Such a nice young man, but completely useless around the house...
He tried to make his young lady a romantic dinner, and nearly burnt the whole building down the other night.
They ended up with Campbell's soup and grilled cheese toasties...
Bless him... he tries...
So...I exaggerated a bit to impress her when we first met...but to think that now we are both stuck in this crazy situation in which she knows I exaggerated, and I know she knows, and everybody knows everything and no one speaks of any thing…quite honestly, it is rather exhausting…
The truth is that I didn’t even lie…I told her that I would make her a fab French Dinner with some Coquilles St. Jacques to start, a nice Stake au Pauvre and a full bodied Pinot Noir, all of which I am surprisingly capable of pulling off. And that made her smile. And she has such a great smile…I could not bring myself to tell her that if she would just be so kind enough as to spend the rest of her life with me I will be able to make her Coquilles St. Jacques every morning, noon and night, but will never be able to get a soft boiled egg right…
Today I had the day off, and since she will be home at about 6:30 I figured I will play the strong, manly type who is secure enough in his post modern, quarter life crisis, aspiring- metro- sexual- but- will- never- admit- to- it persona and try to look gorgeous in an apron whilst not crying when those onions get to me…This aspiration, which started as a nice gesture, has quickly turned into an epic battle the likes of which the world has not seen since Yoko and Paul were last seen in one room together.
Naturally, as any man would, I gathered the best idea is to stick to the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid!. The obvious choice was chicken…far less intimidating than a big slab of testosterone filled meat, not as pretentious as the grilled Mahi- Mahi staring back at you in complete contempt while you over charred him back to the gates of hell, and not as revealing as a big bowl of main course salad (the caveman in me once whispered in my ear that nothing is less likely to get you some than a nice big bowl of lettuce...).
Drawing inspiration from Nigella, Nigel and Gordon was my first attempt at tackling this feat. While looking through the cookbooks in search of the least complicated page I could find with a maximum amount of pictures and minimum amount of un-comprehendible text such as “El- Dente”, “flavor- fusion” and “preheat the oven”, I wondered why is it that us men do what we do so often, so poorly, and with such disregard towards the obvious truth that is bound to rear it’s ugly head in the most inopportune of times…
Why is it that we tell stories of our amazing sports careers that were ruthlessly cut short by painful injuries…of pretending to know that person who knew that guy who is the brother of someone who almost got you a date with Angelina (and boy, was she crushed when she realized you live in two different cities, and that you could never handle all of the paparazzi anyways)…of being offered that amazing position with the six figure salary and not taking it because you could not spend the rest of your life chasing after money in some high end, Landi driving, Yacht sailing, Bahamas vacationing lifestyle which just holds no intrinsic value…
Are we really that busy dealing with pissing contests and mating games, or sizing up each other without being caught looking down in the gym changing rooms, of contantly comparing ourselves to while at the same time convincing ourselves that she has never slept with anyone before you, of eternally being chained to this endless animalistic façade of showing off your feathers, thumping on your own chest and crying out in the loudest voice in the jungle: “HERE I AM, WOMEN. BEHOLD!!!"?
Between trying to understand the complexities of a game that has been played since the dawn of man, and has only gotten far more complicated with the general masculinity crisis my entire generation seems to be so deeply entrenched in, I actually managed to find one page which looks remotely manageable…god bless Jamie Oliver, the epitome of the MacDonaldisation of culinary skill. Wish me luck…
So, who is this person, OC?
They say that the best way to describe a person is to think as if you were writing his eulogy...I have no idea who says that, but I am sure someone out there does. After all, there is so much rubbish out there nowadays with all of this blogging stuff going on...what..kids dont go outside and play any more???
Well, here goes..
A loving son and brother,
a nagging boyfriend,
a chronic hypochondriac,
and a real mench...
Born in Israel at the age of twelve to a family of fifteen, OC was raised on a diet of celery and cauliflower, both of which heavily affected his ability to pass gas.
Gaining his shrewd street savvy and affinity for three legged parrots on the rough streets of several white suburbs, he finally found his calling at the age of twenty five, when he began composing Tuba renditions of emo creations.
Some of his masterpieces have gained massive success and recognition in both Estonia and the Ukraine, where a statue in his image has been erected. Birds which make attempts to defecate are immediately shot down by a brigade of ex- KGB agents who may or may not patrol the area. sometimes. maybe.
After traveling the world for a year and a bit in which he experimented with a variety of crunchy and creamy peanut butter brands, (sorry, mom..), he has decided to dedicate 68.4% of his time to the study of Japanese late night television. When that did not work out, he went to study his Masters in Edinburgh University.
OC now holds two degrees in Business, another in Philosophy, a trophy from a third grade science convention, a pair of Speedo's he will never wear (in public), an interest free credit card, two mortgages and some leftover screws from his Ikea bedside table.
In his spare time he eats.
Once, (or twice), he has confessed an uncontrollable urge to lock up Celin Dion, Maria Carey and mike Tyson in a room just to see what happens. OC uncovered the fact that Columbus discovered Donegal three weeks before discovering America, and that Lamur monkeys come from Whakkamama, New Zealand.
When not blogging, running, eating, studying, working, jumping, bending, mending or otherwise entertaining his loved ones, he contemplates becoming an astronaut and spends at least thirteen minutes a day cleaning up after his pet emu.
He is not a vegetarian.
Edna comes and cleans my house.
Well, not as much a house as a small flat in the centre of Edinburgh, owned by my precious girlfriend of the past 17 months, three days, five hours and a bit...(we love each other. promise.).
The deal is that since I moved here to Edinburgh to be with here, and had to pay a proposterous amount of money for overpriced education at an overdistinguished institution, she pays the mortgage and I give her whatever is left of my part time job salery.
On most months it covers the heating. Mostly in the summer.
In any case, Edna is wonderful. like the grandma I never had, or had, but wished she would stop with the cheek pinching. And without that funny smell that sticks to all of her cloths. And without the old pieces of candy at the bottom of her handbag...very Mary Poppinsesque... And why are they always covered in lint? In any case, not at all like my grandma, god bless her, but rather a new and improved model.
Our deal is since I pay her less that what she can get elsewhere, and definitly below what she is worth, I have to teach her some things here and there..you know- things that will keep her up to speed with what is goin' on, what is happenin' what's hip, what's cool, what's groovin'...little she knows I, being a nice little Jewish boy, know very little of "what is Groovin'" nowadays...nevertheless, gathered a quick lesson in computers should be a good start.
And that is basically how we got this thing started...me and Mrs. Jones...(Edna)...now we got this thin' goin' on...She writes here once in a while, inbetween my entries, and according to our contract, I have no veto over her thoughs or writings..
She does not know what a space bar is, but sure as hell was quick to get her head around the concept of intellectual property...
