I like "my little pony." I cannot explain my fascination with this made-in-china toy. Typically I dislike cheesy, cutesy things like human babies, Hallmark cards, pink bows, mantelpiece figurines, dog clothes, over the top happy endings, etc; however "my little pony" is one exception.
There's something about their funky color combinations and tails to match, big anime eyes, cutesy symbols on the back tight, and their cheesy names such as Cotton Candy, Apple Jack and Dream Drifter. I only had four ponies until last weekend. I'm embarrassed to admit that due to the magic of internet shopping (and some misbalance in my brain), I'm now the owner of 10 ponies (including the 4 original ones).
The ponies sit on a shelve in the bedroom where my boyfriend put them when we moved in the apartment. I would have left them in the moving box, however in an attempt to embarrass me (I suspect) he lined them up for a display. If somebody was to visit us, I would remove them, and viciously deny ever owning one.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
What to do, what to do?
This afternoon I attempted to understand the ideology behind al-Qaeda’s radical Islam mumbo jumbo, and I found myself scrawling through pages of Wikipedia, reading on the differences between Shiite and Sunnis, Pakistan-Afghanistan-Iran love triangle, the US gift of land to Israel that keeps on giving, etc. It is all tangled, headachy and ridiculous.
This reading only scraped the surface of the whole clutter. Looking for the right and wrong side here is impossible. The roots of these centuries-old conflicts are impossible to find. One thing is for sure, nobody is willing to turn the other cheek. The whole conflict is based on vengence for vengence for vengence.
Possibly it started when some caveman killed another caveman’s pet lizard. The first caveman proceeded to stone the lizard’s murderer. The grieving family of the killed caveman laid a cast of cement on the legs of the murderer and dropped him in the prehistoric ocean to the amusement of the prehistoric sharks. Of course, the newly-drowned caveman’s family had to retaliate by sending their Uncle Vini to the enemy’s family-owned Italian restaurant with a shot gun. And so on, and so forth…
This reading only scraped the surface of the whole clutter. Looking for the right and wrong side here is impossible. The roots of these centuries-old conflicts are impossible to find. One thing is for sure, nobody is willing to turn the other cheek. The whole conflict is based on vengence for vengence for vengence.
Possibly it started when some caveman killed another caveman’s pet lizard. The first caveman proceeded to stone the lizard’s murderer. The grieving family of the killed caveman laid a cast of cement on the legs of the murderer and dropped him in the prehistoric ocean to the amusement of the prehistoric sharks. Of course, the newly-drowned caveman’s family had to retaliate by sending their Uncle Vini to the enemy’s family-owned Italian restaurant with a shot gun. And so on, and so forth…
Thursday, August 2, 2007
How Clean Is Your House
How Clean Is Your House is a daily show on BBC America. The show, as assumed by the title, is about cleaning houses – and to make it a TV-show material, these are no ordinary pig sties, but shit-smeared, bug-crawling dungeons, whose inhabitants, have let their belongings and trash take control of their lives.
The show is hosted by two proper British spinsters, who specialize in moping and dusting. In reality they don't really clean that much, they have a team of faceless helpers who scrub, dust, and wash, while the two royal-like stars of the show support their big bottoms on high stilettos and prance around the toxic places. They pitch in occasionally to give advice on how to clean a mirror without any streaks, or how to remove mildew with readily available materials (water, soap, backing soda, etc) – all this without even breaking their long, bright-red manicures.
Most of the people whose houses they visit are plain nuts. One of them was a housewife, whose husband had died the month before she gave birth. The "child" was a 17-year-old skateboarding punk. Mom has not cleaned since the death of her spouse, but that was 17 years ago – enough grieving time?
Another nut-job was a blue-haired, approximately 250-pound 50-year old woman, who loved her babies. The babies were parokees who flew freely about the living room, and pooped everywhere. She could not force herself to cage them and instead was sitting in her poop covered sofa, watching her poop covered TV and playing her poop covered synthesizer. Yes, she was also an aspiring musician.
I don't think the reason she called the show was cleaning, but more of a publicity stunt. The minute the cleaning team left a spotless house, she let the birds fly. Her singing, mediocre at best, accompanied by her shapeless look, blue hair, and pooped covered living room was a scary sight. The British cleaning stars tried to remain calm in her presence and not appear too judgmental of her lifestyle, but you could see the horror on their proper faces.
The show is hosted by two proper British spinsters, who specialize in moping and dusting. In reality they don't really clean that much, they have a team of faceless helpers who scrub, dust, and wash, while the two royal-like stars of the show support their big bottoms on high stilettos and prance around the toxic places. They pitch in occasionally to give advice on how to clean a mirror without any streaks, or how to remove mildew with readily available materials (water, soap, backing soda, etc) – all this without even breaking their long, bright-red manicures.
Most of the people whose houses they visit are plain nuts. One of them was a housewife, whose husband had died the month before she gave birth. The "child" was a 17-year-old skateboarding punk. Mom has not cleaned since the death of her spouse, but that was 17 years ago – enough grieving time?
Another nut-job was a blue-haired, approximately 250-pound 50-year old woman, who loved her babies. The babies were parokees who flew freely about the living room, and pooped everywhere. She could not force herself to cage them and instead was sitting in her poop covered sofa, watching her poop covered TV and playing her poop covered synthesizer. Yes, she was also an aspiring musician.
I don't think the reason she called the show was cleaning, but more of a publicity stunt. The minute the cleaning team left a spotless house, she let the birds fly. Her singing, mediocre at best, accompanied by her shapeless look, blue hair, and pooped covered living room was a scary sight. The British cleaning stars tried to remain calm in her presence and not appear too judgmental of her lifestyle, but you could see the horror on their proper faces.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Foreign Gal Looses Emotional Control When Overcame With Sudden Jealousy
On July 25, a Bulgarian female experienced unruly and unjustified jealousy and scurried eight blocks along the Lower East Side of the Island of Manhattan to verify that the person who she was having sexual relations and residing with since March 2007 was faithful. Once the female arrived at the male site she observed no evidence of unfaithfulness, and immediately felt remorseful of her jealous outbreak. Shortly before the scurrying she had a phone conversation with the aforementioned male during which she harshly expressed discontent that he was busy with his career and could not take a cab back with her to their dwelling.
The evening of July 25th concluded in the male and female sharing an awkward cab-ride to their dwelling. In the aftermath of July 25th, the female estimates irreparable damage in her relations with the male. Evidence concludes that the best turn of events would have been if the gal had slept on her jealously instead of acing on it.
Stay tuned for more information.
In a related story, a female Bulgarian spends a workday contemplating visiting a psychologist. However, later that day decides that if she had to visit a psychologist after every selfish date she has, she would be committed by now.
The evening of July 25th concluded in the male and female sharing an awkward cab-ride to their dwelling. In the aftermath of July 25th, the female estimates irreparable damage in her relations with the male. Evidence concludes that the best turn of events would have been if the gal had slept on her jealously instead of acing on it.
Stay tuned for more information.
In a related story, a female Bulgarian spends a workday contemplating visiting a psychologist. However, later that day decides that if she had to visit a psychologist after every selfish date she has, she would be committed by now.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Timetable
It's always a good sign when you start off your Saturday waking up after 5 hours of sleeping pill induced sleep to watch morning TV while quietly sobbing about your relationship.
If things continue moving in that direction I might be crying hysterically by lunch, attempting to slit my wrists by dinner, and being driven away by an ambulance by the time the Late Night Show starts.
In the early hours of Sunday morning I will meet the love of my life - a doctor at Emergency.
By Sunday brunch we will be way off to Vegas to seal the knot with the doctor. Sunday evening I'll be pregnant with his twins - a boy and a girl.
If things continue moving in that direction I might be crying hysterically by lunch, attempting to slit my wrists by dinner, and being driven away by an ambulance by the time the Late Night Show starts.
In the early hours of Sunday morning I will meet the love of my life - a doctor at Emergency.
By Sunday brunch we will be way off to Vegas to seal the knot with the doctor. Sunday evening I'll be pregnant with his twins - a boy and a girl.
Beginning of July Update
Four months into living together and things started falling apart. I showed him my bad side, he showed me his. Suddenly we are not so sure about this relationship. We just sit there, stuck in a moment, waiting for things to get better or get worse.
I'm not naive to point fingers at him and accuse him of wrongdoing, when I myself have been wrong on many occasions.
My friends are tired of listening to me complain. I'm tired of listening to me complain.
I'm not naive to point fingers at him and accuse him of wrongdoing, when I myself have been wrong on many occasions.
My friends are tired of listening to me complain. I'm tired of listening to me complain.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
What I'm Doing This Friday
Hi devoted non-existent fans of my frantic scribbling. If you want to meet me in person, I will be @ this show on Friday.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Twitching
One of my coworker's hair is so black I think he might be using a shoe polish for his tupe. The thing sits weird on the top of his head, making it hard not to stare.
When I was in high school I would pull my hair, a nervous tick that left a small bald spot on the top of my head. The hair has grown since then, but I sometimes feel the urge to pull on it. I also bite my nails, crack my knuckles, and chain smoke – a collection of lovely neurotic habits, I get rid off once in a while only to re-develop during times of freaking out (such as exams, driving tests, trying not to tell my boss what a natural dumb ass he is, taking off and landing planes, traffic jams when running late, annoyingly slow street vendors when starving, cab drivers who have no clue how to get there). I just sit there and chew a nail till I feel the pain, and then I chew some more to make sure I can really feel it. My parents would yell at me about it but that didn't make any difference.
One time I decided to grow my nails. It was good for peeling off price stickers and opening soda cans, however, dirt kept getting under it.
When I was in high school I would pull my hair, a nervous tick that left a small bald spot on the top of my head. The hair has grown since then, but I sometimes feel the urge to pull on it. I also bite my nails, crack my knuckles, and chain smoke – a collection of lovely neurotic habits, I get rid off once in a while only to re-develop during times of freaking out (such as exams, driving tests, trying not to tell my boss what a natural dumb ass he is, taking off and landing planes, traffic jams when running late, annoyingly slow street vendors when starving, cab drivers who have no clue how to get there). I just sit there and chew a nail till I feel the pain, and then I chew some more to make sure I can really feel it. My parents would yell at me about it but that didn't make any difference.
One time I decided to grow my nails. It was good for peeling off price stickers and opening soda cans, however, dirt kept getting under it.
Friday, June 15, 2007
IF
If I were a male I would probably grow a beard. Not a big beard, something just about to cover my face, but not too long to retain food when I eat. I will have real short hair and be a little on the chunky side. I will wear jeans and plain navy blue or army green T-shirts. I won't speak to anybody unless I'm spoken to, and even then my answers will be short. I will smoke a lot. My name will be Edmund and I will own a small publishing business. Mostly for publishing religious booklets. I will be an atheist, but I will be fully aware that atheist or not, religious people pay well for spreading the word. I'll learn to play the harmonica and occasionally will go to small open mikes and play something bluegrassy or bluesy.
I would aspire to be a novelist, however, I would not be able to come up with a plot that seemes worthy of developing. I will have a collection of cactuses at home, no pictures of my family, and a lot of powdered protein. I'll eat the protein mixed with flavored yogurt while watching the Sopranos. I'll fall asleep with the mute TV on. A bike will be my typical form of transportation. When traveling, will pack light, with the notion that credit card is the most important survival tool. I won't travel much, because city life will be fulfilling enough, however once in a while I'll rent a car and invite acquaintance from the open-mike to join me on a trip.
I will be a jigsaw puzzle lover. I will shiver with excitement at the idea of a 5,000 puzzle of endless wheat fields, or cloudless blue skies. I'll have a lady coming once a week to tidy up. Scared she might nick something, I'll buy a little safe where I'll keep a jar of change and silver cufflinks.
Sometimes I'll take the day off on Monday and go to the movies in the middle of the day, when the theater is empty.
I will be a fan of comfortable footwear. I have all sorts of foot pads, foot creams, and battery operated foot massagers.
I would dream of riches and comfortable life and will often get sucked into get quick rich schemes. I would invest in my friend's "guaranteed no risk" idea of a video porn store with individual booths in the middle of Connecticut. According to my friend, the sex starved suburban man will pay a fortune to have a little fun. Except that in reality, the average suburban man would pay a fortune at a Striptease club, rather than a lonely porn video store booth smelling of sperm.
I would persistently play the lottery, and try to put some money on the side. Scared of the prospectus of dying alone I might even consider marriage, even though the idea seems a little overbearing.
I would aspire to be a novelist, however, I would not be able to come up with a plot that seemes worthy of developing. I will have a collection of cactuses at home, no pictures of my family, and a lot of powdered protein. I'll eat the protein mixed with flavored yogurt while watching the Sopranos. I'll fall asleep with the mute TV on. A bike will be my typical form of transportation. When traveling, will pack light, with the notion that credit card is the most important survival tool. I won't travel much, because city life will be fulfilling enough, however once in a while I'll rent a car and invite acquaintance from the open-mike to join me on a trip.
I will be a jigsaw puzzle lover. I will shiver with excitement at the idea of a 5,000 puzzle of endless wheat fields, or cloudless blue skies. I'll have a lady coming once a week to tidy up. Scared she might nick something, I'll buy a little safe where I'll keep a jar of change and silver cufflinks.
Sometimes I'll take the day off on Monday and go to the movies in the middle of the day, when the theater is empty.
I will be a fan of comfortable footwear. I have all sorts of foot pads, foot creams, and battery operated foot massagers.
I would dream of riches and comfortable life and will often get sucked into get quick rich schemes. I would invest in my friend's "guaranteed no risk" idea of a video porn store with individual booths in the middle of Connecticut. According to my friend, the sex starved suburban man will pay a fortune to have a little fun. Except that in reality, the average suburban man would pay a fortune at a Striptease club, rather than a lonely porn video store booth smelling of sperm.
I would persistently play the lottery, and try to put some money on the side. Scared of the prospectus of dying alone I might even consider marriage, even though the idea seems a little overbearing.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Ear Wax
I’m studying for GMAT – again. Following my grandiose aspirations to end up at some snooty place like Harvard or Stamford, I took the exam and did well below the Harvard average score.
The reason I would like to attend a snooty place like Harvard is purely based on one economical reason – money (you won’t see this statement on my application resume). The plan is to spend incomprehensible amount of money on tuition and hopefully live long enough to pay off my student loans.
I know I don’t have any talents, unless bitching becomes marketable. Therefore I’m destined to spend my life crunching numbers in Corporate America in the chosen of me field – Finance. Finance is a good field to be in – it is such a broad field that you could become anything from stockbroker and financial analyst to banker and financial advisor, and my personal favorite CFO (Chief Financial Officer). Much better than Accounting, which leads to becoming an accountant.
So my GMAT obstacle is the reading comprehension (and low test pressure tolerance). My friend was trying to comfort me saying that if the reading comprehension was in Bulgarian I would have aced it. Oh yeah, I wonder how all the Asian international students make it to the snooty places with their not so fluent English.
So the other night I’m reading a GMAT 3-paragraph text. The text discusses the types of ear wax different races have. According to the text, Caucasians’ ear wax is waxy and yellow, as opposed to Asians’ wax which is hard and not so yellow.
The reason I would like to attend a snooty place like Harvard is purely based on one economical reason – money (you won’t see this statement on my application resume). The plan is to spend incomprehensible amount of money on tuition and hopefully live long enough to pay off my student loans.
I know I don’t have any talents, unless bitching becomes marketable. Therefore I’m destined to spend my life crunching numbers in Corporate America in the chosen of me field – Finance. Finance is a good field to be in – it is such a broad field that you could become anything from stockbroker and financial analyst to banker and financial advisor, and my personal favorite CFO (Chief Financial Officer). Much better than Accounting, which leads to becoming an accountant.
So my GMAT obstacle is the reading comprehension (and low test pressure tolerance). My friend was trying to comfort me saying that if the reading comprehension was in Bulgarian I would have aced it. Oh yeah, I wonder how all the Asian international students make it to the snooty places with their not so fluent English.
So the other night I’m reading a GMAT 3-paragraph text. The text discusses the types of ear wax different races have. According to the text, Caucasians’ ear wax is waxy and yellow, as opposed to Asians’ wax which is hard and not so yellow.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Rambling On
I look through the window next to my desk to see the reflection of the skyscraper in which I work in the mirror windows of the skyscraper across the street. Our building is called the Lipstick building because it is oval and has three levels (terraces) which resemble open lipstick. All the skyscrapers along third avenue have so many windows. If a sound wave was disbursed through the Island of Manhattan, high enough for glass to burst, there will be a typhoon of glass raining down from the skyscrapers.
I type relatively fast on the keyboard. I didn’t use to type like that. One day, my ex and I were at Office depot, and he bought me software that teaches you to type. The software was full of games. In one of the games a shark swam after you, trying to eat you, and you had to type faster and faster to avoid being eaten. No looking at your fingers. I always got eaten. I’m glad I type fast now, don’t have to deal with sharks casualties anymore.
During the course of the day at my job, I do a lot of typing, perhaps 5-6 hours. I wonder if continuous typing makes the tips of my fingers flatter and rougher, until one day the skin of my fingertips is so hard, I could touch poison ivy without consequences. If that was ever to happen I will join the circus under the name of the Poison Ivy Tamer. So this is basically my retirement plan, just in case I cannot support myself on social security.
I type relatively fast on the keyboard. I didn’t use to type like that. One day, my ex and I were at Office depot, and he bought me software that teaches you to type. The software was full of games. In one of the games a shark swam after you, trying to eat you, and you had to type faster and faster to avoid being eaten. No looking at your fingers. I always got eaten. I’m glad I type fast now, don’t have to deal with sharks casualties anymore.
During the course of the day at my job, I do a lot of typing, perhaps 5-6 hours. I wonder if continuous typing makes the tips of my fingers flatter and rougher, until one day the skin of my fingertips is so hard, I could touch poison ivy without consequences. If that was ever to happen I will join the circus under the name of the Poison Ivy Tamer. So this is basically my retirement plan, just in case I cannot support myself on social security.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Cherry Dreams
On my lunch break today I went to deposit 100 bucks. I had bought a pound of cherries, which I could not stop eating. The banker, who accepted the deposit, could not help but ask me if I brought him something to eat too. I told him that I might, but first he has to deposit couple of million dollars to my account. Ok – he said – meet me at the lockers at Grand Central, we’ll split the money. Ok – I said – I’ll bring the cherries, you bring the million. I could see in his eyes that he meant it, however his laughter made me confused.
I headed back to the office after my lunch break, packed up my stuff, turned to my boss, and politely told him to go fuck himself. Waved a middle finger at my colleagues and took off. I had 5 hours till the Grand Central station meeting to kill.
I purchased a large sun-hat, gum, cigarettes and made a down payment on a Mercedes. I had just four dollars left in my pocket – enough to buy a pound of the nicest cherries.
I waited on Grand Central. And I continued to wait on the Grand Central. And then he showed, and he had the money. I gave him the cherries, and he gave me a bag pack with money. Nice doing business with you – he said. The pleasure is all mine – I replied. Coffee sometime – he said. Now, let’s not get too personal – I said. Oh, sorry, are you married? – he asked. Nah, just in a very loving, and deeply committed relationship – I replied. We said goodbye and I headed towards the sunset to pick up my vehicle.
I headed back to the office after my lunch break, packed up my stuff, turned to my boss, and politely told him to go fuck himself. Waved a middle finger at my colleagues and took off. I had 5 hours till the Grand Central station meeting to kill.
I purchased a large sun-hat, gum, cigarettes and made a down payment on a Mercedes. I had just four dollars left in my pocket – enough to buy a pound of the nicest cherries.
I waited on Grand Central. And I continued to wait on the Grand Central. And then he showed, and he had the money. I gave him the cherries, and he gave me a bag pack with money. Nice doing business with you – he said. The pleasure is all mine – I replied. Coffee sometime – he said. Now, let’s not get too personal – I said. Oh, sorry, are you married? – he asked. Nah, just in a very loving, and deeply committed relationship – I replied. We said goodbye and I headed towards the sunset to pick up my vehicle.
Friday, May 11, 2007
A Day
It is 5 pm, the start of the final hour at work, my mind already wanders to the time I’ll change into my sneakers, pick up my bag and head to the train station. I will get on the N train for 7 stops and alternate between staring at my shoes and staring at the faces of my fellow passengers. I will get off the train and be amazed on what a sunshiny/rainy/breezy/snowy/gray day it is out. Will walk slowly home, climb up the five story tower, toss my bag on the floor, and toss myself on the couch reaching for the remote.
The next few hours will be devoted to brainlessly devouring cartoons and sitcoms. Finally around the hour of 8, I will start to feel guilty that I haven’t done anything for my mental/career development such as studying for GMAT, studying a foreign language, reading a book, or even writing my memoirs. I’ll scout the fridge for something not too fattening to eat and either munch on a piece of cheese, or eat some yogurt.
For some time now I have been terrified of my flabby armpit skin hanging like a hound dog’s ears. I decided that I might have lost the battle with my stretched marked ass, however I’m not about to give up on my upper body (of which I’m quite fond) so I started lifting weights while watching TV.
I don’t own dumbbells, so I scouted the apartment for something heavy and not too uncomfortable to hold. My sight wandered to the numerous foreign artifacts my boyfriend owns. Majority of them are presents from his Mom, souvenirs from her many travels abroad. The collection includes snowglobe-shaped candleholder, a wooden hippopotamus, a stone African man’s head, a stone elephant, wooden giraffe, Russian matryoshkas, handpainted table cloths, handpainted jewelry box, stone chessboard, etc. All of these treasures, carefully arranged for display on the entertainment center in the living room, give the room the feel of a bohemian museum.
The wooden hippo, of all, was the heaviest, however, quite bulky to lift. The winners were the snowglobe candleholder and the African head, which I would lift with my hands wide open over my head while watching Frasier. The hour of 10 will roll around, and the feeling of a wasted, perfectly sunshiny/rainy/breezy/snowy/gray after-work hours will settle darkly over my mind, leaving me to ponder, how am I ever going to accomplish my dreams. I’ll take a shower, pop a sleeping pill (a bad habit developed a year ago), and hit the hay.
The next few hours will be devoted to brainlessly devouring cartoons and sitcoms. Finally around the hour of 8, I will start to feel guilty that I haven’t done anything for my mental/career development such as studying for GMAT, studying a foreign language, reading a book, or even writing my memoirs. I’ll scout the fridge for something not too fattening to eat and either munch on a piece of cheese, or eat some yogurt.
For some time now I have been terrified of my flabby armpit skin hanging like a hound dog’s ears. I decided that I might have lost the battle with my stretched marked ass, however I’m not about to give up on my upper body (of which I’m quite fond) so I started lifting weights while watching TV.
I don’t own dumbbells, so I scouted the apartment for something heavy and not too uncomfortable to hold. My sight wandered to the numerous foreign artifacts my boyfriend owns. Majority of them are presents from his Mom, souvenirs from her many travels abroad. The collection includes snowglobe-shaped candleholder, a wooden hippopotamus, a stone African man’s head, a stone elephant, wooden giraffe, Russian matryoshkas, handpainted table cloths, handpainted jewelry box, stone chessboard, etc. All of these treasures, carefully arranged for display on the entertainment center in the living room, give the room the feel of a bohemian museum.
The wooden hippo, of all, was the heaviest, however, quite bulky to lift. The winners were the snowglobe candleholder and the African head, which I would lift with my hands wide open over my head while watching Frasier. The hour of 10 will roll around, and the feeling of a wasted, perfectly sunshiny/rainy/breezy/snowy/gray after-work hours will settle darkly over my mind, leaving me to ponder, how am I ever going to accomplish my dreams. I’ll take a shower, pop a sleeping pill (a bad habit developed a year ago), and hit the hay.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Hurts
You know when you love somebody so much, and you suddenly start dreaming of happy family life (if that exists anyways). And then despite the fact that you are so much alike, you both want different things, and that tears you apart.
It’s nobody’s fault really, we both want different things, and I knew this from the beginning, except that I thought that I’m fine with that. We tried to make it work, but it’s me – I seem to loose my mind, and lately without even a reason.
I feel broken inside. I try to think on the positive side (separating will do us both good), and yet my mind keeps wandering to the good times we had – are we making a mistake (should we give it another try). And how many times can we try before I completely loose my mind.
It’s nobody’s fault really, we both want different things, and I knew this from the beginning, except that I thought that I’m fine with that. We tried to make it work, but it’s me – I seem to loose my mind, and lately without even a reason.
I feel broken inside. I try to think on the positive side (separating will do us both good), and yet my mind keeps wandering to the good times we had – are we making a mistake (should we give it another try). And how many times can we try before I completely loose my mind.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Nothing New in That Department
The boyfriend came home yesterday at 3:30 am. I'm not sure if he was drunk, because I was too sleepy, however, I can bet my head on it. Called him today during my lunch break and told him I've had enough and that I'm really angry and frustrated with him, and it's clear that he won't try to change his drinking/lifestyle habits. .
If I move out while the lease is still active, am I liable for the money?
Can't even look at him without feeling angry. Lately I get along better with my anal boss, than with the boyfriend. I leave the apartment to go to work in the morning feeling relief that I don't have to look/deal with him.
There's no one to blame. I knew that he's a drinking, immature and selfish person before we moved in, I just chose to ignore it. The other night, he came home at 1:30 am and told me that he made it to the neighborhood with a fellow comedian and they went to drink at a local bar. He was telling his friend the whole time how much he loves me, etc. I nearly laughed. Love me? Why don't you just come home, instead of making the rounds for some more liquor?
He told me (very dramatically) one night when we first started dating that he's an alcoholic. I chose to disregard it because I myself drink a lot, wouldn't call myself that. He seemed to be offended that I did not believe him. He brought up his alcoholism on several occasions, and every time he seemed discouraged of me refusing to take him seriously. OK, I guess he wins, guess in the Romeo/Juliet initial period, when all is beer and sex, people overlook some details.
Speaking of sex, there isn't much of that either – and surprisingly he's always the one tired. (don't even want to delve into the possible reasons why – I'm scared of what conclusion I might come to.)
I'm tired of arguments, and fights (initiated by my frustrated self). There's no changing him. Especially now that he's hosting a comedy show, and half of the lower-east side "aspiring" comedians are on his ass for a spot on the show, he thinks he's "the shit." It would have been nice if at least that comedy career was worth anything in money.
I spoke to an old friend of mine today, who called me out of the blue. She asked me how are things with the boyfriend, and I summed up "ah, you know how the aspiring comics-alcoholics can be". This made me think that nothing in the dating department has changed. Before him was a series of one-night stands, before that was a off-the boat Russian who eventually turned out to be married to a chick still living in Russia, before that was a junkie from Pennsylvania. Forgot, before the one-night stands there was an aspiring German sideshow artist (I shit you not). His name was Roc Roc-It. He had 60 percent of his face tattooed, but did he know how to down a beer!
Before that were a couple of classmates. One - a Russian jew, just could not get it up. The other - an Indian (half) who was living in his brother's living room in a one bedroom apartment in Harlem. He slept on the down bunk of a bunkbed, which was lacking sheets and pillowcase, and the blanket smelled lovely of sweaty feet.
I guess I just like me a project. And also somebody who I could share a drink or two on the weekends.
If I move out while the lease is still active, am I liable for the money?
Can't even look at him without feeling angry. Lately I get along better with my anal boss, than with the boyfriend. I leave the apartment to go to work in the morning feeling relief that I don't have to look/deal with him.
There's no one to blame. I knew that he's a drinking, immature and selfish person before we moved in, I just chose to ignore it. The other night, he came home at 1:30 am and told me that he made it to the neighborhood with a fellow comedian and they went to drink at a local bar. He was telling his friend the whole time how much he loves me, etc. I nearly laughed. Love me? Why don't you just come home, instead of making the rounds for some more liquor?
He told me (very dramatically) one night when we first started dating that he's an alcoholic. I chose to disregard it because I myself drink a lot, wouldn't call myself that. He seemed to be offended that I did not believe him. He brought up his alcoholism on several occasions, and every time he seemed discouraged of me refusing to take him seriously. OK, I guess he wins, guess in the Romeo/Juliet initial period, when all is beer and sex, people overlook some details.
Speaking of sex, there isn't much of that either – and surprisingly he's always the one tired. (don't even want to delve into the possible reasons why – I'm scared of what conclusion I might come to.)
I'm tired of arguments, and fights (initiated by my frustrated self). There's no changing him. Especially now that he's hosting a comedy show, and half of the lower-east side "aspiring" comedians are on his ass for a spot on the show, he thinks he's "the shit." It would have been nice if at least that comedy career was worth anything in money.
I spoke to an old friend of mine today, who called me out of the blue. She asked me how are things with the boyfriend, and I summed up "ah, you know how the aspiring comics-alcoholics can be". This made me think that nothing in the dating department has changed. Before him was a series of one-night stands, before that was a off-the boat Russian who eventually turned out to be married to a chick still living in Russia, before that was a junkie from Pennsylvania. Forgot, before the one-night stands there was an aspiring German sideshow artist (I shit you not). His name was Roc Roc-It. He had 60 percent of his face tattooed, but did he know how to down a beer!
Before that were a couple of classmates. One - a Russian jew, just could not get it up. The other - an Indian (half) who was living in his brother's living room in a one bedroom apartment in Harlem. He slept on the down bunk of a bunkbed, which was lacking sheets and pillowcase, and the blanket smelled lovely of sweaty feet.
I guess I just like me a project. And also somebody who I could share a drink or two on the weekends.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
A Fucking Dream Cometrue
So the last post is my boyfriend’s upcoming show that he has high hopes for. I have high hopes for it too. Simply because I'm tired of watching him bust his ass kissing up asses of various idiot comics just so he can get a little break.
We went and bought $500 dollars worth of furniture from Ikea yesterday. (you could read his blog on the matter: http://svenwechsler.blogspot.com/). In any case, ever since I moved to the United States (seven years ago), none of my belongings put together were worth more than $400. And I was proud of that -- when you are a student with practically no income, you don't care for or really need a bed frame. Neither was important to own a nightstand. Since the mattress fit perfectly fine on the floor, a book and the night lamp could fit there too. I was watching the "save me out of credit card debt" commercials and laughing at those poor fools and their reckless living beyond their means. When I applied for my first credit card I promised myself that I will never let myself get into debt, and save enough money to retire by 40. (I'm not in debt yet, however, I haven't saved a penny yet.)
Perhaps I am naive about the boyfriend, but investing in some sort of medical/dental insurance might have been a better use of his money – I could really go without the two-bedroom extravaganza shopping spree.
I try to be a rational person -- where I only spent money on what's really necessary for my physical/mental survival.-- alcohol, meat (i like my steaks), occasional movie ticket, and a cab for the nights I'm too drunk to wait for the subway. Everything else (including clothes) is something I could find for cheap and it would not bother me at all. Nowadays, living the grand American dream I take my not so grand salary to the two-bedroom apartment and stare at the 120 channel TV. It's not that I wasn't doing it before -- i used to go to my crummy room in Brooklyn and watch my 7 channel TV. However, my expenses rarely went over $1,000/month and my unhappiness has proportionally increased since then.
So I'm sitting in the living room of the two bedroom, clicking away the remote, begin angry and frustrated that I have to go to my 8:30 to 6 shoot-me-now-please corporate bullshit of a job tomorrow, infuriated that the boyfriend seems incapable to make some time for me (expect for when we go shopping for the ridiculous money pit this place of living is) - thinking what the fuck did I do? Living with the boyfriend is such a fucking dream come true. Him running around and trying to do something with his career choice is simply inspiring. It reminds me of one of those rags-to-riches Cinderella kind movies (however no happy ending is guaranteed). I’m having flashbacks from the time I moved in with my ex and the many miserable, excruciatingly lonely hours I spent at that place.
We went and bought $500 dollars worth of furniture from Ikea yesterday. (you could read his blog on the matter: http://svenwechsler.blogspot.com/). In any case, ever since I moved to the United States (seven years ago), none of my belongings put together were worth more than $400. And I was proud of that -- when you are a student with practically no income, you don't care for or really need a bed frame. Neither was important to own a nightstand. Since the mattress fit perfectly fine on the floor, a book and the night lamp could fit there too. I was watching the "save me out of credit card debt" commercials and laughing at those poor fools and their reckless living beyond their means. When I applied for my first credit card I promised myself that I will never let myself get into debt, and save enough money to retire by 40. (I'm not in debt yet, however, I haven't saved a penny yet.)
Perhaps I am naive about the boyfriend, but investing in some sort of medical/dental insurance might have been a better use of his money – I could really go without the two-bedroom extravaganza shopping spree.
I try to be a rational person -- where I only spent money on what's really necessary for my physical/mental survival.-- alcohol, meat (i like my steaks), occasional movie ticket, and a cab for the nights I'm too drunk to wait for the subway. Everything else (including clothes) is something I could find for cheap and it would not bother me at all. Nowadays, living the grand American dream I take my not so grand salary to the two-bedroom apartment and stare at the 120 channel TV. It's not that I wasn't doing it before -- i used to go to my crummy room in Brooklyn and watch my 7 channel TV. However, my expenses rarely went over $1,000/month and my unhappiness has proportionally increased since then.
So I'm sitting in the living room of the two bedroom, clicking away the remote, begin angry and frustrated that I have to go to my 8:30 to 6 shoot-me-now-please corporate bullshit of a job tomorrow, infuriated that the boyfriend seems incapable to make some time for me (expect for when we go shopping for the ridiculous money pit this place of living is) - thinking what the fuck did I do? Living with the boyfriend is such a fucking dream come true. Him running around and trying to do something with his career choice is simply inspiring. It reminds me of one of those rags-to-riches Cinderella kind movies (however no happy ending is guaranteed). I’m having flashbacks from the time I moved in with my ex and the many miserable, excruciatingly lonely hours I spent at that place.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Brainyaxe
Brainyaxe -- where a very funny group of comics will do their craft for your laughing pleasure.
April 12 (Thursday) 10 pm - Bowery Poetry Club (308 Bowery Str. New York - F train to Second Ave/6 train to Bleeker - between Bleeker and Houston).
$5, no drink minimum, dj D afterparty with free food.
Featuring the comedy of Tom McCaffrey (Comedy Central), Baron Vaughn (HBO Aspen, Conan, VH1), John Mulaney (Comedy Central, VH1), Craig Baldo (Last Comic Standing, Comedy Central), Reggie Watts (Andy Kaufman Award Winner, Edinburgh and Montreal Comedy Festivals) and hosted by Sven Wechsler (Spike TV, Carolines).
for reservations, go to www.brainyaxe.com
April 12 (Thursday) 10 pm - Bowery Poetry Club (308 Bowery Str. New York - F train to Second Ave/6 train to Bleeker - between Bleeker and Houston).
$5, no drink minimum, dj D afterparty with free food.
Featuring the comedy of Tom McCaffrey (Comedy Central), Baron Vaughn (HBO Aspen, Conan, VH1), John Mulaney (Comedy Central, VH1), Craig Baldo (Last Comic Standing, Comedy Central), Reggie Watts (Andy Kaufman Award Winner, Edinburgh and Montreal Comedy Festivals) and hosted by Sven Wechsler (Spike TV, Carolines).
for reservations, go to www.brainyaxe.com
Monday, February 26, 2007
Queens Crown Jewel
I sit in front of a computer for about 10 hours every day, only to come home and to delve into reading blogs, articles, and occasionally ranting about stuff on my blog. Thankfully there's always TV for a change of scenery and expanding the brain.
So the boyfriend and I moved in together. In Queens. In a 2-bedroom. The second bedroom could very well be an oversized walk-in closet, but we will give it the benefit of the doubt.
My rent naturally increased proportionally to the amount of space we have now (about double). In return the shower sprays something that pretends to be hot water but after 5 min gives up and turns cold. The radiators are loudly oppinionated and throw tantrums with no warning.
Underneeth us is a lovely lady in her 100ths, who paid me a visit to tell me that, despite the fact that we have carpeting, and that I walk barefoot, I step so hard that their light (they live below us) blinks. Which leaves housewarming party out of the question. I suppose mastering teleportation or levitation might help.
The love-nest is a five-floor walk up, where the boyfriend broke his back last Saturday in order to carry all the boxes of mostly useless stuff that we both own, as well as a couch and a mattress. The whole time he was stoically carrying stuff up the tower, I was already planning my escape and thinking that if I ever get to move out of here, I'll just pick up a backpack with my paperwork and leave everything else here. Kind of like the movie "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" -- when the hero's mother died, but she was so temendously fat that they couldn't take the corpse out of the house. So they just said "fuck it" and set the whole house on fire. That's how I see myself leaving this place - by settin everything on fire.
The boyfriend seems pretty cheerful about this apartment. He points out that we live on a busy street with lot of shops. True - the neighbourhood is Middle Eastern/Arab. We live across from a small mosque, and are surrounded by coffee shops with hookah smoking customers. Midtown Manhattan is 5 stops away -- pretty much my ray of sunshine in this whole living arrangement so far.
I don't know what I expected when we decided to move in with the boyfriend. I'm just annoyed by the cold shower. I couldn't go to work with greasy hair so I washed it in the kitchen sink that has hot water.
Another thing that particularly stresses me out is that I cannot/have no desire to cook. I also hate cleaning of any sort. I'm ready to pay a maid to come by once a week than to dust, vacuum and scrub. I could be spending that time out with friends (that I see so little of lately) drinking after annoying day at work. And now I feel that, as the girlfriend of the house, it is understood that I'll assume my womanly resposibilies. I've always thought that someday I'll earn so much money that I'll never have to learn how to cook/clean, and I'm still working on that goal.
So the boyfriend and I moved in together. In Queens. In a 2-bedroom. The second bedroom could very well be an oversized walk-in closet, but we will give it the benefit of the doubt.
My rent naturally increased proportionally to the amount of space we have now (about double). In return the shower sprays something that pretends to be hot water but after 5 min gives up and turns cold. The radiators are loudly oppinionated and throw tantrums with no warning.
Underneeth us is a lovely lady in her 100ths, who paid me a visit to tell me that, despite the fact that we have carpeting, and that I walk barefoot, I step so hard that their light (they live below us) blinks. Which leaves housewarming party out of the question. I suppose mastering teleportation or levitation might help.
The love-nest is a five-floor walk up, where the boyfriend broke his back last Saturday in order to carry all the boxes of mostly useless stuff that we both own, as well as a couch and a mattress. The whole time he was stoically carrying stuff up the tower, I was already planning my escape and thinking that if I ever get to move out of here, I'll just pick up a backpack with my paperwork and leave everything else here. Kind of like the movie "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" -- when the hero's mother died, but she was so temendously fat that they couldn't take the corpse out of the house. So they just said "fuck it" and set the whole house on fire. That's how I see myself leaving this place - by settin everything on fire.
The boyfriend seems pretty cheerful about this apartment. He points out that we live on a busy street with lot of shops. True - the neighbourhood is Middle Eastern/Arab. We live across from a small mosque, and are surrounded by coffee shops with hookah smoking customers. Midtown Manhattan is 5 stops away -- pretty much my ray of sunshine in this whole living arrangement so far.
I don't know what I expected when we decided to move in with the boyfriend. I'm just annoyed by the cold shower. I couldn't go to work with greasy hair so I washed it in the kitchen sink that has hot water.
Another thing that particularly stresses me out is that I cannot/have no desire to cook. I also hate cleaning of any sort. I'm ready to pay a maid to come by once a week than to dust, vacuum and scrub. I could be spending that time out with friends (that I see so little of lately) drinking after annoying day at work. And now I feel that, as the girlfriend of the house, it is understood that I'll assume my womanly resposibilies. I've always thought that someday I'll earn so much money that I'll never have to learn how to cook/clean, and I'm still working on that goal.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Ye Olde Trip to London
Not a week after returning home (Brooklyn, NY) from home (Bulgaria) I was on a plane to London (definitely not home). This is my second trip to the old capital - however never seem to remember that traffic moves on the wrong side (left), and I regularly cause taxi drivers arrhythmia while crossing streets (by the way, cabs are taxis here). Perhaps this is a conspiracy of the British government to clear their blue blood population off those pesky foreigners. London, much like New York, is full of aliens. I get the feeling almost all of the staff in our hotel is from the former Soviet Union.
The price of our hotel includes a full English breakfast (bound to clog some of your blood vessels with the variety of sausages and bacon). The concierge, though incredibly helpful and knowledgeable of London, is almost as greasy as the breakfast and annoyingly servile -- I’m sure for the right tip he could find me a hit man and a kilo of cocaine. And since he's there every day all day, he knows precisely when I come, and go, when I eat breakfast, etc.
Central London's streets are narrow. Sometimes what might look like a narrow passage between two buildings is actually a street and cabs fly through it. Cabs are quite charming - unchanged since the mid-nineteen century, they have high roofs, so the gentlemen could ride without having to take off their top hats. They fit five people and there's plenty of leg room. They have no trunk, but surprisingly all our oversized luggage fit.
Despite my crazy work schedule I had an afternoon this Sunday to walk about and attempt to snatch me a prince or at least a duke. No princes or dukes were in sight so I went on to admire the old architecture - you know, the Buckingham palace, the Parliament, Big Ben, Trafalgar square. Then I guess I made the wrong (or right) turn off Piccadilly Circus because I found myself on a sex-shop/striptease filled street where two girls (about my age) were hustling passing men to come see the show.
One of the meetings I had to attend was held in a pub called the Red Lion. I waved a taxi, but when I told the driver the name of the place, he asked - "Which one?” Apparently the Red Lion is quite a common name for a pub. Other common names are "The Lamb and the Lion", "The Pig and the Whistle", "The Fat Cat", "The Old Archbishop and the Naughty Choir Boy" (last one is made up but not unlikely). English pubs open around noon and close at twelve at night. I was told that the tradition comes from the past, when men had to get up for work (mine, factory, etc.) before dawn, and by closing the pubs by 12 am men were forced to go home instead of drink all night. I find this old tradition quite barbaric -- where is a self-respecting Bulgarian supposed to drink when visiting London? However locals usually have a little something around noon, which makes their afternoon pass by quickly (which is not a bad idea). I ordered a drink and lunch in the Red Lion and the bartendress asked me for the money right away -- I was quite offended, what is she thinking that I'm going to dine and dash -- it turns out this is how they do it.
London's weather really is London's weather - you never know what you are going to get, but you can always bet on rain.
Stay tuned.
The price of our hotel includes a full English breakfast (bound to clog some of your blood vessels with the variety of sausages and bacon). The concierge, though incredibly helpful and knowledgeable of London, is almost as greasy as the breakfast and annoyingly servile -- I’m sure for the right tip he could find me a hit man and a kilo of cocaine. And since he's there every day all day, he knows precisely when I come, and go, when I eat breakfast, etc.
Central London's streets are narrow. Sometimes what might look like a narrow passage between two buildings is actually a street and cabs fly through it. Cabs are quite charming - unchanged since the mid-nineteen century, they have high roofs, so the gentlemen could ride without having to take off their top hats. They fit five people and there's plenty of leg room. They have no trunk, but surprisingly all our oversized luggage fit.
Despite my crazy work schedule I had an afternoon this Sunday to walk about and attempt to snatch me a prince or at least a duke. No princes or dukes were in sight so I went on to admire the old architecture - you know, the Buckingham palace, the Parliament, Big Ben, Trafalgar square. Then I guess I made the wrong (or right) turn off Piccadilly Circus because I found myself on a sex-shop/striptease filled street where two girls (about my age) were hustling passing men to come see the show.
One of the meetings I had to attend was held in a pub called the Red Lion. I waved a taxi, but when I told the driver the name of the place, he asked - "Which one?” Apparently the Red Lion is quite a common name for a pub. Other common names are "The Lamb and the Lion", "The Pig and the Whistle", "The Fat Cat", "The Old Archbishop and the Naughty Choir Boy" (last one is made up but not unlikely). English pubs open around noon and close at twelve at night. I was told that the tradition comes from the past, when men had to get up for work (mine, factory, etc.) before dawn, and by closing the pubs by 12 am men were forced to go home instead of drink all night. I find this old tradition quite barbaric -- where is a self-respecting Bulgarian supposed to drink when visiting London? However locals usually have a little something around noon, which makes their afternoon pass by quickly (which is not a bad idea). I ordered a drink and lunch in the Red Lion and the bartendress asked me for the money right away -- I was quite offended, what is she thinking that I'm going to dine and dash -- it turns out this is how they do it.
London's weather really is London's weather - you never know what you are going to get, but you can always bet on rain.
Stay tuned.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
To Return to Your Father's Home
Sofia is my home, not because it is Sofia, but because my parents and grandparents live there. I know that no matter what happens to me I'll always have a home to return (this has always been a lifesaving thought especially in a fucked up city like New York). My Mom, and my grandparents who love me to death spoil the hell out of me – letting me sleep till late, feeding me like a pig, giving me pocket money when I go out. I had taken some spending money before I left New York but didn't spend a dime, Mom simply won't let me do it, she even got offended when I wanted to pay for myself. I miss being unconditionally loved and taken care of.
I was concerned with how my parents and cat will view the boyfriend, and how the boyfriend will react to them. Both sides were civil and dare say liked each other – otherwise they must be pretty good actors. Boyfriend was also introduced to several of my friends. While in Sofia I decided that we should take advantage of the cheap medical care, and dragged him to a dentist. The dentist took longer than expected, but in the last couple of days (of the 6 day stay) he did see part of Bulgaria.
Boyfriend drank a fair amount of rakia (Bulgarian vodka), ate the traditional Shopska salata (tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh opinion, fresh garlic, baked peeled pepper, lettuce), learned how to say several things in Bulgarian, was dragged around a historical preserved town called Koprivshtiza famous for its revolutionary movement against the Turkish Yoke in the 19 century (with several houses turned into museums – 3 hours away from Sofia), bought himself a T-shirt with “Bulgaria” written on it and a "Bulgaria" sticker for his car, ate my Grandma's baklava, saw the homeless dogs roaming Sofia, admired some of the communist monuments built about the city, was dragged to a Leonardo da Vinci exhibit in the National Art Gallery, rode a post-Communist-leftover open lift to the top of Sofia's nearby mountain - Vitosha while drinking a shot of rakia to keep warm from the freezing mountain weather, admired the snow and clouds covered peak of Vitosha once the lift got us up (the snow was above his knees), survived two visits to the Grandparents where they had him drink Bulgarian smooth red wine, Bulgarian beer and rakia at the same time, saw the trash of the back neighborhoods where people do not acknowledge trash bins and don’t seem to mind living in dirt, was surprised on how cheap is everything for an American, rode on a street tram, was dragged into the golden cupola-ed Alexander Nevski Cathedral in the center of Sofia, my friends showed us to several dives (basements, private apartments) that are only know by a word of mouth – there he observed Bulgarian youth getting drunk, boyfriend was surprised that people smoked everywhere and that my Mom would not stop smoking even while we were having dinner, he saw the rope "system" that my Mom had on the balcony for drying clothes (for some reason she resists the idea of a dryer), he was laughing at me when suddenly I forgot how to say something in Bulgarian (so embarrassing – almost like Madonna and her British accent), he was hugged and kissed by my crying Grandma on the last day before leaving, drank coffee in small glasses, ate Bulgarian cheese (like fetta cheese but much better) and yogurt with honey, he saw communist era apartment buildings (blocks), was amazed by the parking lack of regulations where people simply parked their cars on the sidewalk. There were so many more things I wanted him to see – like the numerous mountains, and the Black See, and the historical towns, and the monasteries, and the remains of the Roman Empire scattered across Bulgaria.
There are so many more things that happened, however I think I should save some for a book or something.
I was concerned with how my parents and cat will view the boyfriend, and how the boyfriend will react to them. Both sides were civil and dare say liked each other – otherwise they must be pretty good actors. Boyfriend was also introduced to several of my friends. While in Sofia I decided that we should take advantage of the cheap medical care, and dragged him to a dentist. The dentist took longer than expected, but in the last couple of days (of the 6 day stay) he did see part of Bulgaria.
Boyfriend drank a fair amount of rakia (Bulgarian vodka), ate the traditional Shopska salata (tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh opinion, fresh garlic, baked peeled pepper, lettuce), learned how to say several things in Bulgarian, was dragged around a historical preserved town called Koprivshtiza famous for its revolutionary movement against the Turkish Yoke in the 19 century (with several houses turned into museums – 3 hours away from Sofia), bought himself a T-shirt with “Bulgaria” written on it and a "Bulgaria" sticker for his car, ate my Grandma's baklava, saw the homeless dogs roaming Sofia, admired some of the communist monuments built about the city, was dragged to a Leonardo da Vinci exhibit in the National Art Gallery, rode a post-Communist-leftover open lift to the top of Sofia's nearby mountain - Vitosha while drinking a shot of rakia to keep warm from the freezing mountain weather, admired the snow and clouds covered peak of Vitosha once the lift got us up (the snow was above his knees), survived two visits to the Grandparents where they had him drink Bulgarian smooth red wine, Bulgarian beer and rakia at the same time, saw the trash of the back neighborhoods where people do not acknowledge trash bins and don’t seem to mind living in dirt, was surprised on how cheap is everything for an American, rode on a street tram, was dragged into the golden cupola-ed Alexander Nevski Cathedral in the center of Sofia, my friends showed us to several dives (basements, private apartments) that are only know by a word of mouth – there he observed Bulgarian youth getting drunk, boyfriend was surprised that people smoked everywhere and that my Mom would not stop smoking even while we were having dinner, he saw the rope "system" that my Mom had on the balcony for drying clothes (for some reason she resists the idea of a dryer), he was laughing at me when suddenly I forgot how to say something in Bulgarian (so embarrassing – almost like Madonna and her British accent), he was hugged and kissed by my crying Grandma on the last day before leaving, drank coffee in small glasses, ate Bulgarian cheese (like fetta cheese but much better) and yogurt with honey, he saw communist era apartment buildings (blocks), was amazed by the parking lack of regulations where people simply parked their cars on the sidewalk. There were so many more things I wanted him to see – like the numerous mountains, and the Black See, and the historical towns, and the monasteries, and the remains of the Roman Empire scattered across Bulgaria.
There are so many more things that happened, however I think I should save some for a book or something.
Monday, January 15, 2007
What Have I Done
What have I done! I had let you, my readers, roam the big, scary world for almost a month without any words of wisdom and direction to shine a bright light on your dark and depressing holiday times. I hope all is well, and nobody has committed suicide or killed off their whole family...that would cause my readers to drop from 5 to 4, and would make the whole blog writing completely pointless.
I'm going back home (Bulgaria) for a week. My boyfriend is coming too. Sounds romantic, doesn't it. Technically it is not. As far as I know my family there will be a huge delegation for the greeting of the long-lost daughter returning triumphantly from THE NEW YORK CITY in THE US of A. Tears of joy will cover the faces of grandma and Mom. Like that movie "Coming to America" with Eddie Murphy, but even a bigger production. Just thinking about it makes me nauseous. A lot of shrieking - where they talk over each other, and I'm trying to answer 6 questions at the same time. My Grandpa would want to come meet me at the airport too, but he knows I hate the crowd and the attention and the tears and the hugs and the screeching of Mom and Grandma, so he'll save me the pain and stay at home. I only wish my Grandma could realize that and forget to meet me at the airport.
My folks don't speak English, and the boyfriend doesn't speak Bulgarian so I will do my best to answer questions and translate, while trying to be invisible.
However, I'm happy that I will see my cat. She's always happy to meet me on my sporadical returns home. She winks at me and says "Oh, so you are back. Did you run out of money or something?" Bulgarian cats are sarcastic like that.
I have to call my long-lost-touch-with friends, and pretend that we still have a lot in common. Having the boyfriend with me would guarantee me a lot of attention. I envision my grandma inviting all the grandmas of her apartment building to check what the granddaughter brought home from across the big pond.
We will be staying there for 6 days, during which I have to plan touristy-picturesque walks about the city, and a few trips to other cities. Also will have to persuade the boyfriend that I was really adopted, and I have nothing to do with these crazed and annoyingly affectionate people.
I'm going back home (Bulgaria) for a week. My boyfriend is coming too. Sounds romantic, doesn't it. Technically it is not. As far as I know my family there will be a huge delegation for the greeting of the long-lost daughter returning triumphantly from THE NEW YORK CITY in THE US of A. Tears of joy will cover the faces of grandma and Mom. Like that movie "Coming to America" with Eddie Murphy, but even a bigger production. Just thinking about it makes me nauseous. A lot of shrieking - where they talk over each other, and I'm trying to answer 6 questions at the same time. My Grandpa would want to come meet me at the airport too, but he knows I hate the crowd and the attention and the tears and the hugs and the screeching of Mom and Grandma, so he'll save me the pain and stay at home. I only wish my Grandma could realize that and forget to meet me at the airport.
My folks don't speak English, and the boyfriend doesn't speak Bulgarian so I will do my best to answer questions and translate, while trying to be invisible.
However, I'm happy that I will see my cat. She's always happy to meet me on my sporadical returns home. She winks at me and says "Oh, so you are back. Did you run out of money or something?" Bulgarian cats are sarcastic like that.
I have to call my long-lost-touch-with friends, and pretend that we still have a lot in common. Having the boyfriend with me would guarantee me a lot of attention. I envision my grandma inviting all the grandmas of her apartment building to check what the granddaughter brought home from across the big pond.
We will be staying there for 6 days, during which I have to plan touristy-picturesque walks about the city, and a few trips to other cities. Also will have to persuade the boyfriend that I was really adopted, and I have nothing to do with these crazed and annoyingly affectionate people.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Winter Moods
You know when you want to snuggle in your comforter, watching your favorite sitcom. When you order a piping hot eggdrop soup and chicken broccoli from the corner Chinese place, and you finish it off with a bar of Swiss milk chocolate. You know when you sleep for 12 hours, and then you wake up, have a snack and go back to bed. You know when you go out with friends and you wear your dirty, stretched sweater or hoodie that you've been wearing non-stop for the last 2 months. You know when you'd rather stay at home on a weekend evening, instead of going out. You know when the loud-ass, smart-ass, obnoxious, attention demanding, non-stop shrieking girl acquaintance that you hardly noticed before is suddenly a pain in your ears. You know when you suddenly feel like the cold weather and the late train are an evil Godlike conspiracy against you. You know when you go to a petstore just to look at the cats/dogs. You know when you smoke once in months and suddenly you buy a pack and smoke half of it. You know when you want to stay under the hot running shower for hours. You know when you start writing bullshit in your blog.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Culinary Appreciator / Sunset Park Dweller
Look what I just happened to find today.
I always knew people would trust my judgment and quote my profound wisdom. It starts at pork skewers and it ends with WORLD DOMINATION!
I always knew people would trust my judgment and quote my profound wisdom. It starts at pork skewers and it ends with WORLD DOMINATION!
Monday, December 11, 2006
Apartment Generations
My mom told me that my grandma (her mother-in-law) had a bad taste. Perhaps she said that because of my grandma's choice of furniture, or perhaps because grandma disliked Mom.
My Dad's Mom passed away when I was one-year-old out of heart attack. Her husband had died three years before that out of heart attack. To be honest I never knew for sure what they did for living. Perhaps I should have been more curious and trying to somehow safeguard the family history. Whatever the case was, I was told by my Dad and his friends that my grandparents were pretty well off, having good places under the Communist party wing. I vaguely know that my grandma had something to do with chemistry (perhaps a teacher), and grandpa according to my Mom had something to do with the secret services, and apparently he spoke fluently 5 Western languages.Whatever the case was, they were crème of the crop, and at early age were the pride and glory of the Communist party.
The young couple ended up buying a 2 bedroom in a central location in Sofia (the capital of Bulgaria). At the time, the five floor walk-up was the highest building in this central neighborhood. The living room window overlooks the busy street of the major Vitosha Boulevard, where cabs and street trams run 24/7. The neighborhood consisted of family houses with small vegetable gardens, and an obligatory dog and a doghouse.
Now, along the boulevard, an everyday epic battle for parking space occurs. When my grandparents first moved in their home, they owned one of two cars in the neighborhood. In fact, their car, a brand new at the time Ford, was quite the sensation - a big, black, elegant, respect-demanding machine. My mom told me a film crew at the time rented it for a week to use it in a movie.
Dad was a studious child with addictive personality. Pushed by his parents he gets a civil engineer degree, when what he actually wants to do is write novels. He often abuses alcohol, and as a fairly well-to-do heir of my grandparents, spends couple of years doing very little but drinking. And this is when Mom comes in.
I never got to hear my Dad's version of he story, but according to Mom when she first laid eyes on him "he was drunk as usually". Mom and several of her college classmates went on a ski trip (to this day Mom doesn't know how to ski). The big mountain hotel they were staying had a night time disco club, where the youth gathered to dance to the disproved by the Communist party Beetles. The youngsters repeated the lyrics to the Beetles songs, without knowing precisely what they mean, but feeling rebellious and outspoken. Mom spotted Dad leaning on the bar. He was one of the few young people who could stand on his feet and not dance. My mom decided that this has to end at once, so she invited my Dad to a slow dance. Mom says he stepped on her feet a lot, but he was adorable in his drunken ways, sincerely apologizing after every step. From then on the story is kind of vague - it involves some really happy, crazy summers, drunken fights, jealousy, separation, more happy moments, and me.
My grandparents had two sons, with 10 years difference between. When my grandma passed away, my uncle became an 18 year old orphan. At the time my father, a man of 28 was married to Mom and had a little pooping, non-stop crying machine - me. He tries to stand behind his young brother in the hour of pain, but somehow the family loss gets them even further apart. With no control or supervision, my uncle barely finishes high school and takes up odd jobs (like painting, and construction building) with no plans for college. As an heir, he got half of my grandparents fast disappearing savings - including half of the three bedroom apartment. Mom and Dad were residing in one bedroom, my uncle, their roommate had the second bedroom.
Things started to get complicated. Mom, longing to have a real home for her family, disproved of living with her brother-in-law. My uncle, at his prime, was living the vida loca, breaking heart after heart. In his early 20's, he would make just enough to pay for his dates, who he would bring to the apartment. Other times he would not make enough and have his dates pay for him. The dates would not last long. My uncle's disregard of sleeping hours, and cleaning the apartment drove Mom off the wall.
Unfortunately little could be done. No lecturing could change my uncle’s ways. This situation continued until I was 14 years old, when Mom finally collected enough money and got my uncle to sell his half of the apartment to her. My uncle was reluctant at first, but the living situation was becoming unbearable, and somebody had to move. Up until then I was taking turns with Mom sleeping on the pull out sofa or on the bed. I just loved the pull out sofa. It felt like camping, and late at night, when Mom and Dad where sleeping, I would turn on the TV (which I was forbidden after certain hour). At 14, when uncle moved out, I finally got my own room.
My Dad's Mom passed away when I was one-year-old out of heart attack. Her husband had died three years before that out of heart attack. To be honest I never knew for sure what they did for living. Perhaps I should have been more curious and trying to somehow safeguard the family history. Whatever the case was, I was told by my Dad and his friends that my grandparents were pretty well off, having good places under the Communist party wing. I vaguely know that my grandma had something to do with chemistry (perhaps a teacher), and grandpa according to my Mom had something to do with the secret services, and apparently he spoke fluently 5 Western languages.Whatever the case was, they were crème of the crop, and at early age were the pride and glory of the Communist party.
The young couple ended up buying a 2 bedroom in a central location in Sofia (the capital of Bulgaria). At the time, the five floor walk-up was the highest building in this central neighborhood. The living room window overlooks the busy street of the major Vitosha Boulevard, where cabs and street trams run 24/7. The neighborhood consisted of family houses with small vegetable gardens, and an obligatory dog and a doghouse.
Now, along the boulevard, an everyday epic battle for parking space occurs. When my grandparents first moved in their home, they owned one of two cars in the neighborhood. In fact, their car, a brand new at the time Ford, was quite the sensation - a big, black, elegant, respect-demanding machine. My mom told me a film crew at the time rented it for a week to use it in a movie.
Dad was a studious child with addictive personality. Pushed by his parents he gets a civil engineer degree, when what he actually wants to do is write novels. He often abuses alcohol, and as a fairly well-to-do heir of my grandparents, spends couple of years doing very little but drinking. And this is when Mom comes in.
I never got to hear my Dad's version of he story, but according to Mom when she first laid eyes on him "he was drunk as usually". Mom and several of her college classmates went on a ski trip (to this day Mom doesn't know how to ski). The big mountain hotel they were staying had a night time disco club, where the youth gathered to dance to the disproved by the Communist party Beetles. The youngsters repeated the lyrics to the Beetles songs, without knowing precisely what they mean, but feeling rebellious and outspoken. Mom spotted Dad leaning on the bar. He was one of the few young people who could stand on his feet and not dance. My mom decided that this has to end at once, so she invited my Dad to a slow dance. Mom says he stepped on her feet a lot, but he was adorable in his drunken ways, sincerely apologizing after every step. From then on the story is kind of vague - it involves some really happy, crazy summers, drunken fights, jealousy, separation, more happy moments, and me.
My grandparents had two sons, with 10 years difference between. When my grandma passed away, my uncle became an 18 year old orphan. At the time my father, a man of 28 was married to Mom and had a little pooping, non-stop crying machine - me. He tries to stand behind his young brother in the hour of pain, but somehow the family loss gets them even further apart. With no control or supervision, my uncle barely finishes high school and takes up odd jobs (like painting, and construction building) with no plans for college. As an heir, he got half of my grandparents fast disappearing savings - including half of the three bedroom apartment. Mom and Dad were residing in one bedroom, my uncle, their roommate had the second bedroom.
Things started to get complicated. Mom, longing to have a real home for her family, disproved of living with her brother-in-law. My uncle, at his prime, was living the vida loca, breaking heart after heart. In his early 20's, he would make just enough to pay for his dates, who he would bring to the apartment. Other times he would not make enough and have his dates pay for him. The dates would not last long. My uncle's disregard of sleeping hours, and cleaning the apartment drove Mom off the wall.
Unfortunately little could be done. No lecturing could change my uncle’s ways. This situation continued until I was 14 years old, when Mom finally collected enough money and got my uncle to sell his half of the apartment to her. My uncle was reluctant at first, but the living situation was becoming unbearable, and somebody had to move. Up until then I was taking turns with Mom sleeping on the pull out sofa or on the bed. I just loved the pull out sofa. It felt like camping, and late at night, when Mom and Dad where sleeping, I would turn on the TV (which I was forbidden after certain hour). At 14, when uncle moved out, I finally got my own room.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Street Vendor
I was walking down on 4th Avenue in Brooklyn. Had just gotten off on the 36th Street Station. I saw my favorite street vendor on his usual spot. The guy and his daughter, who looks about eighteen, appear on the corner every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. Their street cart barely fits two people, has two stoves, and a plastic glass window that slides shut during particularly cold nights.
In the summer, group of Mexicans would pull out folding chairs or sit on the sidewalk in front of the car and talk till late evening. Something of an improvised barbeque. The cart is parked next to a large van, which is accommodated for living. You can hear the sound of a TV set, and occasionally a young boy would pop his head through the sliding doors. Perhaps the street vendor's other child.
Food is OK. It fits the taste of the Sunset Park Hispanic population. I first fell in love with it, after a drunken night. I was hungry and short on money - the sight of the street cart was magical. After this I always had to stop in some ungodly drunken hour, and had my favorite - 3 pork skewers with mayo and mustard. The street vendor eventually got to recognize me. On several occasions, blinded by my hunger, I would drag myself and sit on the pavement in front of his cart, he would see me and make my usual without even asking.
Tonight however, I didn't feel like pork skewers. I wanted McDonalds. McDonalds is on the next block from the vendor. I grabbed my order and I circled the block instead of going straight past the vendor. I didn't want him to see my McDonalds meal. Not that his food is much healthier, I just don't want to loose the unspoken drunken nights bond we have.
In the summer, group of Mexicans would pull out folding chairs or sit on the sidewalk in front of the car and talk till late evening. Something of an improvised barbeque. The cart is parked next to a large van, which is accommodated for living. You can hear the sound of a TV set, and occasionally a young boy would pop his head through the sliding doors. Perhaps the street vendor's other child.
Food is OK. It fits the taste of the Sunset Park Hispanic population. I first fell in love with it, after a drunken night. I was hungry and short on money - the sight of the street cart was magical. After this I always had to stop in some ungodly drunken hour, and had my favorite - 3 pork skewers with mayo and mustard. The street vendor eventually got to recognize me. On several occasions, blinded by my hunger, I would drag myself and sit on the pavement in front of his cart, he would see me and make my usual without even asking.
Tonight however, I didn't feel like pork skewers. I wanted McDonalds. McDonalds is on the next block from the vendor. I grabbed my order and I circled the block instead of going straight past the vendor. I didn't want him to see my McDonalds meal. Not that his food is much healthier, I just don't want to loose the unspoken drunken nights bond we have.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Miami Wise
My plane landed about 4 hours ago, a smooth flight from Miami Beach where I spent the last 4 days. October in Miami Breach is where an annual Fuel Oil/Energy Byers Conference happens (you can Google it).
The conference, which I and 6 of my colleagues went to, is an excuse for people from the oil industry (specifically fuel oil) to wine and dine for about 3-4 days, reestablish some business contacts, create some new contacts, bring their wives shopping, or leave their wives at home and visit a striptease club or two.
I have never been to Florida before, and the feeling could only compare to a kid in a candy shop. At the sight of the first palm tree on Miami Internatioanl Airport, an immense happiness came over me (without even a drop of liquor in me). In the cab to the hotel I removed my coat and two layers of sweaters, and rolled down the window.
Besides the obligatory schmoozing with potential clients, the trip was a nice little break from the stuffy New York office, which somewhat compensates for the miserable 5 work days vacation time I get the first year with the company.
The location - Miami Beach in October - provides perfect mid-80's weather, golfing, gorgeous beaches, and latino/caribbean/tropical themed clubs. Of course I am aware of the excruciating heat and humidity in the summer, the hurricanes, sharks, alligators, and Russian tourists, but I was lucky enough not to experience any of these disasters. Except for the pesky presentations and receptions, which were cutting in my laying on the beach time, I had some easy-going time.
Two of the 3 receptions I went to, hosted by renowned energy companies, were held in steak houses. The most popular choice on the menu - a 32 oz steak and a 7 layer chocolate cake. Nobody around me could finish their steak (and I'm talking guys with daily steak eating experience). What a waste of perfectly good meat that was.
Ocean Drive is where everything comes down -- the beach strip is full of tourists this time of the year, and at night time it turns into a flashy art-deco/latin festival. Convertibles parade slowly along the club infested Ocean Drive. Half naked big-breasted ladies and gay-looking buffed gentlemen walk about. Clubs, with their doors wide open, pump Latino music in the air.
One of the company gatherings was held at a jumping Latino place with a fruity name - Mango. Mango waitresses were sporting hip hugging low-cut, leopard skin imitation pants and something that looked like sports bra in the same leopard skin fashion. One of them, accompanied by a hunky guy, dressed in a similar ansamble were provocatively dancing samba on the top of the circle, pink, neon-lit bar.
I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw a homeless guy on Ocean Drive - somebody needs to tell this person he spoils the touristy image of the strip, and perhaps style his long beard, or put him on a work-out program. I thought that New York homeless people should be shipped to Miami Beach for the winter. The weather is great for sleeping outside (except for the occasional rains), and there seems to be an abundance of half-eaten steaks around.
And not to end on socially conscious propagandish way .. I did enjoy my steak and the time on the beach.
The conference, which I and 6 of my colleagues went to, is an excuse for people from the oil industry (specifically fuel oil) to wine and dine for about 3-4 days, reestablish some business contacts, create some new contacts, bring their wives shopping, or leave their wives at home and visit a striptease club or two.
I have never been to Florida before, and the feeling could only compare to a kid in a candy shop. At the sight of the first palm tree on Miami Internatioanl Airport, an immense happiness came over me (without even a drop of liquor in me). In the cab to the hotel I removed my coat and two layers of sweaters, and rolled down the window.
Besides the obligatory schmoozing with potential clients, the trip was a nice little break from the stuffy New York office, which somewhat compensates for the miserable 5 work days vacation time I get the first year with the company.
The location - Miami Beach in October - provides perfect mid-80's weather, golfing, gorgeous beaches, and latino/caribbean/tropical themed clubs. Of course I am aware of the excruciating heat and humidity in the summer, the hurricanes, sharks, alligators, and Russian tourists, but I was lucky enough not to experience any of these disasters. Except for the pesky presentations and receptions, which were cutting in my laying on the beach time, I had some easy-going time.
Two of the 3 receptions I went to, hosted by renowned energy companies, were held in steak houses. The most popular choice on the menu - a 32 oz steak and a 7 layer chocolate cake. Nobody around me could finish their steak (and I'm talking guys with daily steak eating experience). What a waste of perfectly good meat that was.
Ocean Drive is where everything comes down -- the beach strip is full of tourists this time of the year, and at night time it turns into a flashy art-deco/latin festival. Convertibles parade slowly along the club infested Ocean Drive. Half naked big-breasted ladies and gay-looking buffed gentlemen walk about. Clubs, with their doors wide open, pump Latino music in the air.
One of the company gatherings was held at a jumping Latino place with a fruity name - Mango. Mango waitresses were sporting hip hugging low-cut, leopard skin imitation pants and something that looked like sports bra in the same leopard skin fashion. One of them, accompanied by a hunky guy, dressed in a similar ansamble were provocatively dancing samba on the top of the circle, pink, neon-lit bar.
I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw a homeless guy on Ocean Drive - somebody needs to tell this person he spoils the touristy image of the strip, and perhaps style his long beard, or put him on a work-out program. I thought that New York homeless people should be shipped to Miami Beach for the winter. The weather is great for sleeping outside (except for the occasional rains), and there seems to be an abundance of half-eaten steaks around.
And not to end on socially conscious propagandish way .. I did enjoy my steak and the time on the beach.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Success
Probably all of you have thought at one point or another that you are destined for something grand like being an intern in the Whitehouse and blowing the president, or winning a hotdog eating contest, or inventing microwavable popcorn. Sadly 99.6 percent of you would go on to accomplish nothing.
I am one of those 0.4 percent who will be famous and rich. I am not right now, but I can smell the success. I can taste it even. Success is moving like a freight train about to hit me, and I can only stare mesmerized at its headlights. Mmmm tastes like blood, wait, is that my arm in he middle of the road?
I know I'm destined for great things, not sure which ones. Sometimes I feel like I need to give the success some laxative, like maybe write a bestselling book, or go and get a Masters degree, or learn how to shove hotdogs in my mouth for a record time. But success can't be forced, it comes on its own time. So I sit and I wait...and...I wait...WHERE THE HELL IS MY MONEY, MY FIRST PAGE INTERVIEW IN ROLLING STONES, WHERE THE HELL IS IT?...and then I wait some more.
Sometimes a homeless (or junkie) person approaches me and asks for money (homeless people are very perceptive, they too can sense that I am destined for greatness). And with hopeful voice I inform them “Not now Man, I am waiting for the freight train to hit me”. For the perceptive people homeless are, they always seem perplexed by my explanation. I sometimes look reassuringly into their eyes, trying to convey to them that I am not just an ordinarily person, but they turn around and run. And I understand, a few people could stand the might of my future success aura.
I know somebody who is completely unaware of my clearly eminent future – my boss. He does not understand the depth of the human being I am. He does not appreciate the layers of sophistication, wittiness and intellectuality. He surely does not want to hear about my freight train. Sometimes I think he thinks that I might be one of the 99.6 percent. Of course I try to forgive him, not everybody is given the gift of insight and aura-reading.
I am one of those 0.4 percent who will be famous and rich. I am not right now, but I can smell the success. I can taste it even. Success is moving like a freight train about to hit me, and I can only stare mesmerized at its headlights. Mmmm tastes like blood, wait, is that my arm in he middle of the road?
I know I'm destined for great things, not sure which ones. Sometimes I feel like I need to give the success some laxative, like maybe write a bestselling book, or go and get a Masters degree, or learn how to shove hotdogs in my mouth for a record time. But success can't be forced, it comes on its own time. So I sit and I wait...and...I wait...WHERE THE HELL IS MY MONEY, MY FIRST PAGE INTERVIEW IN ROLLING STONES, WHERE THE HELL IS IT?...and then I wait some more.
Sometimes a homeless (or junkie) person approaches me and asks for money (homeless people are very perceptive, they too can sense that I am destined for greatness). And with hopeful voice I inform them “Not now Man, I am waiting for the freight train to hit me”. For the perceptive people homeless are, they always seem perplexed by my explanation. I sometimes look reassuringly into their eyes, trying to convey to them that I am not just an ordinarily person, but they turn around and run. And I understand, a few people could stand the might of my future success aura.
I know somebody who is completely unaware of my clearly eminent future – my boss. He does not understand the depth of the human being I am. He does not appreciate the layers of sophistication, wittiness and intellectuality. He surely does not want to hear about my freight train. Sometimes I think he thinks that I might be one of the 99.6 percent. Of course I try to forgive him, not everybody is given the gift of insight and aura-reading.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Realist
I hate cheerful people, with their silly little pink, rosy delusions that they call dreams. Let me clue you in on something you poor things. Life is a series of misfortunes, with occasional happy events. You get to see your parents die, loosing keys, constant fear of getting fired (from the job you hate anyways), dating (enough said), spouse cheating (and rip your heart out), or you cheating on spouse (take your kids, and money in court), pets die, debts (you can't pay off in your lifetime), all kinds of diseases, bad sex, excessive body hair, eating random junk food (unless you mastered puking), having kids (changing diapers, sleepless nights, constant nagging for money, puberty, only to finally call you once a year to ask for more money), sitting on gum, bad hair, dentists, people who dress up their dogs, people who are late for dates and never call, slow waiters, crowded trains/busses, laundry/cleaning, taxes and big Brooklyn cockroaches. Hope i said enough to convince you to kill yourselves (you happy ass fuckers).
I hate people who get excited when they get a memo at work about having to work on the weekend. What kind of sick, lonely, have-no-life, brownnoser celebrates having to get up at 7 am on Saturday and Sunday?! I hate hypocritical assholes who tell me to "relax" when i'm juggling five things. I'll relax when i want to relax, and save me your worldly wisdom, because when the shit hits the fan, you will be the fist one to freak out.
I hate people who get excited when they get a memo at work about having to work on the weekend. What kind of sick, lonely, have-no-life, brownnoser celebrates having to get up at 7 am on Saturday and Sunday?! I hate hypocritical assholes who tell me to "relax" when i'm juggling five things. I'll relax when i want to relax, and save me your worldly wisdom, because when the shit hits the fan, you will be the fist one to freak out.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Finally, Something Worthy to Put in a Blog
Climbing the stairs to the third floor to my apartment, I saw my Chinese roommate standing in the middle of the staircase and speaking excitedly in Chinese on his cell phone.
My roommate's English boils down to 4 words which he has impossible time pronouncing - working (which sounds like uking), chicken (ziken), fish (he gets this one right) and boyfriend (pretty good too). Sometimes when English words don't come to mind, he mixes it up with Spanish - "mucho ungli?" is a common question I get from him when he sees me microwaving something. He is a friendly guy in his early-mid 50's. For the number of words he knows he's extremely talkative, and he always seems in a good mood. Unlike my other 3 Chinese roommates, whose English is proficient, but who choose to ignore me and not even say hello when I run into them in the corridor.
So the Chinese roommate starts gesturing frantically at me and points toward the apartment door. I get to the door, and I try to pull my tired brain together and understand what the excitement is all about. I pretty much stare blankly at him, while he frustratedly points towards his room and my other roommate's room. What is it?-I'm thinking. And then it dawns on me. Both rooms' doors are wide open, and everything inside is upside down. We've been robbed.
I run to my room and the first thing to do is check if my folder with passport and paperwork is still intact...nothing is missing. My roommate follows me to my room and makes a face at the mess. "God damned" - is the only thing I can think to say. "Moni?" roommate asks. No, the only money in my room is a jar of coins which is still there minus the coins – the only thing missing.
What the roommate doesn't know is that my room in its current messiness is pretty much the way I left it when I went to work this morning. I am and always been a pig. Leaving clothes, empty dishes and papers all over the floor - to the point where I can't make my way across the room. I can imagine the look on the burglars' faces when they opened the door. The burglars didn't even have to force the door, my lock is so easy to pick. Once inside they probably thought somebody beat them to the job - the only thing in sight is trash covering the floor, old mattress, an even older (but very faithful) desktop, ordinary TV, and a closet full of shabby clothes. Actually my room is so ragged, they didn't even try very hard to search and they missed a little box with some jewelry my mom had given me. Apparently being a pig could prove useful in situations like this.
Roommate has already called the landlord and the cops, so we wait. Cops are not too long. Two of them in their early 30's - one funnily resembles Raymond's brother from "Everybody Loves Raymond". Cops look at me like I'm a ghost. One of them finally asks - "You don't mind me asking. So you live here? Because you don't exactly fit the profile of the building." And if by profile he means - Chinese or Hispanic. Does he suspect me of anything? - I thought. So I defensively went into a lengthily explanation how I live in this room for 2 1/2 years now, and how I found it on Craigslist, and how I just sleep here and it's very cheap. The cop seemed satisfied.
The whole time this is happening, my Chinese roommate is listening to us, and I know he doesn't understand a word we say because he has this worried/confused look on his face.
The cop asked if anything is missing, and filled in a robbery report with our information. Soon, 3 more cops showed up, one of them Chinese so he could translate to my roommate. It turns out, another robbery happened yesterday 2 blocks from here. So the cop explains that they will most surely catch the robber, if he/she continues the robbing.
The fist set of cops left, I'm watching TV, and eating McDonald's salad, and waiting for the second set of cops to come and take fingerprints of the place. The good thing is that I shouldn't clean my room in case they have to take fingerprints. I can hear the roommates out in the corridor talking loudly in Chinese.
My roommate's English boils down to 4 words which he has impossible time pronouncing - working (which sounds like uking), chicken (ziken), fish (he gets this one right) and boyfriend (pretty good too). Sometimes when English words don't come to mind, he mixes it up with Spanish - "mucho ungli?" is a common question I get from him when he sees me microwaving something. He is a friendly guy in his early-mid 50's. For the number of words he knows he's extremely talkative, and he always seems in a good mood. Unlike my other 3 Chinese roommates, whose English is proficient, but who choose to ignore me and not even say hello when I run into them in the corridor.
So the Chinese roommate starts gesturing frantically at me and points toward the apartment door. I get to the door, and I try to pull my tired brain together and understand what the excitement is all about. I pretty much stare blankly at him, while he frustratedly points towards his room and my other roommate's room. What is it?-I'm thinking. And then it dawns on me. Both rooms' doors are wide open, and everything inside is upside down. We've been robbed.
I run to my room and the first thing to do is check if my folder with passport and paperwork is still intact...nothing is missing. My roommate follows me to my room and makes a face at the mess. "God damned" - is the only thing I can think to say. "Moni?" roommate asks. No, the only money in my room is a jar of coins which is still there minus the coins – the only thing missing.
What the roommate doesn't know is that my room in its current messiness is pretty much the way I left it when I went to work this morning. I am and always been a pig. Leaving clothes, empty dishes and papers all over the floor - to the point where I can't make my way across the room. I can imagine the look on the burglars' faces when they opened the door. The burglars didn't even have to force the door, my lock is so easy to pick. Once inside they probably thought somebody beat them to the job - the only thing in sight is trash covering the floor, old mattress, an even older (but very faithful) desktop, ordinary TV, and a closet full of shabby clothes. Actually my room is so ragged, they didn't even try very hard to search and they missed a little box with some jewelry my mom had given me. Apparently being a pig could prove useful in situations like this.
Roommate has already called the landlord and the cops, so we wait. Cops are not too long. Two of them in their early 30's - one funnily resembles Raymond's brother from "Everybody Loves Raymond". Cops look at me like I'm a ghost. One of them finally asks - "You don't mind me asking. So you live here? Because you don't exactly fit the profile of the building." And if by profile he means - Chinese or Hispanic. Does he suspect me of anything? - I thought. So I defensively went into a lengthily explanation how I live in this room for 2 1/2 years now, and how I found it on Craigslist, and how I just sleep here and it's very cheap. The cop seemed satisfied.
The whole time this is happening, my Chinese roommate is listening to us, and I know he doesn't understand a word we say because he has this worried/confused look on his face.
The cop asked if anything is missing, and filled in a robbery report with our information. Soon, 3 more cops showed up, one of them Chinese so he could translate to my roommate. It turns out, another robbery happened yesterday 2 blocks from here. So the cop explains that they will most surely catch the robber, if he/she continues the robbing.
The fist set of cops left, I'm watching TV, and eating McDonald's salad, and waiting for the second set of cops to come and take fingerprints of the place. The good thing is that I shouldn't clean my room in case they have to take fingerprints. I can hear the roommates out in the corridor talking loudly in Chinese.
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