Amazon Tales for Delicious Girls Category:  Relationships Publisher: BK Publishing ISBN-10:  0578033399 Type: Fiction Pages: 180 Copyright: September 1, 2009 ISBN-13: 9780578033396 Delicious Girls don't cry because they know it's useless anyway. Hilarious, sharp witted, ironic and caustically apt real-life stories about delicious women, eccentric men and stubborn dogs. What’s in a word? Anything you want there to be! D for daring, E for enchanting, L for loving, I for inspiring, C for captivating, I for intriguing, O for outgoing, U for unique, S for sophisticated: DELICIOUS. Twenty-five exhilarating real-life stories about delicious women, eccentric men and stubborn dogs. Tales for Delicious Girls offers witty, refreshing, clever and ironic insight into relationships between men and women from all points of view. It is the ultimate relationship manual for the 21st century woman, providing answers to the most pressing questions you ask yourself:     * Who is the man with sinfully sexy fingers?     * Who is the guy that runs away from cabs?     * Who is the phantom of the French Riviera?     * Who is the Spy and why does he give away silver tea sets?     * Who is the Really Totally Gorgeous XY?     * And who the hell is JB...       ...And why was he where he shouldn't have been? "Tales for Delicious Girls" deals with wishes, desires and dreams gone hilariously wrong – as well as hysterical mishaps, slapstick dating disasters and eternal female friendship challenges. The stories are told by a Delicious Girl who's been there, done it and written about it. The book takes you to Paris, Milan, Marseille, Prague and many other exciting cities, untangling the ingenious web of men, women and their never-ending mating dance. "Tales for Delicious Girls" will make you laugh till there are tears in your eyes. It will become your faithful companion, and will help you see that no matter what happened to you, it could have been much worse. Hilarious. Sharp-witted. Ironic. Caustically apt. Simply Delicious. "Tales for Delicious Girls" contains almost sixty original illustrations which are edgy and feminine, just like the book. Excerpt Chapter 1 ALMOST ON THE VERGE Looking back at some of my serious relationships, would-be relationships, love affairs and relationships beyond any definition, my mind boggles at all those things I was (almost) able to do for men. I almost became a Jew, a Muslim, a devoted member of the Anglican Church and a lover of mushy peas that I've hated since kindergarten. I put up with possessive mothers-in-law, admired jealous sisters-in-law, played with unbearably spoiled nephews and adoringly took care of senile aunts. I went on a four-day trek through the desert and ate matzo in a kibbutz, although I'm a convinced city girl. I celebrated Pesah, Ramadan and I almost had myself christened. I also almost moved a few times, changed my job and pretended that I was not at all cold in that awful chilly apartment with mold on the walls, and that it was an amazingly manly, bohemian pad. A week after a major surgery, I dragged myself through bleak December London by public transport only to prove what a cool and low-maintenance girl I was. Not to mention the emotional and financial damage that I suffered during all those enthusiastic efforts, and that I did not give a damn about until I completely sobered up and started to act again as a rational homo sapiens, that is, as a person compos mentis. And why am I writing all this? Because of the extremely important word "almost". Because of the little word "almost", thanks to which I now recall all those crazy and idiotic escapades bordering on derangement with grace, amusement and with a smile on my face. Because of the word "almost", thanks to which I actually like remembering them because l'aventure c'est l'aventure, or adventure is adventure, as a French movie with Lino Ventura claims. And adventure is necessary, adventure ensures that I will not get bored and that one day I will have something to tell my grandchildren (supposing I withhold a few unimportant details that I prefer not to admit even to myself). However, some women have tough luck with the word "almost", as it seems to avoid them. It keeps jumping back, hiding and reappearing. And from the heights of its own elusiveness, it laughs at them and mocks them. In the upshot, many of us end up with an empty bank account, with an empty apartment, with empty hands and hitting rock bottom. At the best, with bruises on our soul. At the worst, with bruises even on the soul's outer wrapping. Nevertheless, this chameleon syndrome implying "I will be what you want me to be" probably affects only women. If you know a man who, because of "the love of his life", gives up his job, his family, his fat cat whose hairs you are allergic to, and his disgusting high school sneakers that are "as good as new", introduce him to me. Introduce him to me and I will have him submitted to a thorough psychological examination as an absurd natural phenomenon. A man is simply an inadaptable creature. A man goes to bed when he is sick, even if a windstorm takes away the roof above his head and his boss threatens to fire him. A man eats what he likes, in the pub that he has adored since college parties. A man does not pretend that his biggest dream is to spend the evening with you and your bitter high school friend "whom you can't stand anyway, you told me that last Wednesday". He does not walk your beagle if he hates dogs. And he does not join you on a guided tour in Madrid if he is all but enthusiastic about the gems of architecture. And a man does not care if you like it or not, if you fume with rage, cry or get mad and stop talking to him. He does not care what the others think of his decisions, choices and wacky opinions. He couldn't care less, and actually, he wouldn't even think of worrying about it because it's a loss of time and especially of energy that needs to be saved for much more meaningful and much more entertaining stuff. And that's the point. Why do women trim their sails while men remain in their comfort zone? Why do we push ourselves to the limit, live on our nerves, give up our soul, our personality, the little things we love? Why do we pretend, fake, lie blatantly to ourselves and on top of that manage to become convinced that it's making us happy? Why do we rigorously get rid of everything that makes us unique? What for? Let's try to put an end to it once and for all. Let's try to love ourselves unconditionally; let's protect ourselves and everything that belongs to us. Let's not conform to the needs, ideas or demands of relationships in which we cannot be ourselves and in which we don't even recognize ourselves anymore. Because men, lovers, admirers and potential (sometimes even real) fathers of our children come and go; some stay for awhile, some stay a little bit longer and some might stay forever, but that's something we never know in advance. The only thing that stays forever is us. So don't ever give up on yourself, because you are your own most precious possession. Chapter 18 CHASING BUTTERFLIES One day at high school, I came into my classroom during a lunch break and saw two of my classmates discussing a certain XY, who was "really totally gorgeous". As a teenage intellectual wiseacre, I remarked knowingly: "You mean that political commentator XY?" One of the two classmates gave me a look that said I was A, absolutely dumb, and B, beyond the dimensions of space and time, and she replied: "Well, that one is not bad either. But I mean the junior class XY." At this point, the conversation was over for me because I had no idea about the existence of that junior class beau and besides, I was much more interested in the Spanish syntax and protection of whales. A few years later when my interest shifted from syntax and whales to invoices and luxurious shoes on sky-high heels, at an incredibly boring and unbearably annoying social event I was approached by a man who had caught my attention right at the beginning of the evening. His presence was the only reason why I stayed for so long in the stuffy room full of stiff people who purposefully trampled my bohemian spirit into the ground. His red shirt and carelessly loosened tie were glowing in the flood of black suits, and his deep laugh was followed to every corner by undressing looks of most of the women present. Towards the end of the evening when I was getting ready to go home, the party phantom came to me, handed me a glass of wine and said, "You don't remember me, do you?" Frenetically I started searching my mental address book of men I knew, trying to file the phantom into the correct column. My clients, my clients' clients, my friends' ex-boyfriends, my friends' ex-lovers, my ex-lovers (you never know), mechanics from the car repair, that sexy baker from the corner of my street. Nothing. The phantom did not belong to any of the categories. I was confused because I was sure I would definitely have remembered that almost Hollywood-kitschy hunk with blue eyes, well-defined muscles and wavy, thick, raven-black hair. I was about to say that he must have mistaken me for somebody else (to my regret), when he introduced himself: "I am XY." Immediately, an accelerated slide show of memories flew through my head: "Syntax. Whales. Political commentaries. A really totally gorgeous junior class XY." I don't know what captivated me more. If it was his sensual lips or his charmingly transparent story about how I had once passed by him in the school hall in a red mini dress, and he had known he had no chance with me. In any case, that night there were no mere sparks of attraction between us. There were the real New Year's fireworks, and we were not able to tear ourselves from each other. We kissed on the corners of snow-covered streets for hours, and I couldn't care less that my feet were freezing and that my Italian "bar shoes" probably wouldn't survive this January passion fit. During the following weeks my legs felt wobbly each time I heard his voice or smelled his perfume. Unbridled, we were jumping at each other carnally at home, in the car and in grocery stores until the last skyrocket of our sensuous fireworks dwindled away and made us return back to the lives that we had lived before. Recently I remembered this outburst of passion and I tried to recall how many times I had felt this with men I had dated. Once? Twice? Maybe not even that. Suddenly I realized how much I missed those crazy escapades with their total lack of reality and responsibility. Sneakily and unnoticeably, choosing our partner, which used to be an entertaining game and an exciting pleasure, has become a gruelling and uneasy chore. We all have a mental list of qualities which our chosen one should possess, and when getting to know a new man, we check them off one by one in our head. While important attributes such as: "He makes me feel butterflies in my stomach, he attracts me irresistibly, I could spend the whole weekend in bed with him, he is an untameable hotshot, he is damn sexy," have been moved to the very end of our lists or left out completely. Step by step, they have been replaced by virtues such as: "He can support a family, he loves children, he owns a villa in the suburb and an apartment in Alicante, it doesn't matter he is an old bore if he is respectable and reliable." We speculate, analyze, choose and check off, we rack our brains over pros and cons and we spend evenings dissecting them with our friends. We have exchanged our soaked stilettos from the January slush for comfortable sneakers or even for warm slippers. Where are seductive looks and sensual first touches, where has all the playful flirting gone? When did we barter walks under the stars for tedious dinners and wild sex for family planning? Sometimes at a nearby golf course I see a married couple who plays there regularly. Both of them are about seventy and even after more than forty years of marriage they still look like teenagers in love. They wink at each other, they joke, tease each other, and they talk and talk without a break. One day I met Mrs. Ella in the clubhouse and we talked over a cup of hot tea. The conversation turned to her husband, and I told her how much I admired their wonderful marriage. Ella gave me an amused smile and replied, "My dear, why does it surprise you so much? When I look at him I see him freezing for four hours on the riverbank forty-two years ago when he was waiting for me. I remember that he looked like Cary Grant with a hat on. That I was struck with lightning each time he touched me. How he clowned around with our kids in the garden and stole apples from the neighbors with them. Even after all these years I still feel butterflies in my stomach when I hear his voice." I think that every now and then it would be worth it to forget all those men who are so very "respectable and responsible", but by their side we often feel like we don't live. Let's throw away all the lists, expectations, conditions and social pressures. Let's not analyse everything exhaustingly, and let's just feel and see through our heart instead. Let's kiss gorgeous and unpredictable scamps in the storm, let's laugh, flirt, freeze in the snow and hug under the arcades. It is quite possible that one of these Cary Grants will one day build snowmen with your kids, make you laugh when you are miserable, and admire you for your wonderful golf skills even though you send every other ball flying into the nearest bush. During all this, you will feel butterflies in your stomach.

Review by Denyse Bridger
Once in awhile you are given a book that is really many things all rolled into one. If you're expecting a romance in Barbora Knobova's TALES FOR DELICIOUS GIRLS, you might be surprised to learn you're going to get one. Not boy meets girl, but girl meets herself... Barbora's tales are about learning to love all that is good in yourself, ladies - and she reminds us with humour, tears, and very entertaining tales, that each and every one of us is unique, talented, sexy, and smart - we are DELICIOUS!!
The opening note sets the tone: "Delicious Girls don't cry. Ever. Because they know it's useless anyway." Says it all, doesn't it? So, ladies/girls - time to dry the tears and get on with being the delectable creatures that you are.
Ms. Knobova tells her tales with charm, wit, and grace. Her style flows as smoothly as the laughter and the awakening that happens with each new revelation she offers. Written with insight, intelligence, and honesty, TALES FOR DELICIOUS GIRLS is an epiphany of the spirit for any woman who takes the time to really absorb and think on the message contained in this book.
Smart and savvy are two words that spring to mind immediately. If you are a woman who questions your value, read this and be reinvented by your personal sense of worth. If you know someone who'd benefit, you've just found the perfect gift for any occasion!
I highly recommend this book to anyone who is looking for an entertaining, provocative, and delicious read.
Visit Barbora's website: http://www.barboraknobova.com - and become one of the Delicious Girls - it's an attitude adjustment of the spirit, plus it's one helluva lot of fun to read!

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Read this book and find your inner Delicious Girl, Review by Kelly Wallace
I just finished reading Barbora Knobova's book "Tales for Delicious Girls." In my line of work I read A LOT of books and find myself skimming many of them since there's not much I haven't already seen. This time was different. True, books on relationships crowd the shelves of book stores and libraries, but Barbora's book is unique. Sure, she offers wisdom borne of her own pain and experience, but each chapter is a peek into her life and relationships. Yet instead of feeling like a voyeur simply watching, I felt as if I sat right across the kitchen table from her as she shared with me her past loves and lessons.
We all have different experiences, but every "delicious girl" will see a bit of herself in Barbora's book. She doesn't feel sorry for herself; she uses her past as a springboard to the future. Tales for Delicious Girls is filled with cautionary true-stories. Is Barbora trying to use her experiences as a warning to every other girl? To prevent her from making the same mistakes she did? Of course, that would be ideal! But when it comes down to it, what the author is trying to remind every woman is to listen to that small voice inside and act upon it when it says, "Dump this loser!" She wants every woman to remember that no matter our choices, we can make better ones tomorrow.
I have five daughters and want them all to read this book. I want them to remember that you are your own best friend, and when the rest of the world seems against you, when love has given you the dirty end of the stick, you should be able to look in the mirror, hold your head up, and smile right back. Why? Because every female is a Delicious Girl = D for daring, E for enchanting, L for loving, I for inspiring, C for captivating, I for intriguing, O for outgoing, U for unique, S for sophisticated: DELICIOUS!


Marvelous Empowerment, Review by Robin Marvel
Tales for Delicious Girls is a book of charming, funny experiences that women are faced with throughout their lives. Women everywhere will be able to relate to the wonderful, heartfelt stories throughout the book.
I enjoyed every moment that I spent reading Tales for Delicious Girls. It is captivating, I could hardly put it down. Tales for Delicious Girls will have you reminiscing about your own experiences of love, loss and the occassional arrogant man!!
I am definitely a D.E.L.C.I.O.U.S girl! Are you?
Thank you, Barbora!