Me, George, and a Bottle of Ouzo

What with all the Presidential fanfare going on and being back in America this past month, I guess it brought back some memories for me. You see, I too, had an interest in politics at one time. Or rather an interest in someone who was heavily involved in them. “And who might that be?” I hear you asking. Well, think short, cute and Greek, and what do you get? George Stephanopoulos!

Indeed, I quite fancied the fellow (not quite sure what’s up with me and these quirky little guys, but I always seem to go for them – or at least I do on those rare occasions when I actually go for anyone at all). In fact, I fancied George so much that I started up a regular correspondence with him, which led to my receiving a special ticket to tour the White House during the grand old days of the Clinton Administration. I was doing research for a novel I was writing – a novel which never got published or, for that matter, finished. (And no, it wasn’t my M. S. Valentine novel The Captivity of Celia!). Washington was a kinder and gentler place back then, as were those working within it – save for Hillary reportedly throwing an ashtray at Bill in the Oval Office, should you choose to believe what George wrote in his memoirs. Gosh, I wonder if I’m in his memoirs? After all, I did stop by his Adams-Morgan apartment one afternoon. (I’ll leave you to dwell on that one!)

I’m afraid my interest in politics has waned considerably since that time, as did my hankering for George. As many of you know, I moved to England, leaving behind my broken-hearted little Greek in D.C. I understand he’s never been the same since I left and fell into a deep depression. Frankly, I feel terrible about the whole thing, especially the part about him marrying someone else on the rebound. But what was I supposed to do? All that talk about having me convert to the Greek Orthodox church – yes, I realise it meant a lot to him. He’s the son of a Greek Orthodox priest, and his uncle is a Greek Orthodox priest, and I think his grandfather was one as well. Why, George studied to become one himself before following a career path to Washington. That’s a hell of a lot of priests in one family, you must admit.

Why did he have to complicate things? I didn’t ask for much, I didn’t make demands. I’d have been happy just with the dolmades and tzatziki and moussaka and diples. I wouldn’t even have minded having to go to all those Greek festivals; I can break plates and dance with the best of them! But no. He had to have it all his way. What is it with these men? Why can’t they ever listen to reason?

WHY???????????????????

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