The Roots and The Wings ...

My sister and brother-in-law just took their oath to become Canadian citizens. They were happy, excited, tired after almost 5 years of waiting, and grateful that they finally could be settled in a country that can offer their children a life that they only dreamed of while growing up.

My mom, on the other hand, was sad, and crying. Not so much of joy, but of sadness.Sadness, she said, of "losing yet another child (my sister) to North America". She wrote to my sister the same thing she wrote to me in 2006, when I took my oath to become an American citizen: "I lost another child. You have no connections to your mother country and we lost you forever. You have no reason to consider yourself tied to us anymore".

As my sister said, of course she is very wrong. She forgets that wherever we are, and whoever's flag we gather under, deep, down to our character, personality, and even daily routine, we are, and will forever be, and will die Romanian.

Twenty something years of growing up in Romania, and a lifelong belonging to a Romanian family and speaking Romanian, cannot be erased in a 5 minute interview. We say our prayers in Romanian, we think in Romanian when we talk to our innermost selves; we celebrate the saintly feasts and cook Romanian foods for Easter, Christmas, and New Year's. We still think twice when Tuesday is the 13th of a month - a Romanian superstition. We cross ourselves when we start a trip - another Romanian superstition, and we say "So help us God" instead of "Good luck", something we were raised to always do in the mountains.

Today, a co-worker came in with lunch from Qdoba. It was a huge burrito, I think... and it smelled divine. I walked over to see what he was eating and made a mental note of the ingredients. That's what I wanted for dinner! Now, I could have gone to Qdoba and bought a burrito, but I didn't. Instead, I went to the grocery store, got a bell pepper and some lettuce, and came home and made my own burrito: I forgot the buy tortillas and I even made those from scratch, with flour, salt, baking powder, olive oil and whatever else was needed ...

About an hour or so and three dirty pots latter, I had a feast: I layered the ingredients on the fresh flour tortillas: salsa, lettuce, Mexican rice, beans, sauteed turkey, peppers and onions, with garlic and cilantro, topped with sour cream. My house smells like a home now, and I am about to burst, I am so full!

I have been cooking a lot lately: part of it is budget-related, and part of it is, I guess, missing home and ... being Romanian. I love a house wrapped up in the smell of garlic sauteed in olive oil! And carrots and onions sauteed, too. I love the smell of coriander on any kind of meat cooking to perfection.

I love the constant Christmas feeling of having leftovers every day! I love, most times, cooking for at least an hour or two every week, if not every other day.

That's one thing I wish my mom would see: the Romanian can leave Romania, but Romania will always live in the Romanian, stubborn as ever, stinking of garlic to high heavens! And cooking everything from scratch is just one thing we have ingrained in who we are, my sister and I. And just one thing my mom should be proud of for giving us.

As they say: "The best parent gives their kids two things: wings and roots". And she did a marvelous job of giving us plenty of both.

Thank you, mom!
Forever yours ...

Wishful Travels

"Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go." (Th. Roethke - The Waking)

I have been trying to plan my travels for the new year, and that's always exciting, of course, for me... You would think this is easy, since I subscribe to a couple of travel magazines, and travel blogs and newsletters which are full of ideas and itineraries each day. Consider a CNN Headline News addict: that's me - with travel ideas from my travel news sources ... I can never get enough of them. The overload should be enough. But that all makes it harder, by giving you too much!

It's hard to marry the perfect destination with the perfect budget sometimes. And in this American land, where the employers are more often than not stingy with the time off (paid or unpaid, just the same), it's even harder to get enough time to do it all.

So, where do I start?! I didn't want to start with my family first, because they sidetrack me. They always want to go to places I have already been, because they've known them through me, and my travels peeked their curiosity. So, I didn't want to travel WITH them this year. In that respect, I do have a new mantra this year, and that is: go somewhere I've never been. Some destinations are on my list: The Rockies in the summer (or fall) is one, St. Petersburg is another, so are Nashville and Memphis, TN, just because I want to do it for my dad, in search of the music he's raised us on!

I have also gone through pictures and diaries of travels past, to see what I loved and what I'd like to see more of - but that is so difficult, because I have a slew of incredible memories from everywhere :

Being on Liberty Island and looking over Manhattan with dad - a lifetime milestone. Unequaled. Walking Manhattan, anywhere from Time Square to the UN building, to the Empire State building, to Macy's, the original one. Dad, silent with awe. You knew that trip was bigger than what you could handle!

Walking the streets of Montreal with my sister and brother in law, in search of the the perfect "flam" at Les Trois Brasseurs and the perfect "home" brew... The best botanical garden I have ever seen; the penguins at The Biodome; the inclined tower of the Olympic Park; the art vendors in Vieux Port ... The "Arret" Stop signs that remind you, you're not in "America", after all ...

Or walking the hilly and olden town of Quebec City with them, where every street corner is watchfully guarded by Le Chateau Frontenac, an impressive hotel built in a castle; a city that's more European, and more German that anything else, especially "North American"; walking the trails of Canadian Eastern Mountains, in search of waterfalls and wild flowers ... Truly wild!

Wandering, wandering in timeless New Orleans, with no recollection of time and place, really, but just pushing through the day, tired of eating and watching strangers: I always say that in New Orleans your eyeballs will hurt from so much people watching; the gumbo, the beignets, the dirty rice, the shrimps and crayfish, oh me... The smell of throw up on Bourbon Street ...The restaurant signs advertising "Big As^ Beers To Go" ... or "Zydeco music from 10 to 11 AM".

Hearing the click-clock of horseshoes in Charleston, while sipping wine and waiting for seafood wonders at 'AwShucks' or hearing and smelling history in The Black Market, downtown. Chilling to the bone.

Wandering in the wilderness and yet the posh neighborhoods of Kiawah Island, where you can spot anything from a Maserati to an egret, from a mountain lion to an alligator just about any time, if you walk about just a few yards from your residence.

Catching some time for a pizza in Amsterdam, while in between planes; hurrying to get through the lines at Anne Frank's museum; and before that, at the Sex Museum, too. Amsterdam does show it all. Wondering if your camera will be confiscated or thrown in the canal if you try shooting the windowed "ladies" of The Red District. What a quilt of emotions all in one day!

Vienna's parks! And historic buildings! The breathlessness The Opera House can case. The richness of art, and abundance of beauty! The hottest mustard I have ever tasted on an honest to God German Wiener! Ouch!

The conch fritters and black beans at Sloppy Joe's, in Key West; the breathtaking sunsets; the end of the world feeling, overwhelming, like a death sentence! The Hemingway house, open from four walls, it seems, with the light, warm breeze seeping through, bringing, it felt like, old ghosts of the past, of art, and talent, and beauty, and passion, and fights! I wanted to be a paint chip on those walls, to see if I could feel what those walls had witnessed. My paradise on earth, with the tens of cats! Oh, me!

The Carolina and Virginia lighthouses. Claustrophobic, and lonely. Like towers of endurance over time, elements and history. Much history.

The unbearable hotness of the sand on the Atlantic coast in the summers. The stickiness and wetness of the air. The no escape, oven feeling.

The bloody noses of crisp winters in Vail, Colorado and Park City, Utah. The over-crowding and overpricing, but the charm of an old little town like Breckenridge, too.

The intimidating Harbor cruise at Norfolk , making you wonder: how much damage can we actually do with that fleet alone?!

The treacherousness of Romanian mountains: where there are no trails, and no safety law suites to file if you happen to fall out of a gondola ride. Stepping into "Dracula's" footsteps. Or Ceausescu's, in Bucharest. The adrenaline rush!

Atlanta, with its Southern calm, and Northern-like highways cutting through her like a circulatory system: pumping life and energy into it all... The Sundial building that moves around and around while feeding you expensive peanuts! The gorgeous view. Walking the hallways of Margaret Mitchell's home - another life dream come true!

Getting lost in Boston, but found again, when eating the best, freshest seafood dinner I have ever experienced. Ever! It makes sense why they have their own name for their soup: It's "chowda", and not "chowder", because it's their own, and nothing else tastes like it, anywhere else in the nation.

Driving through the peaceful Pennsylvania farmland, through Amish and Mennonite communities, a local reminds us: "We don't have much views out here; but we do have smells". It smells like the land, and the animals. It smells like my mountain childhood back home. It smells of simple, unsophisticated, un-fooled-around with, safe life.

Walking the streets and The Mall in DC, just in search of the next museum. Enjoying the free entrances everywhere, and the exhibitions of anything from NASA to a Buddhist temple from Bhutan!

Driving up to Blowing Rock, just for the day, and the fresh trout, at The Speckled Trout. Watching the sunset over The Blueridge Parkway and telling yourself one more time you'll never move anywhere else again: that is all you need.

So, where to go next, you ask?! Anywhere, everywhere and who the heck knows?!? I think I am putting my wishes in a hat and drawing. And we'll reconvene in December to look back and update . Because all I know now is: the world is an open map, with great destinations, be it far or near. All you have to have is the willingness to go. The funds, and other resources will follow. Somehow. But the willingness has to be there, for fuel!

And for a true traveler, the adventure can be anything: a day in the Smokies, at a lovely old inn, like Celo, where linens are coarse and preserves are fresh from the orchard out back, or a trip over The Pond, where folks speak a whole other language altogether. The thrill is the same.

I'll listen to the clues, the offers, and the winds this year, and "I'll learn from going ... where I have to go".

I also am in dire need of a travel partner, or maybe not, but that's a whole other story, altogether and entirely!

A Weird Weekend or ... More

Observations in a stranger that usual week ...

I am one of those children who, according to my mother, "judges" her parents. I don't think it's judgment, but I have always questioned their doings. In a way, I think they (the parents) got what they wanted: they taught us to challenge everything and not accept what is. They didn't specify they were exempt from this.


I say this now because I never understood, for instance, why on earth my mom would buy whatever fruit there was in season in industrial quantities to make canned goods with. She slaved for weeks in the kitchen, every single of the four seasons we have back home, to make hundreds of jars of preserves, marmalade, juices, spreads, and you name it. We had pepper spread, and eggplant spread, and cherry, and sour cherry, and walnut, and strawberry, and blueberry, and wild strawberry, and peach, and apple preserves, and tomato sauce, and tomato juice - hundreds of jars of them. Sometimes we ate for years from the same batch. Her fingers would turn various colors when she was canning, because she had to clean and pit and manually mince the fruit before cooking it - so her hands were red, or green, or black, or orange, or purple, depending on the fruits. How was she not embarrassed to go to work like that?! I never got it. We could afford the things in the store, why would she have to go through all that labor for food we ate once or twice a week??


I never got it, till this weekend, when my fingers turned orange, as I peeled, seeded (yes, they can have seeds, too) and cleaned my first batch of mandarin oranges and made my first jar of preserves. I look at my hands and I smile: I miss mom, and I wish she were closer so she can taste my preserves and tell me how much I suck at making it. I love it, though. It's like no preserves I have ever bought in any store, or country fair. It's so much more flavorful, and so much clearer than the stuff you buy in store. It also tastes sweeter because it's my mom's recipe. And you know what: I am not embarrassed that my hands are orange. If anything, I am proud!

*

I am reading a great book this week: "My Stroke of Insight" by Jill Bolte Taylor, Ph.D. What a life changing book for me! Stroke and I go a long and unhappy way back. Stroke and I, I feel, will revisit each other in the future, as well. Being close to stroke patients, and brain-diseased patients, I have always been fascinated with what exactly happens in our lives, in our body-lives, when the mind goes, fully or partially. I've always known what it feels like when your body goes, but your mind...?! To read about this kind of experience first hand, from a brain specialist is such a gift!

It's a great, loving, compassionate and easy read; one that, I think, anyone with any nerve for human empathy should read. It's a book that I have probably waited for all my life. It's my escape from the world of "crazy" as I am calling it lately. It's simply beautiful.

*

I am trying to convince dad that Obama is not a liar. So far, it's not working so good: I'm doing a lot of convincing, and he's doing a lot of not listening to me. It's the first time in my life when I actually give a darn about politics. It's odd! Not sure it'll last.

*

Ran into a former co-worker that I think the world of. She's great at what she does, and she does it with ease. On top of being a kick-a^^ professional, she's just a cool person, with a great heritage, awesome taste, talented, and unique in every way you can imagine. She now is looking to become a yoga teacher, and she's great at that too. I asked her, would she make yoga her full time job, she says: 'Oh, no! That's my hobby! I am waaayyy too non-committed for that. That's a huge commitment'. Hhmm... That was odd. I would have thought that going through the teacher certification program, and through the exams and all would have been huge in the first place. She went through all that, and now, she's shelving the degree?! Why? I was puzzled. True to herself, however, she never ceases to surprise.

*

Drove down Aycock Ave in Greensboro, NC this Sunday, and saw this tall young gentleman that looked like a poster guy for an ad for Scotland: kilt, socks, hat, ample-sleeved shirt, bag across shoulder, a lllooooong goatee, down to his belt almost, carrying a Starbucks paper cup and walking the street. Now, if this were New York City, this would have been just another passer-by. In Greensboro, NC, though, it made for an interesting sight to say the least ...

*

I "broke up" with a "friend" that I have known for over 7 years now, this week. A friend I trusted, and I opened up to, just like I do to any of my friends. There is a time, unfortunately, when we have to "clean up" the "friends" files, and really bring them up for a yearly review: are they still doing their job as friends, and if not, can we fire them?! It's a mixed feeling of sadness and freedom when this happens, but deep down, we ought to know that a friend we lose this way is not, really, a friend worth keeping, is it?! The sad part is still there, however, because those times we did think we were friends, those hours, and dinners, and chats, and Christmas present sharing are lost forever.

*

The unthinkable happened this week, too: I got excited about television! I typically don't care for tv much. I sometimes wonder if the tv still works, because it's not turned on for days. I remember a co-worker saying in the office, about computers: "Them electronics don't like it much when they're not turned on for a while. One day, they'll just quit!". But this week I switched from regular basic cable to the lowest package you can get on Direct TV, and I love it! I love the remote, even, the picture is clearer, and I am just in love with the new bill! Yay for savings! Now, don't get too excited: the tv craze won't last - I promise you!

*

The most beautiful and simple thing I have heard this weekend, a true "a-ha" moment, was during my yoga class on Sunday afternoon. My favorite instructor, Terry, always encourages us to know who we are and learn to love what we are, and never chase for what we think we should be. I know this sounds pretty common sense for some, but some people, especially in a yoga class, will look around and see if someone else is "screwing up" worse then them; they're there for a competition of bending or something, not for the pure pleasure of treating their body well. So, Terry said something so simple, and yet so deep, I thought. I am not sure it belongs to him, or he read it somewhere, but ... he went: "We didn't all come here, in physical form, to do what somebody else says. We came here for our own experience."

I have been telling people, not in those very well organized words, the same thing about living with a life threatening disease for years: just because my life is different than the "norm" doesn't mean I am living a lesser life. I am living it still to the fullest. I am living it to my fullest, that is. And that's all that matters.

*

The weirdest thing of all is that the moon got drunk, or high, or something on Sunday night. Or maybe the camera did: I tried to take a regular night shot picture of a gorgeous (and close) almost full moon that night, and this is what I got:



I have never done drugs, but they tell me this is what you see on some of them, if you were to follow a lit cigarette waved at you. I did nothing different in my settings, other than moved the camera too soon, I guess ... However, this will be forever filed under "The Moon Got Drunk One Night" in my pictures folder.

*

My parents' 35th anniversary was yesterday. Happy anniversary, mom and dad! And I always wonder - no, not judge, but wonder: how can two people that practically yell at each other 24/7 make it this long?! Now, I don't care what dad says - he will tell you there is no such thing as "love" that could last longer than 2 months; I don't care what he says, but I'll call it love. Because otherwise, us, single people, would be hopeless!

,My parents in 2007, doing what they do best: playing ...

*

This week's hardly started, really. It's been a strange one, in good, indifferent and not so good ways. With nervous eyes, I'll face tomorrow - curious as ever!

Moody Times ...

You know ... I have been known to write about spring, and fall , and even many lazy pieces about scorching summers , too...


But I seldom write about winter anymore. That's not entirely my fault, I don't believe. That's because where I live, winters have not grown up yet, and have not decided what they want to do with their lives! I am not joking!


They have not made up their minds who or what they want to be yet! Like a late blooming adolescent, they are still trying to figure that out. Annoyingly slowly, if I may add, because for 11 years now, I have not seen a winter come of age!


You never know what kind of winter you're going to get in Greensboro. One day, you might get a scent of fall, or spring, where a wind breaker jacket is just enough, and maybe an umbrella handy, too; another day you can even go to Harris Teeter in your shorts, to get some milk and bread. Another day, we put New York to shame with our temperatures!


I feel like if winter would be a person, here, it would have to be a moody woman, going through her "phases", or an old, cranky man, one minute happy, and one minute thorny as all!


People tell me I complain too much when it's cold, and I should be used to low temperatures, given Romanian winters; but back home, we wear sheep's skin and rabbit hats in the winter! You can't find those in North Carolina, I can guarantee you! Well, not at Kohls, anyway! So, having temperatures in the teens with the cotton clothes you get here is just not ... comfortable.


It makes me mad when we get 60-65 degrees one day, right about this time. I never plan for it. I plan to do indoor things, and all of a sudden, it's a great opportunity to go for a walk in the park, or a hike! But no, plans are made, hike must wait, till ... tomorrow, when we get an ice storm!


So, I guess, there is a thing or two I can say about the surprising winters around these parts. And that's all good and fine and dandy, as long as that's what you expect from every day: a surprise!


I do miss eggnog right after they pull it off the shelves, and I do wish I could build a real fire, once in a while. I do love to cuddle up with the cats, who are sooo needy and snuggly on winter nights. I love the sound of my heater - it talks about "big weather" out there, as my mountain grandpa used to say. I sleep better in winters. And I eat better too, although I would gladly give up the love handles that magically appear now and then. As long as winter takes them away, when she packs up in the spring, I will be glad!


If there is one consistent feature about winters here, that would have to be (well, other than unpredictability!) ... brightness! The sky is always as clear as Carolina blue, spotless, and the eyes hurt from so much flodding of sun rays, whether it's warm, or cold that day! I do love that we seldom get gray days in the winter, like Canada and Romania do, for about 6 months at a time!


There is a charm for every season , I guess. And right now, I am all about warm sweet wine, and lots of chunky soups. Lots of scarfs and thick gloves, and unfortunately, lots of tissue boxes, too...
Till this weekend, that is ... when I will go shopping in a sweater and flip flops, I think, at least according to the forecast! Maybe ...

Why I Left Romania, You Ask …

Note: if this offends my long gone, distant and passed Gypsy relatives, that I have never met, I deeply apologize. That was never my intention.

State schooling is virtually free in Romania. All the way up to high school, at least. State college is free, as well, if you can make the grades and stay enrolled. That’s one of the “perks” in that country. One of the “rewards” coming from “The Man” (aka: State) to the regular folk. One of the very few.

I had a friend in college who was the son of a single mother who could not afford rugs in the home, they were so poor. He went to college with all of us, though, because he was smart, and kept his grades up. He was from out of town, and he slept in a dorm, and occasionally came to dinner at my house, since he could not afford to pay for the cafeteria, most times. I was lucky enough to live in a college town, so I stayed with mom and dad almost through college.

When he would come to my house, and had dinner, he would pause, and think right before he took a bite. He was always thinking, he told me, at his mother, at that very moment, and at how the food he was about to eat felt like “liquid mercury going down his throat”, because he felt guilty. He felt guilty that he had access to that free, homemade food, while there was no telling whether his mother had any kind of meals that day!

That memory haunts me to this day. I feel the same kind of guilt, and the same kind of remorse, every time I feel like I have a “better life” than my parents. And this happens almost daily here. I could never, as long as they live, feel fully happy with what I have, because my bounty is embittered by their lack of basic needs. By their lack of freedom, and of access to hope, and by their lack of common daily necessities.

That guilt became painful this week, once again. My parents live in a relatively safe part of a quiet, university town, in North-East Romania. But no matter what part of that city they moved to, over the years, they are always bothered by their neighbors, “The Gypsies”. No, Gypsies (or the “Rroma people”) are not just “Artistes” that live a Bohemian life. They are a minority, specific to Eastern Europe, mostly, now, but for the most part spread all over Europe and the World. They refuse to be integrated. They speak their own language, and have their own faith, they refuse schooling, or any kind of “formality”. Some of them are still vagabond, and they travel in covered horse-drawn carriages. They defy everything that’s organized, and anything that belongs to “the norm”. They destroy and mock things, as a sign of disapproval.

During communism, The Government tried to force them to integrate. They outlawed their travelling caravans, and forced them to live in blocks of flats, where they crammed a family of 10-12-14 people into a 1 or 2 bedroom apartment. To this day, they rebel. But not against the Government, like you might think, but against their neighbors, the Romanians.

I am sorry if I sound racist, or nationalistic. I am not! I am sure there are perfectly decent Gypsies out there. I personally have not met them, however. Anyway, this is the topic of another book, much less another post, so I will just skim over this. Ask me details about them, and we shall talk for a while.

This week, one of the Gypsy kids in my parents’ neighborhood got mad at my dad, because he had parked his car in front of a gate that made his entrance to their house awkward – that was his excuse. Not impossible. But awkward. But instead of knocking on my dad’s door, and asking him kindly to park his car elsewhere (the car was on a public road, free for all), he picked up the biggest stone he could find in the street, and smashed my dad’s windshield. My dad has a French car. So, anything “import” is an arm and a leg in Romania. The windshield repair will cost him 2100 lei, or the equivalent of $700! My parents combined make about $1000 a month. Their gas bill alone came in at $400 last month. You do the math!

They do have car insurance, but it covers only collision. No “acts of violence” like these. In fact, there is no insurance that’s affordable enough for the regular folk that will cover that, unless you’re a police officer: and then you’re forced to get that kind of insurance, because you’re more vulnerable.

The law doesn’t stand behind you, the citizen, either: although my parents had the whole neighborhood as witnesses for what the Gypsy kid did, the cops told them that since the kid who did this is a minor, he’s not expected to pay for the damage. His parents are, but since they’re jobless Gypsies, with several mouths to feed, they (The Police) are not going to press any charges against the family, as they know they’re not going to pay for anything, so it’s a waste of their time.

The police also said they have had several eviction requests from neighbors on this particular block of Gypsy families, but they need the City Hall to approve the evictions, and they have not done it yet. Of course, the City Hall is waiting for bribes, but bribery is so rampant in Romania, and bribes are so high, no amount will be enough to pay off ALL the City Hall and City Council members to take action.

And so, “The Man” gets to screw the citizen, the tax paying, legal citizen once more. And that’s the de facto law of living in Romania. Nothing ever makes sense, but you obey, because you have no recourse, no loop holes to pull you through to give you … justice.

When my dad built his house, he had to buy at least three rounds of brick, doors and appliances, because they kept getting stolen every night. He got no money back for the stolen materials. The police took the complaints and did nothing with them.

Romania has cell phones, and web cams, and fast internet, and for the most part a quiet, and non-rebellious (thank God!) political system and society. A lot of Americans ask me weekly, why in the world did I leave Romania?! I could have had “all the conveniences of modern life, AND peace, AND my family close by”- right?!

But it’s hard to explain to them that THIS is why I left! The every day fight for survival, and the lack of ever feeling like you’re treated with fairness and justice, the squandering of every penny you make on the Gypsies’ shenanigans, and the authorities’ bribes; the showing nothing for your cash at the end of the day, because you’re indebted to “the Man” for stuff you never bought! The feeling and almost forced acceptance that you’re not “human”, after all, and thus you “should” be treated like an animal – is why I left. I refused that!

And thus, like my friend said in college: it was physically painful when I got my car from the shop, after I paid just $500 for my deductible and they made it as good as new again, after my wreck a couple of years back, when they pretty much had to replace half of the front of the car to make it move again. The damage was then about $3000 – but it cost me about $500. And I make a tad more than $1000 a month!

I feel so helpless, and so desperate at times like these. And more than anything – I feel guilty for the access to laws, and justice that I have here, in the States! I want to figure out something, other than forcing money on my parents, that they never accept anymore, to make this right! It’s never been right for them. Never been right in that Godforsaken country, ever since I can remember … And they don’t deserve this. Most people there don’t deserve this treatment, but what is there to make it right?!

This year, we’ll celebrate the 20^th anniversary of The Revolution – and still little change on the “humanity” front has been seen! Little to none. How’s that for desperation?!

And although I know it’s not fair to blame God for everything, turning to God in moments of desperation is all you’ve got left – so, a question beckons, every time I face this kind of reality: did God really create all of us equal?! Then why do I feel like I don’t deserve what I’ve got now, and rather my parents do, but will never get it, probably?! Never is a pretty darn long time! And also, if we’re all equal, then how and who screwed us up so badly, after Creation?! How can He allow us to become so un-equally screwed up, after He sets us free into the world?!

On Love

Long years of hoping, and dreaming. And finding, eventually, an oasis with water and green. Like wandering in a desert, for years, and days on end – finally coming home, where hardships stop, and happiness begins.

In there, at home, enjoying the sun but also the water, and the freshness of the spot for which we hope on our journey. It’s heaven! And we get lost. We give it our all, and hope that we are settled now. We love, and give, and for once, we are settled. We think. We let go.

And just like a Fata Morgana – the oasis disappears, after the rush has passed - and we’re back on the road. Hoping. Looking. Searching. Dreaming. Drying out and thirsting for love once more.

We share “friendships”, we call them. We share ourselves with the world, every day. We belong to all, and we slice up who we are to give everyone a piece. None of these sharings becomes a little more longer than a couple of hours, when “it’s convenient”. The giving is truncated by the conditionality of it all. There is no freedom and letting go. There is only conditional sharing, and accommodating everyone’s schedules. At the end of the day, it’s still us alone, contemplating silence and an empty bed.

And we can’t help but wonder: is our fear of commitment keeping us from something bigger, and deeper, and larger, and of more of the realm of “forever”?!

What if our independence, and our love of the “me” and the “now”, our love of the whole blanket, and not satisfaction with just half of it, our love of the whole potato serving, and not enjoyment of just half of it, our fear of sharing the day, keeps us forever wandering?! Keeps us forever soldiers of the desert and of the loneliness?!

We choose ourselves for now, for the sake of simplicity. And the now turns into tomorrow, and into another month and another year. And we won’t know whether this choice is good or bad, till we’re old, gray and “gone” so much that we won’t be able to “share” any of ourselves anymore – as there will be little of ourselves left.

Love for me, as I have found, has been a constant searching. All findings have proven only momentary. And there are some findings out there, who might have been bigger than just a fleeting moment – but we were never allowed to explore them.

We’re letting the mind rule us, and we forget all along that love’s nest is in the heart! We think so much, our thoughts are louder than our heartbeats!

So, we’re waiting. And searching, and wandering…

And I can’t help but ask myself over and over again:” What if we’re looking for something that’s already found us?”

What will we tell our squandered selves when it’ll be too late to fix anything, if that’s the case?! Too late to fill up the empty Sunday afternoons, and the empty hearts we carried on in our journeys?! This question interferes with my peace daily!

A Trying Time

“Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;

Behind the clouds the sun is shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.”

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I know I have said before that I am fed up with people’s attitudes at work towards the company, the layoffs and the economy in general. I still am, so I won’t repeat that. I still believe you should not bite the hand that feeds you, and that if you bother to show up, you need to make an effort to justify your paycheck.

But I will have to say that it’s very easy lately to take our frustrations, lack of hope, on the company, its leadership and to be altogether absolutely impossible to work with, across the board, because of all the punches in the gut we’ve received.

It takes me all I have got, and then some to go through the day with a smile anymore. It takes me my whole will (and trust me, I have will!), my whole strength and I need to borrow some extra patience from some, to go through 4 hours of the day, till lunch, but it takes more than those to make it to 5 PM! Amazing what you’ll do for food, ya know!

The notion of career, and work ethics is out the window, it seems! The only notion there is, is survival! What can we do, folks seem to be wondering, to put in the minimum effort not to get fired?! The company wants us to participate more, to communicate more, but that’s not going to happen, because people refuse to look at this “durra mater” of a job as their home, and family, as something they actually care in the least about. Something that bears their signature, their pride anymore. And can you really blame them?!

We’ve had waves and waves of layoffs and retirements, forced, involuntary and voluntary as well. We have shrunk our overall staff by at least 150 people in the past year and a half. That’s a lot for a company that used to be 600+ folks. And we’re still not done.

A memo came out today to let us know we are to take furlough days, 5 in all, before June. So, instead of 26 weeks, as we should, we will get paid for 25 of those weeks, basically. Along with that, any kind of “cost of living” raises are frozen. Unless you change jobs or you take on more responsibility, you can’t get a raise. But that’s of course, felt as unfair, too: with as many folks gone, we all feel like we have taken on more than we can handle, but …

As always, we’re not sure what’s going to happen next, after June. Layoffs, more retirements (is anyone eligible anymore?!), more budget cuts, more furlough days, 4 day weeks?! Who knows?! Again, as I have said before: it’s not us, it’s everyone. We still have a job, and benefits. We still have a purpose in the morning, and if we cut a commodity, maybe two, we might even make it.

But it’s still hard, for some folks. Those who live paycheck to paycheck and the notion of savings or extra cash is foreign! There are those! Those whose spouse has been laid off or whose job has also been cut , those who have several children in schools and are single parents with no help. How they find solutions and hope in these times, beats the heck outta me!

My heart breaks every morning when I see another “For Sale” sign in my neighborhood. I pray that’s a person who got a better job somewhere else, and that’s not someone who is about to lose their home. It’s hard to smile anymore, and hard not to be frustrated, on the hallways of the building I have buried my last 8 years in! It’s hard to trust. It’s hard to care. It’s hard to go on. It’s hard not to ask: “Hhmm… is their profit margin shrinking, as my paycheck is?!”.

I tell myself, though, everyday, that I have to be grateful for what I have. And if they do fire me (whether you call it “layoff” or “voluntary layoff”, or “restructuring”, we, on this end of the bargain, feel it like a firing job: just like the gun firing: straight through your heart!), so, if they do fire me, still, it’s not something I can control – and that is my only consolation now.

My job performance is the only thing I can control and I will, and I am, with all I have got. If they let me go for crappy performance, then, I won’t be settled within me forever; but if they let me go for a budget expense, it’s gonna hurt, and be hell for a while, heck, without health insurance I might not even make it, but it won’t be “their fault”. I refuse to believe that! I am sure they’re not looking for absolution, but I just felt I needed to get it out of me, to stay sane! It’ll be just another loss I was thrown my way.

Unfortunately, as mom says, “I wasn’t capable to be my own boss, have my own business and call the shots, so I am expendable!”. The job will then become just … collateral damage. Sad – but so true. For so many!

A Week in Review

"Science and art have that in common that everyday things seem to them new and attractive.” (Nietzsche)

Not much to tell this week, so I thought I’d just sum up all the things I have discovered, or have come across with , or some of the older things, that have been on my mind this week, as well.

Sometimes I really feel out of place for not being more “in tune” with what’s on the radio, or the TV, but as soon as I turn one on to “catch up”, I am cured! Sure, I might be stuck in the 60’s for music, or 90’s for TV shows, but my God, some of the non-talent and non-value that’s out there is scary. I know Bob Dylan cannot sing, but his lyrics will tell you more (once you learn to decipher them from the mumbling) than “I want a credit card with no limit” and “You change your mind like a girl changes clothes” – as the songs of today that I have heard on the radio the other day. Just a tad more, I think! So sad for the kids of today: if these are their role models, where is the world going to? Have you seen “Idiocracy”, the movie?! Yeah!

On TV, I also hate the news, especially on “all news channels” like CNN. It’s not about reporting the news, it’s about speculating about the news. It’s about having so-called “experts” on all things politics, and terrorism, and economy, and life to tell you “what would happen IF this and that align”. It’s never about sensational news. It’s always about sensational gossip anymore.

I have asked around. For years now. And everyone I have asked is absolutely fed up and against the electoral vote. So, why not a referendum? Is it so hard for a democracy to think this up?! I know no one that agrees with the system. I am sure there are people out there (they must be) who like the electoral vote over the popular one, but I have not met them. So, why note let “The People” decide?! And if the referendum says we need to stay with the electoral votes, can we give Texas like minus ten electoral votes?! And Mississippi, too?? To just sorta match the count of votes with the general IQ of the population of that state. Just a thought!

Why does Sam’s Club take a credit card of pretty much any kind at their gas station, but no credit card other than Discover ( I think ) inside their store?!

This week, I have also lost, at least physically (I hope only that way!) a dear friend to Utah! I hope he’s happy and I wish him well, but I know I’ll miss our weekend sleep overs and get togethers. Sure, more excuses for me now to visit The Rockies, which is one of my favorite places in the world, but … in this economy is not an easily doable task.. I wish him happy trails, lots of fires, and dry summers!

I have also gone through an U2 phase later this week. Sure, just their 90’s and 2000’s years, but still. I love Bono, and I recommend that anyone who does should read his biography, Bono, by Michka Assayas. A real character builder.

I have also watched a great movie this week, recommended by my said Utah-bound buddy. It’s called Starting Out in the Evening. It’s an independently made film, presented at Sundance, but Blockbuster rents it. As a writer, I appreciated a lot of the insights on the writer’s life, and the critics’ and readers’ ones, as well. I was reminded that there are as many Shakespeares out there as are readers of Shakespeare, so you should hardly ever worry about how your message is received. If you feel you have a voice, and something, no matter how obscure, wants to get out of you, and finds you as the channel, let it go. Just like advice, writing should be given up completely, with no further attachment. Give it – and let it go. It will speak to different people in their own different language of understanding. And that’s OK.

In the movie, I was also reminded that time flies and before you know it, you’re at the end of your road, and you might not have gotten the chance to speak your whole piece. So, waste no minute.

Also, in this movie I was reminded why I have no interest in guys my age, and why I have not had a good date in over a year. One of the characters says : “I am not interested in guys my age. They are like bubble gum: ten minutes of flavor followed by bland repetition”. Amen to that! I guess I just need to be patient and grow up (eye roll!) till 40 some year olds find me interesting. Or 50 year olds …

I was also happy that we were snowed in at least for half of the day on Inauguration Day, and I got to watch it live, this week. And I don’t want to get into details, but I was really moved that my dad sent me on a hunt for all the major newspapers and magazines that had Inauguration coverage in the front cover (which one didn’t, right??). He wants to collect all of them! I won’t say more, but just know that I have lived almost 34 years, meaning all my life, for this moment.

This week, I have also spent WAY too much time on Facebook! Will fix that soon!

My absolute favorite book title for the week, after book browsing for hours in the store: “Life’s a Bitch and Then You Change Careers”.. So appropriate. Some other time in my life I would have said : “This got published????” – Not this week! This week, it sounded like “home”.

My absolute favorite chapter in a book, after browsing: I am looking through a book about “home herbal remedies” you can do on your own, at home, without a doctor’s diagnosis or approval: there are herbal remedies there for all diseases in the world, including … hypochondria! You gotta eat vanilla beans or eat a lot of cherries to cure that. My question is: how do you know you’ve got that?! Who admits to it?!

A happy new week, all!

11 Years Ago Today

“You have to stand against the world although you may have to stand alone”.
(Mahatma Gandi) – this is my calendar quote on today’s calendar.

Back when I used to read fairy tales, it always intrigued me how every prince (not princess – those were still patriarchal times, you see), when they turned 18, they left their parents’ home to look for their “fortune” in the world. The authors never told you what they were exactly looking for, and I always wished they did tell me what it was that they were looking for. They would always set off, on a horse, leaving their parents old, teary and sobbing, to look for their fortune, their meaning, it seemed, their sort in the world – you were told. And then the search, and the hardships, and the conquests and the final settling down with a beautiful princess would follow.

I guess that’s what I did myself, 11 years ago today, when I jumped on that plane from my home country to come to the United States. Unlike the princes in the stories, though, I was not yet 23. Not many people approved of if (none comes to mind), but I knew … that was my life, and I had to go find it. Powerful things happen when one goes out to meet their destiny, you know: like you pay no attention to your sobbing parents that have given you shelter, love and food for all your life, and you never turn around, but you just set off, curious what life, your life, has in store for you alone.

If you asked me then what was I doing coming here, and leaving home, I would have probably said: I am looking for my fortune, or my sort and meaning in life. If you asked me today what I was doing – I would probably tell you the same thing. And to this day, the answer is the same every single morning, when I set out the door. I am still looking. Not in the “never grow up” sort of way, but in the “what indeed is it that makes one so happy and fulfilled to say they’re done?!” sort of way.

I can only tell you: it was not “the American dream” I was after, like you might think. After 11 years of living in the country that still makes my dad’s most coveted dream to move to, I will be happy to report that I found out that there is no such thing as “the American dream”. I don’t believe there is one dream that’s all American, that every American lives for to accomplish. I think “the” life dream of anyone is personal, and is different for each one of us – and that is just a universal premise, not solely an American one.

Maybe, if there were such a thing as “the American dream”, then that would be to accomplish our individual dream, or dreams, unhindered, and in freedom. To be whoever we are, and to live the life we each see fit. And for Society and the Government to have little to say about that. Again: this could be any nation’s dream – but it’s easier to achieve in America.

I guess for me, my dream is just like 11 years ago: to just live right, with respect towards everyone and everything I come across, to be happy, take one day at a time, and see where the next plane takes me.

Sure, there are accomplishments (a relative term, I believe) to speak of: I have married, and divorced, I have had step children to take care of, I have still never rented, and owned alone or jointly about 4 homes so far, I have made a home, for me, and my loved ones, when they’re around, I have loved and been loved, I have more than doubled my income since my first job here, and the most wonderful accomplishment of all: I have managed to stay alive, and lead a healthy (again, relative term) life, despite all the medical predictions; I have made friends, and lost some, I have lost family and loved ones, I have become an aunt and a godmother one more time, I have bought and sold cars, totaled one too and survived it, I have cared for the sick, and helped the poor, I have rescued animals, I have traveled, and most importantly: I never forgot where I started.

During the 11 years of being far away, I feel still as close if not closer to my family, and as close to being Romanian as I’ll ever be, I hope: I still respect all my church given feasts, and I still think, just like Eliade thought, that the Orthodox faith is where all my strength lies, I cook 90% of my meals from scratch, just the way grandma taught me. I sew my own buttons, I knit my own scarves, and I hem my own pants!

There is little regret in this all. If I had to be given the same chances again, I would pursue them with the same enthusiasm as I did the first time around. It’s been a great journey, and one that I would say has been mostly on my own. I have met some wonderful folks along the way, and some of them helped me go in the direction I am going now, whether they knew it or meant to or not. But at the end of the day, I do believe, I have gotten here because of me, my choices, my tears, my laughs, my ambition, or lack of it, my calling – whatever that might be.

With my head full of curls and questions, still, just like 11 years ago, I still wonder what my sort is, and what my fortune will be, and wonder when I’ll find it. But I am happy to say that I would be thrilled to know there is no end to this search, and the search itself is what someone might call “my fortune” one day, when I’ll be long gone and forgotten.

For now, I am enjoying making plans for my next plane ride – and that’s how far I’ll ever want to go with my true “planning” and deadlining. As they say in Yoga: I forever want to stay a beginner: because beginners … will try anything.

And as always on this day: I want to thank my new country for having me and my family for loving me no matter how far I went, just like they promised then. This journey would not have been possible at all if it weren’t for those two mainstays in my life.

Roads Less Traveled

Why not Seagrove?!

Thinking: Curiosity didn’t kill the cat. It just made her more knowledgeable. I am convinced!

I predict this will be the year of day trips. I find myself, along with the world, in a conservative spending mood, so day trips is all I’ll have to splurge on for now, till a better economy decides to roll around. No big deal though.

I was reading a travel blog this week, and the author said it doesn’t matter whether you travel alone or with someone (Amen for that! Finally someone decided to bust the “must have a boyfriend/ girlfriend to travel” myth), the important thing is that you travel. That you go.

Paraphrasing that: I don’t think it matters how far from home you go, it matters that you go! Any corner of the world that’s not been seen yet, distance is irrelevant, should be new to you, and reveal something you’re not familiar with.

So, today, in 20 degree weather and with my kitchen pipes frozen solid, with a sinus cold that’s kept me up all night, I decided I won’t watch the pot boil … eeeerrr… the pipes defreeze, but I’d keep my own self busy, and head out of town. Anywhere.

I have always heard good things about Seagrove, NC, a pottery hub, that was still unknown to me, after all these years (almost 11) of living here. And after all, “why not”, Seagrove, right?!

I have always loved pottery. I love clay, and the things man makes out of it, just like I love anything natural: wood, stone, bamboo or wicker. It is a rudimentary way of using what’s God given. It’s simple.

So, I headed down 220S for about 40 some miles. Seagrove was quiet. Not sure whether the low temps scared people off the streets or what, but it was a ghost town. I could hardly find the Pottery Center, because there was no “noise”.

I visited The Pottery Center, learned about the Owen(s) and Cole – some of the first potters, or “turners” as they are called in the South, families who have laid the foundation of pottery making in these parts; learned about kilns, pronounced “kills” in these parts, and various glazes (lead, alkaline or ash, or even salt ones), also about Native American pottery, the first in this country, of course. I made a contribution to the center, to support it, and it’s educating the people about the ancient trade. I browsed in the museum’s store, and visited the Seagrove Pottery town store which was like a museum itself. The shelves were overloaded with “stuff”, all unique, not two pieces alike! I spent an hour in that town store, to probably the dismay of the two 16 year old girls who were manning it today!

Then, I headed North, towards home, again. I noticed a brown sign for ‘Pisgah Covered Bridge’ on 220N, so I decided to take that exit. I remembered my creativity professor, once upon a time: she advised us that sometimes, to find your creative well, it’s good to drive into nowhere, with no set destination, but just to pick a direction and see where it takes you. I thought this would be good practice for that.

I am also fascinated with covered bridges: why did they cover them? I understand tunnels, but covered bridges? All that lumber? For what?! For one very brief covered piece of one’s journey? They’re a mystery to me! Plus: I had never seen one in real life! I don’t think I have, at least. If I did, shame on my memory for not helping now! Another reason: I live off of a Pisgah Road - so, this is a must!

So, I drove. For a while. I just followed the signs towards the Pisgah Covered Bridge, and let me tell you: it’s hiding! You take a left, and then a right, and then another left, and then another left … I went for miles and miles and miles, without seeing a car. It was getting dusky, too, so I was getting antsy: where is this thing?? Will I have any picture opps by the time I get there?? Will I get shot by some redneck thinking I am trespassing?! It was no-man’s-land out there! Just woods, and more woods, and hills and streams, and pastures. I was sure I was going to get lost!

North Carolina drives like a bluegrass song. Rolling hills, sun peeking through leafless woods, “barns hooked up to satellite dishes”, rebel flags, pick up trucks with gun racks, and porches with swing doors; white picket fences and old tobacco barns that are falling apart, but they still store wood; lonely animals wondering why in the hell are they left out in 20 degree weather?! There is no grass! Everything is either picked, or “yella”, so they’re wondering why the hell they’re out here, in the open wind?! It’s lonely, and it’s open, and it’s quiet. It’s a fine ride, though! One where you can finally hear your thoughts, and know what you’re going to do tomorrow when that loser calls back! It does bring you back to … you. And it replenishes the well! So, the creativity professor was right.

I did eventually find the bridge. And it was neat, just like I hoped it would be. I still don’t know why they cover it. I wish my bridge, back in my teen years were covered, so folks won’t see me steal a kiss or two … Maybe that was it: ‘whatever happened under there, stayed there…’?! I am not sure whether I'd pick up and look for the covered bridges all over the country like Clint Eastwood in the "Madison County" movie, but still: it was fascinating! It was quiet, and lonely, and it looked new. I were to find out it was 1911 new, and it only cost $40 to build! Oh, the olden times!

I even found my way back with no trouble at all – maybe a couple of wrong turns or three – but they were all worth it. I figured, the sun slipping over the hills, and saying “good night” was proud of my guts for taking the less traveled roads, and finding the hidden treasures. And I know I will sleep better knowing that I have added to my memories the fine looks of North Carolina hills and the first covered bridge I remember seeing.

My kitchen pipes never did burst, and the water did run in the afternoon – so it didn’t need me at all to stay home and wait for it. And, see, it pays to be curious about a brown sign on the highway that you never noticed before. See for yourself.

Cracker Aunt

"If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or laughs because it sees the sun shining on its cradle." (Vincent Van Gogh)

The closest that I have ever been to the miracle of life was when my cat back home gave birth to her two kittens. I was there when they came out, I cut the cord, as no one volunteered, and I tried to teach Dolly, my cat, about taking care of them, now that she was a mommy. Looking at the new born kittens, just fur balls of slime and squiggly life, with no eyes and definitely no direction of where to from here, I was numb, in an eerie mixture of grossness and wonder. I was resolute, and shaky, and numb! It was one of those moments when you knew: there must be some Force, out there, that just … sustains all this that moves, and becomes, and … happens. Some Force that gives life strength, and direction, and passing.

A very young me, with Dolly's kittens, once they grew eyes.

I am almost always visited by the same feeling every time I see my nephew reach a milestone. As you all remember, he was a preemie, by many, many, too many weeks. He was so weak, he could not breathe on his own. They had machines pulling his chest back up off of his spine, because his lungs and sternum and rib cage were not strong enough to push them back out.

He didn’t know how to suck on a bottle, or how to swallow, and he fed through tubes for weeks. He had rosy cheeks though, a firm grasp, and a determined look in his eyes, of “I’ll show you!”. He had so much hope! And we did too.

And show us he did! I have so much love and respect for his parents, and for their patience with him! He’s eight months old and all but completely caught up with everyone his age! He is over 16 lbs, sits up, rolls over, demands things, and loves pushing buttons. Both literally and figuratively! And says “ma-ma”. And this last video just made me cry with joy, pride and so much love, when watching him eating a cracker!

How could it not have done that, when you know that this nothing but a bundle of life, nerves and blood vessels came into this world without being able to swallow to eat on his own, and breathe to stay alive, and the infinite love and patience of good parents, and his own will and strength and survival instinct, and that magic "Force" that governs us all, pushed him all the way to a booster chair, a sippy cup and a cracker?! Somehow, he's learned that he has to bite, and chew, and swallow. How? From where? … You are just stunned with wonder, awe, and gratefulness.

I know you think it’s silly to be happy about some baby eating a cracker, but … Patrick’s new milestone also makes me be so thankful that he is just so seemingly perfect! It makes me so thankful for all the little things we forget to be thankful for, and which we take for granted every day: to all the babies out there, born not of their choosing into this world, who might not ever know the simple things of sitting up on their own, or eating on their own, or talking, or smiling, or ever feeding on milk or crackers … my heart goes out. Babies who will not be aware that the sky is blue, and the grass green and soft in the summer, but coarse and yellow in the fall, and that puppies and kittens are cute creatures.

Babies that were, maybe, born too early, or not … quite “done” yet, and that would not know the booster chair and the sippy cup. I am grateful for what was just given to us when some people learn to have it the hard way, or never enjoy it. I am once again, speechless.

And Patrick is grateful too – he just doesn’t know how to say it yet!

Note: and I thank my friend A., for the headline.

“Growing old is unavoidable. Growing up – always optional”

Any resemblance to real people and facts is purely accidental …

Not sure if you have seen or remember the oh-such-a-chick-flick movie, “One Fine Day”. In there, there is a line that goes like this: “Love your guy as you love a little boy, and one day he will grow into a man”. Personally, I think, they never turn into men, or into “men according to women’s definition of that word”, anyway: whether they’re loved “as little boys” or not, they stay … little boys …

I have always thought that sitting alone at a bar and having total strangers talk to you about their life stories was a myth. Something just for the movies, so they can have a starting point for the plot. But I have discovered that bar conversations are indeed real, and not just for the movies.

A bar could be a great stage for the human show, great venues to check out the dance between sexes, and between people, in general. People feel a tad more free, and a tad more lonely at the bar, and they are more willing to share themselves there, than say at the office, or a random party. The bar also comes, for the most part, with a Vegas-like rule about it, more so than the office, or a friend’s party: what happens there, stays there – you don’t have to share more than names with the strangers, so, free of consequences, you’re more inclined to tell your story honestly, and be whoever you are, with little censorship. After all, it’s easier to be honest to strangers, than to judgmental people you know.

Last night, a friend of mine and I went out to celebrate her birthday, and we got to chatting with Mike, Jim and Mike from South Bend, Indiana. All I know about South Bend, Indiana is that my ex-boyfriend’s ex-sister-in-law moved there a while back, and that it’s damn cold.

Mike, Jim and Mike were RV salesmen, and in town with an RV show – or as they said “they sold adult toys”. We chatted about our jobs, their jobs, their children, or lack of them, public schools vs private schools, zodiac signs and what they mean, favorite colors, and politics. Like a good ol’ Mid-western man, Mike #1 was a Republican – and he was not afraid to admit it. We pretended not to notice, and changed the conversation to sports instead.

They were friendly, and nice, and cordial, but although they were anywhere between 37 and 52, they disarmingly immature, I thought. And for the millionth time in my life, I reminded myself that … boys will be boys and I need to just accept that as part of their charm. *Sigh*. Immaturity aside, I went with the flow, because no matter how old and stuck up I usually am, I accepted for one night to be silly, goofy, light, and entertain the “boys” – because they were indeed fun, and the fun consisted for the most part in their light-heartedness and kid-like behavior.

I felt like I was a camp supervisor of teens, and for several hours I forgot that these were adult men, with wives, kids, and a serious job. They made it very easy to forget that: they were playing with one of the I-Phones, trying to make the phone guess who was playing on the restaurant’s sound system or playing YouTube videos, or looking at pictures, they were doing magic tricks, and giving silly smart mouth answers: “When is your birthday?”, Jim’s answer: “My birthday is the sex birthday” – and then he was shocked when I guessed what that was; Mike #2 was doing an Elvis impression after being told he looks like The King’s impersonator. Does this sound like we were hanging out with teens? No matter what their age, they were teens in spirit – I can assure you.

Several hours and cocktails later, in the same frat boy meets high school drop out fashion, they invited us to drive their “hot” car to Hooters. As the half of the party who did grow up from the high school years, we ladies politely denied. However, they didn’t seem to think that such a proposition was outrageous in the least.

I am telling you: no matter how long we wait, or how much life thrusts them into its “reality”, there is something so endearingly simple about boys that will never wear off. I just hope I remember that next time I might have a boyfriend and he will think it’s cool to play for hours on the I-Phone while I try to get some plans made for our next home. Reality is measured by completely different dimensions in boys’ brains, I am sure, and as much as this is a truism, we ladies seem to forget that quite often.

Our female brains develop three times as fast as theirs, it seems, and the main wars between the sexes, I do believe, starts from the fact that boys don’t ever catch up with us – and render us frustrated and helpless, when we realize our wait for them to grow up is in vain. But despite of what I thought 10 years ago, I don’t think they don’t want to grow up, but I do believe that they are not able to. It’s how they’re wired. And somehow, they get through life, have families, and real jobs, wage wars and make politics, without having to grow up and “be serious”, otherwise.

Frankly, after last night: I envy them! I wish I had the freedom and lightness in my heart, less control freakiness, as well, to switch off the seriousness that governs my life daily, and just to remember to be a kid again, and tell silly jokes, just for effect, and to watch around me, and check out the adults’ reaction.

And then, it made me wonder: loved as little boys, or not, why would they ever want to grow up, when they’re having so much fun?!

Facebook-ing

Do you remember, by chance, that once upon a story time, when girl meets boy and boy and girl have about 3 or 4, sometimes even 5 or 6 dates before boy gets girl into bed? First, he asks her who she is, what she does, what her favorite food is, where she's from, you know, the "small talk" before he has her?! Do you maybe remember that time, not so long ago, when people used to go to each other's house to see a remodeled kitchen, or catch up on vacation memories? Do you remember when we used to read magazines, and you could tell a person by what subscriptions they had?! Do you remember when you told people to look you up in the phone book? Do you remember the hand-written cards?!

OK. Maybe some of you do. Maybe most of you do. But pretty soon, we'll fade all these out, and our kids - will think we're talking about 200 years ago. I mean, who needs to "see" each other anymore, who needs opening conversations and pre-dates, before they know someone ... when now we have Facebook?

Everything we do, whoever we are (generally speaking), is all on Facebook. We want to find out something about a person - we read their profiles; we want to know whether they camp, or go to parties - we check out their pictures; we want to find out if they have kids, or have been married, or are from New York - we check Facebook. We want to send them flowers (??!!!) - you got it: send any flower invented by God and named by Man, on Facebook - almost! You want to read their stories - guess what, their blog is not only linked to Facebook - it has its own feed into it. You want to know what they did for Christmas - there are videos of Santa visiting their home loaded on Facebook. You want to know what they're doing right this second?! - you got it: Facebook.

Sometimes I wonder why we ever even bother to go out and meet people, and congregate, when we can know everything and anything we possibly want (or don't want) to know from our couch?! A lot of folks think this is shallow business. I am (or used to be) one of those people. But, folks, there are tons and hundreds of hours and thought that are put into these pages! Sure, not everyone uses their brains to build a page (the ones who put their cell number in their screen name are one desperate case, I guess...), but most people guard their privacy and show taste when posting the pages. So, this is careful, thought-out business.

We live in a Facebook age, I decided. Sure, our generation has invented new verbs like: to blog, and to google, and to yahoo, and to text; and now, we all facebook, too - but what amazes me is the TIME that people spend on this site. And I am not talking about 16 year olds with no supervision... I am talking about people my age, older, and oldest , with kids or not, with jobs and responsibilities, with "lives" ... that have pages so loaded with "stuff" (all of it personal information) that a DSL connection cannot fully upload them! Do you ever remember when this last sentence would not have made sense at all ?!

We facebook everywhere: at home, while having coffee in the morning, or while waiting on the pot to boil supper, or all day when we have a lazy weekend, or on vacation, when we come in from sightseeing, at the pool, because whoever goes to a pool without wi-fi nowadays?!, on the cell phone, while waiting for the light to turn green, and don't even get me started on how much we're facebook-ing at work!

In my line of work (computer support, for the most part), I see computer screens of users all day long. One of the windows minimized at the bottom of each screen is either Facebook or MySpace, its close and not so hated competitor. And I confess: I log into it too, from work, and out of the 5 people that my profile is showing "online", 5 people are in the same office building as me! But then businesses are losing money - and that's another topic altogether and entirely!

We don't want to miss one second between meetings or phone calls of our darling non-stop voyeur show - all free and open to all. People update pictures on the site from work, "write on walls", tell everyone what "they're doing RIGHT now" ('cause you know: the world's gotta know what you're doing every second, God forbid they'd get yesterday's news on ya), give each other quizzes, and send each other "virtual flowers" and kisses, and awards, and ... It seems sometimes that just like we used to eat, drink, read, and sleep, now ... we facebook. It's part of life, and it's gotta be, or else we feel ... disconnected, not whole, not "in" ... or something ...

Facebook is not going to tell you who a person is. Not really. You're not going to know whether they're forgiving or not, or patient, or not, or giving, you're not going to know whether they cry at movies, or love pain. But it's going to tell you what you need to know to "have an idea" of what they are about: enough of that stuff which used to fill up a 3 or 4 one hour conversations.

In Emeril's spirit, you can say that the only thing, I guess, Facebook doesn't do is let you smell the roses, literally, or the coffee. Not much "virtual smells" there. For now.

Oops ... but my blog writing ran a bit too long. Gotta go and answer my facebook notifications for the day!
And as always: if you want to reach me, for any reason, find me on Facebook! I know all of you recycle the phonebooks anymore!

A Personal Matter: Won't Let Go ... Of the Christmas Tree

Back in Romania, we decorate the tree on Christmas Eve, December 24. That's the tradition, and it has, to this day, seldom been corrupted by the Westernization of the country, and the consumerism that pushes Christmas to be ever so early.

One of my fondest memories about Christmas is when my sister and I were decorating the tree, on Christmas Eve, with (American) Christmas cartoons playing on TV. The parents were making the house smell good, with all the cooking, while we were listening to carols and The Chipmunks while putting the lights on and the thread through the ornaments to be hung.

I promised myself that unless I have Alzheimer's or I am completely immobile and I cannot make decisions for myself, I will always have a Christmas tree, and my fridge will always be full for Christmas. I don't care if I am 100 (so help me God!), or have no guests one year, I will have a tree and plenty of food and drinks in the fridge.

A tree is 'home' to me. It's not only fun to decorate it and make it my own (lately, my trees have been mostly purple and silver), but it brings up all the good memories of Christmases passed, of good and bad years alike. It's like reading a cherished diary, only easier. More visual.

I realized this year how personal a tree is, to all of us who have them. I made a purple and silver tree - my favorite colors. Mom made a blue tree - her favorite color, of course. My sister and her family made an all white tree - it's what we each like. It's what we think "Christmas" is ; what we think makes us happy and calls our name. It's a personal matter, as all important things in life should be. And for me, along with purple and silver, it'll just be ... one extra week : I just want it to last longer! So, I am keeping the tree up!

The Christmas tree I have every year helps me not only remember that it's a holiday, and a new year, and that I am reaching a milestone, but it also helps me connect with my past, and for lack of it (sometimes), it helps me feel "at home". When I look at my tree, every day, I see all the times Andy and I put our trees up in our parents' home, I see my parents cooking the Christmas dinner, the carolers at the window, my childhood, and I am overwhelmed by this sense of "safety" like no other time in the year. It makes me come home - which I so need it.

And thus it's so painful to take the tree down. I'll take my tree down once again late, maybe next weekend. Because for one more week, I want to feed off my memories of Andy and I singing carols and hanging lights ... For one more week, I want to hold on to the feeling of belonging. And being loved. I want to feel home. For one more week.

Maia (my mother's mom) once told me that I threw a fit when they had to take down my very first Christmas tree (I was 9 months old), so they had to buy an artificial tree and keep it decorated till Easter, till the frenzy of the Easter Bunny made me forget about Santa and I was OK with them getting rid of the tree.

A little bit of that is still left in me, somewhere. Most kids have a favorite blankie to feel home. I have my Christmas tree.