbourhood had come to the building opposite ours and given the family's details in an attempt to convince the people in that building to make a complaint about us to the police.

What kind of people are these that would poison an animal without even approaching the owners first? Death by poisoning is a very slow and painful way to die. The animal suffers beyond belief. A dog of mine in the Home Country was poisoned and vomited blood for days before his poor little body could no longer take any more.

Lots of people in our neighbourhood keep dogs, and lots of them bark. One dog in particular yaps all day and all night in the summer. But I feel our dog was particularly targeted because he is a Doberman, and this breed has the mistaken stereotype of being vicious. Anyone who ever had a Doberman as a pet knows what silly, playful and lovable animals they are. Whoever tried to poison him must have thought that he's only being kept as a guard dog and not as a pet, so his death would only be an nuisance and carry no emotional weight for the owners.

Animal poisoning is very common in Greece so I don't know why I was so shaken today. I just had faith that my neighbourhood was populated by people with some decency and values, not barbarians who think its okay to torture another living creature.

Image: http://www.signswithanattitude.com/images_signs/special_signs/dead_dogs.jpg

Europe's Bad Taste on Display at Eurovision

In the UK, representing the country for Eurovision is considered career suicide. It gets an ok following, but the last few years people got bored of the political voting and stopped watching. Hey, no one likes being reminded that the whole playground thinks you're a bully and won't play with you.

In Greece though, Eurovision is such a big deal that the chat shows dedicate blanket coverage to the goings on of the contest in the two weeks running up to the finals. Even my favourite chat show "Κοιτάω μπροστά" (Looking Ahead) sacrificed an afternoon to Eurovision, which I was most disappointed about. More on Κοιτάω μπροστά another time, it's the daytime TV equivalent of cocaine.

When our dear superstar Sakis picked his song, I was doubtful. It didn't sound Eurovisiony enough to me. But oh well, Eurovision's biggest audience is women and gay men, so Sakis was sure to bring the votes in. I'm crazy about Eurovision and missed out on attending it when it was held in Greece because it was too close to an important exam. But I thought never mind, Sakis is totally selling the whole Next-Year-Eurovision-On-A-Greek-Island thing. Who could possible resist that?

And then along came some Norwegian guy who still hasn't gotten over some girl he went out with and moaned about it to all of Europe. And Europe in a display of terrible taste gave him a landslide victory. Why am I surprised? Last year's Russian entry was equally shit and only won because of political voting.

I have things to say to the following parties about this heinous miscarriage of justice:

1. Now, Europe. Obviously you're all sentimental fools nursing broken hearts. I get that. We've all been there - the one that got away, the one I was so in love with, blah blah blah. But JESUS!! GET OVER IT! Couldn't you have just got some therapy instead of ruining my Eurovision dreams, and those of Sakis and all of Greece?? Don't you know who Sakis is? He's like a god here! I hope you're satisfied with what you've done. Go freeze your asses off in Norway next year and think of this as your extremeties loose sensation:

"I could have been in Greece right now if I'd voted for Sakis."

2. Northern Europe, who voted so shabbily for Greece - thanks for nothing. You all come here in flocks in the summer, stealing our jobs and our women and our sunloungers and forcing us to see your pasty white bodies turn red under the Greek sun. You come here all the time, year after year, and we're nice to you. The least you could have done was voted for Greece, how bloody ungrateful can you get?!

3. Sweden - I hear your Eurovision presenters has some rather nasty things to say about Sakis and his enthusiastic shirt ripping. I'd like to see you sing and dance like that at the same time with not even a wobble in your voice. Not even big international stars can dance like that and sing live, including Madonna who always mimes when doing yoga onstage. Furthermore, take notes of subclause a and b below:

a) You sent some terrifying manwoman to represent your country.

b) If it's going out of fashion for the Greek boys to chase the Swedish girls on holiday, that's not Sakis's fault.


4. Sakis, it was with a heavy heart that I watched your unnecessary apology to Greece. It's not your fault that Europe has bad taste in music. My tip for next time is: when shirt ripping is in progress, accidental or otherwise, go for it and rip it right off. That would have at least doubled your votes.

5. Russian cameramen - you didn't do too good a job. Don't you know who Dita Von Tees is?

6. Finally, Norwegian winner. Thanks to you we will have to listen to everyone else's miserable love stories next year.


On merrier notes, I thought it was a really good contest this year. I was sure the competition was going to be very tight. Landslide victories are no fun to watch. I thought Armenia, Turkey and Azerbaijan all had fun songs and I was happy to see my cheesey pal Arash again.

We were watching the contest with some friends and the disappointment in the air was tangible. When the last vote came in, with Greece about 300 points off winning, a member of the gang said "That's it guys, we lost"

You gotta admire that sort of optimism, not losing hope till the last moment.

Image: http://images.icanhascheezburger.com/completestore/2008/12/11/128734810832554971.jpg

Big Brother Isn't Watching Me

The Greek government spends most of its time being disasterously out of touch with its people, so I was delighted to hear that Google's Street View cars have been banned from picturing the streets of Greece in order to protect the privacy of the public.

Echoing a widespread view, Yannis Papadopoulos, a Greek leftist who agreed with the watchdog's precautionary stance, said: "Privacy as a concept or even word may not exist in our language but all this snooping is simply Orwellian. We won't let it pass."

Street View seemed like a cool idea to me, until I started reading about people who had been caught by the cameras in the privacy of their own homes half-dressed, or in other compromising positions, and could not get their image removed from Google. So there you were admiring yourself in some newly purchased Y fronts, and all of a sudden the whole world is watching.

What I didn't like about the article is that it starts off painting this move as a reluctance on the part of Greeks to embrace new technology. True as that may be, it certainly doesn't apply in this context. This is about the protection of individual privacy, not a fear of new technology.

Hooray! A rare step in the right direction by the Greek government!

Image: http://www.blogcadre.com/files/images/83732757_866609a35c.preview.jpg

Bolly Biscuits!

Henceforth, the only biscuits allowed in the BollyZeus household are those by biscuit makers Papadopoulos.






This song was composed by Oscar winner AR Rahman who did the music for Slumdog Millionaire. Told you he was a genius!

Bollybutton Becomes Bridezilla

I'm ashamed to say I had a bust up with Mr Zeus the other day because my imagined small and personal wedding has turned into a Wedding Beast with a life of its own and upwards of 200 guests on the list. I'm watching the wedding madness unfold around me and feeling like Toula in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when everyone takes over the wedding, the guests, the invitations etc.

All this was making me supremely pissed off, so I've decided that if I can't beat them, I'll join them. No point feeling irritated that things aren't going your way. All that "It's YOUR big day" stuff is nonsense anyway. Anyone who's been on the inside of a wedding knows that the last person the "big day" is about is the bride and groom.

I realised that things were getting truly stupid - why were we wasting our time arguing about this sort of thing? Since I was never someone who sat around imagining what my wedding would be like, who cares how it turns out! It's only one day in my life after all. It will be perfect whichever way it turns out because I am to all intents and purporses married anyway to Mr Zeus. Plus, I will finally have all the people I love in one spot altogether for the first time - my own family and my Greek family. So why sweat the small stuff?

Besides, as Mr Zeus said, it's not like I'm Swedish. I have adequate training for Wedding Beasts from life in the Home Country. This wedding pales in comparison to some of the mayhem I've witnessed.

I was on the phone with one of my sisters and we were recalling a wedding we had gone to in our neighbourhood as children. A wedding in the Home Country lasts a minimum of three days - the henna party, the wedding and the reception. The wedding is paid for by the bride's side and the reception by the groom's side. The reception is like another wedding, involving a whole new set of lavish clothes for the bride. That outfit is usually chosen by your mother-in-law, and many times I used to feel they picked something deliberately hideous just to spite the bride.

Those are the three basic ceremonies, but people who like to show off add any number of auxillary and pointless ceremonies. Each one takes up a separate day, and so once we ended up going to a week-long wedding that ran as follows:

1. The Yes Ceremony - To celebrate the couple accepting the engagement. Whatever, it's not like they had a choice to say no.



2. The Engagement Ceremony - The exchanging of rings takes place



3. The Oil Ceremony - The bride gets her hair oiled. All the female guests take turns adding a drop at a time. Yeah, pointless. It was running down her face by the time we were done.



4. The Ubtan Ceremony - The female guests take turns applying a traditional bridal skin scrub to the bride. WTF right? This is usually done in private without any ceremony to go along. I mean, I don't see anyone coming to my bathroom to exfoliate my elbows. Am I missing out?



5. The Henna Ceremony - Fun times. My favourite part of any wedding



6. The Wedding



7. The Reception

Don't be fooled. Each one of those days involved lavish settings, decorations to the house and full-on wedding meals. It was awful. By the time we got to the wedding we just didn't care any more. Everyone was feeling like they had run a marathon and our mother was at her wits end because each of the seven days required a different outfit for us.

So all I have done is slightly re-wired my brain to think Asian Wedding not European Style wedding, and things are feeling more manageable already.

Today I think I got my marriage licence, but it's come stapled with something to the front that I can'y make head nor tail of, and I don't see our dates anywhere on the papers so I don't know what else is left to do. Did I miss a step or something?

The most upsetting thing of all was that the Mayor's office keeps all the papers I submitted. Including my Apostille stamped birth certificate. Weep!!! I'll have to go through all that again if I ever need a birth certificate copy in Greece, which I probably will at some point.

But anyway, looks like summer finally decided to make an appearance and it was about damn time.

Image: http://www.thestuffhegaveme.com/product_image/2009bridezilla.jpg

A Little Post for my Little Man

There is only one male on this planet who can stick his feet under my nose and command, "Smell!" and I'll do it. My beloved godson, the one I faked Christianity for.



Image: http://www.mississippifamilylawblog.com/Holding%20Hands.jpg

Message in a Bottle

The Guardian newspaper is running a fun story on readers' letters to their younger selves, and while I may not be the wisest of people, I think there are some things I would have loved my younger self to have known:

To Bollybutton, roughly 10 years ago:

1. You're in your late teens now and still an ugly duckling. You've in fact convinced yourself that you'll never be attractive and are okay with that, which is an achievement since even I have to tell you, you are quite hideous right now. But that's mostly your fault because you reject any form of beautification as anti feminist. On that front, you should know it does get better, and actually this period will turn out to round you off nicely as a person, because you know you can't wing it on looks so you focus on other aspects of your personality.

2. The most shocking thing I have to tell you from the future is that you are working in a bank. Yes, as much as it pains me to say this, your parents were right about your career choices, and a lot of other things. You should not have studied journalism at university. Actually, you should have not gone to uni. You should have started working at the local paper if you were really serious about the journalism thing.

But you do go to university where you pretty much waste all your free time doing nothing. You should have joined the uni newspaper at least, you lazy bum.

3. Since you didn't listen and went to university, my note from the future is to let your hair down more. Smoke some pot! Have some drinks! Go to all the parties! You know how you say now you are determined to live your life without ever touching a drop of alcohol? Well, that gets blown to dust after you meet the love of your life in 2004, and all you think is: "Why did I wait so long to try this?"

4. On that note, and this will shock you to death because you are so dead set on this one, you don't save sex till marriage either, and all you think is: "Why did I wait so long to try this?"

5. At the end of your university life, you meet someone. Now, trust me, you didn't like this guy when you met him at the start of your university life, so why change a good thing. But seriously, you made this more complicated than it had to be.

Either sleep with him or cut yourself loose right now. Since you're going to get yourself tangled up anyway, don't bother moping about it for as long as you did, it really is no big deal in the end. There are worse things in life than getting cheated on. *slap* Get over it!

6. Real life will come as a terrible shock to you and you will sink to such a miserable low at the end of 2003 that you'll wish death upon yourself every day, mostly because all your illusions got shattered at the same time and you can't cope. It does start to make more sense though.

7. Look in the mirror. See how flawless your skin is? Why didn't you notice that more, especially when all your girlfriends told you how great your skin was? Do you think you got away with the spots thing because you're done with puberty? Well. I've got news for you, girl!

8. You're going to be one of those women who takes care of her men like he's a little baby.

9. Don't be so angry. The world goes on, and though right now you believe that if you fan the flames of your passion for change, something will happen, the truth is it won't. Observe the world, keep going to protests, but don't be so convinced that people like you will change something.

10. Go home to visit your parents more often. I mean, you do well, but in a couple of years you're going to up and move to another country (yipee!) but when you do this, you will acutely regret all those weekends and holidays when you could have been at home with your family. Spending half-term with your friends will not be what you remember. You'll just regret not spending that half-term with your sisters and parents.

11. Don't you talk to your mother like that!

12. Also, enjoy your trips to the Home Country more often. In these years, you get to go for four, sometimes five or six weeks at a time. Don't roll around complaining that you're starting to feel bored and missing your friends in the UK. Since those years have passed, you have not managed to go back for longer than 10 days.

You think the Home Country will always be there to visit, but if only you could see the mess of a country it will become. If you knew this, you'd spend your whole summer holidays there. I can't even tell you if the Home Country will still exist in another 5 years, let alone 10, because I don't know any more.

13. On these visits, spend more time with your Uncle and Aunty. They won't be around much longer.

14. Make more of an effort to talk to your Dad in his mother tongue. The man has spent upwards of 20 years talking to you in English. You will learn the comforting effects of hearing your mother tongue when you are forced to learn a new language, and you'll start restricting your conversations with your father to his dialect, but you're pretty hopeless at it. If you start now, you might do better.

15. You finally get to go to the Olympics! And it sparks a domino affect that changes your life.

16. You turn out to be a lot braver than you thought, and do a lot of the things which you used to say "I could never do that"

17. Boots discontinuing your favourite hair mousse is not cause for firing off page long emails to your friends about what to do, how your hair looks today, etc etc. How the hell can you spend so much energy on such pointless things?

18. You will never again get the social opportunities university offers you. You could learn so much through the student societies - new dances, new languages, new cultures, music. This chance will never, ever reappear. Don't waste it. Out of all your friends who you waste your time with instead of growing as a person, only about 3 or 4 will still be with you in 2009.

19. Be nicer to your older sister. You will learn later what she's trying to cope with.

20. To finish, in 2009 you will be happy. You're still worrying over stupid things which in 10 years you'll feel like an idiot about. But you are happy. You feel reborn. You have learnt to see beautiful things all around you and enjoy good company as if it were a glass of cold water on a hot day. You are buzzing with optimism for the future. You value life for what it is in all its colours, a precious gift which we only get one chance at. You don't miss the past and your childhood as much as you did 10 years ago. You still sit around on your ass too much though.

What do you wish you could tell your teenage self?

Image: http://www.dailygalaxy.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/11/19/shutterstock_6711424.jpg

Translate. What's the Worst That Could Happen?

I'm terrible at maths. If anyone says "My brain is stuck, what's so and so minus 12?" I feel my stomach hit the floor and my brain turn to mush as I struggle to find a way to escape the trap without looking as stupid as maths makes me feel. I'm told this might be a Pavlovian response to my maths teachers of youth whose technique involved drilling times tables into our heads and stalking the classroom with a ruler to crack across your palm when you got it wrong. Being bad at math meant you were automatically stupid, and no matter how hard I tried, the moment I saw the numbers on a test paper, I flew into a panic and the numbers began to swim infront of my eyes.


It still happens. That horrified feeling of realising you don't know what the hell it is the symbols mean, though some part of you knows that if only you could calm yourself down, you might be able to make some sense of the puzzle before you.


I had that same horrified feeling this morning when I went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs downtown in Athens to get my birth certficate translated. To get to this stage, I had to shell out EUR 80 for an express copy of a new birth certificate in the UK, delivered to my parents' house, and then my mum had to go to Milton Keynes for the Apostille stamp [add another EUR 35] and post it back to me Special Delivery which took nearly 10 days to arrive because of the Easter post backlog.


The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is a really depressing place, a shabby building screaming out for a new coat of paint and a something to get rid of the Screw You Foreigners atmosphere of the place. I feel sorry for anyone who has to go there, I even feel sorry for myself. We foreigners milled around outside like lost cattle till the gates opened before 9 am. This was my first time dealing all alone with a Greek institution and I was really nervous. I felt like I was groping about in the dark as I followed the crowd through the gates and made my way to the 2nd floor.


When I got to the office that deals with Greek and English translations, I discovered that all the tables on the walls, on the booths and anything helpful or otherwise instructional was in Greek. And official, technical Greek. So there I was without my dictionary, staring around wild-eyed and panic-stricken, knowing if I could just calm down I might be able to understand the tables. It's just that I was so wrong-footed at finding everything in Greek that my mind went blank.


You see, here's my really radical line of thought and what I expected to find: the Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs, that deals with, you know, foreigners, would surely have instructions in one or two languages other than Greek. But obviously that's way too crazy a thought for even the Ministry's employees to attempt. Make life a little easier for foreigners in Greece? Are you joking?? It's that kind of crazy thinking that leads to COMMUNISM, Missy!


Eventually after several moments of panic, I worked out what I had to do by following the crowd. I filled in a short form which, mercy me, had instructions in English too, and handed it over with the other papers and EUR 12 for an express translation which will take one week. Express? Oh well. Handing over my papers, the money and getting a receipt took mere seconds, but those moments of cluelessness that preceded have no doubt added some more hairs to my grey streak.


Now I can see the benefit of forcing people to do things in the native language. I've met people in the UK with so little English, and some who have been in the UK 25+ years and can speak not a word of English, because the system makes it too easy to get away with. This hinders integration.


But guys, really. I'm trying to integrate. I live here, I spend my worthless GBPs converted to Euros here, I'm getting married (if you'll let me) and maybe I'll be having little Greek babies too. I don't even hang out with expats, that's how hard I'm trying to integrate. You don't have to be so scared of me not learning Greek so as not to translate anything!


Looking on the bright side, if nothing else I am learning new words throughout this ordeal of paperwork. My latest acquisition is sfragida, the Greek for stamp, a word which I always get stuck prononoucing - sffff sffffff. This was learnt when describing my Apostille stamp nightmare to a family friend we had gone to visit, and it turns out she was having the same problem trying to process her British-born grandaughter's birth certificate in Athens. And wasn't I delighted to be in a position to advise a Greek on how to extract ones self from red tape!

Image: http://www.engrish.com//wp-content/uploads/2008/08/if-you-are-stolen.jpg

BB Goes to Mykonos

I did something I've never done over Orthodox Easter and went to Mykonos. Mykonos is Greece's number one party island, especially famous with celebs and the gay community.

We took advantage of a special offer on at a hotel that normally costs stupid amounts of money, which we shared with a very noisy Spanish family and a couple of football players. And an extremely, extremely friendly receptionist who practically ripped off her clothes and did a naked dance on the main desk in her shameless pursuit of Mr Zeus.

"Mr Zeuuus" she cooed one afternoon after we'd returned from lunch for a nap, "how aaaare you?" *makes goo goo eyes, makes goo goo eye*

"I'm doing fine Kyria Whatever (Kyria in Greece is the equivalent of Ms or Mrs, and used regardless of a woman's marital status)"

"Oh chortle chortle! Not Kyria Whatever, DESPINIS Whatever (Despinis is the equivalent of Miss, used not that often but to imply a young, unmarried girl)"

Next, she probably dropped her pen down her cleavage and asked him to retrieve it "because I just painted my nails" for all I know, since I decided I'd had enough disrespect for an afternoon and went to wait outside our room while two little Spanish girls played with a stray cat that looked all partyed out.

That's the telling thing about Mykonos and how it must be in the summer. Even the cats on the island look coked out of their brains. They have these pathetic little scratchy voices like they spent all night smoking and shouting "Yeah DJ! Louder! Louder! Come on cats, hands in the air and SCREEEAAAAMMM!"

At this time of year, Mykonos is still just about okay to visit and have a relaxing time. But if, like me, you tend to have Ugly Days, it's not the most fun place. The light in Mykonos is so white it highlights flaws on your face you weren't even aware of so that even if you think you're okay looking, a day in Mykonos makes you throw up your hands and scream "Oh God! I'm... Quazimodo!"

The island is crawling with beautiful people who don't smile and all look like they were made at the same factory. Yeah okay, I know the beautiful people are what Mykonos is all about, but for all their good looks none of them looked like they were having much fun. We went to the famous Caprice bar which was lovely, but not much partying was going on in there.

So we went to Mykonos Bar which drew us in with the one and only decent song they played for the next hour and a half, by which time we'd ordered drinks and it was too late to make a quick exit. Finally when we couldn't take any more remixed Greek ballads, we went hunting for something else and we did find one really small bar, the name of which escapes me, where we had a great time.

A bunch of drunk Greeks took a photo with me as I was making my way back from the ladies room, so if you woke up with a picture of you and a dark-skinned girl in a white dress with glasses and you have no idea who she is or why she's in your picture, that's me.

The hotels' pool was filled with sea water. The sea around Mykonos is chilly even in the summer but it was positively asset-freezing this time of year. Still, having dreamt all winter about swimming, I couldn't wait any longer so while Mr Zeus dipped his toes in, I dipped myself in.

Bonus points for me since I was so terrified of the sea four years ago I would blanch if I went any deeper than my waist. I couldn't even swim back then, and I'm not too great at it now either since my muscles have turned to custard sitting all day infront of this computer. But I did enjoy myself more than ever before.

On that note, winter seems to have lasted forever. It's still not hot. It's starting to feel like summer will never come. My life in Greece is the summer, and then the bits where I'm waiting for summer to happen.

Image: http://www.mikatravel.com/front/files/travels/TVL6813FM54YF263/img/mykonos2.jpeg

If You're Happy And You Know It

I was puzzled this morning to see a news report about new child wellbeing statistics for Europe by the Child Poverty Action Group which placed Greece at number 24 out of 29 countries, just above the United Kingdom at number 25.

The usual countries like Sweden, Finland etc were near the top and the Netherlands came out at number one.

How could this be? Can Greece really be only just about marginally better to raise a child in than the UK? I'm not a parent so I'm not exposed to a child's view of life in Greece. Let's take the points one by one:

Greece: Overall rank 24 our of 29

Health: 29 out of 29

This could be true. A public health system does exist in Greece, theoretically for free, but like with all other things, nothing gets done without bribes being exchanged. Practically everyone has health insurance for private hospitals as most Greeks will snootily tell you that government hospitals are only for gypsies.

However, if you turn up at a hospital needing urgent treatment, you will not be turned away for lack of hard cash or insurance to cover you. You will get treated.

The Greeks also have some of the worst teeth I've ever seen which is saying something after life in the Home Country. I don't really understand that, since the diet is quite healthy in my observation, yet if you stood on the street and did a random count, you'd be left thinking most people in Greece really can not afford a dentist. Or a toothbrush. But do Greek kids have the worst teeth and health in Europe??? I doubt it.

Subjective Wellbeing: 3 out of 29

Now this is telling, because this measures what the kids surveyed actually thought their own lives were like, and they seem to think their lives are pretty good. Either they're seriously delusional (along with me who thinks Greece would be a super place for kids) or their actually lives and their lives as on papers and statistics are quite different.

Children's Relationships: 23 out of 29

This measured how well children were able to talk to and get along with their peers and adults. Confusing, once more. On one hand, the Greek approach to parenting is like the Greek approach to any other problem: either bribe away the problem or scream away the problem. If you've ever been to Jumbo you'll see this gloriously illustrated.

On the other hand, children in Greece are the absolute centre of everyone's universe. They are adored and longed for and their futures dreamt about by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins etc long before they're even in existence.

When I take my replacement-for-a-child doggy out for walks, I very often see grandparents out with strollers talking to their teeny tiny charges, describing everything they can see to infants often just a few months old. I'd say that's some pretty solid bond forming. So I don't know what to think of that one except to say maybe kids in Greece don't get along that well with other kids in Greece.

Material Resources :19 out of 29

Indicated by income, access to material goods and parental unemployment. Could be true. Mr Zues and I pay more in utility bills per quarter for our tiny flat than my parents do in the UK per year for a whole house, and we don't even have children. God only knows how parents get along in Greece with the cost of day to day living being so high. Food, clothes and day to day living costs a lot in Greece, and that's for a moderate lifestyle.

Greece also has a high rate of female parent unemployment. But then have you ever been to visit a Greek baby at home? They live in permanent danger of being squashed to death by the mountains of toys that are lavished upon them. Either this is an extreme exception, or Greek kids like all kids everywhere are greedy brats who watch those flashy toy adverts and always want more, more, MORE!!!!

Behaviour and Risk 22 out of 29:

I'm someone who spent much of my early years in the Home Country doing the following:

1. Gallantly fulfilling dares to stick my little fingers into those perfectly child-finger sized electricity sockets,


2. Eating the lead out of pencils (it was a craze in my class)


3. Faking illnesses to win contests for who could pop the most pills at the school nurse's office


4. Setting everything and anything on fire while my parents slept


5. Finding snakes under pulled up rugs


6. Throwing screaming tantrums in the bazaar because Mum wouldn't buy me whatever junk it was I simply had to have


7. Sucking on sample tablets from my Dad's clinic until the sugar coating wore off


8. Drinking and passing out on an entire bottle of cough syrup because I liked the taste


9. Fishing for used syringes in Dad's clinic dustbin to inject my sick baby dolls with and


10. Whiling away many an afternoon with my sisters strapping a blood pressure monitor armband around my neck and pumping it up until I could see stars. For those who don't know, that armband is supposed to go around your arm where it is pumped until the blood supply is temporarily cut off.

So who am I to say anything about a bit of bad behaviour and the stupid things that children do. Rather that than a sterile childhood, I say!

Education: 21 out of 29

I agree with this one. Kids in Greece face a really tough educational system in schools that are so run down they make even me feel appalled. The teachers are poorly paid and unmotivated and the children are kept on a constant treadmill of homework and tests that are so advanced for their age I really feel sorry for them.

Because this is the system I went through myself in the Home Country, and all it did was make me feel like an idiot through my entire school life until we came to the UK, where suddenly my teachers thought I was a genius because I was at a level at least four years ahead of the curriculum in the UK.

I feel bad for the kids in this system in Greece, because some of them will be like me and won't be able to keep up, and they will spend all their school lives thinking they're stupid or slow or can't work hard enough as a result.

Housing and Environment: 14 out of 29

Not the worst, but not good either. I can't speak for the rest of Greece by in Athens children grow up in tiny flats, sometimes without their own bedrooms (using the sitting room to sleep) and play on tarmac streets because there is a severe lack of both footpaths and green spaces in Athens.

So that's what the survery had to say and while some of it was true, I would still question Greece's ranking so low in the index. On paper it may look like children in Greece get a raw deal, but in practice, in terms of what I see around me, things are not so gloomy. Let's consider this for a second: the way children are raised in Greece has had some impact on lessening the effects of the credit crunch in Greece.

For a start, most parents try to provide their children with a flat of their own when they grow up. Secondly, a great family safety net exists here which means that it would be almost unheard of for someone to get their house repossessed because of falling back on mortgage payments. Your family would simply never allow that to happen and would pitch in to keep you from sinking.

Surveys can tell you a lot and they can also tell you nothing at all. Ask the right questions and you could come up with a different answer every time. I for one don't believe that Greece is such a rotten place for a child to grow up. If this survey were true, why would North Europe's happy and delighted children grow up to kill themselves and their peers in such great numbers?

Image: http://blog.syracuse.com/family/2008/02/tantrum.jpg

Dream a Little Dream

Watch this and if you can tell me your heart didn't melt at 1:56, it must be made of stone!!!

Just goes to show how much we judge people on their looks every day, and how wrong we can be.

When Models Eat

It amused me no end to hear a rumour that Kate Moss is going to write a Kosher cookbook. Kate Moss, as in supermodel Kate Moss, as in that's-not-icing-sugar-on-her-donut Kate Moss? Bahahahaha!!! A supermodel.... that ... eats food .... ha ha ha... please I can't laugh any more, my face hurts.

So what exactly might Kate's book read like, I tried to imagine?

Coking Cooking with Kate: A Culinary Journey

Hi! I'm Kate Moss. You're probably thinking "Do models even eat?" but rest assured, within the folds of this book lie threes of delicious recipes from over the years. Some conjure up warm childhood memories, while others were gathered through my extensive travelling as a model. Though it may surprise you, I adore food. I believe in simple food that excites your drugged out brain and leaves you wanting more.

Boiled Pea
Difficulty Level: Easy
Preparation time: 15 minutes

A filling meal and cheap too in these credit crunch times.

Ingredients:
One organic Pea

Materials:
Solid Gold Saucepan
Evian Water

Method:
Take organic pea and gently rinse with Evian water. I believe in organic farming, but who am I to preach! Place golden saucepan on the hob and fill with Evian water. Bring to a boil. Add pea. Salt if it's really necessary, but don't forget that that's extra calories. Boil for 5 minutes, drain and serve on diamond studded dinner plates. Your delicious plate of pea is ready for you to tuck in to.


Spaghetti
Difficulty Level: Intermediate
Preparation time: 10 minutes

Ah spaghetti! My childhood favourite and still that humble staple that I tuck into with gusto when I feel particularly piggy.

Ingredients:
Three strands of organic spaghetti
One organic cherry tomato (naughty!)
One basil leaf

Materials:
Solid Gold Saucepan
Evian Water

Method:
Bring your golden saucepan of Evian water to the boil and add three strands of spaghetti. Boil until ready. I like mine el dente, because the extra chewiness means I probably burn a few more calories here and there. Drain and pile onto a large platinum plate. Slice tomato and basil leaf and garnish spaghetti strands. Phew, all that lifting pans and chopping tomatoes is exhausting when you're always on the brink of starvation. Enjoy the delicious rewards of your hard work to their fullest! Mmmmm.


Icecream
Difficulty Level: Difficult

Now I know what you're thinking - models and icecream?! Yes, it is true that models are forbidden by law to consume icecream, but that's why I invented this delicious alternative.

Ingredients:
500 gms of cocaine
Evian water
Sweet thoughts

Method:
Place cocaine into a bowl, preferably the hollowed out skull of a rival model. Add enough Evian to make a creamy paste. Stand over bowl thinking the sweetest thoughts you can, like that time you told the behind the scenes fashion show girl that she was an ugly freak but not a hideously ugly freak, though she was. Anyone other than models are a less human race, which is another sweet thought.

Freeze. Stir now and again to break up the ice crystals, but take care that your twig-like arms don't snap off in the process. Serve up a big bowl and consume while taking a champagne bath.

Author's note: This book may seem a bit thin content wise, but it can be put to further good use if you don't have the time or the inclination to eat. Or if you are a model in which case you just don't eat at all. In a pinch, sprinkle the pages of this book liberally with cocaine or any other Class A drugs you have lying around and consume. A great way to beat those hunger pangs before a fashion show!*

*Not even joking here. A friend of yours truly has observed models behind the scenes at fashion shows eating tissue paper to keep away hunger pangs. Ever heard of cucumbers or celery, ladies?

Image: http://pro.corbis.com/images/42-16073237.jpg?size=572&uid=%7BBF3BFCB4-ABAC-480D-81E8-8A0C18307350%7D

Blue Screen Thinking

Today's post was going to be a pleasant ramble about how I should stop being so ungrateful about all the marriage paperwork. After all, there are people in the world who would do this much paperwork and ten times more for the privilege of marriage that we take for granted, but can't because they are a different religion or the same sex or not what was chosen for them.

But that's before Round 2 of the paperwork started. One fine day after my dad had couriered my birth certificate to me in Athens, I began making enquiries about getting it translated into Greek. I thought I'd get this out of the way while the 22 days the British Embassy wants to issue your No Impediment certificate pass.

A translated birth certificate is a necessary step in order to process your application for marriage. I checked with my other foreign and much smarter than me friend about what the translation office was like to deal with. And she asked if I had got the Apostille stamp for the birth certificate.

The what now? I rechecked all the papers. The Greek papers said all foreign birth certificates had to be legalised with an Apostille stamp and that most embassies would do this. But not the British Embassy. The only way I could get this done was through a government office in Milton Keynes. Doing it by post would take another three weeks on top of the three weeks I was already waiting for my I'm Not A Bigamist certificate from the embassy

So I altered my Easter plans and scheduled some days in London to fit in a visit to the Legalisation Office. I'd done all my checks online beforehand and felt satisfied at my own efficiency at solving the problem. When I boarded the train bright and early this morning, merry thoughts ran through my head. Soon I'd have my legalised papers and within a week we would finally have a date. Our wedding announcement had already gone to print with mine and my parents' names amusingly translated into Greek. Anxious friends would be able to book their tickets at last.

When I got to the Legalisation Office I was 15 minutes early and joined a weary looking queue outside the offices. Those mean government workers wouldn't even let us into the warmth until it was EXACTLY 9.30. I had not even had a morning cup of tea, but oh well. We were let in, issued numbers and then waited for one of the only two operating counters to free up as the numbers of hapless waiters grew and grew.

Finally it was my turn. And do you know what happened? After taking a morning train, trekking around in the cold, waiting 15 minutes in the wind and another 15 minutes while the employees finished a 'work meeting', I was out of that office in under one minute. Not because the employees are mega efficient, but because my birth certificate is laminated.

I'm surely not the only person in the country with a laminated birth certificate. Couldn't they write me a letter or something with the Apostille stamp and staple it to this? No. What about peeling off a corner of laminate and stamping it there? No. What about stamping the laminate and quickly putting some tape over it? No. Is there absolutely positively nothing you can do? No. But it's the only copy I have. Well then apply for another one. It'll only take till your first child is born.

These freaks have written an entire section on their website called Avoiding Delays where it says jack all about laminated paperwork. How long would it take someone to write "If your documents are laminated, roll them up and stick them up your backside but don't bring them here"

I should have guessed what a bunch of miserable and inflexible morons they'd be when their website declared warningly NOT to bring children and babies along when processing papers. Such items would have to be left at the desk on arrival. It didn't say that but it might as well have. Any office that bans children is out to facilitate the downfall of humanity.

I bet in their little morning meeting they pick numbers out of a bag and declare that Today's Number to Shaft is numbeeeer eeeeeiiiiggght! That was my number.

So I called Mr Zeus in tears of frustration at having come all the way to somewhere as unglamorous as Milton Keynes, paid money and missed half a day's work for nothing. He suggested checking if the British Embassy in Athens would issue me a new birth certificate. Which is what I did, and basically they told me to go get screwed since I hadn't been born in Greece.

Abandoned by my own embassy. I thought embassies existed overseas to make the lives of their countryfolk easier.

Well muchachos, you can forget me registering any of my future children with YOU. If one of them gets stranded somewhere godforsaken and I call for help, you'll probably send me a leaflet on conception so I can make a new one. You know, for all the talk of Greek bureaucracy, so far it's been dealing with the British side of things that has been a complete nightmare. It's the inflexibility of thinking that gets to me. In Greece, a few contacts and some silvered palms and you're on your way again. In the UK, if Computer Says No, Computer Says No, and not even God can change that.

So here I am, stuck without a legalised birth certificate with hardly any idea what to do next. In my fury I told Mr Zeus that I'd take my unstamped birth certificate to the translation office and just bribe the person on duty to translate it anyway. But I doubt that would work.

My checklist for you if you're a foreigner in Greece wanting to get married is this:

1) Don't do it
2) If you insist on doing it, don't be British

Image: http://hotcrumbsoflove.com/blog1/wp-content/uploads/Frustration_Relief.gif