Hoping for Love - A Taboo?!

If someone tells me this one more time: "You find love when you stop looking for it. Always, it just happens out of the blue, when you don't expect it to happen at all." - I am going to scream!!

I want to find at least one person who is brave enough to admit that that statement is bogus.

Because I would love to meet just one person (not more) that is single and never thinks, honestly, that there "might be" someone there for them. Maybe. One day. Even long from now, just one day ... there will be someone with whom to share the omelet on a Sunday morning, and the paper.

I am not saying that we, single people, are thinking about that obsessively, and can't function fine independently. But alone at night, in our beds, when we're craving a hug, or a back rub, or when we forget to switch off the light ourselves, or one day, when we plan a cruise all alone, or a tour around Europe, we think that "it might be nice to share the dreams, and the lonely moments", and to find someone that can finish our sentences and guess our order at our favorite restaurant ... And if we say publicly otherwise, it's nothing but a lie, I think.

Look at the "Sex and the City" phenomenon! I mean, my God, there is a whole culture around nothing but looking for love, finding love, losing love, and finding it again, and hoping it'll be back one day, to stay forever. There is this "looking for love" phenomenon out there that lasted years on the small screen (six seasons' worth) and now it's out in the theaters and people are still coming to feed from it. No, no, they're not just lukewarm about it either: the movie made it to number one at the box office in its first weekend.

You tell me, then, that I am a dreamer or I should stop hoping?! What about all that?! And don't say "it's just a movie", because it's "just a movie that people evidently can relate too", so it's not just me, it's millions out there like me.

I am not sure who in actuality can give up "expecting" and "hoping". How do you turn off the "hope switch", anyhow?! I don't think that anyone in the mainstream, dating adult population is truly capable of that shut-off when it comes to finding someone. I don't think humans can ever give up hope when they're in need or want of something - end of discussion.

Humans are social beings, and we're born to mate. And we'll be looking for that other half to complete us till we find it. True, for some of us the other half might have been rotten or underdeveloped and never shows up. But do we know that? No! So, we don't stop hoping, and waiting, and thinking about it.

That's actually all we have control over to do: the only freedom we have is over our minds (as long as we still have them): and that's where the hoping, and the dreaming goes on. The only certainty we have is of a dream, that maybe one day, we won't be alone, like God and nature and humanity intended. I'm still trying to figure out why we can't, in our culture, admit to that dreaming.

It's what we're designed to do: we wait to be complete. And till then, we feel crippled. And don't tell me that cripple people stop hoping. Or stopped believing in miracles, even. Because you know better!

Home Is where Your Wine Is Sweetest

They tell me that wine is the new tobacco in North Carolina. Honestly, when I heard that, I was surprised they didn’t think of wine in North Carolina way, way, way longer than this… Coming from the rolling hills of the Romanian Moldova, I can tell you: grapes love hills and they love sunlight. Maybe not this much sun and humidity, but they can work with it. And boy, after today, can they so work with it!!

This Saturday, I volunteered, on behalf of the Greensboro Jaycees, to help wine makers at the recent NC Wine Festival in Winston-Salem. Funny: Winston, one of the former cigarette kingdoms, now hosting the wine festival: things are turning around indeed.

My job didn’t involve much, so I had plenty of people watching time. And let me tell you: I have not done this much people watching since I was in New Orleans. I am not kidding!

It was interesting to see such a colorful crowd:

- youngsters, barely legal to drink, punk rock locks and all;

- college freshmen sporting new tanning bed tans for the summer;

- geeks sporting colorless skin and pimples;

- sophisticated” wine connoisseurs on rants about the “nose” and the “legs”, the “bouquet” of every sip of wine they had – much to the dismay of the simple wine seller who just ferments the apples and the blackberries and the grapes, for God’s sake, and who adds with rolling eyes, under his breath: “why the hell do you wanna be so damn tight-ass pretentious about the damn thing; we’s simple folks, we just squish grapes”;

- plain, down to earth people who are just here for something to do on a Saturday;

- and, of course, to remind you you’re not in Napa nor in Tuscany, … rednecks, oh Lord, so many rednecks!! Those folks add the local color. For sure!

And no, I am not being judgmental, it’s what they were, and they would agree with me.

Where but in the South do you find a wine buyer, Harley tank top and all, visor and mullet haircut, sleeves of tattoos on his arms, huge, and I mean enormous bald eagle silver ring on the middle finger, saying when asked for the address: “15 Main Street, Remington, VA – Remington, just like the rifle” (make your own “flat i” pronunciation here)?!

Another customer was wearing a Rebel flag t-shirt, proudly, over his beer gut (should beer guts even be allowed at the wine festivals?), with the inscription: “If this flag offends you, you need a history lesson”. No comment on that one.

And let me tell you: I have never, in one day, in 4 hours, been called “hon” and “sweetheart” more in my entire life! I was everyone’s “hon” and “sweetheart”. They thanked me, and asked me for directions, and sweethearted me to death. I was sweethearted out at the end of the day!!

Other sightings worth mentioning are the many, many very pregnant women fighting the close to 90 degree and no breeze heat to taste wine. I was not able to carry myself around, in that heat; I didn’t want to add too much wine to make my legs even heavier, but they were troopers: baby in the tummy and happily tasting wine!

Then, another questionably appropriate finding: this guy, with a baseball hat that reads “The king of beers”… Hhmmm… Again: should that be allowed??

Now, a word about the wines, of course.

As you’d expect, there is so much work involved in making wine. But what shocked me today was the legalities involved in it all! What I found the most surprising is that the rules are not so strict because this industry produces goods for human consumption. No, the FDA and the USDA does not get involved much. They don’t care what we drink: have at it, and die, who cares!! The rules are strict, because the sale of alcohol is involved. Alcohol, remember? The big, bad, devilish evil that blurs your judgment and turns you into a monster. Is it the Bible belt? Or just Puritan America? Or a little bit of both? Again: for someone that grew up on wine, and whose dad made wine in the house, ever since I can remember, this is truly mind blowing to me. The alcohol restrictions, of course, have always been mind numbing to me in this country. And law people still don’t seem to understand that the more you forbid it, the sweeter the fruit.

The wine makers not only have to come up with these extensive researches, done by professional oenologists, that talk about the content of nitrogen they use, and the carbon dioxide in the wine, but they also, pay taxes on what they make on the wine according to the percentage of alcohol each bottle has. “You get people drunk faster, wham! bigger punishment for ya’! That’ll teach ya’!” And when you think Jesus Himself turned water into wine you really find no explanation.

The Native Vines (the first Native winery in the nation – owned by Lumbee Indians in Lexington, NC) wine maker and owner told me that some of her blackberry wine will want to ferment and be about 24% alcohol when it’s done, but she “has to stop it”, because that’s too high.

I was amazed at how much these apparently simple folks, mostly from rural areas, know about the science of wine making. They have to know, because they have to produce research for the lawmakers. If they don’t learn themselves, they’ll have to pay someone to put together the papers so they can stay in business. But in a small production, family-owned winery like Native Vines that means the mom, the wine maker, went to those classes. And she has to also produce all the paperwork necessary to stay open and support her family. It’s painstaking. They’re not “just grape squishers” after all.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the wineries I visited had not only one, but a variety of sweet wines. My European pallet is always in search for sweet wines, mostly Muscat and Ottonel, which I find very hard to come by around the States. I find that the wine drinker of this continent favors dryer wines, like Chardonnays and Cabs, maybe Merlots, rather than sweet, fruity wines. Well, I tasted wines from maybe 10-12 wineries today, and each one of them had at least 3-4 varieties, red and white of sweet wines. Some of them were fruit wines (strawberry, peach and blackberry, mostly), but most of them were grapes. I think this was my first wine tasting where I even saw “Muscat” on the label. That’s what plenty of sun will do to the grape: turn it ever so sweet. I am in the right part of the world, then - I thought.

Quirky wine tasters and all, bad music and bad haircuts, scorching heat and burnt skin, it was a great day, all in all.

I was happy to help, even in the least bit, and I was happy to find some of the sweetest wines I’ve tasted. Some of these wineries, I’ll revisit, I am sure, on my weekend trips. Most of them do not have distributors, as the industry in this state is still in its baby years. So the only way to buy their production is to knock on their doors and ask for it. But I am so glad and so grateful that they’re this close to home.

Work Ethics

"Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar." (Drew Carey)

We have all been through this. Times when we hate our jobs or something related to it (the boss, the company, the co-workers, the team, etc), that is. For whatever reasons, and the reasons are too many to spend time here on them, we have all seen it before … But no matter how much they suck (the reasons, that is), and no matter what we see in our jobs, when we decide to “stay” and not to “flee”, should we not also, as free thinking and deliberating adults, make a commitment that we must do a good job at it? Or at least a decent one? Should we not at least close the door of that sucky office at night saying “I did the best I could, but oh, well”?!

I have never considered myself a “career woman”. I look at my job as giving me purpose, and giving me a source of income. It has to match my skills and I have to find enjoyment in the time I spend there. It also has to teach me something new, if not every day, at least every week. It has to enrich me, somehow. Otherwise it’s a waste of time. It must not fill up my entire day, and my entire cranium. At 5 PM, if possible, with very few exceptions, I want to close that door, lock it, move into my “real life” for the evening, and then unlock it the next day.

My job is not something I plan to tell my nieces and nephews about, when I am old and gray, and sit around the Christmas fire with them. It’s not something that it will necessarily go in my “life resume”. My trips, sure; my relationships and friendships, absolutely; my picture albums, most definitely; my job – just as a background mention.

But when I spend (so much) time on it, every day, I try to give myself 100% to it. Otherwise, what is the purpose of going? Sooner or later “they” will find out you’re not doing a good job, don’t you think? And one day, we all need references. It would be nice to know they will be available…

Our company announced in the first week of this year that it’s being sold. Our Publisher told us to pretend that we never heard that announcement. I did that. I tried to do that. But everyone seems to have listened to it, VERY carefully, and to milk all the bitterness out of it … And no one cares about the tasks at hand anymore.

The tune of the day, in the building, at every level, is “who cares?”. Everyone is behind, everyone does a half-ass job, and everyone is rhetorically asking “ who cares??”. And it’s driving me batty!

Loose ends everywhere, and past due assignments, and work-around-s instead of true fixes, when fixes are available, and budgets ignored, because we’ll let the “future owners worry about them”, and all swimming in the dolce-far-niente of the soup called with a shrug “who cares?”.

And the sad part about it to me is that it’s not the news of the sale makes my job sucky; and not the repeated lay-offs, not the volatility of my job, and the insecurity about tomorrow, either. It’s this “who cares? – I’m a slacker!” attitude that drives me nuts.

I feel like sending an “Everyone” email that will tell people to grow up or get the hell out. Because I surely feel like I am working with toddlers, and not adults anymore.

I guess mom was right: “In America people are worried only about themselves”. They don’t want to do gratuitous things, just to promote “good karma”. Their future is threatened, they sabotage the threatening “Now”.

And I am, again, a misfit. Because the way I look at it is this: the present, and the future will do, whatever they will do, and I have no control over those. But I have to be myself, 100%, in happy times and bad. And myself cannot allow herself to be a slacker. Myself is a hard working, conscientious and ethical worker in happy times and threatening times. The environment has nothing to do with my core and with who I am – which is more important to ME than what the future and the present want to do with me.

I could not go to sleep at night if I knew my core, my true self was not out there, day in and day out. In sickness just as in health.

10 years from now, I will meet these people and to me, they’ll forever be slackers. The circumstances of today all long forgotten and gone, they will come to my mind as what they are today: self-absorbed, vengeful, lacking any kind of work ethics, ultimate slackers. That’s what will stay.

But, as the minority, I am subdued! And once again, a slave. And in the meantime, till emancipation comes, I’ll wait at the bar.

"The Diaper Club"

Yeah, you knew this was coming: the entries (I suspect many) where I talk about my new nephew and “my” new mom, my sister … They both crack me up, and make me happy, and sad, and worry-ful and all in all excited every second of every day!

By the way, this is what my sister calls her house now: “The Diaper Club”. So, when she emails us now, she says “ So, here is the latest from The Diaper Club, here in Canada”. So, I allowed her to name this bloggy “series” – since it’s all about her, or because of her and her husband that it came to life …

Every day, I am waiting, with bated breath, for the next piece of news about the baby and about the mom… I never do anything, it seems, anymore, without them in mind. I am 5 months away from them coming to visit me and I am already getting the house ready for Patrick!

Bored in the NICU. "I wanna go home already!"

So, after the three weeks in NICU, Patrick came home – still very much advanced for his preemie self. He eats on his own, and other than a funky haircut where they chopped off his locks to stick IV’s in his head, he is beautiful and healthy looking! (He’ll tell me one day that “beautiful” is for girls, but till then: he is beautiful!!).

First car ride: "I am smiling, 'cause I get to go home! Hooray!!"

Every day, I cannot wait to find out what new things they both learn: her about babies and being a mom, and him about everything. I used to love teaching because I enjoyed opening up kids’ eyes to new and exciting things. Now, I can do it vicariously through the two of them.

EVERYTHING he does amazes my sister, or worries her …

He doesn’t cry much, but just like the rest of our families, he talks a LOT! In his own baby babble, which is more like random and squirmy noises, but he is vocal. I was fortunate enough to hear him yesterday, over the phone. Those noises made him sound so real. My sister added, bitterly: “Oh, trust me, sister, he’s real, all right!!” (we’re all bitter in my family, that’s part of our charm).

Of course, his simple and cute (to me) baby talking worries my sister. Just like his face turning too pink one day, or his "white saliva” ("milk" would be my guess, but hey, I am no mom), or his chewing on his fists worry her too, since he must be hungry … She asked puzzled yesterday: “Why does he do THAT? That noise - like a frog. Why does he sound like that? What if he’s sick?” I tried to explain to her, he’s probably bored and wants to chat, and that’s his way of saying “Hey, I am here, pay attention to me. I am awake! Keep me company!”. Or maybe he has an air bubble and he’s just telling her that. Or maybe he needs more noise and less light around him – who knows?!? Let him talk!

She then worries he eats too little, and he’s not taking in what the book says he should at this time in his life. I told her he’s probably still adjusting to being home – a new environment and new noises or lack of for him. Let him eat as much as he can handle for right now, new place and bad mood and all.

Then, there is the bath. Is she OK to do it by herself? Is she going to hurt him? Or do it thoroughly?!? I admit: the bath would scare me too! Too bad they don’t have “grooming for babies” at Babies-R-US like they have for puppies at PetsMart. Now, that would make someone some money!

Oh, the joys of first time parenthood! You can imagine: when you’re not sure whether you’re helping – or hurting more. And all you have to go by are some wooden language books and your still forming instincts. It cannot be easy, I am sure …

I can see how she’s torn between worry and utter love all mixed up with amazement …

Sometimes I worry that she’s going to take him back to the hospital just like you return the TV set: “I am sorry, ma’am, this one is making funny noises, like a frog, can you give me a quieter baby, please?!”. I kid, of course, because I love!

I love her so much, and I hope that my being away, and being somewhat detached from the whole hysteria of the moment she's in can bring her some calm, and someone “neutral” to turn to … I hope so. I know, she will be OK. She is a strong woman, and a bright one, too. She has a great husband, who’s there 110% of the time. She has all of us who support her, and try to be there for her, with either a piece of advice, or a sympathetic ear, when she frets he doesn’t get enough milk, or enough formula.

And I hope she will be able to look ahead, and realize that he won’t be a baby for long, and oh, 10 years from now, when he’ll want a cell and an Ipod and a trip to Paris for the summer, she’ll want to be back to where she is today, where all he is is cute and with fewer needs: like to be clean and fed.

Just like other millions of babies, he’ll be raised in love, and worry, and wonder of “what’s tomorrow going to bring”.

And every day surely is interestingly new when you have a baby. For them and for us, too!

Finally, home. "Where are the ends of this BIG crib??" - too tiny for the crib, but so comfy!

To Find Oneself, One Must Travel – A Camping Trip in the Spring

"Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.”
(Frank Lloyd Wright)

Did you know that cardinals eat bacon? I swear they do! Got a picture to prove it!

Did you know that raccoons are so friendly as to come visit within 5-6 feet from humans and a burning fire? My dad always told me that fires scare creatures. Apparently not raccoons. Either that or the smell of food is worth the risk to them.

Did you know that oak trees have some of the most beautiful blooms in the late spring? I guess they’re always so tall and majestic, we don’t get a chance to live at “eye-level” with them, and we forget they are actually blooming trees …

I found out all these and so much more this weekend, on my recent camping trip to Kerr Lake. The lake is claimed by both VA and NC as a huge body of water lying just off of I-85 on the border of those states. The park is huge, perfect for the water sports folks, but also perfect for the more laid back campers who would like to just commune with nature for a day or two.

I have been at war with my spirit, my mind and body all year, trying to find the right track, and trying to refill my batteries. No matter what relaxation technique I have tried, it’s not getting me there. And just as Lloyd Wright says and as I have known my entire life, “nature never fails me”. Nature gives me time and space to do nothing but to listen to myself.

Awake, at night, in a tent in the middle of the woods, with waves splashing the lake shores, and owls carrying on their frightful and menacing conversations, crickets calling each other by name (thanks, A.), and lizards and frogs jumping through dead leaves just within a earshot of my tent, under a black sky full of stars and a semi-full moon you have nothing to distract you or carry you away. You’re alone, and exposed. Nothing between you and the elements but a flimsy piece of cloth. And there, “naked” and exposed, and quiet, with no distractions, you have only yourself to answer to. And you figure out a plan. Only there, I could find my peace. Only there, I could empty out my murky brain filled with disappointment and loaded with pain, clean it out, sanitize it and fill it back up with nothing but fresh air. It was like spring cleaning for my whole being.

I try to take very little of the civilized world with me when I camp, and luckily, my camping buddy did the same. He didn’t even bring a fire starter fluid. He wanted to build a fire the good ol’ way, and as you can see in the pictures, we didn’t lack fire at all.

Mohandas Gandhi says that “to forget how to dig the earth and to tend to the soil is to forget ourselves”. So is to forget how to make a fire, I believe. The most basic skill of survival in the wild. And thank you, A., for forgetting the lantern! It was in the stars, or should I say "in the moon", as it was plenty bright!

The only drawback to the whole nature experiment, is, you guessed it: humans! Humans who seem to compete with each other over who pollutes the nature more: bigger trucks, bigger campers, bigger boats and noisier too… That’s the letdown of a State Park camp ground: you get to share it with humans. And not only that: they also bring radios, and cells which go off when you least want them to. Even hair dryers.

But I could very well block off their presence, and just enjoy our stories around the fire, and the woods, and the swishy wind through the young oak leaves, and the woodpeckers, cardinals and squirrels. I could have watched them all and listened to the wind and the waves for 10 more days. I was too thirsty for it all, and the random “human made” noises were not to interfere with my healing, and they didn’t.

Even the food helped. Mainly, we fed on basic things: meats, potatoes, corn and beans, and we somehow got everything perfectly cooked by throwing everything in the fire. Not too much work, not a stove, not too much cooking, nor trash. Paper plates were added to the fire, for cleanup. So were paper cups.

I hope the Earth can say we didn’t disturb it much. I would hate it if we did. Maybe a couple of dead ants, but those happen.

I drifted away from the lake more peaceful and quieter. I even drove slower, and I came home to a nap. My skull seems to be an empty pot again, fresh and clean, ready to be filled up by whatever the springs of life have in store for me for the rest of the year. The batteries are full; and the bucket is cleansed.

One last thought came to mind while I was thinking about the getaway on my ride home: this is my parting thought for you: from William Blake:

“ To see a word in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
An eternity in an hour”.

Click here for pictures, and enjoy.

A 'Makes-No-Sense' World

I used to work with this gentleman; he was one of my favorite people in the world to work with. Very impatient, and brilliant, and after a while you kind of understood what he meant by the way he fluttered his arms and frowned his brows. Impatience is what we had in common. He used to say this when things got a tad fuzzy (and for him, a man of order and a control freak, as myself, that happened a lot), in the sweetest Southern accent you’ve ever heard: “This don’t make no sense!”. (followed by puzzled frown)

There was something endearing and although pretty helpless and hopeless, also re-assuring about it.

I thought of him often this week, as I seemed to come across quite a few things that, well… “don’t make no sense”…

Here’s to B.:

Shin splints. I have never heard of shin splints till I moved to America. Just like I never heard of a pink eye, nor removal of your wisdom teeth. Those are American afflictions, I figured, and I have trouble defining them to my parents. But shin splints are different. Shin splints, in seems, are excuses for people not to exercise nowadays. Sure, we all know the “real” excuses: it’s the diabetes, or the thyroid, or whatever … legitimate, sure. At least it sounds like it But when you look healthy, and you check out healthy, and the doc’s telling you, get out and RUN, you have no escape. No excuse. But, like a good old friend you can rely on, here they are: you’ll always have shin splints!

I am still fuzzy on what they actually are… But I know a handful of people who have them! According to my personal statistics, for every 10 Americans you know, there are about 8 with shin splints! It’s an epidemic.

And when I started wondering if it’s actually a disease that has some claim to existence was this weekend: mom and teen son are running in the park. Mom’s giving up and saying to son: “You go ahead! I’ll walk. I can’t”. Son in disappointed and asks: ”Why can’t you?”. She goes: “I don’t know. I guess shin splints”. She “guesses”. She’s not sure. But hey, she needs a diagnosis, right now and here, or else she cannot convince herself that she is medically unfit to run – and that’s the best excuse of all … Oh, be aware of those splints, man! They sound serious!

On the same “medical” note: I don’t get the pregnancy test commercials presented by … oh so confident … men. Oh, “it’s 99.99% accurate. It works in the most cases. Plan your life according to them”. Because why? YOU - A GUY – tried them and they worked?? For you?! – NOT!!!! Wow! What are they thinking??!!

At the bookstore the other day. I browse the bargain shelf, and I find a book for children titled “My First Words”. This is a book for toddlers, and all pictures, to teach them to say their first (mind you) words. On the cover of this book there is the picture and the name of a “tricycle”. And I sit there in awe. This kid is just now learning how to say “mom” and “dad” and “cat” and “dog”, maybe “apple”, probably “bee”. But I am not sure “tricycle” would make the cut as one of the “first” words I would want my kid to learn! And then we’re whining the kid has an issue with everyone wanting them to be perfect! Self-esteem and stuff. Society!!! No sense, I tell you!

And this is from The Master Himself. Shakespeare, that is:
“Isn’t it odd that desire lasts so much longer than the ability to perform?”. (Henry IV)
Humanity’s oldest question, isn’t it?! Still puzzled!

The Single Life

Ah! What a day to day affair life is. (Jules Laforgue)

Days come and close with the exactness of a clock.

Rearview mirror, but no reverse. Just straight drive. That’s what life is, after all, isn’t it?!
Filling up time and hours with the solitude of a single life’s plans: groceries, walk in the park, yoga mat, feed the cats, pay bills, call family during the weekend, meet random friends for dinner during the week, work.
Nothing more. Nor less.

A year of coming of age. Maybe more than a year. Maybe immensely more than a year. And of finding that foothold once again.

For ten years now, I feel like I have been moving along pushed in one direction or another by men who have entered and exited my life. For the first time, I feel free and swimming on my own. I’ve been floating, mostly, this year. But I feel, for the first time, in the freshness of a spring afternoon, watching the playful and free geese in the park, that I am slowly swimming, not just letting myself float. Baby strokes, yet, but I am swimming…

Not sure yet where I am headed, but as long as my breath keeps me alive and my arms above water, I’ll continue to swim.

There is literally no limit to what you can do with yourself when you’re single. You have no one to wake up in the morning for, no one to ask for permission to listen to music, nor anyone to ask what they would like to have for dinner. No one to clean after in the bathroom, either …

The walk in the park seems endless. Could be endless. No one but the cats to come home to. And the cats can surely wait for days. Maybe I’ll do a movie today, but I am not bound by any commitments, so, I might skip it – with no remorse.

The visit to the bookstore, or to Hallmark has no time boundaries, either. Why should they?! As my friend, A., said: “I am free to just ‘be’”. And I am taking full advantage of that, trust me!
The weekend is wide open, a white canvas waiting to be smeared. Dinner could be leftovers, or sushi from the Harris Teeter counter, or a burger and fries at the neighborhood pub.

Like swimming in a calm lake. Being in a relationship, I guess, would be swimming in marshes, thick and full of algae, the mud and vegetation dragging you down. But the water lilies and lotuses smell so good!

I can sit on my back porch and watch my petunias, and lilac tree, and azaleas, and lilies, and carnations for hours. No one inside to call me in for lunch. Or dinner. Or ever.

And this no-commitments and no-strings life is so curative. So stripping you down to bare bones to ask you every day: “do you like what you see in the mirror?”. You have plenty, way plenty opportunities (and time!!!) for this question to haunt you daily for sure! So therapeutic! Because the first pimple you see, it’s cleaning time!

The night falls calm, fresh and soft like a velvet veil … Over it all a saddening and deafening silence. It seems with no ending. But I secretly know that the sun will, in fact, rise again tomorrow, over a much similar new day. For now, I get lost in the night. A confused bird is trying to break the silence. So does a scared dog.

But other than that my soul is one with the silence. And the darkness. A lone soul, and quiet one, too. Submissive. Alone but not lonely. Enjoying the companionship of the darkness and the silence. Filling up with nothing but presence! Bountiful! And plump with life.

Thinking of people I once knew. And marshes I once floated over.

How I Lightened up my Friday

Thanks, C.!

I have been kind of down lately, and needed a good laugh. So, I emailed my friend C. because I know he has some ready made crack up joke and I’ll be guaranteed at least one chuckle. And he comes back with the story below. It was so good, it made me laugh so hard, I had to share it – with his approval, of course.

Sorry, C.! This made me think of Mr. Bean! And also: next time this happens, I am not sure lighting a match will be advised in that small room!

Enjoy, everyone!

Here's the basic story: I was at my friend J.'s house setting up for a church group function with a few friends. It was a co-ed group and there was one girl there that I'd been flirting with and was trying to impress.

Well, my stomach was a little upset that day and I found myself in the bathroom. I get this knock on the door and it's this girl, K., who needs to come in and use the bathroom after me. Of course, I was mortified that ANYBODY would have to come in the bathroom after me, especially in light of my upset tummy. I figure I'll light the candle on the back of the toilet, figuring the match would cover the odor.

I figure if there's a candle, there MUST be matches lying around somewhere. My first instinct is to check the medicine cabinet so I grab the mirror to open it and check. Well, the mirror doesn't pull to the side as I expected. It pulls up from the bottom. Now, at this point, most people would figure out that there isn't a medicine cabinet there at all. It's just a mirror. Not me.

I say to myself. "Hmmm. I've never seen a medicine cabinet open from the bottom before. That's kinda' cool." So I grab it from the bottom with both hands and lift up to get to the contents of the cabinet.

That's when the mirror pulls away from the wall entirely and I'm left holding a mirror and staring at the blank wall underneath. So now, instead of just having to deal with a smelly bathroom, K. has to deal with a smelly bathroom and no mirror above the sink in which to check her makeup or whatever! When I pulled the mirror, the little fasteners on the back came away entirely! I had to put the mirror on the floor. And I still haven't found matches!

So I'm tearing the place apart looking for matches and finally discover a pack in the closet. I light the candle and leave. Of course, NOW I have to explain why the mirror that used to be above the sink is now on the floor. And I can't lie. So I have to tell the whole story to the girl I was trying to hide it from in the first place! AND I have to call the owner of the house (who wasn't there at the time) to explain to him why he no longer has a mirror in his guest bathroom.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

J. (owner): "Hey, man. What's up?"
Me: "Hey, buddy. Listen, you know that medicine cabinet in your guest bathroom?"
J.: (Pause) "Um...I don't have a medicine cabinet in my guest bathroom.
"Me: "Exactly!"

From the Heart ...

For Patrick, with big love …

August 11, 1978. Maia and bubu (my grandparents) and I were walking down the street in Constanta, a beach town in Romania. I was a little over 3 years old. Maia said: “She has another girl. Andreea is her name. She is small, bluish-black, underweight and full of hair”. And then there was silence. And footsteps down pavements. We were all thinking. I could not figure out whether “your sister” is supposed to live with you, or she kind of stays in the hospital, where they were telling me she “came”.

That is my first memory about my sister.

Through almost 30 years of life, growing pains, sisterly bickerness, competitiveness and sweetness, we grew up into women, into loving, giving and accomplished women. We grew up to be each other soul’s mates. She is probably the love of my life. I have never been able to love someone else so unconditionally, so fully, and desperately like I grew to love her. So completely!

And today, her son was born. This is her first. How this puts your life into perspective! I have been trying all day to come up with something intelligent to say about this miracle, but I don’t think miracles are of the mind: they are of the heart, and they should stay there, where they belong.

So, here it is… straight from my heart…

She always wanted an Aries baby. She tried so hard to conceive him just so he can be feisty and determined, just like her sister. But her due date was set for June 11. Oh, well. Like every pregnant woman, she said to herself: “I want him healthy and happy, not Aries”. But he was to have a mind of his own from the tummy already and not just by not being an Aries.

He moved when he wanted to, not when she wanted him to; he was hard to measure, throwing his own due date around all over the month of June for every doctor that’s seen him: June 11, June 10, June 21, June 18 – he was the first baby with no set due date. Headstrong and early, just like his dad, he turned head first at week 28. Ready to go somewhere. He was beautiful in the 3D movies, and he was shameless, he even peed in one. He had his “gentleman”-ly moments though, according to her: “He never kicked too hard”, she’d say.

Any baby is special, but he wanted to be extra-so! He broke the water on Resurrection night of the Eastern Orthodox Easter, April 26 – more than 6 weeks before his earliest “due date”. Doctors wanted to keep him in for days and weeks, but he was determined. He will humor his mom and aunt after all, and be an April baby. Sure, he’ll pick Taurus, just like it’s fitting for a stubborn child (I can’t blame him: less impulsive is always a plus!), but he wanted to be out by end of the month.

He was born today, the last day of Easter. They say a baby is a good omen, but a baby for Easter, when the Heavens are wide open, and God’s light floods the Earth, you can feel the holiness in the air like liquid honey, so sweet and light and yellow, is absolutely angelic!

He is a preemie, but the largest preemie in the NICU of a Montreal hospital, at 4.2 lbs. He even breathes on his own, pretty much. Preventive oxygen tube or not, he is perfect! He is pink and vivacious. He has a wide chest and broad shoulders, just like a man should: to be the support of this family and weak mom, in older years. He has a big foot, like his dad, and a good mouth, like him, too. And all in all, again, he is perfect.

I have a million questions for God and Life right now… and I am sure in time, I’ll get my answers. I do know that he will have the best care and the most love any baby in our family ever had. As his aunt and Godmother, I can promise that!

I am pretty sure, he will have his parents youthful looks for a while, and their well defined features. He will be culturally sophisticated, like them, and bright like them, also. He will be funny, like everyone in our families, and enjoy life. He will speak at least 3 languages, and he will be well traveled. Again, I can promise that! Will be an artist like his grandfather? A gardener like his grandma, or an animal lover or chemist like the other grandparents? Will he be a lawyer or an accountant like his parents? Or, in his perfectly rebel spirit, will he just choose to do something totally unrelated to all? Will he choose Europe or North America to live?! Will he like to fish like his dad? Or will he like cats like his mom? Will he have blue eyes or brown?! Curly hair? Wavy or straight?

Will he like fries like his mommy, or mashed potatoes like his aunt?

Right now, I am looking at his picture and crying … He has so much LIFE packed in those 4.2 pounds! So much curiosity! So much verve and determination! They hooked him up to tubes and he’s clutching on them. He can’t even suck on a bottle, but he’s clutching onto things! He’s a feeler, you see.

I have been melting away with love all day, in splendor of this one shot of him. I want to feel him close, to smell him and touch him, and kiss his feet.

He’s molecule by molecule part of my sister and her husband. They made him from love, and she made him grow from the first ultrasound of a pulsating spot into this whole human, with all the right features.

I asked my sister about him and she said “he has the biggest and softest feet” – and started crying instantaneously… They don’t call this a miracle for nothing, you see. It’s like this door just opened for all of us, and just like after Jesus’ Resurrection the world was never the same place again, so after each birth the world is a little bit more different … A little bit more hopeful, for sure, and a little brighter.

It was supposed to be an ordinary day: clear blue crystal sky and crisp April air. Half asleep drivers almost ran me over twice this morning, and I underdressed, as usual during this month, because it’s so fickle! “April is the cruelest month”, Elliot said, but is it now?! Cruelest-sweetest. Maybe.

His life will be nothing like ours was growing up. Born in the Free World my dad talked to us about like he was telling us a fairy tale. This world is his now. And the possibilities are endless. A woman running for president is on the front cover of the paper today. And so the torch passes on. And so I feel grayer today. My smiles are wrinkled at the eyes. But happier, and hopeful, that there is a man in our family, a new man, who brings hope and support. Just simple hope that life will live on. That our blood will forever live.

It’s strange: I don’t feel like half of my heart that has been dedicated solely for my sister my entire life is now halved to make room for him. I feel, instead, that my heart exploded, and it’s twice as big, and gives them both the same amount of love I’ve given her for 30 years.

Now, I know babies don’t just live at the hospital, where “they come”. Thank God, they come home with us, to brighten our lives and rooms, and to make us more loving, more tender, and more forgiving. To teach us responsibility and kindness.

I just hope I can live the day when I see his baby, just like I see him today. So that I can see him one day as happy as I have seen my sister today. Their love, bond and happiness will fuel me for another 30 years, to be sure.

Thank you, guys, all three of you, for letting me be part of this!

Romanian version here. Please click. _Pentru versiunea romaneasca dati click aici.

First picture of Patrick_ Prima fotografie:

Din Inima ...

Pentru Patrick, cu dragoste mare ...

11 august 1978. Maia si bubu (bunicii mei) si cu mine mergeam pe strazile Constantei. Eu aveam un pic mai mult de 3 ani. Maia spune, la un moment dat: “Are inca o fata. O cheama Andreea. E mica tare, neagra si plina de par”. Apoi se facu tacere. Nu se auzeau decat pasii pe caldaram. Eram plini de ganduri. Eu ma intrebam daca “surorile” vin sa traiasca cu tine, sau stau la “spital” unde erau “aduse”.

Aceasta este prima mea amintire despre sora mea.

Dupa aproape 30 de ani de viata, de dureri de crestere, de rivalitate frateasca si de dulcegarii, am crescut amandoua, si ne-am transformat in femei, in doua femei pline de dragoste, in doua femei implinite. Am crescut si am devenit surori de inima, nu numai de sange. Ea este, probabil, dragostea vietii mele. Nu am mai fost in stare sa iubesc niciodata atat de complet, de neconditionat, si de disperat cum o iubesc pe ea!

Iar astazi, s-a nascut fiul ei. Primul ei fiu. Cum sunt puse lucrurile in perspectiva acum!Am incercat toata ziua sa scriu ceva inteligent despre acest miracol, dar nu cred ca miracolele tin de intelect. Ele tin de inima, si acolo ar trebui sa ramana.

Asa ca … din toata inima scriu aceste randuri…

Ea isi dorea un copil in Berbec. A incercat sa il conceapa in asa fel incat sa fie Berbec, si sa fie luptator, si hotarat, asa ca sora ei. Dar data probabila de nastere i s-a fixat pe 11 iunie. Ei, bine! Ca orice femeie gravida, si-a zis: “lasa, sa fie el sanatos si fericit, si ce daca nu e Berbec”. Dar el avea sa aiba planurile lui inca din burta si nu numai prin a nu fi Berbec!

Se misca atunci cand avea chef, nu cand voia ea; era greu de masurat: toti doctorii care l-au vazut i-au tot mutat data probabila a nasterii, bazata pe masuratori: ba pe 10, ba pe 11 iunie, ba pe 21, ba pe 18. Era primul copil de care am auzit fara data fixa probabila a nasterii. Incapatanat si devreme, ca tatal sau, s-a intors cu capul in jos de pe la 28 de saptamani aproape. Era gata de venire! Era superb in filmuletele tridimensionale de la ecograf, si era fara rusine, ca la unul chiar a facut si pipi. Dar era si “gentleman”, dupa spusele mamei lui, ca “nu lovea tare” cand se misca.

Orice nou nascut e deosebit, dar el voia sa fie si-mai-si! A rupt apa in noaptea Invierii, pe 26 aprilie, cu 6 saptamani inainte de cea mai devreme data probabila a nasterii lui. Desi doctorii tot au vrut sa il tina in pantec cat mai mult, zile si chiar saptamani la rand, el era gata de venit! La urma urmei, ii va face placerea mamei si a matusii lui, sa se nasca in aprilie. Bineinteles ca a ales zodia mai buna, Taurul, lipsa de impulsivitate fata de Berbec e oricum mai buna!

Asa ca s-a nascut astazi, ultima zi de Paste. Se spune ca noii nascuti aduc bucurii, dar noii nascuti de Paste, cand Raiul este deschis si lumina dumnezeiasca inunda pamantul, si poti simti sfintenia in aer, ca o miere aurie, sunt de-a dreptul angelici!

E un copil prematur, desigur, dar e cel mai vanjos prematur din spitalul din Montreal, la 1 kg si 900. Chiar si respira singur. Fie ca are tub de oxigen preventiv sau nu, e un copil perfect! E roz si plin de viata. Are un piept lat si umeri lati, asa cum sta bine la un barbat: sa sustina familia, si pe mama lui mica, atunci cand va fi batrana. Are picioare mari, ca tatal sau, si gura frumoasa, tot ca el. Si, in genere, ma repet, dar e perfect!

Am un milion de intrebari la adresa lui Dumnezeu si a Vietii, in genere, si stiu ca in timp, imi vor fi raspunse.Stiu cu siguranta ca va fi extrem de bine ingrijit si se va bucura de cea mai multa dragoste si grija din partea tuturor celor in familiile noastre! Ii promit eu asta, ca matusa si nasa lui.

Sunt sigura ca isi va pastra frumos tineretea, asa ca parintii lui, si le va semana, prin trasaturi frumoase si bine definite. Va fi sofisticat din punct de vedere cultural, asa cum sunt si ei, si destept. Va fi comic, ca multi din familiile noastre si ii va place viata! Va vorbi cel putin 3 limbi si va calatori mult! Asta e sigur! Dar va fi oare un artist, ca unul din bunici? Sau ii va place gradinaritul, ca bunica? Sau ii vor place animalele, sa gateasca sau stiinta, ca ceilalti doi bunici? Sau, in spiritul sau rebel, oare va face ceva cu totul diferit, si fara nici o legatura cu inaintasii lui?! Va alege sa locuiasca in Europa, sau in America de Nord? Ii va place sa pescuiasca, precum tatei lui? Sau ii vor place pisicile, ca mama? Oare va avea ochi albastri? Sau caprui? Parul cret? Ondulat? Sau drept?

Ii vor place cartofii prajiti ca mama lui, sau pure-ul, ca matusa lui?

Acuma, ma uit la o poza cu el si plang. Pare ca are atata VIATA inmagazinata in acel 1 kg si 900 de grame! Are atata curiozitate! Verva si hotarare. Cand avea tuburi pe el, tine cu manuta de ele. Nici nu poate suge la biberon, dar vrea sa simta el cu manuta lui tuburile. Vezi, ca e sensibil, ii place sa atinga lucrurile.

M-am topit toata ziua de dragostea pe care o simt in splendoarea unei fotografii. As vrea sa il am aproape, sa il miros, si sa il ating, si sa ii sarut picioarele!

Molecula cu molecula, e parte din sora mea si sotul ei. L-au conceput din dragoste si ea l-a facut sa creasca, luna de luna, dintr-un punctisor pulsativ pe ecograf intr-o fiinta umana completa, cu 10 degete la maini si 10 la picioare!

Cand am intrebat-o pe sora mea cum arata, a zis ca are picioare mari si asa de fine!!!! – si a inceput sa planga instantaneu. Nu degeaba se spune ca sunt miracole copiii!

E ca si cum o usa s-a deschis pentru noi toti si asa cum lumea era transformata dupa Invierea lui Iisus, asa si lumea e putin transformata dupa nasterea unui copil! Un pic mai plina de speranta, si de lumina!

Se anunta a fi o zi obisnuita: un cer senin, fara nor pe el, cu aer proaspat si rece de aprilie. Soferi pe jumate adormiti aproape ca m-au accidentat de 2 ori dimineata, iar eu m-am imbracat prea subtire, cum fac mereu in aprilie, ca luna asta e asa de capricioasa. T.S.Elliot spune ca “Aprilie e luna cea mai cruda”. Dar oare este? Cea mai cruda si cea mai dulce, se pare! Poate.

Viata lui nu va semana deloc cu a mea si a sorei mele. El e nascut in Lumea Libera, despre care tata ne vorbea ca si cum ne zicea o poveste. Dar aceasta lume de basm este lumea lui acum. Iar oportunitatile sunt fara limita aici. Pe prima pagina a ziarului de azi este o femeie candidand pentru presedentie. Si asa dam faclia mai departe. Si asa ma simt si mai albita. Zambetele mele au acum riduri la ochi! Dar zambesc, pentru ca sunt fericita. Fericita ca acum avem un barbat in familie care va aduce speranta, si sprijin mai tarziu. Viata merge inainte! Iar sangele nostru merge mai departe.

E ciudat: nu ma simt ca si cand jumate din inima mea care a purtat dragostea pentru sora mea atatia ani a fost injumatatita azi, ca sa ii faca loc si lui Patrick; dar mai degraba ma simt ca si cum inima mi-ar fi explodat si e de doua ori mai mare, si astfel le port amandurora aceeasi cantitate de dragoste pe care am simtit-o pentru ea timp de 30 de ani.

Acum stiu ca noii-nascuti nu traiesc la spital, unde “vin”. Multumesc lui Dumnezeu ca vin acasa cu noi si ne lumineaza vietile si casele si ne fac mai iubitori, mai buni si mai iertatori. Ne invata responsabilitate si dragoste.

Ma rog sa traiesc de ajuns ca sa vad ziua in care va avea si el un copil. Ca sa il vad si pe el la fel de fericit cum e sora mea astazi. Sa le vad si lor dragostea si legatura solida si plina de iubire pe care am vazut-o azi intre ea si el. Ma voi hrani din vederea acestei legaturi inca 30 de ani, cu siguranta!

Dragii mei, va multumesc la toti trei, pentru ca mi-ati ingaduit sa fiu parte din aceasta experienta unica!

Just Observing the World

Random thoughts on a quiet April night … of all sorts ...
Apologies in advance for those feathers which will be ruffled or those eyes which will be polluted.

I have a nest of birdies above my door. I love them, as I love my plants and my cats, almost! I guess the maternal instinct in me loves to watch things “grow” and live. There used to be one birdie in the nest. She looked frazzled and skittish. Every time I’d open the door, she’d fly away. Now there are two. I am guessing, she found a mate. Woo-hoo! I’ll have babies next to watch! I cannot wait. Now, every time I look up at the nest, one birdie always looks asleep, and the other is on the lookout for noises and what might happen next. I am (almost) betting my yearly paycheck the one on the lookout is the momma, and the daddy is just asleep and lazy. But then again, I might be wrong.

I found a wine at the store, whose name is “Oops…”. The “subtitle” (can wines have those?) is “Mistakes Happen”. Hhmm… I guess that’s what you should have to drink before a one night stand you’ll regret for the rest of your life, or before you get knocked up. They’ll ask you: “what happened?”, and it’ll be fun to say: “well, we both had a glass of Oops and that did it!”. It’s all in the wine – isn’t that what Romans taught us?!

Browsing the fish counter in the store, I read the salmon label: “Fresh Atlantic Salmon. All Natural. Color added”. Hhhmm… Why in the hell would you add “color” to fish?! You don’t add preservatives to keep it fresh; you don’t even freeze it to keep it fresh; but people are worried it’s not pink (or orange) enough?!? There are some folks out there in marketing that are terribly confused, I think. I just cannot imagine this: you send out a survey, with this question: “What is the main reason you didn’t buy Atlantic Salmon at Harris Teeter in the past 6 months: a)freshness; b)price; c)not interested in that fish; d) the salmon is not pink enough” – and a bazillion Americans check d). I just cannot see that!

I apologize in advance to my very good friend whom I love dearly and who’s been giving me crap about me making fun of fat people. Because I know I am going to piss her off. But sometimes I just cannot help it and … I MUST say this! It kills me!
I know there are folks out there who are large because of some medical condition, and I am definitely never talking about those. But it’s the folks who have no common sense and no measure of what they eat that I refer to in my pet-peeves. There should be no excuses for folks who come to class with a McHeartAttack for breakfast and a supersized milkshake, AND have TWO (not one) enormous chocolate brownies (they eat them with a fork, like it’s a freakin’ cake) for snacks during the day as to why they’re large; that’s on top of lunch, of course. And yep, you guessed it: in a class of 10, they’re the only one taking the elevator for a one story building. Now, that’s lazy-fat to me, not medical-fat.
Also, till today, I never thought you COULD get “to go boxes” at a buffet. It’s an “all you can eat Chinese buffet”. And the woman (again in the 300+ range) has been eating for about 30 minutes, plateful after plateful, and after that … she asks for a “to go box” and fills it up with food. No, not just one spring roll. It’s another … plateful of fried rice and sesame chicken. Again: that’s your fault for being 300+ lbs, don’t even try to squeeze into my plane seat next time, or else!

I noticed while in a public restroom today, that the doors of the stall (at least the logo I am referring to was just on the door, not the walls of the stall, too) was provided by this company called “Hiny Hiders”. After a quick chuckle and thinking: “Wow! That’s the best thing I have heard since ‘The Happy Can’ Porta-Jon company in Atlanta.” – and trying to figure out whether that’s creative or purely too graphic for my taste – I noticed that the logo featured a man using the bathroom: he was standing behind the door that’s provided by “Hiny Hiders”, facing the toilet, of course, in the tiny logo picture. I wondered what the company would be called if they featured a woman doing the same action?! Hhmmm …

The Beach

“A friend will bail you out of jail … a redneck friend will be sitting next to you saying: ‘Dang, that was fun!’”.

I wish sometimes I were a beach gal. No, I really do! This blog would meet the expectations of beach going folks everywhere then! So, I really wish I got a kick out of going to the beach, and the salty air, and the crispy skin in the summer, and the shell-shaped necklaces and the flop-flops, and the funky, flimsy tanks showing your nipples, and the big tall drinks with the cute umbrellas in them, and the cups you get to keep, and all that sand coming off in the shower, and the pools and the hot tubs, oh, joy! … But I have wiry hair that hates the sun and the humidity and the salt in the air. And fair skin that never, but I mean never tans, but always burns! And I am a beer chick. I cannot swim, either. And let’s not talk about the nipples! I am shy, too! So, the beach does nothing for me!

I do want to live within weekend driving distance from the ocean, though, because occasionally, I like to visit it, even for just a change of scenery. The ocean, also, helps me think! When I see that whole world, hidden under waters, as well as seeing the waves coming and going, all that passing, renewing … just like the tides of life – that puts things into perspective, and into motion for me. So, I like to visit.

This spring’s beach trip was not just helpful for my life perspective. But also intrinsic to fill up my dry girlie well. Let me explain!

This trip was all about being with the girls and being a girl. No boys to worry about. Plenty of room to drink beer, feel bloated, burp and do it all over again … Plenty of time to shop till I dropped (you all know I am an anti-shopping crank year-round) and not worry about the bottom line. Everyone else was doing it, so why should I worry?!?

And who cares if you’re too drunk or tired to put on your lipstick or mascara, or whatever, we’re all friends: we’ll tell you it looks like crap, we’ll even take pictures to prove it and then help you put it on right!

Plenty of opportunities to gossip till we feel like we just ran out of victims in the whole wide world! And boy were we mean: from people we couldn’t stand, to people who we felt sorry for! We were ruthless. And plenty, oh, plenty of opportunities to see how fortunate and loved I truly am to have such friends to do it with! Sometimes it’s just good to kick back and just speak out loud about people you withhold about all day long, because of darn political correctness!

Yeah, they told me I am a “damn Aries” who can’t keep her mouth shut most times, and they made fun of my hatred for sweets (what girl hates chocolate, right??), and they told me that I like dull people, otherwise I can’t fall in love, and that my hair might look like a “skunk” in a couple of months, when my gray streaks will really be huge enough to tell … and one day they even told me I looked bloated! Burp!!!

And I felt free to tell them back: that they are fashion Nazi’s, that they are judgmental and gossipy, that they are geeks, that they snore and I am happy we’re not sharing rooms! It was all in good fun and good laughter (I hope!!).

It was such a great, rejuvenating weekend of just being silly and “worrying about” silly things. When would I ever have time to shop around the gift shops in Greensboro and just browse and laugh at goofy signs, like “Feng-Shui is Chinese for moving your husband’s crap in the garage”, or “After my last relationship I fell in love with food, and now I can’t get in my own pants!” ?! I tell you: I do not know of many great guys out there who would have gotten this and laughed with me as hard as the girls did!

And then, of course, we talked about “girlie” stuff, which is not to be mentioned here, but it’s to be imagined, I am assuming, by … imaginative minds.

We people watched, and gossiped, just like only girls know how to, pointing out the gorgeous “bimbo” and the old man couple at the raw fish bar who were looking pretty out of place, kinky and drunk, or the crazy men on the pier who were trying to hit on us with lame lines which must have died probably 50 years ago, not that they seemed to have caught up on that; we met new people, for some, like the pier guy, a happy and drunk ol’ man, who had a story for every day he’s spent there, whose tales were as colorful as the drinks he was having mixed for himself at 10 AM every morning. Aww, all good times! Never to forget!

And guys, seriously: do you really not know when your hairy butt crack is hanging out smiling at the sky from under your pants?! Or you do, but you really think that’s sexy? I tell you: it’s NOT! It’s funny, yeah, but not sexy! I wondered if our ancestors who actually fished to survive impressed their lasses with a free viewing of their buttocks?! Wonder if by evolution, we, girls of today, just lost the meaning of it all?!? Hhmmm…

Thank God for friends who think that’s as funny as I do, and even snapped a shot of that awkward view! And even as a non-ocean chick, ladies, I am up for another round the next time we all get a chance! Thanks all for coming and building the memories!

Enjoy some pictures here.

Birthday Blues

My philosophy teacher in high school had a birthday wish that has been my favorite ever since. He used to say: “I wish you precisely what you wish yourself today!”. It’s a bit of a cop out, but it’s so selfless, too!

There is something that makes your heart jump when the age on your MySpace profile rolls over from one number to the next overnight. You hold your breath, you dig out all the tax documents, the Cosmo magazines, the market surveys you’ve been emailed over time and which are stored by the thousands in the Junk email folder and you want to know: “Oh, hell, did I slide over in a different bracket now??? Is a whole new (older) generation of men going to hit on me now?!”. And you breathe a sigh of relief when you realize that … nope, not yet: you got one more year… or two… But you know you’re old enough!

If you know me at all, you know that I somehow insist to be sad on my birthday every year. Not sure why, but I am! I am not making myself sad, it just happens that way …

The passing of time, the hopeless irreversibility of it, I guess, does it every time. I am usually pretty happy with what I have done so far in my life, and where I have been. Maybe the fact that I can’t do the last year or years all over again brings sadness?!

To soothe the melancholy about becoming older, God (an ironic and clever one too) put next to my dinner table a group of 20 some year old girls who were talking about life (hhmmm…yeah, they thought so!), dating and weekend plans. Of course I eavesdropped! Every 3 words that came out of their mouths was followed by “like”. They were not “cold”, they were “like cold”. And the sushi was “like expensive”. Their next boyfriend “MUST adore sushi, or else he doesn’t make the cut. Because, you see, that’s like important to me!” – one said. And I thought I had dating issues!
Then, I also found out that 20 some year olds are grossed out by the thought of sharing food. Even appetizers or sushi. Hhmm… That sense of fierce individualism and selfishness and over-protectiveness is indeed getting the next generation: always on the lookout for what to fear next; the next cataclysm that can potentially kill them, like germs from each other, maybe?!

And that’s when I thought: my bracket might not be the first one listed in the surveys anymore, and I won’t get hunks to hit on me anymore, but I would not give anything to go back in time, not even 10 years. Not even 5 !!! I’m enjoying the little bit of sophistication I am showing for my years. Just like wine, you know what they say! Oh, the insecurities, and fears, and cheap talk… Not missing them much!

This year, my birthday came with good and bad surprises, as always. People that I even forgot they knew my name emailed and sent me cards. And people I thought I mean a lot to forgot it altogether.
I always wondered how to take the fact that some ex’es forget my birthday? As a compliment: they know I hate my birthdays and they don’t want to remind me?! Or as an insult: that we can’t even be friends, since I don't need to be remembered by them not even once a year, on my day?! Still debating, but I think they’re screwed!

I will probably still not enjoy my birthdays as much as my mom does! She tells me the story of my birth all over again, every year, with renewed enthusiasm, like it’s the first time, and she throws two parties, one for her friends and one for work, although I’ve lived on a different continent for 10 years now. (Aren’t people having kids for such selfish reasons?!)
But I can’t be too sad nor complain much this April, either: I’ve eaten my favorite food, got nice presents from my closest friends and family, I missed a dear friend I lost, was remembered by long forgotten friends, traveled, of course, even had a cake, even shopped just like a girl should on her birthday.

And although a lot of folks said a lot of nice things indeed, the nicest, most wonderful wish I have received was from a total stranger. And although it was directed to my group of girlfriends, I took it personally, as the birthday timing seemed appropriate to do so. Instead of “good bye”, the funny man on the pier said this weekend: “May every day be a party, and every meal be a picnic!”

And that is all I am wishing myself for the next year!

An Unplanned Trip - Atlanta

Thank you, C.!

There is one common feeling that unites all my trips, no matter how long, or where the destination, or whether I travel by land or air. And that is the feeling of unbounded gratefulness. To God, nature, and Life: that I have a body that allows me (still) to pick up and go; that there is a certain amount of safety I feel when I launch off my front porch; that I have the means to do it; that there are friends out there who either do it with me, or host my crazy outings.

Sometimes I’d pick up and go with a definite plan in mind, an itinerary and a defined timetable. And other times, when the town I live in becomes claustrophobic, I just play it by ear. Like this past weekend when all I wanted is to visit my friend in Atlanta. He’s funny and he can pack hours of entertaining just by being locked up in a room with him and listening to his fibs. That’s all I wanted: I wanted the road trip, to put some distance between daily routine and myself and to listen to my friend C. crack me up.

And, as it happens, on adventures like these, I got so much more.

I got to finally drive myself, all alone to a big city and actually not get terribly lost. One road fear down, 1000 to go! Hey, it’s the first step that counts!

I got to experience one of the quirkiest, and equally delicious restaurants I have ever been to: R. Thomas and Son. Funny name aside and all (kind of like a law office, but not ...), the place is unique: wind chimes and parrots and beads hanging from the purple ceiling, the place which is tucked under a tent, it reminded me of Key West, or some place in the Caribbean, but also of Amsterdam, for it’s eclectic-ness . They’re open 24/7 and they have breakfast round the clock.

I was not surprised that C. knew about the best place in town that has “breakfast 24/7”: we always used to go to Cracker Barrel in Greensboro, and he always used to order breakfast, no matter the time. I am glad some things don’t change so much over the years.

R. Thomas also had caged birds outside, that said “Bye” when you left, and “Hello” when you were heading in …

The food was all organic, and it tasted fresh, delicious and extremely non-greasy and non-stuffy, much, much unlike a MacBiscuit, or whatever they call those nowadays…

In this little quirky joint, I also discovered blue corn and how much I love it indeed and how that now opens the door for new culinary adventures, as I will learn everything about it: where you find it, how you cook it, how you season it, what you serve with it, you name it. It was the most basic dish you have ever seen or tasted: nothing like corn, nor beans, but somewhere in the middle. It was earthy, and simple and delicious! One hour of breakfast, one forgetful waiter later, I got more than a mouthful – as you can tell.

Also with no plans, we got to see the Georgia Aquarium, as the skies look cold and menacing, and drippy. It prides itself as “the largest aquarium in the world”, and I’d have to say: I was expecting “the” largest to be much larger than that. I guess in the number of kids and toddlers it can accommodate in 2 hours, yeah, it beats anything I have ever seen!

I had never seen Beluga whales nor whale sharks before, so there was another first. I also didn’t know about the electric eels. I’ll have to admit: I thought that’s a horrible name of a band in the 80’s, but they’re actual creatures!

We then walked to the CNN center not for the tour, which both of us have done before, and found it sort of dull (well, we both work for media people, so I guess we’re tougher to impress!). We went to CNN for snacks. I needed my ice cream and nuts fix for the year and C. wanted some donuts. About 3 disgustingly delicious ones!

I also found out about the Georgians’ sense of humor: their PortaJons are called either “Happy Can” or “Pit Stop”. I thought “Happy Can” was quite funny!

We also had a couple of large gatherings with friends; most notably one in a Mexican restaurant where you can watch tortillas being made fresh from dough, and where they recycle beer bottles by building chandeliers out of them. All I can say is: Paige Davis, eat your heart out!

But just the road tripping was welcome: to weave in and out 3-4-5 lanes amongst crazy centipede-like tractor trailers, which are completely unaware of their weight and size and speed on I-85 at speeds I am scared to tackle; just taking the Atlanta skyline in and architecture – would have been enough!

Historic houses, reminiscent of Scarlett O’Hara’s days right next to high rises or California-like modern homes, the woods of magnolia trees and dogwoods at every street corner – would have been plenty, just to rinse my retina of routine images I have been looking at here, at home, since my last trip!

Those and just to re-discover a very dear friend, the way I remembered him was priceless. We talked about our lives, relationships, loves and lost hopes and some newly gained ones, future plans and future dreams. We realized that years and physical distances matter not when the heart holds a stronger bond. Being an immigrant, I knew that – but it was nice to be reminded.

C’s stories, laughter and silliness – would have been divine! And his wisdom, too!

But it was so much more. As usual, a trip never disappoints. And again: I am rested and recharged, but most than anything: I am grateful. And looking forward, very much, to the next one.

For pictures, click here.

PS: The fact that I didn't go on and on about what the weather was like (awful, to sum it up!) should tell you that the trip was a hit!

The Y Chromosome

"Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.". (Kate Hepburn)

A very wise male friend of mine once told me quoting a prophet, I think, that "if you argue about religion, you're both wrong". Amen to that, folks!
I like this statement so much I wonder if we can use it for other things. And sometimes, I found things where paraphrases would work swimmingly. Some other times, they are doubtful.

Like: can we say the same about the ages old argument between men and women and the way they feel about each other?!
Hhmmm...

Last night, at Target, while I was shopping for baby clothes and cat litter and scanning the aisles for clearances, this evidently stressed and spread-too-thin lady carrying an overflowing basket of home goods, while walking the aisles half-out of breath and screaming in her cell phone to most likely her significant other crosses my path. It could not have been her kid, because they were talking alcohol. So... Just being presumptive there, but just a wild guess...

And the conversation went something like this: "No, John, she doesn't! No, she... Good Lord, NO! John, don't do THAT!" (rolling her eyes and waiting for the person on the other line to reply while she's putting down the basket and trying to straighten up her sweat blouse, while throwing some Dial soap in the pile and nodding her head). "John, she does NOT and I repeat DOES NOT NEED A BEER! All she needs is a WALK!" - she was screaming these all caps words to be emphatic, while sounding desperate.

She continues: "John, I will NOT give a dog beer! I am telling you: she just needs a walk" - now she's hyperventilating and panting just like a dog, out of breath, rushing to the register, while still not willing to let the phone go: her speech is now precipitated and very emphatic: "John,-- just -- take -- her -- for -- a -- SHORT -- walk. She is fine if you take her out. Please don't give THE DOG beer!"- desperate and begging now, and given up and seemed like her priority has suddenly changed and she needed not the Dial and the Pantene and the ScotchBrite and the cereal, but most importantly, she needed to get home faster so she won't find her dog comatose from alcohol.
Hhhmmm...

Today, I go to lunch with a friend. It's Friday, it's nice out, so we stroll to a sports bar, close to the office. There are maybe 10-12 tv sets hanging on the walls, all flat panels, all bigger than anything I will ever afford. There is a full house, too, everyone watching the basketball game. One game - the same game on all the tv's... These two guys, 20-some-year-olds walk in, sit at the bar, and start scanning the joint for chicks. You can tell, you read body language and watch for stares and secret nods between the two of them...

One of them sits a laptop on the bar. No biggie. Lunch break, the young professional would like to not miss the Stock action, in an economy like ours now, sure, understandable...
Only, they don't go to e-trade.com or WallStreet.com.... They go to ... the same basketball game that's playing on the 12 tv's. Not a different one. The very same one. And they start watching they OWN tv show, while all the other tvs are not dignified with their eye ball stares. And they probably suspect, THAT would be such a chick magnet, too... Just a wild guess, again!
Hhmm...

I wonder if I'll ever date again...

Breaking yoga rules: a judgmental approach to yoga

“The true secret of giving advice is, after you have honestly given it, to be perfectly indifferent whenever it is taken or not, and never persist in trying to set people right”.
(Hannah Whitall Smith)

I hate “preachers”, typically. No, not “that” kind, that’s why I used quotations. I don’t hate the kind that stand up on a podium, or in an Altar at church on a Sunday. I love those. I think they’re an intrinsic part of our way too troubled worlds.

I hate the ad-hoc kind that you run into at the store, or at your work, or even the gym or the yoga studio, for that matter. The ones that know it all, have seen it all, have tried it all, and now they are going to make YOU buy it all or else you’re scum and a low piece of doo-doo if you ain’t buying it or if you’re not subscribing completely to their own system of values, right now, here, this minute. NOW! THAT kind of “preachers”.

Here’s the story:

I go to my yoga class tonight and here’s this woman who’s louder than thunder, or so her voice sounds, telling everyone who can hear without a hearing aid about how she got out of jury duty today. Surely, with a lie. And I am floored, because I didn’t know you can do that. So, I lose respect for whatever comes out of her mouth from then on (she breaks rule number 1 of yoga, I think: do not lie). I try to collect my thoughts at the end of the day, but no, the jury duty story barges right in!

Anyway….

At the beginning of the class she tells the teacher “we’re all tired girls here and take it easy”. Not sure who “all” she was referring to, since she didn’t poll me, and I, for once, was not tired; I didn’t hear the other woman in the class saying anything along the same lines, but … Rule number 2 (be truthful) is out the window (random number here, I know this is not what Patanjali intended).

But that’s not why I started writing this.

She set me off, truly, at the end of the class in the hallway. This other woman asked her about the yoga 300 hour program she (the loud one) had just finished and how it was, and … she (loud one) proceeds to share, quite un-shyly and quite loudly that she is a personal trainer and a “spin” instructor, too, but “now she does mostly yoga, because how can you not?!!!" In the same loud voice, she screams: “yoga is everything. I cannot believe you don’t just DO it after the first class, since it changes your life soooo deeply. Yoga is everything. It encompasses everything, and I just don’t know how not everyone doesn’t just do it, all the time. I am ALL about Yoga now, and I love it. And …“ – and she goes on and on about how yoga changed her life and how ALL the people in the world should let yoga do that for them.

And I am sitting there, tying my shoe and breaking another law of yoga: you should not judge! So I am thinking to myself: “you did at least 300 hours of intensive yoga, woman, and you got nothing, not a damn thing, not the first thing out of it!”

If yoga is about anything at all, it is about being a personal , very individualized path for each and every single one of us. And how we should all explore it, and see if it is for us first and in what shape it fits us, if at all, in a VERY personal, very unique way for each soul. It’s not a “one size fits all” solution to happiness and/or fitness. You gotta let everyone find it for themselves. Not judge if they don’t find it. Not scream to find what YOU found in it. Just be quiet and wait. And let yoga speak for itself to anyone out there who’s trying to listen. And they’ll find … whatever … whenever they choose to be ready for … whatever … they might find in it, if anything.

Her loud voice was overwhelming. You know, that voice that is a couple of decibels louder than you can ignore?! Just enough to be intruding and invading. Just enough to enter by force into everyone’s lives uninvited.

And I didn’t know how to get out of there faster. Because she was … invading my privacy and completely ignoring my presence and thoughts. And the other people’s too.

And that’s when I decided to smile, with pity (I know, I screwed up: with judgment too…): she didn’t get it after all. So, it was her loss, not mine, I thought. “Poor thing”!

But wouldn’t you want to correct that in some way?! Hhmm… I would. Or at least, I hoped through the rest of our silences and rushed steps out of there … she would learn. Hopefully.

One day.

We’re not innocent anymore …

“Old dreams and new dreams all wanting the same thing (…)

Playing the same game again

It’s just being so hard to win. (…)

You’ve gotta give in to see, to love and to grieve,

Wipe that slate clean when the morning comes again …”

(Steep Canyon Rangers – “Old Dreams and New Dreams” - hopefully, accurate quotation)

I used to think of my life as having the most of its history back home, in Romania, where the first 23 years of my life were spent. I kept telling myself, I am only a “baby” in America, with no identity yet, not past, no history, no roots.

And that was just till a day or so ago. When I took a ride around town. When everything seemed to change, in two hours.

I passed the place of my first home, where my marriage once flourished and I knew all-encompassing and desperate and unconditional, I thought, love for maybe the first time in my life.

Then I drove past the lawyer’s office where that marriage came apart, and became two separate ways of two very different people.

I then drove by the agency that first hired me for the first official job, here, a Temp agency. They moved their office, but their name will forever stick with me: they were the first listing in the yellow pages, and my name starts with that letter, so I figured, that’s gotta be a good sign. And it was.

I drove by the movie theater that smells like dead chicken, and I remembered how one of my best friends asked me how in the world do I know what dead chicken smell like. Well, when you have a dad that works in a chicken slaughterhouse for years, and takes you there for field trips, starting when your 6, you just know. And remember.

I drove by my first sushi restaurant and I remembered my friend Charlie, who first “challenged” me to eat sushi. Little did he know that was no challenge at all, just pure love at first sight.

I drove past the street where I lived alone, for 5 years, after my divorce; the years where I truly found out what America has to offer to a single, immigrant woman with 3 cats, a head full of dreams and curly hair, and a crappy pay. And somehow, I survived those 5 years. They’re building a shopping center across the street from my former condo, so I am glad I moved, I thought.

Yet, the history remains; imprinted in my heart and brain like hot iron markings. History of friends, and lovers gone by, parties, and margarita mix spilled on the white carpet, of dad making Romanian (and burning it to make the smoke alarm go off) food and getting everyone drunk on tzuika shots; of good friends cursing the peeling of grass-cloth, but peeling it away anyway. First home projects, all on my own. How empowering! And rewarding!

I then drove past this street with a big two story house on it, where I loved and hoped again, at a time when I thought love and hope were not possible anymore. The place that allowed me to love dogs and decide they’re not evil, after all. The house is sold, the love interest has moved away and moved on, but of course, the memories, of tv watching, good music, nipple on national TV on Super bowl night, NJ subs, Auburn games, the bbq dinners, the love and quarrels will remain. Mostly the love and friendship.

I drove past the park that my “second borrowed dog” loved to walk and where ducks run free and children talk about their dogs and how their dogs “don’t get to see their mommy because she went to work”. The second dog moved to Maryland, and I’ll miss him forever! But the park is there, to look back at me, and remind me where I have been, in the past 10 years.

I went to the pharmacy and they had my address from 10 years ago on file! True, I just moved back in the neighborhood, but that woke me up with a jerk: “Wow! 10 years ago!”.

And then I drove past the hospital where my best friend, that I love so dearly still just died! The hospital in which I locked so much hope, and so much love, and so many white nights. Where I watched the Oscars in 2007. And which made The Oscars nights never be about glamour and happiness ever again for me! The hospital that gave me hope, and a year later gave me desperation too. The hospital that gave my own health condition hope and a deadline, too.

I am not innocent anymore. My history has now extended here, in the States. I cannot tell people anymore, “Oh, well, you know, I speak funny English, because I am not from around here.” Or: “I have no clue who Doctor Seuss, or Big Bird, or Captain Kirk were, because I am not American”. I have a history now. And no excuses.

And that “slate” cannot be “wiped clean” as easily! It’s not a dry eraser board anymore. It’s more like a block of stone that’s been dented by all the passings of time and by what those passigns brought along. Not as easy to “wipe” it as it sounds… The marks of time, the history left a deeper mark than just a scratch. Yeah, you can dust it off. But it’ll be dented – to remind you through what it’s been.

And just like any child that loses her innocence … I feel a tad lost … And off centered …