Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir! (A little treatise on the art of coquetry)

Mind you, I  do not claim to be an expert on flirting , but here´s my 2 cents on the subject. Never mind the articles about the art of  flirt that tell you that the most important thing is poise, self-assurance and a bright smile.  I beg to differ, the most important thing when engaging in a little harmless flirtation is a mirror and the fact that you actually take a look at yourself.

I took a dose of crazy (again) and traveled to Columbia in a company of 3 young men (of whom 2 were considerably younger). (Needless to say that the topics of conversation were somewhat  scarce whereas the conversation itself was lively  (or rather expressive) when encountering fine specimens of  Colombian sights. Then of course our idea of sightseeing  differed considerably, I was more architecture and landscapes, they were more big boobs and tight bottoms.) Anyway, good times were had and they proved to be a delightful company to travel with indeed.

On my way home I had scheduled a quick visit to Miami.  As I had already flown to Bogota via U.S.  I was prepared for the strange questions I was most likely going to be asked at the immigration. What I had not anticipated that this time the person asking the questions was undoubtedly the most gorgeous immigration officer (or whatever they are called) that has ever walked the earth (or at least Miami International Airport at that given moment). Even his uniform was steaming handsomeness:  his shirt was without a wrinkle, the very buttons seemed to sparkle, and  his shoes had a bright shine. (Actually when questioned about this last bit by my friend, I had to confess that I  actually did not see his shoes, but am sure they were immaculate as well.)

Maybe it was the testosterone overdose that I had been exposed to for the last 3 weeks or the glass of white I had with my lunch on the plane or the sleep deprivation but suddenly I was feeling very, very, very flirtatious indeed (uncharacteristically so).

So when Officer Hots´ questions went (in my  mind at least) from borderline flirtatious to almost intimate I took an unscheduled leave of my senses and engaged in a conversation that went something like this:

Officer Hot (With keen gaze. Officer Hots´gaze was positively smouldering, the whole time.): Are you travelling alone?

Me: Sir, indeed I am. (Deer in the headlights.)

(In order to save some time when we were past the questions of my chosen itinerary Helsinki-Amsterdam-Miami-Bogota & vv, and we had established that no there are no direct flights from Helsinki to Bogota the conversation continued followingly.)

Officer Hot: What were you doing in Colombia?

Me: Erm..visiting friends. Seeing the country.  Rumba and all that. (Shy smile, a little wink.)

Officer Hot: So you were travelling alone in Colombia as well?

Me: No, I was travelling with 3 youg men, friends. (Play with hair.)

Officer Hot: Why are they not travelling with you now then?

Me: mm…different timetables, different interests. (Airily.)

Officer Hot: I see. You´re staying at Winterhaven on South Beach?

Me: Indeed I am, sir. (With conviction.)

Officer Hot: And you´re staying in South Beach for 2 days, alone?

Me: Yes…but hopefully not for long. (Playful smile, batting of the eyelashes, thinking of saying “why, are you coming to pick me up later?”)

Officer Hot (keen, perplexed, a little smile): I am sure that you will enjoy your time in South Beach. Welcome to Miami, mam.

Me: Well thank you. (That was probably the most seductive thank you ever uttered at the airport, at least that day.)

When I left the airport there was  a swing in my gait and a smile in my eyes and corner of the mouth. I was happy, I was confident, I felt good with a capitol G. There is nothing like a little flirty exchange of words with a gorgeous man (in an uniform) to send one soaring.  Unfortunately that high only lasted until I got to my hotel and saw my reflection in the mirror. My hair was tousled lopsidedly, I had smudged mascara around one eye, pasta sauce on my t-shirt, and a krakatau of a zit just waiting to burst under my left nostril. All that was missing was a piece of parsley between my teeth and a pink eye and I would have been set for the crazy lady award.

(Luckily with a help of cosmetics, some powerful voodoo and a big mojito I was able to get pass the humiliating memories of my flirt exercise, which by then did not seem to be  smooth at all,  but rather  “not quite in touch with reality” type of behaviour.)

Enough said.  When flirting, always, always play a little peekaboo with a mirror first.

When dishes need washing, the washer goes blogging

Or so I  thought a few days ago when the number of clean coffee mugs was going down at a rate that suggested a  instant merge of water, detergent, a dish brush and some elbow grease was needed . (I even advertised my upcoming post as my status in a well-known online community as I was convinced that building pressure from more fronts than one would surely result in a text (the other front being myself) as I usually thrive under pressure.)

As I sat down with the intention to write (or rather finish yet another batch of beginnings) about recent events that have occupied my mind, I noticed that the subjects that really got me going were once again, yes you guessed it, cleaning and blogging.

“Is that it? Is that all I can write about? Blogging and cleaning! Cleaning and blogging?” I was shouting at myself when I came to a halt with the realization of the most chilling kind  anyone can experience: I have become  my father.

My father, like me apparently, has two genres of stories he tells. The first genre usually takes place in a factory where he worked as a “process designer / engineer” of sorts (the title does not translate really) and usually those stories beside being full of eccentric personae, that I have never met but have heard of so many times that I feel like they are almost family, are also full of technical details and minute process descriptions. These stories, given the right mindset of the receiving end, can sometimes be somewhat entertaining, whereas the second genre stories seldom are and indeed are not meant to be such. I call these narrations “the dangerous situations in traffic”-stories.

“The dangerous situations in traffic” – stories are a specific breed of stories that are very much place, time and situation bound. Obviously, the plot is simple, and always the same: my father has witnessed a dangerous situation in traffic or has almost been part one due to negligence or foolhardiness of a fellow driver (or pedestrian etc).

Place and the situation where these stories are told are always the same: upon collecting me from the railway station when I have come to visit my parents. The forte of these stories is in the repetition.

The first time I hear of “the dangerous situation in traffic” is when we are sitting in the car at the railway station parking lot waiting our turn to get out. The second time the story is summarized, is when there is a situation that bears some resemblance to the original. (Really, there does not have to be much in common to trigger the words from my fathers´ lips.) The third time the tale is told is when we actually pass the place where the situation took place, this time explained very thoroughly and in detail. And finally, the fourth round of the story begins when we get home and my father repeats it to my mother. (But this does not happen before my mother has asked me (while am taking my jacket off) “how was the trip” and “was the train full? Did you get a seat?”)

(I have been hearing these traffic stories, well basically the one story for a good fourteen years. On average I visit my parents once a month. Fourteen times twelve times four is..what…six hundred seventy two. That´s how many times at least I´ve heard of dangerous situations in traffic. You´d think that make me terrified of driving a car! You are right, it absolutely does, am terrified every time I´m in the same car with my father when he´s driving. Wouldn´t you be, with that track record of almosts. The funny thing is, he taught me how to drive, but that´s another story.)

The similarities do not end here. We are alike in the way we tell stories:  we fill our stories with unessential (albeit interesting?) bits and pieces of information and embellishment, we rarely go straight to the point (they call it the storytelling for a reason!) and our stories generally are relatively lengthy to say the least. Oh, we also stray from the topic easily as the story we are telling usually has its´roots or is connected to another story and in order for the listener to be fully able to appreciate (or understand) the story, those must be incorporated in the thread (hence the length). We  can come up with quite concise and clever one-liners (or two), but that´s not the same.

When it comes to storytelling, there is no middle ground. It´s nothing or all. Like father, like daughter, I guess.

post scriptum

I would like to add that I have only the utmost love and respect for both my parents that truly are good and funny people that have lot of interesting stories of their own). Even though they do drive me crazy regularly (father especially, mother not that much). I would also like to say, that my father is a good driver even though he sometimes confuses his build with that of an owl (rotating head, you see where I´m going with this? Head, traffic, situations etc).