Staying True to Roots - A Challenge?! Or a Given?!

Or “A rose by any other name…”

More from The Diaper Club’s Journals

One of the many reasons for which I love my faith is the many rituals, and traditions we have associated with it. Nothing is ever done randomly, nothing is ever an accident. Everything has a purpose, and a significance, and to me that makes the Orthodox tradition so rich. Whether you truly believe in these things, or not, it matters little to me. Just the rite of it all gives purpose to each service, and curiosity to what’s next.

One of the downsides to these rites, superstitions, and more-or-less layman’s believes associated with the church is that every church, every village, every county, every family has slightly different rituals and slightly different understandings of these “add-ons”…

And nothing is more confusing, I found, than trying to respect or align all these into a church that’s thousands of miles away from home…

I christened my nephew this weekend, and the service was held in a Romanian Orthodox church called “Inaltarea Domnului” or “The Ascension” in Montreal. I am not sure where the priest is from, originally, what part of Romania that is, but judging by his accent he’s not from the far North East where we’re from. That right there is a first sign that what he believes and what we believe will be different, in terms of ritual, not faith proper. Then, there will be the Canadian imposed “rules”, which surely have changed since the church has moved in North America, several years ago …

Before the Christening, I was completely confused: some of my sister’s friends, who have baptized their children in various Romanian churches here, in Canada, were advising me of certain rituals that I am supposed to attend to, as a Godmother; my own mother was advising me of others, and everyone was butting heads, as none of what we knew or thought we knew matched what everyone around us was telling us:

I was supposed to come to church not only with the baby, but a candle, and ribbon (the longer the ribbon, the longer my nephew’s life), but also a towel for Patrick, my nephew, a towel for the priest, an Orthodox icon to be blessed, or was it a cross according to some?, or a Bible, according to others?, wine, and flour (for wine and bread, Jesus’s blood and body), or was it wine and oil (for wine and myrrh) … soap for the priest …

Others were advising that we need also money, but no one agreed on the amount and who would be responsible for giving it and to whom? Is it the mother and dad that pay to have the child christened? Or the Godmother? Is it $150 or $250? Does the priest take it all, or are the altar boys and the choir entitled to some?

And so forth …

And so we called the priest and played dumb! And the list from the priest was as follows: candle, white or blue (he’s a boy) ribbon (“1 meter long”, the priest said – I guess the priest figured a 1 meter worth of life would be long enough – I brought him 1.5m just to make sure), soap, towel for priest, white towel or cotton sheet for baby, new clothes, olive oil (none of that vegetable, canola crap: after all, in Israel back when Jesus walked the earth there surely was none of that!!) , red sweet wine (when we take communion in my church we don’t fuss around with grape juice, thank you very much; Jesus said wine at the Last Supper, we have wine, by Goodness! And I guess it must be sweet so kids can enjoy it too), a cross on a chain, to be blessed, so the baby will have something to protect him for life, and $150 for the christening charge. As you can imagine: all the “gratuities” were not included.

I was responsible to buy and bring all of the above, except for the gratuities. Since we’re in the family, we split the responsibilities, and my sister and brother in law came up with those.

And we thought we were set! We had the list complete, the baby ready, fed, rested and well … and we headed to church. We never even thought of that the most important thing, um… the name of the baby, would be cause of controversy as well! We never thought twice that what his parents chose for months, what was in all his official papers, from hospital discharge papers to birth certificate and social security card, was going to be an issue!

As the Godmother, I held the baby throughout the service, and every page the priest turned with his reading, he would bow to me and ask: “Are you sure we’re staying JUST with the name ‘Patrick’??” – “Yes, Father!” was my answer. “Just ONE name?” – “Yes, Father!” – “And it is ‘Patrick’??” – he’d add in awe and somewhat disbelief like he didn’t like it … And my relentless “Yes, Father!” would follow.

As you can imagine “Patrick” is not a Romanian name. My sister picked a name that would be OK in Romanian but also would be perfectly easy and convenient for the part of the world where he’d be raised and go to school. They have a very odd and hard to spell and pronounce family name, so she thought a more Western (French and English) first name would be in order. Plus, Patrick is a strong, full of tradition and history, Catholic, Irish name and she loves and respects that culture as well, so it was perfect!

When the priest saw that he had no luck with me, he turned to the parents. He told them point blank that they must pick a “more Romanian name, something to be associated with a Saint, and something to remind Patrick of his true origins”. He assured them the ‘Romanian’ name would be for religious and baptismal purposes only, it will never go to his paperwork, and that will be a name given to him in front of God, it would be sort of a blessed, holy name.

My brother in law laughed, politely, and said: “His name is Patrick, Father!”. My sister’s the impressionable one, and whispered to her husband: “Honey, what about Stefan?” – which is “Stephen” in Romanian. My brother in law sent daggers out of his eyes and said to her : “Absolutely NOT!”. She tried further: “But it won’t be in papers”…. The priest waited with his back towards us, as I was holding the sleeping angel Patrick in between the feuding parents and the awaiting priest, while my brother in law turned to my sister for the last time: “NO!”. The priest turned, question in his eyes: “Well??” – I said: “ One name, Father. Patrick”. And the service went on.

And Patrick it will be. Mom was annoyed as well, as she reminded us that the Romanian Orthodox calendar mentions Saint Patrichie, which is the Romanian for “Patrick” of course, on May 19^th, and that should be his guardian saint and “church” name. That was also the day Patrick was brought home for the first time from the NICU, so that is so fitting.

The following day, after the Sunday service, I took the new Christian to have his first communion and to be taken into the Altar (a privilege only boys have in my faith) by the priest. After the lengthy service (that Sunday we celebrated another feast, of St. Pantelimon, the Healer) the priest came to the podium and along with a long list of demands from the crowd he went into a 10 minute rant about how beautiful the story of St. Pantelimon is, and what an honor for those who have that name, and also how he doesn’t understand how immigrant parents in Canada are already forgetting their roots, and not naming children by Romanian saint names, like tradition orders. And how un-holy of us, immigrant parents, to encourage the children to forget their roots.

My brother in law, who is known for his sarcasm and ability to turn anything into a big joke, now calls his son Patrick-Stefan-Pantelimon, to make the priest, his mother and all the Archangels happy!

Of course, you can argue this in 1000 different ways! But I have a firm belief that we’re all God’s children. And as Patrick will come to God, in pure thought, prayer and with humility, things which only we as parents and family can teach and encourage, he will receive God’s blessing whether his name will be Patrick, or Jimmy, or Bottleneck! It doesn’t matter … I think …

And trust me, with two Romanian speaking parents, 40 Romanian speaking friends of the family and two Romanian families, it does not matter where he’ll live: as long as he has all of that around him, he will never forget he’s Romanian. I can make sure of that!

For God’s sake, this child will be raised on borsch and mamaliga, on sarmale and mici, while his pals at school will eat burgers and hotdogs – you REALLY think he won’t know where his roots are??? Doubtful!

God bless you, my love, and I know you’ll make that name proud!

Pictures here: share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0BcOWLFs1bsWFW

The Only Cover I’ll Ever Be On

So, The Diaper Club Journals continue…

In less than 48 hours, I will see my new nephew. Finally. He’s been born almost 3 months ago , and since then I have been holding my heart in my hand, trying not to let it escape and fly on its own to Canada …

It’s amazing what a little bundle of life, scream-age and whims can make you do! Silly things, like talk to the computer screen in the night, and buy things you’ve never thought of buying, like 14 kinds of receiving blankets, because you’re not sure which one he’d like the best, or 30 onsies, because you’re not sure which one his momma’s gonna like, or 50 pairs of socks, because surely, he needs that many … and so forth…

And I don’t even know him yet! When I do get to hold him, and worse yet, when he’s going to talk to me and tell me what he likes, wishes, wants, it will probably be time for a second job to entertain his wish list . Anything for Patrick! That’s for sure … Just half kidding on the second job, though.

This weekend, we’ll both share another milestone: I’ll get to make him a Christian. I know that doesn’t mean much for the non-believers out there, but to me, whom I have been close to God all my life, and whom I owe everything I am today to Him it means that this is the biggest gift I get to ever give him! Or at least that I think I am ever able to give him!

No matter how many pairs of socks and how many gadgets he’ll get from me in a lifetime, no matter how many trips I’ll take him on, with his mom’s and dad’s approval, of course, no matter how many books I’ll read to him, or how many scratches and scrapes I’ll get to tend to, I could never, ever make him a better, more profound and everlasting gift than introducing him to God.

I am so excited, I am about to have a heart attack.

I have been a Godmother before, about 11 years ago (that shows my age), but I shared that duty with 3 other people. But this time, I am alone, in front of the priest, and God. And he’s my first nephew, and the first born in my family, and I feel like the whole weight of the world is resting on me. I just hope I am worthy of the job!

My favorite teacher emailed me the other day and she asked what I think am I going to feel when I’ll hold him, in church, naked, in front of God. My first nephew. The only son of my only sister?! I was paralyzed with emotion. It’s a daunting job, and like I said: I hope and pray I am up for it …

I love him already, that much I know. And I am proud and moved that I was given this “job”, and I was chosen to lead him this way. I will pray for him, till he’ll be able to pray himself; I will pray with him, when he’ll be able to pray on his own. And I hope he will pray for me, when I will be gone and not able to pray for myself. And in the meantime, I’ll try to show him life, and happiness, the only way I know how: in freedom, and with love. I will teach him honesty, and strength, and how he has everything in his own self, he just needs to be quiet enough to listen and find it out. And that is a promise and a commitment. I will teach him about life, and its beauty, and about God, and how graceful and giving He is, although sometimes, through hidden ways.

Of course, he’ll always have his parents. But I am proud to share the “job” with them.

Surely, they will give him not only the inherent gift of genetics, and day-to-day upbringing, and they are plenty gifted there, not only will they give him unlimited love, and care; but I am happy they chose me to give him some gifts of the soul, too. And some of the mind, too – I hope.

I am also honored to share the “cover” with them, in the birth and baptism announcement they put together … And I will wear that cover (can I say that??) proud. After all, it might be the only one I’ll ever be on.

I took my name out of this picture, but as you can imagine, it was under the “Godmother” portion. I am just not sure why it says “tell all”. I am not telling anyone anything. I will just be numb with emotion, and too much love and awe …

For more Patrick pics, click here:

http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0BcOWLFs1bsWEw

And wish me luck ...

Office Anti-Perks, or The Disgruntled Bathroom Goer

Warning: this can be offensive to some

I have unique friends. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They never make me wonder why I am their friend. It's simple: they're unique. And I take that over boredom any day of the week.

Until recently, I thought only I and my good friend C., can enjoy crude, "bathroom humor", we call it . But as I have discovered, my other friend, A., is joining in as a new (to me) and keen observer of the daily routine in such a mundane place as our own office bathrooms.

Just like C. and me, A. is also a Landmark employee, and his observations on their bathroom situation in VA are poignant while hysterical.

With the hope that I can make some of you smile... I am posting his latest update about their office bathroom and his amusing, but also desperate plea for a change.

And my own add-on: after reading both C's and A's bathroom diaries, I must admit: I never knew boys were so complicated! I always figured they were just meant by God to forever pee against a tree... It so happens they can be so very picky about their "private rooms"...

Who whoudavthunkit??

Here he follows:

We have the most messed-up men’s room situation.

Way back, eons and eons ago, when they flew me out here to interview and see the place, the physical assets of the building turned me off right away. My fold office, before I moved to VA, had a “nice” feel about. It was a 100-year-old building too, but it had been updated nicely. We had nice cubes, nice public areas, nice workspaces, I had a nice office, the restrooms were spacious and modern and, well “nice”. In VA things were old, tired and worn out. R., my soon-to-be-boss at the time apologized about how sad things looked and indicated that a remodel was coming in a few months – in fact one of my first assignments, should I chose to accept it, would be to shop for and select the new furniture for the newsroom. He particularly apologized for the men’s room.

Yes, bathrooms are the places where we do our dirty business. They’re not vacation villas. That much I know (even though my dad’s sister once went into the wrong restroom at the mall and mistook the urinal for a special hand-washing sink...and the urinal cake for a bar of soap). But this facility was not only dirty but dangerous.

There were tiles missing from the ceiling so that you could peer upward many long and lonely feet. I’m sure that late at night the bats would escape through those gaping holes in the ceiling to nibble the hair on the men seated below (fortunately, being fur-challenged, I never had an incident...but I heard the stories!).

The room had the feeling that it had once been used for something else and that adding toilets and sinks was some sort of emergency measure...mandated by some far-away pagan deity. Everything was crammed in there. Six toilet stalls for example where only four should be placed. The frames around the doors were so broken and out of alignment that the doors either wouldn’t close or if they came close, they wouldn’t latch. One got very clever using sophisticated postures to keep the door closed whilst taking care of personal business (particularly difficult of the stresses of the day called for an afternoon quick-jerk).

The plumbing leaked, too. From minor drips to the occasional Niagara burst, we had it all. You could almost always count on the floor being slippery and wet...all the while hoping it was just good old H20 and not the offcast of vision-impaired senior men.

Soap? You want soap? We had no soap dispensers. Instead, cakes of bar soap. Six sinks, too. SIX! Cheek-by-jowl as they say. Too many, too close. But there only ever seemed to be a single bar of soap. And it was wet and soft and small. And who wants to use a bar of soap in a situation like that? No me, I’m here to tell ya! Talk about a cootie farm!

Of the six aforementioned toilet partitions, only three had functional toilet paper dispensers. So if you were a visitor and not well-versed in second-floor men’s room navigation, you could easily find yourself in a messy situation. Of those that remained, they were of some odd 1950s vintage...originally made of NASA-designed plastic. Over time the plastic had become brittle and cracked and broken...leaving razor-sharp edges poking out hither and yon. I don’t mind confessing that my thighs were more than once bloodied and scraped by those gnawing guards-of-the-roll.

Speaking of paper, if you wanted to dry your hands, you had better hope you were using the facilities shortly after what’s-her-bucket the cleaning lady had visited. Otherwise the tiny and precarious “shelf” that held a small supply of folded towels would be a vast wasteland and you’d be left to shake your hands in the air like a giddy Valley Girl or you’d do a quick wipe-down on your trousers.

One of the stalls, the first you encountered upon entering, was for the use of the handicapped. Wider, deeper and with hand-rails, it was intended to be helpful to those in a wheelchair. Only it wasn’t even the same width as a wheelchair! Once I saw a poor kid desperately try to get in there but it was clear the chair wasn’t going to fit. Upon my thusly observation he left the chair outside and hobbled in to take care of his business. Humiliation was added to his humiliation.

This restroom is in a public part of the building...near where advertising customers and visitors to the newsroom traverse. So members of the public were joyfully received by this horrendous facility. Many such visitors have bags, briefcases, papers – the accouterments of business. But where might they place such articles while needing both hands free? On the wet floor of course!

My final observation would be around the dozens (hundreds perhaps) of missing tiles on the floor. Big, gaping holes, revealing concrete, lint and traces of The Plague, littered the floor. Catch the toe of your shoe on such a precipice and you could be getting your next drink from the current plumbing leak.

Ancient history you say! Surely, A. whines about pre-2000 conditions! Certainly enlightened management has since corrected these ills!

Well, recently, even with the horrible budget situation, they announced that the facility would be totally remodeled and brought up to standard. The penis-toting population of our building rejoiced! Furthermore, the powers that be decided to solicit feedback from the employees about what should be done since it was to be a “total remodel”. Being a proactive and solution-minded individual, I submitted the following very helpful suggestions:

*) Five toilets instead of six...use the space evenly so each stall has plenty of room...and so the handicapped stall will accommodate a wheelchair.

*) Build a shelf system with some hooks so people have a place to put their “stuff” and jackets and the like.

*) Cut the number of sinks in half – there are too many and they’re too close.

*) Install liquid soap dispensers.

*) Install a couple of paper-towel dispensers.

*) Install a couple of trash cans (oh, I can’t believe I forgot to mention that the only trash receptacle before was a hole in the wall with a garbage bag in it...as Dave Barry would say, I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP! The hole in the wall was so ragged that the trash bag was always ripped and torn, thus all kinds of incredibly nasty stuff leaked out into the wall cavity).

I learned from colleagues that my ideas were not unique.

So a little while back the room was closed. Off limits. Need to “go”? ”Go” to another floor. Men came. Men left. Noises were made. Dust was raised. Equipment came. Equipment went. Time went on. Days passed. Weeks passed. The room was locked up each night. Months passed.

Ta Da! Without ceremony the room was reopened.

Now what do we have? Well, remember those gaps in the floor where the tile was missing? They poured Plaster-O-Paris or something in those. Looks like a big old turd dried up in the gap. And after only a few weeks, that patch job is now breaking loose.

Remember the leaking plumbing? Well, it still drips and leaks. But everything has been replaced with battery-operated automatic flushers! And they like to “automatically flush” while you’ve got your ass parked on the seat...mid-deposit so to speak! For your convenience of course.

Oh, and they replaced the partitions!! But they put them in the exact same place on the same mountings...so they’re a different color but still don’t work.

Oh, but I shouldn’t complain. Because every stall now has a toilet paper dispenser! Yea! Mounted about six inches off the ground so you have to bend over and reach below your line of site. And reach UPWARDS, into the mystery cavern inside the dark, smoky plastic device, to try and find the tail of paper (and Buddha help you if it’s a fresh roll and that tail is still glued down!). And of course after a few hours you’re successful in gaining possession of the tail and you yank with glee...only to have three tiny, single-ply squares of 180-grit sandpaper break off in your grip...not nearly the manly-sized wad any good American needs.

But we did get soap dispensers. Foam soap dispensers. They are battery-operated, too (I hope they included battery-replacement in their budget). And they eject the tiniest little “splurtz” of foam. It takes about eight such “splurtzes” to even think about cleaning anything (I’m one of three employees who washes his hands). But it’s on a timer so you have to stick your paw under the electronic eye, wait two seconds, remove paw, wait two seconds, and repeat.

And because our company cares about our health and the spread of Bird Flu, they turned off the cold water. Because as you know, washing with cold water doesn’t kill the bugs. So they welded the cold-water taps shut, BUT DIDN’T TELL ANYONE! So until you’re clued in, you bust a wrist trying to get cold water...for refreshing your face for example on a smeltzy day like today. And the hot water...it is hot...autoclave hot! Cook the beans hot!

I guess that’s about it. We can still see the bats, still don’t have a place to put papers and jackets and those auto-flushers flush the night away, even when nobody’s home.

Boss: “A., where have you been, the meeting started 45 minutes ago!”

A.: “I was taking a piss.”

Boss: “Oh, sorry, I completely understand....”

Debt Pictures: DC

A couple of weeks back, not quite, I have posted a piece about the Washington, DC trip, but I still owe the pictures to all.
Here's the link:
share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=0BcOWLFs1bsWES
Enjoy!

A Thought on Technology … Again

Dali once said : “Don't bother about being modern. Unfortunately it is the one thing that, whatever you do, you cannot avoid.”

I believe the same thing about technology. We cannot escape it: from the way we fill up our tanks, to the way we dial numbers from a pay phone anymore, to the way we work the credit card machines at WalMart, we are surrounded by it, and we would not make it through the day, had we not a clue how to use it.

I realized we cannot escape technology any longer, when about a month ago, my 58 year old aunt was … texting me at 2 AM from Paris. I realized that if a 58 year old Romanian woman can learn how to … text of all things, and she is bright enough to get an international roaming phone to be able to use it anywhere in the world, we cannot help but being … well… techy!

But there is a difference with me between need and obsession. I have a cell phone, a cable connection, internet, a desktop and a laptop (and a work laptop, so I guess I AM a victim of computers there, if you wish). I have a dvd player, digital camera, and a video camera, and dad is getting a dvd recording video camera for his birthday. I have an MP3 player, with 100 songs tops, and plenty happy with it.

I don’t have and I am not planning to get any of these any time soon: a flat screen tv, a blackberry, a palm pilot (are those outdated? – not sure!!), any sort of video game device, including a WII, an IPod nor its millions hook-ups, digital cable, a digital picture frame.

I am contemplating to get, maybe, if I wake up on the left side of the bed one morning, MAYBE: a dvd recorder -vhs combo, a digital camera that’s more than 3.2 MegaPixel, which is what I have now.

And yet, although most people around me have all these gadgets – some of which I have not even mentioned – I don’t feel deprived. I also don’t feel deprived (annoyed is what I am) when the random guy wants to “text” me (I am still having trouble using that word as a verb – but then again, I am a broken record here) and I tell him I don’t text. Then they look at me like I ate their steak, meaning: “What planet am I from??”. A planet where we like to meet and chat over dinner and a glass of wine – that’s what planet.

I feel pretty accomplished, and pretty happy without all the other “stuff”. And let me tell you, I have been fortunate to dine with princes and paupers. I have been to births and funerals of people who make anywhere between millions of dollars a year and minus thousands of dollars a year. I have seen families in laughter and in sorrow, from all walks of life. And at the very end of the day, or life, all that matters is humanity!

We all cry, and laugh the same. The pain is similar to all in all walks of life. What unites us all has been sown millions of years ago in each and every one of us, and we inherit it the minute we take our first breath. We cannot escape it, and we’re not going to find it at Best Buy. That, I know. What we do need is to attend to that: to what’s permanent, and to what’s human, and to what makes us whole as a being. The rest are just accessories.

So, with that said, I will keep jumping in my 2001 Toyota in search of that humanity rather than search of the next gadget; my Toyota with crank-up windows, and no remote power locks, I will keep using just 50 peak minutes a month on my cell, which has no camera, nor “texting” capabilities, to call for emergencies, and I will listen to my music on cd’s in my car, without the XM radio nor the mp3 player hooked up anywhere.

Now, maybe, just maybe, I might get a 12 MegaPixel camera to accompany me in my wanderings … But just maybe. In the meantime, I’ll just look for the perfect light, like Ansel Adams used to do!

This is a shot of the Capitol on my recent trip to DC. I really like it: it’s … unsettled but such a presence, much like me, lately…

Hectic American Journey Continues - and More

Rachael Ray was right: at the end of a crazy day, after way too many people step on your nerves, the best thing you can do to relieve stress is to give a healthy whack to a clove of garlic. Some people want to head for the shooting range after a stressful day at the office. I come home and crush garlic cloves with a healthy whack.
It always works! Stress is gone, at the end of a fresh pot of soup!

Not that everyone really pisses me off lately, not really, anyway, but things have been quite hectic, with a house guest (my aunt) and more trips that I can handle and plenty of get-together's to plan or attend as well, on top of my full time job and regular routine ... In a nutshell - a busy summer. No, I am not complaining. Just wish I had 36 hour days, that's all.

A couple of weeks back, we took a trip to our Nation's Capital, and that was fantastic! It was packed with fun, and walking (man, I missed walking), and new and interesting things ...

I was complaining to a friend just before that trip that I indeed don't have a "good best friend", as Forrest Gump says about Bubba .... But in DC I found out I do have one. It's called a map. Any map that's well done and detailed enough to show you the way; even the one way streets . I managed not to get lost in DC, nor in MD and that was a huge milestone for me. And I drove everywhere. No Metro, and no buses. Just driving. Or walking - which was such a blessing. I had no one to direct me but my map and my common sense. I am still contemplating a GPS, however. I am even thinking that might come before the camera I desperately want! We'll see ...

I have blogged about DC before, so I won't do it now. I will only say this: everyone seems to visit The Mall, when they're there, and all the War memorials , which are great, of course ... But then they all get tired (or lazy) and walk JUST right up the reflecting pond in front of The Capitol, snatch a picture of the Capitol in the background and turn away from the City, calling that a trip. My advice: skip The White House - there is not much there anyhow, but instead ... walk PAST The Capitol and make it JUST behind it, to The Library of Congress! It's not a book deposit. It's "an art museum - as one of my friends so eloquently put it. It's amazing! It's like all Europe's museums got dumped into ONE and you're just lost in wonderment, like Alice in Wonderland in the middle of it. It's beautiful, tastefully done and exquisite. Thousands of tons of every color of marble you can think of, and mosaics, and tiles, and murals and tapestries ... So worth walking the extra block!

Another piece of advice: check out the ad-hoc exhibits in the tents at The Mall. They are sometimes more interesting than the museums themselves. We visited a Buddhist temple, complete with murals, music, monks, and altars with offerings, and we had some great Bhutanese food there as well ...

Visiting America for the first time, my aunt wanted to see anything and everything that is, well, American - so we went to the Museum of the American Indian. She then made me realize how Native Americans, to me, the "true Americans", are perceived across the world, when she said that she never knew the "Natives wore clothes". She's "always seen them naked in movies" (mostly American movies, so ... that says something about our own movie culture and the way they represent our history, don't you think?!). But she found out how intricate and how versatile their clothes and weavings are. She was blown away at how creative they were with their port. And how "well dressed". The museum is very well done and in a way emotional - to me, who has a soft heart for their story, it was, for the second time.

The weekend after the DC trip, we celebrated July 4th with everyone else . It was a fun-filled weekend, but somewhat incomplete because we missed the fireworks. They say we still need the rain. I would say: too much of even a good thing is still too much: I've had enough and it better stop. I am sick of driving in it already, every weekend!!

But the rain could not put a damper on our weekend. We celebrated America's Day the right way: grilled food, and lots of friends, funnel cake and Ben and Jerry's Downtown - what more could we want??

To extend the celebration of American life, we'll see a bluegrass concert this week. And this weekend, we're driving up to the Blueridge Parkway, another American staple.

And so the beat goes on. And thus my aunt's journey to America is almost coming to an end.
I hope I have contributed just an iota to her memories, and her understanding of this culture that has been so generous to adopt me.

I have been glad and proud I could share my adopted land with my blood family. It's an honorable feeling and another dream come true. Being the link between two worlds is so daunting, and so uplifting, such a privilege to live.

I hope everyone had a Happy and Safe Fourth!

Pictures from trips to be posted later, so check back.

Why I Prefer Cats to Humans

I got maced! Yes, for the first time ever. No, I am not kidding and no, I was not in the wrong spot at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing, as you would expect. Or was I?!

I was in fact enjoying a beautiful evening with my aunt and a couple of friends on the patio of Cafe Europa when all of sudden and completely out of nowhere, this misty cloud came over all of us on the patio and choked us to tears! Before it happened, we didn't hear anything. Didn't see anything. It seemed to have come from the street, as the people most affected were sitting at the tables closest to it. But there was no smoke, no exhaustion running. It was just a mysterious "puff" that pretty much choked us.

We never really confirmed that it was pepper spray, as most of us looked like the laid back, non-aggressive types that would not mess with such dangerous things on a boring Sunday afternoon, but after a quick poll of the crowd and after gagging and choking, and the painful burning sensation of all our air passages, we agreed it could be nothing else.

I am not sure if you've ever experienced pepper spray, but it hurts! It stings like a poison! Your tongue gets all heavy and stings, your throat gets dry and also stings. Your eyes tear out of control, and the air you breathe is like burning fire going through your nostrils! It's horrible. You get light headed and you cannot breathe. The air becomes your worse enemy. I'll have to say: this stuff is effective when you want to incapacitate someone, but I would not spray it for fun.
It was also strange to see 20+ people gagging and choking and looking helplessly around for some answers. What needed to be a fun-filled evening and gathering turned fast in a desperate cry for help and gasping for air. It was eerie. Was this really happening?!

Now, that the pain is gone, and the dryness in my throat somewhat cured, I cannot help but wonder who in the world, would do such a thing and why in the world would they ?!? Is this town so boring that people need to come up with such cruel plans to entertain themselves?! Would it be better to move to a more happening town if you're THAT bored?! Is cruelty that rampant in our society? Why?! Whatever the reason, it was disappointing for the humankind, as far as I'm concerned.

I have lived here for close to 10 years, and Greensboro has always been a low key, friendly town. Downtown at midnight can be shady, but not at 8.30 PM on a summer night, the night before Fun Fourth kicks off and all people inundate it. No way. Definitely not at Cafe Europa, for sure!! It's a fine establishment, in Greensboro's Cultural Arts Center - a place that you would think is earthy enough and peace-loving enough to keep such gratuitously violent people at bay ...

I have no idea who or why this happened, but it surely screwed up a beautiful night ... And you know I always welcome new and strange experiences, but I'd have to say: pepper spray is one I would gladly pass!

Another Kind of Beach Trip, Another First ...

"The Five S's" - we called the day, I and my friend Aa.: sun, sand, sweat, skin ... and smoke: that's about what I can say for my past Saturday (which would make it the 6th "s": just a coincidence - don't think so).

I traveled to VA Beach to see my friend and also show my aunt The Ocean. She's never seen it before. She's never dipped her foot in it. She is 58. It was a small step for us all, but a huge one for her.

The beach was your usual overcrowded affair at this time of the year, with plenty of skin sightings, some that should be seen and some, better not. But, hey, who am I to judge, right?!
We didn't lay out, but we walked on the beach (man, how is walking on HOT sand not a torture task in Survivor by now?!), on the boardwalk, we had lunch on a sunny patio, we ate waaayyy too much ice cream (my fix for the year, for sure; or maybe for a couple of years) and we shopped in cheesy stores, for cheesy things, as you’re supposed to, at the beach! For the day, we locked up "class" somewhere back in Suffolk, and we turned into your regular tourist.

What was unusual about the beach this time was the smoke. My Goodness, the wild fires in NC have been smoldering for a while now, and that thick, smoky, airy goop still persists in the Hampton Roads area. The wind and humidity made it unbearable! I cannot image what people that live closer to the actual fires have been breathing for the past few weeks, but I sure as heck can tell you it's not good! The air was thick, and smelled like bacon. It was heavy and there was no clear horizon if you looked out the Ocean. The freedom you normally feel on the beach was not there that day. You felt trapped, and your chest was heavy.

When the wind picked up and it also started pouring out of nowhere, we said 'good bye' to the smoky-sandy-sunny-sweaty skins and headed home.

The next day was a whole lot clearer, in Norfolk, and the harbor cruise was picture perfect. No more sand. No more smoke, I was actually asking myself where it all went?! I was shocked at how huge the Norfolk bay is. We went out for miles and miles, and we kept seeing land, and more towns, and bridges, and more ships docked in the NIT (Norfolk International Terminal). The land would just not let go!

With all those impressive military ships, that carry anything from coal to submarines and nuclear weapons, the one boat that fascinated me was the "vacuum cleaner" boat: a boat that sucks sediment off of the bottom of the golf, and through this complicated pipe system, takes it at the end of it, and deposits it into what looks like a natural sand barrier. Amazing! It was the most colorful boat, too, orange and green and maroon. Unlike all the other carriers this boat had personality: it had color and it had a full time job. They think of everything, don't they?!

Other things worth mentioning would be that I did get my fix for fresh seafood, at Pisces in Suffolk. My flounder was fresh, but my friend got the rockfish special and it was out of this world! Gotta love nuts, though!

One thing that sets this trip apart from all my other wanderings is that I did get to hold guns for the first time in my life. Not to shoot them (yet), but to hold them, so ... it was a first for me. They are everything I expected them to be: cold, unfriendly, and rejectful of flesh! But they smell good. They smell ... "technical", and you have all night to figure out what that means! I used to think I want to shoot them, when stressed, but ... now, I am not sure. We'll see ...

Another first was that I saw a “no swearing” sign in VA Beach. At least that’s what my friend calls them and even if they’re not that, I think of them as that, and they’re pretty cool! I am a sucker for original signs, like a bar with the longest name (also on this trip) and the “no swearing” sign which also made my picture collage. Because of the "no swearing", a store could not be called anything but "Oh... Fudge".

What I would do differently next time?! My poor fried skin tells me to remember the sun lotion next time, and my growing hips to stay miles away from any kind of ice cream! Man, that was disgusting, thinking about it...

I should sign this piece: "A., the occasional sweets hater", but I won't! People do silly things when under pressure, let me tell you!

For pictures, please click here.

The Cat Thing

I am sure I am not the only odd one out there, to be loving her family, but yet still on some days wish that I was adopted, because I cannot and would not relate to any of their weirdness. I am sure I am not alone in this. So, I hope these lines hit some friendly ears.

So the few hours of my aunt's trip have passed by and no, I am not quite on the edge yet, but some feathers have been ruffled, as you can imagine. Thanks to my wonderful friends, M and R, I will try to remember that you cannot choose family and they always mean well, even when they soap up the dishes with no water, or turn off the A/C because it's too draughty in the middle of a Southern summer.

I will try, I said, and that's about the best I can do.

Some things I do love about her visit so far: I am enjoying seeing all things through her eyes, and get a perspective that would be otherwise unknown to me, if she were not here. I am enjoying practicing English with her. It's really a lot of fun when you try to teach a 58 year old retired accountant a foreign language and explain to her the "logic" or ... hhmmm ... lack of ... of irregular verbs. You're trying to tell her all she needs to memorize them is well, a good memory, and she looks at you like you just shot her cat!

Speaking of cats. And of lack of memory. Although I reiterated to her about 1000 times that the only rule of the house (I try not to be the Wicked Witch of the East to my guests and try to give them freedom and not to impose too many rules on them, but I do have ONE) is NOT to let the cats out on the back patio, or on the front porch, anywhere. At any time. No matter how much they beg to be out, they are never, and I repeated, "NEVER", to be under the naked sky! Well, last night, while having dinner on the patio she asked me why don't I let the door open so the cats can join us. I was flabbergasted! "Why?!? Why?!?" You need me to explain to you "why???"???
For how many times???Oh, I am so neurotic!

It's also a lot of fun to have a piece of family there. I live alone. Not just in the house. Nor the town or the State. Just alone in this country. Sure, I have friends, and I am grateful for each one of them, but I have no one that I can call family, much less "blood relation" here, in The States. I am used to it, and I think I've adapted well! But once in a great while I miss "family"! I miss, as I have said before, hugs from people who really mean them! And trust me: that nagging momma of yours, or that hard-to-please dad, or that forgetful grandma, or that seemingly selfish aunt who counts her pennies three times before she writes a check on your birthday, DO mean them! You feel the love in their veins as they hug you whispering at you. It's comforting, and sweet, just like ... coming home. No surprise at all what they say about blood being thicker! You just know! So, I am enjoying that! It makes me feel human again. And "soft". And, well, loved.

All our home-made meals are good: good food, good drinks, great conversation, which is the staple trait in my family. We all love to talk and we're witty and funny. But last night's dinner was extra special. She was not as tired as her first night, and it was not as late, so the mood was right. We put together a tapas plate, with home made pate, and eggplant spread, on fresh bread, with lots of black olives and cheese and salami, Romanian style. A salad on the side ... and a glass of my dad's home made, oh so heavenly, honey-like, nectar sweet white wine. And we stayed on the patio, and chatted way into the night, about our crazy family and about genetics, and about my crazy life here. It was priceless!

And I am grateful that she could make this trip for those moments like last night. I am sure those things will remain with me, 10 years from now, and not the dishwashing ritual, nor her rules about eating strawberries, gargling with baking soda, “disinfecting the stomach” or wearing hats.

Now, if she lets out one of the cats, however ... that's another story altogether and entirely!

The Cat Thing

I am sure I am not the only odd one out there, to be loving her family, but yet still on some days wish that I was adopted, because I cannot and would not relate to any of their weirdness. I am sure I am not alone in this. So, I hope these lines hit some friendly ears.

So the few hours of my aunt's trip have passed by and no, I am not quite on the edge yet, but some feathers have been ruffled, as you can imagine. Thanks to my wonderful friends, M and R, I will try to remember that you cannot choose family and they always mean well, even when they soap up the dishes with no water, or turn off the A/C because it's too draughty in the middle of a Southern summer.

I will try, I said, and that's about the best I can do.

Some things I do love about her visit so far: I am enjoying seeing all things through her eyes, and get a perspective that would be otherwise unknown to me, if she were not here. I am enjoying practicing English with her. It's really a lot of fun when you try to teach a 58 year old retired accountant a foreign language and explain to her the "logic" or ... hhmmm ... lack of ... of irregular verbs. You're trying to tell her all she needs to memorize them is well, a good memory, and she looks at you like you just shot her cat!

Speaking of cats. And of lack of memory. Although I reiterated to her about 1000 times that the only rule of the house (I try not to be the Wicked Witch of the East to my guests and try to give them freedom and not to impose too many rules on them, but I do have ONE) is NOT to let the cats out on the back patio, or on the front porch, anywhere. At any time. No matter how much they beg to be out, they are never, and I repeated, "NEVER", to be under the naked sky! Well, last night, while having dinner on the patio she asked me why don't I let the door open so the cats can join us. I was flabbergasted! "Why?!? Why?!?" You need me to explain to you "why???"???
For how many times???Oh, I am so neurotic!

It's also a lot of fun to have a piece of family there. I live alone. Not just in the house. Nor the town or the State. Just alone in this country. Sure, I have friends, and I am grateful for each one of them, but I have no one that I can call family, much less "blood relation" here, in The States. I am used to it, and I think I've adapted well! But once in a great while I miss "family"! I miss, as I have said before, hugs from people who really mean them! And trust me: that nagging momma of yours, or that hard-to-please dad, or that forgetful grandma, or that seemingly selfish aunt who counts her pennies three times before she writes a check on your birthday, DO mean them! You feel the love in their veins as they hug you whispering at you. It's comforting, and sweet, just like ... coming home. No surprise at all what they say about blood being thicker! You just know! So, I am enjoying that! It makes me feel human again. And "soft". And, well, loved.

All our home-made meals are good: good food, good drinks, great conversation, which is the staple trait in my family. We all love to talk and we're witty and funny. But last night's dinner was extra special. She was not as tired as her first night, and it was not as late, so the mood was right. We put together a tapas plate, with home made pate, and eggplant spread, on fresh bread, with lots of black olives and cheese and salami, Romanian style. A salad on the side ... and a glass of my dad's home made, oh so heavenly, honey-like, nectar sweet white wine. And we stayed on the patio, and chatted way into the night, about our crazy family and about genetics, and about my crazy life here. It was priceless!

And I am grateful that she could make this trip for those moments like last night. I am sure those things will remain with me, 10 years from now, and not the dishwashing ritual, nor her rules about eating strawberries, gargling with baking soda, “disinfecting the stomach” or wearing hats.

Now, if she lets out one of the cats, however ... that's another story altogether and entirely!

With Apprehension

My aunt is scheduled to come visit me tomorrow. Unlike all the “American visits” (I call them) you might be familiar with, this one will last a month. Still think your in-laws coming over for Thanksgiving is too much?!?

Someone asked me the other day why a month, and I honestly don’t know. But whenever my family visits, they stay for at least a month, sometimes 6 weeks; sometimes 8. I guess it’s a combination of trying to make their money worth while (it’s a long and expensive trip) and having so much vacation time (it’s Europe, you see, they work AND rest, unlike The States) that you can afford to take that much time off.

My aunt has traveled all over Europe, and to Turkey and The Mediterranean, but this is her first time across The Pond. I am excited for her, but also apprehensive about everything. Will she make it here OK? (I have no clue how much “large airport” experience she has, nor how much English she can speak or read), will she like it?, will she be OK with the hot, humid weather?, will she like the food?, will she be jetlagged for days? Weeks? What if she gets sick?! How healthy is she, really?! With dad that’s easy: he’s a walking timed bomb, so … anything can blow up at any minute. She’s older than dad, and says she is healthier. Maybe (hopefully) she did get grandma’s genes!

I also cannot help but wonder, in a very selfish way, what she will think of my life here. Of how far I’ve come, since I packed up and left Romania 10 years ago, with a suitcase and $4000 of her money. Will she think what I’ve accomplished so far is not enough? Just right? Way too much and will she be proud?! Will she think that the American me is much different than the Romanian me?!

I am sure I’ll answer all these questions and so many more in the next month or so. So, all I can say is: stay tuned if you’re curious about the answers.

One thing I know for sure is that she will think I don’t have enough food in my fridge! My family (and Romanians in general) are obsessed with food! You know about my dad’s feasts for “just the family” crowds. Compared to that, my 5 courses awaiting for her in the fridge seem puny! But “with the little I have” and in my humble abode, I cannot wait to welcome her here! I just hope she will come back!!

Love Letters To/ From My Family

Someone said : “In true love the smallest distance is too great, and the greatest distance can be bridged.”

Many people ask me how my relationship with my family has changed over the years, ever since I moved to The States. I tell them, with confidence, that it has actually become closer and much more honest ever since. And it is true.

Because of the distance, and the huge phone charges, we get very limited time of actual chatting, and we want to make it worth while. We don’t BS each other about things we don’t mean. Plus, distance makes you wonder: when would be the last time I talk to that person?! Maybe they will pass before my weekly check-in, or for others, my monthly check-in?! So, every second spent on that phone, every email we spend writing is precious, and every word that much more meaningful.

Yes, we still p…s one another off – of course we do! We’re a normal family, with our mood swings and bad days. But we have time to think about forgiveness, too, in-between calls, and next time we chat or write, we do ask for it. Without fault!

I think love is deeper, and every emotion in fact is stronger when distance is involved. The routine of having one another there and taking each other for granted has almost completely become foreign to me!

The way we’re located is typically like this: me - in The US, my sister – in Montreal; my parents – in Romania (my sister’s in-laws - in Germany but I’ll leave them out for this piece). Because of the new baby in Montreal, mom has been stationed for the next two months to help my sister get a start on motherhood. So, that leaves dad alone, at home, for two months.

Now, my dad is a God given, I think, to any house! He is a very responsible, totally a chore man! He does anything and everything in the house, minus mopping and ironing (he would gladly go without either of those, if mom were not around). Everything! (hence my difficulty in respecting men who argue about taking trash out!). He cooks more than my mom, with a passion I have never seen in any other human (maybe Emeril comes close), and if he is not the point person in all the house chores, he helps mom 50% or more with everything!

So, if he misses mom, now that she’s away, it’s not because there is no one there to cook him a hot meal, or make the bed in the morning. No, he misses her because his lonely, and he has no one to listen to him blab (if you ever wonder whom I take after, never do anymore: it’s definitely him!).

And the blabbing daughter that I am myself, I can relate to him: the best part of the day for me is to come home and to tell “someone” about every little detail in my existence in the past 10 hours. That’s where mom comes in for dad.

Now, he comes home to an empty house, and he’s so melancholy and lost. Very rarely, he will carve up a couple of minutes of his busy days, and write us a line about how he is doing.

But when he does, his letters are so emotional, and so full of love! When mom and dad are under the same roof, there is nothing but arguing and nagging. But now, since he’s far away from her for so long, he’s lost without her. And the love seeps through. These are some snippets from his last 2 letters:

“ June 6. I am writing for both the 5^th and the 6^th, as I don’t have time to do it every day.

Yesterday, I shopped in the morning. Then, I took a nap, and in the afternoon I cooked for tomorrow, when I invited a few friends for dinner. (…)

June 7. The guests arrived around 4 and left around 9. This was the menu I prepared for them: ham, 2-3 kinds of cheeses, meatloaf, olives and caviar, eggplant salad with fresh tomatoes, stuffed grape leaves and polenta, grilled chicken, sausages and cabbage salad, sautéed lamb chops, roasted potatoes, tiramisu, ice cream and fresh cherry preserves, and various fruits from the back yard. To drink, we had tzuika, cherry liqueur, white and red wine, beer and water. All I was missing at the end was a check for all my efforts. I had planned this for four people, but I ended up with 8, so, it’s a good thing I cooked a lot. (…)

(then, he goes on and on about how he helped other friends with their cars and water heater, etc).

This is the story of my two days of loneliness. Other than that, all I can say is that I am alone in this immensity, which is our house; our house which is now empty of our discussions, and our fights, and our love for each other, empty of our routines. Sometimes I feel like she (my mom) is in the office working on the computer and I start talking to her, out loud. Other times, I reach for her in bed, at night, hoping to find her … And this is just the beginning of my loneliness, and maybe I’ll become used to it.

It’s tough. But everything has an end.

I wish you all much health, lots of pounds to Patrick (the new baby), (…)a peaceful heart to A. (me), and to An. (mom), lots of happiness amongst her children and with her new grandson. Bye, kids, and much love.

June 8. (after giving us details about all his accomplished chores: farmers’ market, church, another set of guests, etc). The life of a lonely man can be tumultuous and full, indeed. Full of aloneness, that is. As you can tell, there is no room for boredom. But room for a woman?! Room for my woman?? Where, I wonder, is she?!”

Yeah, he’s a goof, too. Anyways, no matter how we are spread all over the world, we miss each other, and love each other that much more. And we pretty much write each other every day (except for dad who writes every other day or so, but consolidates his “reports” so we won’t miss any of his daily happenings). Even apart, we always keep each other in mind.

And, trust me, dad, I feel your pain!

Not only “the life of a lonely man” can be “tumultuous and full”, but also that of a lonely woman. And no matter how much activity fills my days, the joy of relating that to someone at the end of it is still missing. That’s why, I never go do bed anymore, before I email my parents and my sister. Every day, with religiousness, and with love. Because I need my 2 minutes of updates to all. And that’s what family and love should be all about.

Communication and love wishes.

And with that being said, I hope one never looks at this, as a simple truism; it’s just so much deeper than just that: “Distance makes the heart grow fonder “.

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.