Wedding vows

I read something funny but so true the other day:
Un homme drôle a déjà parcouru une bonne moitié du chemin. C'est bien connu: Femme qui rit à moitié dans son lit!

If I ever marry again (my husband might want to divorce me one day and I might be stupid enough to make the same mistake twice), I will rewrite the wedding vows better to match my needs. Instead of asking the guy:

“Will you love, respect and honour her through good times and bad times as long as you both shall live”,

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he must take a stand on:

“Will you make her laugh every single day through good times and bad times as long as you both shall live”.

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Pushkin forever

The Wish

I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation;
And I am silent; my murmur is dead,
My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade,
Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
I don’t deplore my passing dream of life --
Vanish in dark, the empty apparition!
I care only for my love’s infliction,
And let me die, but only die in love!

Louisy Joseph "Assis par terre"

J'ADORE CETTE CHANSON !

Wedding anniversary evaluation

Last night before the dinner we had some time to kill. I took my husband to H & M where I chose a beautiful scarf and told my husband to pay for it. Now I can tell on Monday at work that my husband gave me a beautiful scarf for the 10 years, who cares it only cost 98 kr.

I myself spent almost 3000 kr at MR, and can now tell that I have eaten cock comb (hanekam, kukonheltta) amongst other weird things. It was a great dinner, no doubt about that, but was it worth 3000 kr ? If I give 3000 kr to my friend Giancarlo, fabulous chef, he will cook me wonderful food for a whole month.

When we came home, there was a bouquet of flowers in front of the entrance door. Had my husband had a romantic flashback ? No, the flowers were from my boss. There is something very wrong with this picture; my boss paying for my wedding anniversary dinner and sending me flowers. On Monday I will ask if she wants to marry me.

Wedding anniversary

Today it is 10 years ago I got married. Nobody knew we were getting married; we didn’t send any invitations and didn’t have a party at the day. Instead we flew to Faroe Islands and there in Torshavn police station with two strangers as witnesses we signed the papers. One of the witnesses was crying, was she psychic? Afterwards a fisherman took our “official” wedding picture in the harbour, quite out of focus. When we three weeks later sent a card to everyone telling we had gotten married, my mother-in-law was for once speechless.

To celebrate that either of us is sitting a life sentence for killing the other one, I have invited my husband for dinner tonight at MR (1 Michelin Star, I am such a snob). I got my boss to sponsor the dinner, but she has kindly informed me that there is a limit of 2000 kr. She really has learned from her mistakes, I wish I could say the same. Well, I have now my spending account so in fact I don’t have to care about the limit, let the champagne flow, at least until certain amount. Or did I promise something about alcohol last Sunday? Can’t really remember, seems like ages ago. My constant memory losses must be the reason I don't learn from my mistakes, or am I just stupid ?

IT guy

Last Thursday every month is the fun day at work; our IT guy Anders comes for his monthly visit. He is totally sweet and kind of shy, so I do my best to embarrass him. Last month when he asked me if there was something he can help me with, I said that only if he is the rich guy very much in love with me so I don’t have to work ever again. He disappeared very fast to another department.

This morning I had turned on the air-condition as I always feel hot in the morning (even when the IT guy isn’t there), and everybody was complaining how cold it was. I said that I could possibly not take my shirt off as Anders is there. He got very red on his face, and I just had to add that the advantage working at home is being able to sit at my computer only with my underpants and bra on. Again he disappeared, but he is still in the office. I am going to find him and make him faint this time.

Vulgar but funny...

Click for a bigger picture.

Taxi driving

I have so far found 12 receipts for this week-end’s taxi driving. But my handbag is big, there might be more hidden in the endless pockets and folders. These receipts don’t seem to include any from Saturday night after 01.00 o’clock, even I can more or less clearly remember having taken taxis between 01.00 and Sunday morning. Gentlemen are not a dead race yet, I guess.

My boss has just gone out; she said she will buy me a bicycle.

Build a bear

I had gotten some Tivoli entrance tickets and tour passes from a colleague so I took my family to Tivoli last week. There was one entrance ticket left which I gave to a homeless guy, I think I have never experienced anyone being so genuinely grateful before (I don’t think that Tivoli was grateful to me sending this miserable creature over there).

I thought that having the free tickets this would be a cheap treat but somehow the kids managed to ruin me anyhow. You just can’t walk two meters without having your wallet out of your purse. The top of the iceberg was leaving Tivoli. There is a “Build a bear” shop just by the entrance and even I always have said that we will NEVER buy anything there, in we went. I had been working too much lately, and knew I wouldn’t be home the whole week-end so I simply was willing to buy myself better conscience. And as my daughter is a true copy of me (except that she has this incredible lightness of being, nothing can knock her down, gosh how I envy her!), she really appreciates my Visa card.

“Build a bear” is this stupid American concept where kids make their own teddy bear. The idea is sweet enough but when you are standing in the shop, it is really so disgusting I am about to throw up. You take a teddy bear, fill it with weathers and a heart, brush it and do stupid things before you give it stupid clothes and accessories on, and end up paying 3000 dollars for the pleasure.

After the filling part, the “Build a bear” girl asked my daughter what she wanted this teddy bear to be good at. My daughter said Horseback riding, so the girl took my daughter by the hand and off they went imitating horseback riding around the shop. A grown-up girl gallopping around and making horse sounds; she outdid my stupid behaviour from Saturday night ! Okay, if I am paying this ridiculous amount of money for a teddy bear, I am gonna get my fun. When the girl asked if there where other things the teddy bear should be good at, I already had worked out a list in my head. I wanted the teddy bear to be good at African tribe dancing, crocodile hunting, imitating chicken talk, singing opera and synchronized swimming. I got full value for my money!

The Cure

To cure my moral hangover, I went shopping this morning. I bought two pair of trousers, wonderful boots and terribly expensive strawberries (I guarantee these aren’t for Strawberry Margaritas). Now I feel awful spending too much money, not on the clothes but on the terribly expensive strawberries, and have almost forgotten all about my moral hangover.

The changing room was full of clothes when I wanted to try on the pants so I asked the shop assistant, fat and ugly girl, to remove them. She got very irritated that I asked her to do her job and was demonstratively throwing around the clothes. I had to tell her that there is no need to get mad at me, and that she should try to live up to the cliché that fat people are glad people.

Later I saw a guy in very tiny shorts. It is 10 degrees outside! I love socializing with total strangers so I just had to ask him what he is wearing when it is 30 degrees outside. I never found out what he is wearing in warm weather, but I found out that he is a sailor, has lived in Greenland, has been sailing in Finnish shore waters, and gets very sick when drinking Finnish snaps. When people find out that I am a Finn, they always have a story to tell. The other day the cab driver turned out to be an international judge in weight lifting and was going to attend Nordic Championships in Finland next week, and yesterday the guys at the jazz band I had hired for the architects entertained me with a Finnish song they know. Well, I know this syndrome all too well. I can sing a song in Greek and whenever I meet a Greek, I just have to demonstrate this special skill. I can make a fool out of myself in any language I guess!

Physical and moral hangover

For three weeks ago I promised myself not to get carried away, this was about my emotional life. Now I have to make the same promise, about alcohol. I don’t go out much; in fact I only do it when I have to go out with clients (I am forced to stay as the last one standing until 5 am, just to make sure my clients are okay), like this week-end. My company had 220 Scandinavian architects in town, over half of them men, how much fun can that be!

So I have been eating too much (fine dining, Madeleines Madteater etc, who cares about a diet!) and of course Saturday night, I got drunk. God dammit. I blame this the totally cute, young architect who was pouring mojitos in me, just to see how stupid I get when I am drunk. And stupid did I get. But there must have been a slight grain of common sense left in my alcohol toxicated brain as I took a taxi to my hotel, alone. I have no idea what time; it was certainly closer to the hour I usually wake up than when I go to bed. I had to be back with my architects on Sunday, and again I am impressed how I always set the alarm on my mobile, no matter how many mojitos I have been drinking. In the morning when I woke up I had no idea where I was. First I thought I was in my son’s room as there were clothes all over the floor but then, my son doesn’t have a bedroom, living room, a hall, toilet and a bathroom (the girl at the hotel booking knows that I am totally corrupt and gave me a complimentary suite, and I will in return send her a lot of clients).

Back on my feet, I promised I will never touch alcohol again. I guess I have never kept a promise such a short time. In the evening in Christiania, my client wanted to celebrate the big success with champagne (though they only had cava in Spiseloppen). I think I have alcohol in my blood until Christmas.

In the mood for Baudelaire...

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Baudelaire was a fool, but he wrote beautifully.

Madrigal triste

I
Que m'importe que tu sois sage?

Sois belle! Et sois triste! Les pleurs

Ajoutent un charme au visage,

Comme le fleuve au paysage;

L'orage rajeunit les fleurs.

Je t'aime surtout quand la joie

S'enfuit de ton front terrassé;

Quand ton coeur dans l'horreur se noie;

Quand sur ton présent se déploie
Le nuage affreux du passé.

Je t'aime quand ton grand oeil verse

Une eau chaude comme le sang;

Quand, malgré ma main qui te berce,

Ton angoisse, trop lourde, perce

Comme un râle d'agonisant.

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J'aspire, volupté divine!

Hymne profond, délicieux!

Tous les sanglots de ta poitrine,

Et crois que ton coeur s'illumine

Des perles que versent tes yeux.

II
Je sais que ton coeur, qui regorge

De vieux amours déracinés,

Flamboie encor comme une forge,

Et que tu couves sous ta gorge

Un peu de l'orgueil des damnés;

Mais tant, ma chère, que tes rêves

N'auront pas reflété l'Enfer,
Et qu'en un cauchemar sans trêves,

Songeant de poisons et de glaives,

Éprise de poudre et de fer,

N'ouvrant à chacun qu'avec crainte,

Déchiffrant le malheur partout,

Te convulsant quand l'heure tinte,

Tu n'auras pas senti l'étreinte

De l'irrésistible Dégoût,

Tu ne pourras, esclave reine

Qui ne m'aimes qu'avec effroi,

Dans l'horreur de la nuit malsaine
Me dire, l'âme de cris pleine:

«Je suis ton égale, ô mon Roi!»

More Satanists ?

I think the hetero guy is also a Satanist. He has been laughing at all my stupid jokes this morning (=when I make fun of my boss, my clients or our suppliers). Then he put a box of DELICIOUS Belgian chocolate on my desk. Well, he doesn’t know that I have promised myself not to judge people on the chocolate they offer me, so he is not getting any credit for that. But he is certainly enjoying the sound I make when I am eating it while he is thinking about the story I told of a client once sending me very sexy underwear as thanks for my help (how weird is that!!). Or did he misunderstand my phone conversation with one of the hotels? I booked a room for myself for this Saturday as I have planned to party with my Norwegian clients at Vega until LATE (no more trains home and too drunk to drive). The girl at the booking asked if I wanted a single or double room, I said, what the hell, give me double, I might get lucky. But as I seem to be surrounded by Satanists, I think I will be sleeping alone. Definitely.

My boss is a Satanist

I don’t know what is going on. When I came to work this morning, a book I had ordered had arrived. It is the book JB has written about Albert Camus, which he did NOT send me despite the very lucrative offer I made him about dedicating my first book to him. I could have bought a pair of shoes in the sales for the same amount of money, very cruel of him. Well, I couldn’t help start reading it, with my feet up on my desk as usual, and my boss has not said a word. She hasn’t even given me the “eye”.

More evidence about the weird things going on at work. My boss has made me a spending account. Now I can legally buy shoes, clothes, electric devices (not sex toys, she said), flight tickets or hotel overnights with my company credit card for a nice amount of money each month, I just have to make a budget about my spending. Is this the catch? Is she taking the pleasure of impulsive shopping away from me? Or is she simply a Satanist and trying to overtake the rest of my corrupt soul and body? Now I am getting more and more sure about the latter one, she is indeed going to eat my liver and kidneys in some satanic ritual very soon. I must be very careful not to accept any suspicious invitations from her. “Hey, let’s go and check out the old hangar at the airport, we can use it as a venue some day.” Yeah, sure, and I am quite sure 250 Satanists are waiting there ready to tear off my body. No way, I am not setting my feet in her car ever again!

Anagrams

“An anagram is a type of word play, the result of rearranging the letters of a word or phrase to produce a new word or phrase, using all the original letters exactly once.”

I stole the idea for this one from JB (just sue me!), but it was just too funny not to be shared. JB had on his blog today this link where you can find anagrams for everything and guess what, it is HILARIOUS !

One of the anagrams for me turned out to be PEANUT NINJA.

Then I looked some friends up:
Saga – Artisan Liar
Fröken Adamsson – Paranoids Vims
Vicki – Civilians Coke In
Ane – A Ankel Mob
Heaven – Hear Nonsense Hove
Kate – Karate Gob
Natacha - Addiction Chain Ha
Terhikki – Eh Kinkier Nine Hot

And my closest ones
My daughter – Fajita Neon Nun
My son – Unclean Juntas
My husband – Acne Human Jet Nil

The funniest one was my daughters’ best friend, Laura L. – ANAL SURREAL.

And if you have wondered why these two make such a good couple;
Carla Bruni – Anal Rubric
Nicolas Sarkozy – Crankily Ass Zoo.

Souvenirs

Before I settled down in Denmark, I was moving around quite often. Having my whole life in two suitcases, there wasn’t really that much space for material souvenirs but I have brought along something. From most of the countiries I have lived in, I have adapted bad habits (as I do exaggerate with everything) or suspicious mind.

France: After spending time in Versailles and Cannes, I just love champagne. I will use any opportunity to open a bottle, I will simply celebrate that the kids finally sleep on Tuesday night.

Italy: I love food and I blame my friend Enzo for this. He loved to take me to some of the best restaurants around Verona as he was greatly impressed of how much I could eat. He was used to girls that just order a salad and seeing me eating 10 courses and drinking a bottle of Barolo along, he was sold. Well, this was when I was 50 something kilos, today when I see him on our yearly visit to Italy, he always suggests that I just order a salad.

Cuba: Mojitos, Cohibas and Hasta Siempre. I guess I don’t need to say more.

Portugal: I suspect any Portuguese hetero guy to be gay. I suspect any Portuguese hetero guy to prefer threesomes. I suspect any Portuguese hetero guy to like big breasts.

Spain: I get carried away in casinos, but don’t have the luck of my twenties (I could ALWAYS win enough for a pair of new shoes).

USA: I love to turn on the light in the car and dance while driving in the dark. Thanks Brad (amongst other things).

Morocco: I keep insisting other people do everyhing I am too lazy to get involved with. I miss my maid Hafsa, also a good cook and wonderful Henna artist. I miss my Henna tattooed feet.

Greece: Every time I see a woman with moustache, I ask if they are Greek (and yes, they always slap me when they find out why I ask).

Advantages with blogging

I have found out that there are several advantages with blogging.

- I look busy at work.

- People I didn’t expect to remember my birthday did so. I hope they don’t expect me to remember theirs, this is just not possible.

- Somebody might have a very little used Nuova Simonelli espresso machine for sale (and yes, I have been already looking for a second hand one, but obviously people never want to get rid of their Nuova Simonellis).

- A friend called the other night and told me that Wong Kar-Wai’s “2046” was on TV.

- A friend turned out to be quite an expert on sex toys (and invited me for café latte, movie and Istedgade shopping).

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach

This old quotation has quite many variations. Adrienne E. Gusoff says: ” Any woman who thinks the way to a man's heart is through his stomach is aiming about 10 inches too high. “ Not true in our family, I quote instead: “A way to get things done is through my husband’s stomach”. On Sundays there is always a lot to do fixing the house or the garden but this doesn’t particularly have my husband’s interest. Fortunately he loves food.

“Honey (=my husband when I want him to do something), can you please clean the garage.”
“Sorry, too busy with the newspaper.”
“Okay, I will do it, but then I don’t have time to make dinner. We will have hotdogs.”
“And if I clean the garage?”
“Then I will make coque au vin.”

The water is already running out of his mouth. He gets up from the couch.
“How about some vitello tonnato first ?” he asks.
“Okay, if you vacuum clean the car.”

I start cooking, but my husband comes soon back from the garage and asks if we could have gambas al ajillo as appetizer. I agree to it if he moans the lawn. “Okay, and if I also cut the hedge, will you then make pissaladiere ?”. I go along with that, too.

Between the garage cleaning and lawn moaning my husbands puts his head in the kitchen.
“You will make some salad, won’t you?”
“Of course I will make salad, but just a plain green salad”.
“How about a salade au chevre chaud?”
“Hm, then you have to paint the storage room.”

Off he goes, but is soon back.
“How about dessert? Tarte aux pommes et mascarpone?”
I can’t really think about more things getting done, so I say:
“Okay, then I want to have sex tonight.”
Now my husband is very troubled, gosh, he must really think over this one. But I could have saved lives of millions of Jews if Hitler had tasted my Tarte aux pommes et mascarpone, so he agrees to have sex that night.

When we finally make it to the dinner table, we are both totally exhausted. I have been cooking the whole day and my husband has been working as a horse (though I haven't seen a horse working since I was little). Now he is eating like a horse (this I see every Saturday when my daughter goes to horseback riding), and in the end of the dinner we both fall asleep at the table. Our children try to take us to bed, but of course they can’t. But being good kids, they brush our teeth while we are hanging on our chairs.

When I wake up in the morning, my whole body is aching after spending a night in a chair, but I am smiling anyhow. I might not have gotten real sex (approx. 10 seconds), but what does it matter when I have George (approx. 3 hours) ?

Child education II

Child upbringing is a target of various conflicts in any relationship. Two people hardly agree totally how the kids should be brought up and also in our family we have at least three major topics that my husband complains about.


I play too wildly and roughly with the kids.
I might sometimes kick too hard when the kids tickle me, and one of the kids might accidentally fly through the window. But I only tickle the kids because I love them; this is a good way to learn them that love hurts.

I sing revolutionary good night songs.
My husband keeps asking me why I cannot sing “Lullaby baby” like any other mom, but insist singing “Hasta siempre” when I put the kids to bed. My 6 year old daughter has also fallen for Che’s charming smile, and sings the chorus part with me:
“Aquí se queda la clara,

la entrañable transparencia,

de tu querida presencia

Comandante Che Guevara.”

My son is not that easy to convince. But being a mayor in several cities in SimCity, he has quite a few worries, and doesn’t really buy this Marxist propaganda.

I write indecent children’s literature.
We parents are asked time to time write short stories when the class mascot spends the week-end at your house. What a boring life these teddy bears with ridiculous names like Bibi or Simba have. Week-end after week-end you can read on the book; “Sarah’s / Mathias’ / Emma’s mother picked us up from the school. At home we got a glass of milk and a cookie. In the evening we saw Disney show”. HOW BORING! When it is our week-end with Bibi and my turn to write, we don’t even make it to our house; we only get to the parking lot. There we are surrounded by Arab terrorists; a helicopter lands on top of our car, and takes all four of us to Yemen to a military guerrilla camp. There we are tortured because they know we have a microfilm with nuclear secrets (hidden under Bibi's fur). There is blood, painful screaming and electric shocks, but we don’t crack. Suddenly CIA agent George C. one-handed attacks the camp, slaughters the terrorists with his Japanese sword and frees us (I write very detailed how the body parts fly over the camp).

My stories are quite popular amongst the children, but the teachers usually send a note home; “Less violence and pornography next time, please”. Well, how could I know that the CIA agent George C. frees me just when I am taking a bath in Sheik al-Wahoud’s (the rich Emirate oil sheik sponsoring the criminal activities) tent? And as CIA agent George C. has been living in jungle with memory loss for two years, without any female company, he just can’t help falling for my naked body. Of course after he first brutally has executed Sheik al-Wahoud.

Iacocca who ?

My friend Saga was wondering what my husband says about my blogging. That Saga asks this is because she still after all these years doesn’t know my husband. We don’t see each other that often and whenever we do, the time is too precious for small talk; we go right into the laughing business. We are rolling on the floor laughing (totally harmless in Denmark as this is a flat country, more dangerous at Saga’s garden in Finland as her house is on top of a hill) while our husbands are watching helpless by and wondering how much did they sin in their earlier lives to deserve these wackos as wives.

For Saga’s and everybody else’s information, don’t worry, my husband doesn’t read my blog. He only reads very boring stuff like Berlingske, Børsen and Computerworld. He would never touch Tolstoy or Flaubert, and Pushkin he thinks is a Russian browser that never really made it in the west. The only books he reads are biographies, but boring people’s biographies. Like General Franco’s, Yamani’s or Lee Iacocca’s. Yes, who the hell is Lee Iacocca? I am sure not even his mother knows who he is.

This summer he was reading J.F.Kennedy’s biography and I thought, finally, some good stuff. I asked him to tell me when the part with Marilyn Monroe comes, and indeed, on the page 467 there was a line: “That year Kennedy was assumed to have a relationship with the actress Marilyn Monroe.” That’s it? Is one line all what Norma Jean gets on JFK’s biography? I have read Marilyn Monroe’s biography and I know that there is lot more to JFK and Norma Jean than just one line. On Norma Jean’s behalf I will as revenge write a book called “The New American History” and on the page 467 one can read “That year the fabulous actress Marilyn Monroe had an affair with an American president whom unfortunately nobody remembers the name of”.

Un café per favore

Italians make the best coffee in the world, no discussion about that. I wonder why the French can’t make as good coffee having the same machines, the same coffee and about the same kind of water. There can’t be any other reason that the French just prefer bad coffee. When the allies in 1944 invaded Normandy and later freed the country, there was a high price to pay. The Americans left behind their preference for bad coffee.

On our summer vacation when leaving Italy and heading towards our summer paradise in Grasse, we stop at every single highway café in Italy just to take the last double espresso. There will be no need to drink coffee in France the rest of the holiday. In addition after having in one day 62 double espressos we won’t sleep for the next 14 days and this allows us to have 40 % more holidays to enjoy.

My husband is the coffee expert in our family. He studies with great interest how long time it takes a little bag of sugar to disappear from the surface and gives notes to every single coffee he drinks. For his birthday a year ago I gave him a homemade present card for a very nice espresso machine, together with his whole family. I hadn’t bought it yet, and after the party headed to the shop with this very considerable amount of money on my account. On the way to the coffee shop I got caught by a shoe sale, and came accidentally to spend over half of the money. Shit.

I resolutely decided to save up to make it up again, but then I had to go to Paris because of my work. In Paris I saw a Lancaster handbag that I just had to own. For a second I thought about paying for it with my company credit card but then I remembered how my boss, as always before I have to travel on business, had the little talk with me about what the company credit card is for. This time she seemed to be serious, she was waving a document in front of me where I could just see the words “Fired due to misuse of company credit card”.

So no, I didn’t want to risk that. My plan B, to become a politician when I get fired is out of question after there was a scandal with our Finance Minister’s taxi driving. I have no business in Danish politics after my pile of unexplained taxi receipts, paid with my company credit card. Even I would make perfect politician; I love spending other people’s money and I am very corrupt.

So how could I pay for my Lancaster bag with the company credit card ? How about if I say that I invited the charming Mr Jonathan for afternoon tea (my boss would understand if I showed her the picture I took with my mobile phone of this incredibly handsome client) ? But then, afternoon tea for 250 euros in Café Lancaster, would she buy it ? I already had enjoyed a quite expensive lunch at restaurant Printemps and even more expensive dinner at brasserie Galeries Lafayette. No, my boss has become very suspicious lately, so I had to use my own credit card, and gone was the rest of my husband’s espresso machine.

I have made some serious thinking and calculated that I can save up the money in about 4 years. I have asked Giancarlo, a friend in south, to fabricate a letter he will send from Italy explaining that the requested model of Nuova Simonelli espresso machine will be available again autumn 2012. I hope that my husband won’t study the postal stamp on the letter too closely. Then he could be wondering why Nuova Simonelli’s head quarters are located in a little village in Puglia.

Real lover vs. imaginary one

My colleagues keep telling me to get a lover. Not that they feel sorry for me because of my non existing sex life, they are simply tired of hearing about my imaginary sex with George Clooney. I just can’t help it, when I see sexy underwear in Madame Figaro, I right away show it to everybody, and tell how I am going to wear it tonight when George comes by (this sexy underwear is just as imaginary as George unless somebody thinks my real life white Sloggies are sexy). Then I go on and tell quite detailed about the evening with George until everybody is screaming “That’s enough, we don’t want to hear anymore!”. Only the hetero guy says “Go on, tell more, please !”.

But there are at least three major reasons that I don’t get a lover:

1. Chlamydia, syphilis, gonorrhea or any other sexual transmitted disease. I don't want to get to know these ones just as I don't want to get acquainted with earthquake, volcanic eruption, tsunami or a hurricane.

2. What if nobody wants to be my lover? That my husband doesn’t want to have sex with me is embarrassing enough, what if I go around and ask thousands of guys and every single one thanks no. That would be very fatal for my self esteem.

3. Do I want to get more miserable I already am? My husband surely makes me miserable as I am a woman and he is a man, and my lover being a man would also do that. Double misery? No thanks.

So I settle with George. Having the medical history in ER there is nothing to fear regarding sexual diseases, he is always willing, and being around only in bed, he never makes me miserable.