1. I am old, un-cool and have a very limited social network. I don’t even have a Facebook account, but you don’t need one to know that you are missing out on the exciting virtual world. I do, however, use LinkedIn: look me up, I am interested in job opportunities, reconnecting and business deals. I am also a member of 4 blooming networking groups.
2. If you have any questions about how your mate feels about you, just check his/her Facebook page. If the picture you feature on your page is of the two of you kanoodling in a photo-booth and the one (s)he displays is in a muscle shirt/cleavage-revealing tube top, you need to talk.
3. Cute kids sometimes grow up into less attractive adults. My little brother’s “friend” on Facebook is a girl I babysat as a teenager. She was blonde, blue-eyed and cute as a button. She blossomed into a full-fledged jewess with titties and a shnoz to demystify her otherwise obscure last name. If it’s too good to be true…
4. ♪♪♪♪We are the world…we are the children ♪♪♪♪ But really, how reassuring is it that Rabinovitz, El-Habib, Kim, Rodriguez and Jones are friends… on Facebook, and sometimes, off Facebook too.
This Facebook generation, this unstoppable force of self-absorbed mama’s boys and girls, there’s something to be said for them…
Monday, November 17, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
Have My Cake and Eat It Too
Earlier today I overheard a conversation between two “round” girls eager to outdo one another in bragging about how little they need to feel satiated and how much they love working out. I was naturally very jealous, as I was hungry enough to eat a horse and certainly had no intentions to exercise.
“You know the crackers that come with the soup?” asked the obese one rhetorically, as she turned to her friend, her fat shifting positions, pinched by her pants. “I can never have them with my soup. I just can’t eat that much.” (wow, lucky bitch, I can eat my soup, my crackers, and your sandwich)
“Oh yeah,” answered her moderately overweight friend. “I rarely eat them. Maybe as a snack, later in the day.”
Pause; they both reach into their respective Doritos bags and shove a handful of orange deliciousness in their cavernous mouths.
“Yeah…” continues her friend, clearly exhausted by managing multiple activities (eating, breathing and speaking). “I was supposed to run this morning, but it was cold. I usually run 5 times a week.”
“Me too. I run at least 6, usually 7.”
God willing I can lose a few pounds and gain a fraction of their self-esteem.
“You know the crackers that come with the soup?” asked the obese one rhetorically, as she turned to her friend, her fat shifting positions, pinched by her pants. “I can never have them with my soup. I just can’t eat that much.” (wow, lucky bitch, I can eat my soup, my crackers, and your sandwich)
“Oh yeah,” answered her moderately overweight friend. “I rarely eat them. Maybe as a snack, later in the day.”
Pause; they both reach into their respective Doritos bags and shove a handful of orange deliciousness in their cavernous mouths.
“Yeah…” continues her friend, clearly exhausted by managing multiple activities (eating, breathing and speaking). “I was supposed to run this morning, but it was cold. I usually run 5 times a week.”
“Me too. I run at least 6, usually 7.”
God willing I can lose a few pounds and gain a fraction of their self-esteem.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Music to My Ears
I am not exactly sure why, but the sight of street musicians always breaks my heart. Whenever I see a mediocre immigrant violinist playing a familiar tune, I imagine how he must have been an accomplished musician back in his native land and now he is forced to stand on this busy subway platform, interrupted by the loud trains pulling in and out of the station and tuned out by the thousands of commuters. Perhaps that is why I find myself completely in awe at the New York Philharmonic. It doesn’t matter that I am not well-versed in music… where else can you see such an impressive group of accomplished musicians. Each one of the orchestra members has dedicated his entire life to music, and each one made it…they are all here, playing Rachmaninoff… for you.
My most entertaining commuting experiences involve musicians. The most delightful was an amateur guitarist, who advised the passengers that for $20 upfront, he won’t violate their ears. Everyone giggled at the proposal, but no one was willing to pay, so for the next two stations we endured the performance. I even didn’t mind the Korean Students Bible club playing kumbaya and blocking the entrance to the school. They gave me a candy bar for clapping along.
Last week I saw something that made me think that perhaps, in spite of the devastating economic conditions and a terrifying political climate, we, Americans, stand strong. The floor-to-ceiling windows of a sports club revealed a few dozen treadmill and elliptical machine enthusiasts, sweating away as a live band carried on a jazz melody. Is there a more obnoxious way to display wealth and disrespect for music? Oh Lord…kum ba ya.
My most entertaining commuting experiences involve musicians. The most delightful was an amateur guitarist, who advised the passengers that for $20 upfront, he won’t violate their ears. Everyone giggled at the proposal, but no one was willing to pay, so for the next two stations we endured the performance. I even didn’t mind the Korean Students Bible club playing kumbaya and blocking the entrance to the school. They gave me a candy bar for clapping along.
Last week I saw something that made me think that perhaps, in spite of the devastating economic conditions and a terrifying political climate, we, Americans, stand strong. The floor-to-ceiling windows of a sports club revealed a few dozen treadmill and elliptical machine enthusiasts, sweating away as a live band carried on a jazz melody. Is there a more obnoxious way to display wealth and disrespect for music? Oh Lord…kum ba ya.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Here She Is...Miss America!
In the past two days, two people accidentally addressed me as Palin. One of them a fellow progressive and the other, our “maintenance director” or simply the guy who fixes stuff around the office and can get me a fancy notebook if I am extra nice. Our names certainly have a few letters in common, but I believe that’s where our similarities end. For starters, I don’t look like a mischievous librarian in my Tina Fey glasses; instead, I resemble an elementary school teacher, who is in the habit of sending notes home and giving Fs for behavior. I am also, amazingly enough, more educated and received my degree from a more reputable institution (see Back to School issue below). Additionally, though I am not lucky enough to have lived the quintessential American story of eating moose burgers and shooting rifles in Alaska (I am a naturalized American citizen), I have had an American passport for five years longer than Palin. I’ll spare you the list of our differences, but as you may guess, it’s rather extensive.
So what is it, that je ne sais quoi, driving my colleagues to confusion? I hope it’s the one similarity we do have – neither will be the vice president.
So what is it, that je ne sais quoi, driving my colleagues to confusion? I hope it’s the one similarity we do have – neither will be the vice president.
Monday, September 15, 2008
How We Met
Every little and not so little girl dreams of a knight on a white horse who’ll come to sweep her away, put his jacket over a puddle so she doesn’t get her precious feet wet, tell her how unbelievably beautiful and wonderful she is. For some, the modified version actually comes true, and in fact, it’s better that way… taking care of a horse is time consuming and expensive (plus, I hear that they are as dumb as they are beautiful). If you ever browse the New York Times online edition, skip the intellectually-stimulating editorials, gloss over the news worthy articles, and head straight for the Weddings/Celebration section (http://www.nytimes.com/pages/fashion/weddings/index.html), you will be led to believe that the knights on white horses are all around you and lovely maidens, well, they are beautiful, charming, and fresh, even if they are, ever so slightly, past their prime.
The featured “human interest” stories usually showcase a lame romance between John and Jill (who, being that we are in New York, often end up being Rachel and Jonathan). Amy Dickinson’s and Bruno Schickel’s story particularly touched my heart. Looks like high school sweethearts reunited a few decades and marriages later. I could not be more thrilled for them! Their completely unstaged photo permeates my screen with total bliss. However touching the stories in the Vows section are, they cannot compete with the pearls of cinematography in the “How We Met” section. The section editorial staff asks the lucky couples to submit home videos: “We ask that these videos focus on the story of how the couples met and ultimately decided to make the relationship permanent.” If your video is selected, you may have the good fortune of having a loser like me make fun of its every aspect while on the clock. Thus far, my favorite video is about some “marketing executive” (whatever that means) and her circus clown husband. Terrific.
I must say that I am most interested in “How We Met” – 5 years later section. I’d love to hear about how those couples fared. If I appear judgmental and critical, it’s because I am. :) But don’t worry, I expect a surprise “How We Met” video for when we renew our vows.
The featured “human interest” stories usually showcase a lame romance between John and Jill (who, being that we are in New York, often end up being Rachel and Jonathan). Amy Dickinson’s and Bruno Schickel’s story particularly touched my heart. Looks like high school sweethearts reunited a few decades and marriages later. I could not be more thrilled for them! Their completely unstaged photo permeates my screen with total bliss. However touching the stories in the Vows section are, they cannot compete with the pearls of cinematography in the “How We Met” section. The section editorial staff asks the lucky couples to submit home videos: “We ask that these videos focus on the story of how the couples met and ultimately decided to make the relationship permanent.” If your video is selected, you may have the good fortune of having a loser like me make fun of its every aspect while on the clock. Thus far, my favorite video is about some “marketing executive” (whatever that means) and her circus clown husband. Terrific.
I must say that I am most interested in “How We Met” – 5 years later section. I’d love to hear about how those couples fared. If I appear judgmental and critical, it’s because I am. :) But don’t worry, I expect a surprise “How We Met” video for when we renew our vows.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Back to School Issue
Have you heard? I am back in school! Again. I wish I could demonstrate my enthusiasm and trepidation by wearing a starched white collar (not a cheap store-bought one, but a nice mother-made lace collar) and bringing a bouquet of flowers for my teacher, but alas, the tradition lives on in my motherland only. I am giving grad school another lame shot by going back to Baruch, my beloved alma mater, and getting a bang for my buck in the form of two extra letters after my name upon completing the humble curriculum. My consistent attitude about school is accurately captured by the photo, taken September 1, 1988. Cynicism aside, it feels comforting to be back in that enormous building, knowing which bathroom is likely to be clean and which elevator comes fastest, among other trivial things. I will even admit that hearing my Russian-Brooklynese compatriots butcher both languages as they boldly replace “t”s and “d”s with “ts”s and “ds”s (Dsidsn’t you tsake that professah? I tsawled you he’s a dsick) as they light up their cigarettes outside sounded reassuring. The world, or at least Baruch, it seems, hadn’t changed all that much.
While riding the escalator, I overheard a discussion between two ambitious undergraduates. “You know,” said one, “I just changed my major. I decided I wasn’t going to do Finance, it’s not for me in the long run. I will major in International Marketing. I think that will help my career more.” “Oh yeah?” responded her friend, “That’s great. My sister majored in International Business. How is International Marketing different?” “Well, it’s pretty much the same… but different.” Chances are, the girl will never do marketing; an accounts payable position in a medical office has her name written all over it; but this, this was marketing at work! Like me, it seems, the student was sold on the name alone - the major was going to be exciting, applicable, and require only basic quantitative skills. Ahhh, the sea of suckers. It’s good to be back.
P.S. In Statistics, I learned that the upside of using the mode as a way of describing the center of a population is being able to apply it to categorical data. I can apply what I learned immediately to describing Baruch’s student body. The range is from clinical cretin to highly intelligent and the mode is a moron. Despite what my test scores may suggest, I pretend to be an outlier… just not sure which side I lie on.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Viva La France!
I’ve been absent for quite a while now... I sort of missed writing the occasional blog, but obviously not enough to do anything about it. Since my last entry, I’ve started a new job (hallelujah), went to my friends’ wedding in Israel (mazel tov), and visited a place that must be none other than heaven (angels singing) – France. I need not be reminded that living and vacationing in the same place can be very different, and I refuse to allow this and other anti-French demagoguery to interfere with my memories of this unbelievable region where four-course meals are standard, mid-day sieste is strongly suggested, and being unhappy is nearly impossible. The Brits, who are quite abundant in the south of France, must have decided to call a vacation a “holiday” after going to the Riviera. Their accent, which typically pleases my ear, sounded uncouth. Their tone, threatening to turn every statement into a question, was repelled by the energy of the mountains, the sea, the villages that through plagues and wars, retained a calmness that is not eerie, but ecstatic.
In a strange way, the humble inhabitants of the villages reminded me of New Yorkers (no, they are not rude! and I will "fight" tooth and nail that New Yorkers, sans MTA employees and Eastern European transplants, are among the nicest and most helpful). They appeared not to take their quaint streets and breathtaking views for granted the sa
me way New Yorkers take pride in their grand city. And like with New Yorkers, you simply have to agree with them that yes, this is, indeed, the best place on earth, to get on their good side. You don’t even have to say it, just show it in your eyes. It’s not that hard. Both are, after all, right about it. P.S. Mustard is sold in containers that double as drinking glasses once you are done with it. Simple and genius, n'est pas?
Monday, June 23, 2008
Good Fences Make Good Neighbors
A friend sent me this link to a NYT article on the state of the American “neighborhood.” She suggested I use it as a starting point for my next blog, and indeed, I will do just that. The article can be found here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/23/opinion/23lovenheim.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5070&en=12d212b312060fc1&ex=1214884800&emc=eta1
Instead of making me long for some warm neighbors (mine don’t say “hello”), from whom I’d be able to borrow a cup of sugar and to whom I’d gladly give a few eggs should they need some for baking cookies, some of which to be shared with me over pleasantries, this essay made me remember some of the neighbors I’ve had in the past.
I grew up in a standard building in Russia, where hundreds of small apartments are still inhabited by people grateful not to share living quarters with strangers (for further explanation and illustration of communal living, visit this great website: http://kommunalka.colgate.edu/ Each floor of each section of the building has four apartments. #9 is ours.
#10: Occupied by Luda – 2 degrees: chemistry and foreign language, intellectual, reads books; her husband (don’t remember his name, let’s say Sasha), also educated, probably in foreign language; and Sasha Jr, a supposedly beautiful delinquent and drug addict who is drafted for service in the army as he is not pursuing higher education. Luda drinks heavily and tries to hang herself periodically. When Luda hangs herself, the neighbor from #12 rings our doorbell in panic so that she and my mom or dad can try to break in and take measures.
#11: Nina, an old maid in her 50s. Nina is from a village; she is street-smart and nosy. Sometimes she babysits my brother; once brought her niece’s son over. While she was watching my brother, her nine-year-old relative was trying to convince me to “show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
#12: A blue collar family; work at the watch factory.
#13 (4th floor, directly above our apt): My best friend in the neighborhood. Her mom, who eats sunflower seeds around the clock and reads mystery novels. Many years after we move, my friend confesses to putting a glass against the floor and listening in on my mother yelling at me. She was rooting for me. Many years after we move, my parents tell me about the late night drunken fights between my friend’s parents. No glass necessary.
#17 (5th floor): A couple with two boys, one a year older than me, the other a year older than my brother. She is a doctor, he is not (don’t recall his occupation, something in a puppet theater, not a puppeteer). She frequently visits our apartment for smoke breaks; at home, she has a baby and doesn’t want to subject him to second hand smoke. In our apartment, there is also a baby, but who can resist lighting up while defrosting her meat in our microwave oven? Her elder son, an accomplished hooligan at a tender age of 11, draws a big heart on the snow and tells me he loves me. The next day, he says he changed his mind, he loves Tanya from his class. He is the one to tell me there is no Santa; the medical kit I dreamt of and found under the tree was procured by his mother. I pretend to know that. He is also the one to break the news to me that my mom is pregnant. I pretend to know that too. Through a grapevine, I heard that he recently got out of prison in Chicago. His mom, the doctor, looked up my parents in the White Pages and called to say "hello" and share what a gifted flutist her younger son had become; no mention of the other gifted son.
Instead of making me long for some warm neighbors (mine don’t say “hello”), from whom I’d be able to borrow a cup of sugar and to whom I’d gladly give a few eggs should they need some for baking cookies, some of which to be shared with me over pleasantries, this essay made me remember some of the neighbors I’ve had in the past.
I grew up in a standard building in Russia, where hundreds of small apartments are still inhabited by people grateful not to share living quarters with strangers (for further explanation and illustration of communal living, visit this great website: http://kommunalka.colgate.edu/ Each floor of each section of the building has four apartments. #9 is ours.
#10: Occupied by Luda – 2 degrees: chemistry and foreign language, intellectual, reads books; her husband (don’t remember his name, let’s say Sasha), also educated, probably in foreign language; and Sasha Jr, a supposedly beautiful delinquent and drug addict who is drafted for service in the army as he is not pursuing higher education. Luda drinks heavily and tries to hang herself periodically. When Luda hangs herself, the neighbor from #12 rings our doorbell in panic so that she and my mom or dad can try to break in and take measures.
#11: Nina, an old maid in her 50s. Nina is from a village; she is street-smart and nosy. Sometimes she babysits my brother; once brought her niece’s son over. While she was watching my brother, her nine-year-old relative was trying to convince me to “show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
#12: A blue collar family; work at the watch factory.
#13 (4th floor, directly above our apt): My best friend in the neighborhood. Her mom, who eats sunflower seeds around the clock and reads mystery novels. Many years after we move, my friend confesses to putting a glass against the floor and listening in on my mother yelling at me. She was rooting for me. Many years after we move, my parents tell me about the late night drunken fights between my friend’s parents. No glass necessary.
#17 (5th floor): A couple with two boys, one a year older than me, the other a year older than my brother. She is a doctor, he is not (don’t recall his occupation, something in a puppet theater, not a puppeteer). She frequently visits our apartment for smoke breaks; at home, she has a baby and doesn’t want to subject him to second hand smoke. In our apartment, there is also a baby, but who can resist lighting up while defrosting her meat in our microwave oven? Her elder son, an accomplished hooligan at a tender age of 11, draws a big heart on the snow and tells me he loves me. The next day, he says he changed his mind, he loves Tanya from his class. He is the one to tell me there is no Santa; the medical kit I dreamt of and found under the tree was procured by his mother. I pretend to know that. He is also the one to break the news to me that my mom is pregnant. I pretend to know that too. Through a grapevine, I heard that he recently got out of prison in Chicago. His mom, the doctor, looked up my parents in the White Pages and called to say "hello" and share what a gifted flutist her younger son had become; no mention of the other gifted son.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thou Shalt Not... Be a Hypocrite
I thought it was only logical to follow my taboo discussion of politics with a discussion on organized religion. The subject is entirely unoriginal as are my thoughts on it. Yet, I hope you will read on and maybe, if I am lucky enough, you will even respond.
While having dinner last night, my non-Jewish (see Pass Over Me entry) husband and I were perusing through our favorite reading material, the Pennysaver. The weekly issue is full of useful and useless ads, which I enjoy equally. Looks like Temple Sons of Israel in the neighboring village hired an eager summer intern for their PR department! In three separate announcements, the Sons invite native Hebrew speaking kids to attend their Hebrew classes, non-Jewish parents who are raising Jewish children (in most cases, mail order brides) to learn about how to do so successfully, and folks who are not yet ready to join a synagogue to attend their school for a year without membership. After laughing about the mail order bride support group, we focused on the last ad, which should really read: “If you don’t have the money for a full membership yet, we’ll take some of your money for a year.” This made me remember my days in Central Florida , where Rabbi Aaron Rubinger reigned over a “chamber of commerce” (astutely labeled by my dad at the time).
Before I go on with my grievances about Rabbi Rubinger and his helpers, I want to acknowledge that the Jewish community as a whole was extremely helpful and generous in the first few months of our transition.
As a fresh immigrant teen, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with that group of well-to-do insincere hacks. The temple graciously waived the annual membership fee for the “new Americans,” but my parents quit going even before the year was up. As I was describing the hypocrisy of this institution to my husband and getting worked up about it, he reminded me about the atrocities committed by Catholic Church; well, I hope he can share his experiences, but I will speak of what I know best - Congregation Ohev Shalom. Ohev Shalom promoted a relatively relaxed form of Judaism, one where members drove to the temple on Shabbat and repeated Hebrew texts like parrots, without understanding a single word. I, too, learned to read in that mysterious tongue, but never quite mastered the random bowing movements (bend bow left bow center bend bow release?).
On one blazing hot Yom Kippur, an observant family of recent Bukharian immigrants put on their “Yom Kippur” best and marched for miles to the synagogue. Upon arriving, they were turned away for they did not have tickets to attend the exclusive services. At about the same time, my cousin was having his Bar Mitzvah and Rubinger gave a touching speech about his family being the only Russian family to truly embrace the Jewish way of life and remain with the temple. Others, he said, got too busy with their lives to continue with their commitment. He never bothered to ask any of the other Russian families why they didn’t stay, and my family did
n’t bother to come back.
Rubinger, I hear, went on to divorce his ailing wife and marry a congregant, but continued preaching about family values. He managed to raise a few daughters, who look and act more like Madonna circa 1988 than say… Rachel. I am sure he is convinced he is holier-than-thou, but he better rejoice he’s not a Catholic or he’d be going straight to hell – as a Jew, he just won’t be raised from the dead when the moshiah finally shows up.
P.S. Thoughts on God: As I finished this blog, I just saw some breaking news - a registered sex offender won $57M in lottery.
While having dinner last night, my non-Jewish (see Pass Over Me entry) husband and I were perusing through our favorite reading material, the Pennysaver. The weekly issue is full of useful and useless ads, which I enjoy equally. Looks like Temple Sons of Israel in the neighboring village hired an eager summer intern for their PR department! In three separate announcements, the Sons invite native Hebrew speaking kids to attend their Hebrew classes, non-Jewish parents who are raising Jewish children (in most cases, mail order brides) to learn about how to do so successfully, and folks who are not yet ready to join a synagogue to attend their school for a year without membership. After laughing about the mail order bride support group, we focused on the last ad, which should really read: “If you don’t have the money for a full membership yet, we’ll take some of your money for a year.” This made me remember my days in Central Florida , where Rabbi Aaron Rubinger reigned over a “chamber of commerce” (astutely labeled by my dad at the time).
Before I go on with my grievances about Rabbi Rubinger and his helpers, I want to acknowledge that the Jewish community as a whole was extremely helpful and generous in the first few months of our transition.
As a fresh immigrant teen, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with that group of well-to-do insincere hacks. The temple graciously waived the annual membership fee for the “new Americans,” but my parents quit going even before the year was up. As I was describing the hypocrisy of this institution to my husband and getting worked up about it, he reminded me about the atrocities committed by Catholic Church; well, I hope he can share his experiences, but I will speak of what I know best - Congregation Ohev Shalom. Ohev Shalom promoted a relatively relaxed form of Judaism, one where members drove to the temple on Shabbat and repeated Hebrew texts like parrots, without understanding a single word. I, too, learned to read in that mysterious tongue, but never quite mastered the random bowing movements (bend bow left bow center bend bow release?).
On one blazing hot Yom Kippur, an observant family of recent Bukharian immigrants put on their “Yom Kippur” best and marched for miles to the synagogue. Upon arriving, they were turned away for they did not have tickets to attend the exclusive services. At about the same time, my cousin was having his Bar Mitzvah and Rubinger gave a touching speech about his family being the only Russian family to truly embrace the Jewish way of life and remain with the temple. Others, he said, got too busy with their lives to continue with their commitment. He never bothered to ask any of the other Russian families why they didn’t stay, and my family did
n’t bother to come back.
Rubinger, I hear, went on to divorce his ailing wife and marry a congregant, but continued preaching about family values. He managed to raise a few daughters, who look and act more like Madonna circa 1988 than say… Rachel. I am sure he is convinced he is holier-than-thou, but he better rejoice he’s not a Catholic or he’d be going straight to hell – as a Jew, he just won’t be raised from the dead when the moshiah finally shows up.
P.S. Thoughts on God: As I finished this blog, I just saw some breaking news - a registered sex offender won $57M in lottery.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Babies on Politics
I had full intentions of staying away from politics on this blog. In fact, I will get back on track right after I am done with this entry. The episode I witnessed yesterday was just too good not to share. Also… I’ll try to remain apolitical in this description:
Sunday, 5PM in sunny and prosperous Greenwich, CT. The sun is reflecting off the pavement and the diamonds the size of boulders on the fingers of Stepford wives, who, having finished their leisurely brunching and shopping, proudly carry their perfectly identical, coiffed heads to their respective luxury vehicles.
Sunday, 5PM in sunny and prosperous Greenwich, CT. The sun is reflecting off the pavement and the diamonds the size of boulders on the fingers of Stepford wives, who, having finished their leisurely brunching and shopping, proudly carry their perfectly identical, coiffed heads to their respective luxury vehicles.
My husband and I are heading to some unremarkable café with outdoor seating after dropping off his son at his mother’s house. Our dubious gastronomical delight is accompanied by a chance to listen in on a full-blown political discussion led by a seven-year-old and his chaperones.
The table next to us is occupied by a father and his son, who are joined by someone who must be the father’s girlfriend mid-meal. The kid acts unsurprised and friendly enough, as though he’d seen at least a dozen of the similar kind join them for lunch before (after all, they don’t bother waiting to order and start eating without her). The woman, whose hair is way too long for her fourth decade, arrives with a gift to win the kid over and no intention to shut her mouth if only for a minute. Having been in a similar situation before, I am almost rooting for the woman until she launches into the following discourse.
Girlfriend: I am Felicia. But you can call me Flea. Like the insect. All my friends call me Flea. Do you know any other Felicias?
Kid: No.
Girlfriend: So, who are you voting for, Michael? (I guess no one told her seven-year-olds don’t vote)
Father: Tell her, Michael!
Kid: John McCain. (I guess no one told him seven-year-olds don’t vote either)
Girlfriend: That’s great!
Father: Tell her why, Michael.
Kid: Because he won’t raise our taxes.
Girlfriend: So are you a Republican or a Democrat, Michael?
Kid: I am a Republican!
Girlfriend: You and I are going to get along just great, bud!
I am instantly reminded of coming home from school at about the same age and asking by parents who was better: Stalin or Lenin. It seemed that some other kids, who probably had the likes of Flea and Father for parents, had formed their opinions, and I was lagging behind.
Perhaps I am not keeping up with the times, but it seems to me that there is something wrong with training kids to spew their parents' political views, which they are not able to comprehend or counter. My stepson is neither a Republican nor a Democrat; his affiliation to date is with the Pooh Bears (the name of his class in school). And because I generally tend to agree with the Pooh Bears’ ideology (say “please” and “thank you,” share toys, wait your turn, be a good boy, etc.), he and I get along just great.
The table next to us is occupied by a father and his son, who are joined by someone who must be the father’s girlfriend mid-meal. The kid acts unsurprised and friendly enough, as though he’d seen at least a dozen of the similar kind join them for lunch before (after all, they don’t bother waiting to order and start eating without her). The woman, whose hair is way too long for her fourth decade, arrives with a gift to win the kid over and no intention to shut her mouth if only for a minute. Having been in a similar situation before, I am almost rooting for the woman until she launches into the following discourse.
Girlfriend: I am Felicia. But you can call me Flea. Like the insect. All my friends call me Flea. Do you know any other Felicias?
Kid: No.
Girlfriend: So, who are you voting for, Michael? (I guess no one told her seven-year-olds don’t vote)
Father: Tell her, Michael!
Kid: John McCain. (I guess no one told him seven-year-olds don’t vote either)
Girlfriend: That’s great!
Father: Tell her why, Michael.
Kid: Because he won’t raise our taxes.
Girlfriend: So are you a Republican or a Democrat, Michael?
Kid: I am a Republican!
Girlfriend: You and I are going to get along just great, bud!
I am instantly reminded of coming home from school at about the same age and asking by parents who was better: Stalin or Lenin. It seemed that some other kids, who probably had the likes of Flea and Father for parents, had formed their opinions, and I was lagging behind.
Perhaps I am not keeping up with the times, but it seems to me that there is something wrong with training kids to spew their parents' political views, which they are not able to comprehend or counter. My stepson is neither a Republican nor a Democrat; his affiliation to date is with the Pooh Bears (the name of his class in school). And because I generally tend to agree with the Pooh Bears’ ideology (say “please” and “thank you,” share toys, wait your turn, be a good boy, etc.), he and I get along just great.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Volunteering my time, selling my soul
Please note that the following content is 100% true, not exaggerated, stylized, or otherwise altered to make for more entertaining reading.
Last Friday, my noble employer organized a collective effort to give back to the communities across the U.S. by volunteering its employees’ time to various causes. Activities in which one could partake ranged from planting flowers and painting schools to spending time with "geries" (as my colleague lovingly refers to the mature/geriatric population) and youths at risk. I selfishly selected a low-impact weeding/planting activity close to Central Park .
Weeding was actually very enjoyable, particularly because I don’t get to see the light of day much during the week, so I gratefully absorbed every ray of sunshine and took special pride in wearing my casual pants. This exercise required no skills; I was, however, reminded of how limited my vocabulary is, as I didn’t recognize at least half of the names for the tools I was supposed to use. Rather than stressing over my illiteracy, I consoled myself with the thought that I don’t know the names of the tools in Russian either (unless they happen to have the same names as the tools I played with in the sandbox as a kid). This is completely illogical, of course, but nothing was going to ruin my day of “giving back”… that is, until Frank showed up.
Now, picture this: A bunch of relatively young adults outfitted in the same light blue t-shirts with the company’s logo prominently displayed across the chest and company’s mission across the back, engaging in quiet small talk as they focus on pulling some dainty green plants. Out comes… dun dun dun duuuun (my impression of dramatic music effects; ok, so I guess I am embellishing a bit after all): Frank! Frank is wearing khaki shorts, tube socks, a hat, and most importantly, a white t-shirt with the company logo to stand out from the troops as a true commander-in-chief. Frank’s smile is so phony, I can sense it with my back to him. He exudes “leadership.” Frank is followed by a photographer/videographer and a diligent note-taking girl. To my horror, Frank and his crew make a beeline for my little plot.
Frank: Hi, I am Frank! – he extends his hand to shake mine, which is covered in two sets of gloves, gardening and latex. Frank doesn’t care to give his last name or explain who he is. This fictitious familiarity is but a thin veil of disguise for his uncontainable cockiness. He expects us to recognize and acknowledge his greatness, and I, no doubt, disappoint Frank with my ignorance.
Me: Hi… Excuse me a moment, I need to take off my gloves.
Frank: Oh, you don’t have to…
Me: Oh, OK - my gardening glove is already off, I now have the latex one on only, I extend my hand.
Frank: That’s disgusting! Ahahaha!
Co-Worker: Wow, you have an entire camera crew following you around!
Frank: Oh yes, when you get to be as important as I am, you get your personal biographer documenting your every step – he pretends to joke, but means every word.
This dumb exchange is followed by some further mind-numbing exclamations from Frank, who asks my co-worker and me to pose for a few happy pictures. We are then instructed to go up to the note-taking girl to give her our names. If we are lucky, our pictures will be featured in the company newsletter, acknowledging our significant contributions to the well-being of our community. As we get stand on line to give our names, Frank marches onto my plot to pose for solo pictures as he pretends to pull some weeds.
In my one too many years in corporate America , I’ve seen more dishonesty and hypocrisy than I can recall on a page. And though Frank’s shameless insincerity does not surprise me, it still makes me sick to my stomach. Frank, ironically, is anything but frank (you knew that was coming, right?), but in a way, his name couldn’t fit him better. He did, by the way, make it to the company newsletter with a group of other volunteers, who, unlike me, have photogenic faces and company spirit.
Last Friday, my noble employer organized a collective effort to give back to the communities across the U.S. by volunteering its employees’ time to various causes. Activities in which one could partake ranged from planting flowers and painting schools to spending time with "geries" (as my colleague lovingly refers to the mature/geriatric population) and youths at risk. I selfishly selected a low-impact weeding/planting activity close to Central Park .
Weeding was actually very enjoyable, particularly because I don’t get to see the light of day much during the week, so I gratefully absorbed every ray of sunshine and took special pride in wearing my casual pants. This exercise required no skills; I was, however, reminded of how limited my vocabulary is, as I didn’t recognize at least half of the names for the tools I was supposed to use. Rather than stressing over my illiteracy, I consoled myself with the thought that I don’t know the names of the tools in Russian either (unless they happen to have the same names as the tools I played with in the sandbox as a kid). This is completely illogical, of course, but nothing was going to ruin my day of “giving back”… that is, until Frank showed up.
Now, picture this: A bunch of relatively young adults outfitted in the same light blue t-shirts with the company’s logo prominently displayed across the chest and company’s mission across the back, engaging in quiet small talk as they focus on pulling some dainty green plants. Out comes… dun dun dun duuuun (my impression of dramatic music effects; ok, so I guess I am embellishing a bit after all): Frank! Frank is wearing khaki shorts, tube socks, a hat, and most importantly, a white t-shirt with the company logo to stand out from the troops as a true commander-in-chief. Frank’s smile is so phony, I can sense it with my back to him. He exudes “leadership.” Frank is followed by a photographer/videographer and a diligent note-taking girl. To my horror, Frank and his crew make a beeline for my little plot.
Frank: Hi, I am Frank! – he extends his hand to shake mine, which is covered in two sets of gloves, gardening and latex. Frank doesn’t care to give his last name or explain who he is. This fictitious familiarity is but a thin veil of disguise for his uncontainable cockiness. He expects us to recognize and acknowledge his greatness, and I, no doubt, disappoint Frank with my ignorance.
Me: Hi… Excuse me a moment, I need to take off my gloves.
Frank: Oh, you don’t have to…
Me: Oh, OK - my gardening glove is already off, I now have the latex one on only, I extend my hand.
Frank: That’s disgusting! Ahahaha!
Co-Worker: Wow, you have an entire camera crew following you around!
Frank: Oh yes, when you get to be as important as I am, you get your personal biographer documenting your every step – he pretends to joke, but means every word.
This dumb exchange is followed by some further mind-numbing exclamations from Frank, who asks my co-worker and me to pose for a few happy pictures. We are then instructed to go up to the note-taking girl to give her our names. If we are lucky, our pictures will be featured in the company newsletter, acknowledging our significant contributions to the well-being of our community. As we get stand on line to give our names, Frank marches onto my plot to pose for solo pictures as he pretends to pull some weeds.
In my one too many years in corporate America , I’ve seen more dishonesty and hypocrisy than I can recall on a page. And though Frank’s shameless insincerity does not surprise me, it still makes me sick to my stomach. Frank, ironically, is anything but frank (you knew that was coming, right?), but in a way, his name couldn’t fit him better. He did, by the way, make it to the company newsletter with a group of other volunteers, who, unlike me, have photogenic faces and company spirit.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Thank you!
I’ve been having some difficultly coming up with thought provoking blog entries, but I want to make sure that I stay on track and keep up the momentum I’ve developed. Just look at those endless comment strings on the bottom of my posts - I am really engaging my readers, they just can’t get enough! So I decided to leverage a popular structure for organizing random facts and opinions: a “top 6” list, which I’ll split into two “top 3” lists.
Here it is:
On my shit list:
1. People who use the word “leverage.” To be more precise, people who use that word and don’t have a sour taste in their mouths afterwards, but instead mentally high-five themselves for being so articulate. These are the same people who dream of climbing the corporate ladder all the way up to Super Duper Senior Project Manager, like to think of themselves as mentors to the younger generation of equally exciting individuals, and take pride in increasing efficiencies by cutting costs. Overall, these are real winners, at home and on the job.
2. Doctors who wear their coats (and sometimes stethoscopes) to walk their dogs. These can generally be seen on the Upper East Side , where the busy life savers just can’t spare a moment to take off their capes before attending to their four-legged friend’s excrements. The stethoscope can be key, you see, to differentiating the all-mighty MD from a lowly lab technician. A true status symbol and a guaranteed chick magnet for the 18-23 and the 30+ crowds.
3. “Friends” who don’t respond to my embarrassing attempts to start a virtual conversation.
On my nice list:
1. Train conductors on the Metro North lines. After riding the train for three years, I still can’t believe that ALL of them say “thank you” to each and every passenger for showing them the ticket. I am not sure what it is that makes these men and women so polite (as an avid googler, I’ve tried to find out), but I certainly appreciate it. What a contrast to their subway colleagues (granted, those professionals work underground in rat infested subways); I guess at the end of the day, the price of the “thank you” is just about $7 – the difference between the subway and Metro North fare.
2. John, a sixteen-year-old cashier at my favorite Mexican joint, who gave me free guacamole after unintentionally mixing up my “no dairy” and “yes dairy” burritos. Aaaah – America , the land of the discriminating (and frequently equally uncouth) consumer. Thank you, John…and by the way, the “no dairy” burrito was not for me; I, myself, prefer it loaded with sour cream and cheese.
3. You guessed it - friends, who respond to my blog… and don’t let their friends drive drunk, of course.
Here it is:
On my shit list:
1. People who use the word “leverage.” To be more precise, people who use that word and don’t have a sour taste in their mouths afterwards, but instead mentally high-five themselves for being so articulate. These are the same people who dream of climbing the corporate ladder all the way up to Super Duper Senior Project Manager, like to think of themselves as mentors to the younger generation of equally exciting individuals, and take pride in increasing efficiencies by cutting costs. Overall, these are real winners, at home and on the job.
2. Doctors who wear their coats (and sometimes stethoscopes) to walk their dogs. These can generally be seen on the Upper East Side , where the busy life savers just can’t spare a moment to take off their capes before attending to their four-legged friend’s excrements. The stethoscope can be key, you see, to differentiating the all-mighty MD from a lowly lab technician. A true status symbol and a guaranteed chick magnet for the 18-23 and the 30+ crowds.
3. “Friends” who don’t respond to my embarrassing attempts to start a virtual conversation.
On my nice list:
1. Train conductors on the Metro North lines. After riding the train for three years, I still can’t believe that ALL of them say “thank you” to each and every passenger for showing them the ticket. I am not sure what it is that makes these men and women so polite (as an avid googler, I’ve tried to find out), but I certainly appreciate it. What a contrast to their subway colleagues (granted, those professionals work underground in rat infested subways); I guess at the end of the day, the price of the “thank you” is just about $7 – the difference between the subway and Metro North fare.
2. John, a sixteen-year-old cashier at my favorite Mexican joint, who gave me free guacamole after unintentionally mixing up my “no dairy” and “yes dairy” burritos. Aaaah – America , the land of the discriminating (and frequently equally uncouth) consumer. Thank you, John…and by the way, the “no dairy” burrito was not for me; I, myself, prefer it loaded with sour cream and cheese.
3. You guessed it - friends, who respond to my blog… and don’t let their friends drive drunk, of course.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
The Art of Failing
I am back from yet another break I took from blogging. I will dispel your curiosity – I didn’t go on a safari, I didn’t skip town and move to Hawaii… In fact, I didn’t do anything interesting. I was studying for the GMAT, a standardized test designed to give the distinguished members of the graduate admissions committee insight into my academic abilities, business acumen, and general worth. Turns out I am priceless.
In the past, I’ve taken the GRE (to be the writer I always wanted to be) and the LSAT (to be the lawyer I thought I wanted to be). My current status of a full-time employee at a leading professional services firm will give you an idea of my consistent performance on these tests. About three and a half hours after walking into some welcoming test center, I leave a reborn woman. Nail polish chipped, hands slightly clammy. While some doors close, others – also close!
I have adopted a new outlook on general failure, which I attribute to my spiritual growth and occasional consumption of antidepressants.
Scenario 1 – Best Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Minimal
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: None – nothing to lose; the opportunity cost is zero!
Result: Failure
Example: A few months ago, I got the nerve to ask if I can one day come watch the chef cook at one of my favorite restaurants. I mentioned that I can help with any tasks and would gladly wash dishes. I left my number, and…surprise-surprise, no one called me back. Now, I am still in the same position as I was before asking, and I am only slightly embarrassed – not enough not to go back to the restaurant.
Scenario 2 – Moderate Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Some
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: Some self-worth, some time
Result: Failure
Example: I started submitting some of my writing to publications. This obviously involved writing and then (ugh!) filling out multiple forms and submitting my work. I also had to research the publications and submit to a variety of journals, ranging from some that would you can actually buy at a newsstand to some that are probably edited by a bunch of high school juniors in an English club. Slowly but surely, the rejections started flooding my mailbox. One rejection got spammed – even Yahoo! couldn’t imagine that I could possibly get so many “thank you, but no, thank you” emails.
Scenario 3 – Worst Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Enormous
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: Most of limited self confidence, too much time
Result: Failure
Example: Insert your own here
In the past, I’ve taken the GRE (to be the writer I always wanted to be) and the LSAT (to be the lawyer I thought I wanted to be). My current status of a full-time employee at a leading professional services firm will give you an idea of my consistent performance on these tests. About three and a half hours after walking into some welcoming test center, I leave a reborn woman. Nail polish chipped, hands slightly clammy. While some doors close, others – also close!
I have adopted a new outlook on general failure, which I attribute to my spiritual growth and occasional consumption of antidepressants.
Scenario 1 – Best Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Minimal
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: None – nothing to lose; the opportunity cost is zero!
Result: Failure
Example: A few months ago, I got the nerve to ask if I can one day come watch the chef cook at one of my favorite restaurants. I mentioned that I can help with any tasks and would gladly wash dishes. I left my number, and…surprise-surprise, no one called me back. Now, I am still in the same position as I was before asking, and I am only slightly embarrassed – not enough not to go back to the restaurant.
Scenario 2 – Moderate Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Some
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: Some self-worth, some time
Result: Failure
Example: I started submitting some of my writing to publications. This obviously involved writing and then (ugh!) filling out multiple forms and submitting my work. I also had to research the publications and submit to a variety of journals, ranging from some that would you can actually buy at a newsstand to some that are probably edited by a bunch of high school juniors in an English club. Slowly but surely, the rejections started flooding my mailbox. One rejection got spammed – even Yahoo! couldn’t imagine that I could possibly get so many “thank you, but no, thank you” emails.
Scenario 3 – Worst Case of Failure
Amount of effort exerted: Enormous
Assets (material, emotional, and other) at stake: Most of limited self confidence, too much time
Result: Failure
Example: Insert your own here
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Healthy Spirit, Healthy Body
Fitness has never been a big part of my life… Aside from joining my mother to “jazzercise” in Orlando, Fl at a civic center, where I stood right behind a petite forty-five year-old eager to highlight her little butt with one of those exercise suits that involve a thong, I haven’t done much exercise at all. I guess I can also count that season of Lacrosse my sophomore year of high school, which I joined exclusively to get an athletic activity on my college application. I did, by the way, have it on my college application, and of course, it impressed no one. I got to wear a cute skirt, cleats, and a sexy mouth guard – so it was totally worth it.
Recently, though, I started going to a local gym. After living in Brooklyn and then attending Baruch, the local Westchester gym seems like a genuine slice of Americana. The Pilates class consists of a few stay-at-home mothers, a few senior citizens, and a hand-full of men. Then men in the class are really special. The loudest and most energetic gentleman sports at least 30 extra pounds, shapely womanly hips and a unique walk (think third position, shifting weight toe to heel as he sways from side to side). He squeals like a pig during each exercise and either amuses or annoys everyone. I am, obviously, not amused. To top it off, he wears a Freedom Is Not Free t-shirt. One time he brought his 12-year-old daughter to class; I am not sure what she had done to deserve such trauma. Lately, his squealing has become especially obnoxious, so much so that my muttering “shut up” under my breath has evolved into a quiet whisper of “shut the fuck up.”
Moving on to my West African dance class. This one is great too. The audience here, as you might guess, is slightly different. Again, we are mostly dealing with stay-at-homes. These ladies, however, are what you may refer to as more “sophisticated.” Most are Manhattan transplants, who moved up north to breed. Think reusable bag carrying, organic coffee drinking, yoga-loving ladies, who pride themselves on having seen Life is Beautiful and talk about what a great book Eat, Pray, Love is. It is at West African dance that I meet a fellow Russian. Actually, two Russians! You can only imagine the excitement for the American contingent in class: an entire three Russians in the same room! Wow! That’s so great! Most contained themselves, and I couldn’t believe that we would actually finish the class without the usual: “Do you guys all know each other?” Finally, one busted out with the expected. Now we are forced into the familiar conversation. “Where are you from?” the lady asks across the room.
Me: Moscow . And you?
Lady: St. Petersburg . We don’t like you.
Me: …ummmm OK
Lady: How long have you been here?
…and so on.
Thankfully, there are no men in this class. Except for one. He comes there with his wife… It is really awkward to do my cardio African booty shaking exercises when he is there; I feel like I am peeping at what can be nothing other than an attempt at couples therapy.
Next stop: common exercise area with all the machines. I do my ridiculous speed walk on a treadmill next to an enthusiastic marathon runner, who keeps farting the entire 26 miles. I try to be polite and ignore the stench, but then remind myself that I, too, pay an arm and a leg for the opportunity to walk in place, and I deserve better! So I move across the floor (now I am facing the runner), far away enough to stare at him bravely. “You, sir, are disgusting!” – I burn at least 10 calories channeling my revulsion through my eyes.
My experiences in the locker room are quite unique too. After missing gym for a few days, I finally make an appearance. The atmosphere in the locker room is very congenial, I must say. One of the ladies (she is a real estate agent, so she has superior social skills) starts inquiring where I have been the last few days:
Lady: Where have you been?
Me: I’ve been sick and really tired in the mornings (it’s 6 AM for reference)
Lady: You have Lymes desease?
Me: Ummm… no
Lady: Are you sure? My husband had Lymes, he was tired all the time.
On this note, I invite you to share your own gym experiences. This blog has turned more into a newsletter, with people emailing me responses rather than engaging in anonymous discussion on the site. Gregory/Fan – perhaps, you can tell us about the fitness regimen of your Nordic countrymen. What do you do to stay tall and lean? Valerie – I’d love to hear your experiences with the rich and famous at Chelsea … Don’t disappoint me.
P.S. I have a few free passes to my gym. If anyone is interested in West African dance, this is your chance. Free Freedom is Not Free t-shirts for those who come.
Recently, though, I started going to a local gym. After living in Brooklyn and then attending Baruch, the local Westchester gym seems like a genuine slice of Americana. The Pilates class consists of a few stay-at-home mothers, a few senior citizens, and a hand-full of men. Then men in the class are really special. The loudest and most energetic gentleman sports at least 30 extra pounds, shapely womanly hips and a unique walk (think third position, shifting weight toe to heel as he sways from side to side). He squeals like a pig during each exercise and either amuses or annoys everyone. I am, obviously, not amused. To top it off, he wears a Freedom Is Not Free t-shirt. One time he brought his 12-year-old daughter to class; I am not sure what she had done to deserve such trauma. Lately, his squealing has become especially obnoxious, so much so that my muttering “shut up” under my breath has evolved into a quiet whisper of “shut the fuck up.”
Moving on to my West African dance class. This one is great too. The audience here, as you might guess, is slightly different. Again, we are mostly dealing with stay-at-homes. These ladies, however, are what you may refer to as more “sophisticated.” Most are Manhattan transplants, who moved up north to breed. Think reusable bag carrying, organic coffee drinking, yoga-loving ladies, who pride themselves on having seen Life is Beautiful and talk about what a great book Eat, Pray, Love is. It is at West African dance that I meet a fellow Russian. Actually, two Russians! You can only imagine the excitement for the American contingent in class: an entire three Russians in the same room! Wow! That’s so great! Most contained themselves, and I couldn’t believe that we would actually finish the class without the usual: “Do you guys all know each other?” Finally, one busted out with the expected. Now we are forced into the familiar conversation. “Where are you from?” the lady asks across the room.
Me: Moscow . And you?
Lady: St. Petersburg . We don’t like you.
Me: …ummmm OK
Lady: How long have you been here?
…and so on.
Thankfully, there are no men in this class. Except for one. He comes there with his wife… It is really awkward to do my cardio African booty shaking exercises when he is there; I feel like I am peeping at what can be nothing other than an attempt at couples therapy.
Next stop: common exercise area with all the machines. I do my ridiculous speed walk on a treadmill next to an enthusiastic marathon runner, who keeps farting the entire 26 miles. I try to be polite and ignore the stench, but then remind myself that I, too, pay an arm and a leg for the opportunity to walk in place, and I deserve better! So I move across the floor (now I am facing the runner), far away enough to stare at him bravely. “You, sir, are disgusting!” – I burn at least 10 calories channeling my revulsion through my eyes.
My experiences in the locker room are quite unique too. After missing gym for a few days, I finally make an appearance. The atmosphere in the locker room is very congenial, I must say. One of the ladies (she is a real estate agent, so she has superior social skills) starts inquiring where I have been the last few days:
Lady: Where have you been?
Me: I’ve been sick and really tired in the mornings (it’s 6 AM for reference)
Lady: You have Lymes desease?
Me: Ummm… no
Lady: Are you sure? My husband had Lymes, he was tired all the time.
On this note, I invite you to share your own gym experiences. This blog has turned more into a newsletter, with people emailing me responses rather than engaging in anonymous discussion on the site. Gregory/Fan – perhaps, you can tell us about the fitness regimen of your Nordic countrymen. What do you do to stay tall and lean? Valerie – I’d love to hear your experiences with the rich and famous at Chelsea … Don’t disappoint me.
P.S. I have a few free passes to my gym. If anyone is interested in West African dance, this is your chance. Free Freedom is Not Free t-shirts for those who come.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Women of All Nations, Unite! Or not...
Today I was going to write about how things, places, and people go on without us, and how dangerous it is to expose your actual present, which consists of evolved memories, to the metamorphosed present of your past. Confused? Don’t worry – I abandoned that idea as soon as I read the NYTimes review of Baby Mama http://movies.nytimes.com/2008/04/25/movies/25baby.html (which I have full intentions of seeing, with or without you, FanofPolinaland!).
I haven’t seen the actual movie yet, so I cannot comment on its merits as a comedy. What I can comment on is the Times review by one Manohla Dargis. Of Amy Poehler, who is a gifted comedienne, Ms. Dargis says: “At 36 Ms. Poehler is at least 10 years too old for the role, as the softly focused close-ups suggest, but she’s a pip.” Though very critical of the movie, Dargis seems fond of Poehler’s performance. That, however, doesn’t excuse her ridiculous comments.
Those who know me will agree that I am by far not a feminist, but I find Dargis’s statement bitter and stupid. Although she is a professional film critic, she apparently finds it impossible to look past whatever those “close-ups suggest.” By the way, Amy Poehler looks great – certainly great enough to play a young white trash surrogate mother.
There is enormous pressure on women to look 25 whether they are 15, 35, or 45. And while I would be delighted to stop the aging process, I would hope to have something other than a few wrinkles to be criticized about when I am no longer in my prime. It is very disappointing to read a pseudo-intelligent woman voice such a dim comment, in New York Times no less.
I’d like to remind Manohla that Baby Mama is a comedy, and Amy Poehler is a character actress, not a Playboy bunny. I would also suggest Ms. Dargis look in the mirror prior to writing film reviews, to be humbled, if anything.
P.S. Naturally, I googled the hell out of Manohla Dargis – check this out if you’re interested: http://gawker.com/news/manohla-dargis/
I haven’t seen the actual movie yet, so I cannot comment on its merits as a comedy. What I can comment on is the Times review by one Manohla Dargis. Of Amy Poehler, who is a gifted comedienne, Ms. Dargis says: “At 36 Ms. Poehler is at least 10 years too old for the role, as the softly focused close-ups suggest, but she’s a pip.” Though very critical of the movie, Dargis seems fond of Poehler’s performance. That, however, doesn’t excuse her ridiculous comments.
Those who know me will agree that I am by far not a feminist, but I find Dargis’s statement bitter and stupid. Although she is a professional film critic, she apparently finds it impossible to look past whatever those “close-ups suggest.” By the way, Amy Poehler looks great – certainly great enough to play a young white trash surrogate mother.
There is enormous pressure on women to look 25 whether they are 15, 35, or 45. And while I would be delighted to stop the aging process, I would hope to have something other than a few wrinkles to be criticized about when I am no longer in my prime. It is very disappointing to read a pseudo-intelligent woman voice such a dim comment, in New York Times no less.
I’d like to remind Manohla that Baby Mama is a comedy, and Amy Poehler is a character actress, not a Playboy bunny. I would also suggest Ms. Dargis look in the mirror prior to writing film reviews, to be humbled, if anything.
P.S. Naturally, I googled the hell out of Manohla Dargis – check this out if you’re interested: http://gawker.com/news/manohla-dargis/
Monday, April 21, 2008
Pass Over Me
Passover at my parents’ household is really special… It is almost as important as the celebration of Rosh Hashanah, almost as important as the feast after Yom Kippur, and of course, much more significant than Chanukah (or any other minor holiday my people emphasize to measure up to our Christian brothers’ festivities). Crammed into my parents’ Brooklyn apartment are the immediate family members on my mother’s side, headed by my grandmother – the matriarch. Today, we will make our annual attempt to have a Seder.
Armed with a Russian-language instruction manual for a Seder, my grandmother tries to initiate the ceremony. Chicken soup is clearly not in any Haggadah (the instruction manual), but that will be our first course nonetheless. “It’s from a kosher chicken!” my mom notes proudly for the umpteenth time. “We’ve heard about the magic kosher chicken a million times already!” I say and immediately regret having said it. Did you know that the bullion from a kosher chicken comes out completely clear and tastes so much better? Now you do! “Nothing’s going to happen to you if you hear about it one more time.” she responds. Aaaah, finally, the Seder has begun.
I am famished and make sure that everyone I come in contact with knows just how hungry I am. My gentile husband inquires if “it’s one of those holidays you have to fast.” For someone who looks so good in a yarmulke, he should really know his holidays. Plus, let’s not forget that Passover was his Lord’s Last Supper.
Passover food is pretty awful. The women in my family really try, but there is just not much you can do. And the sight of gefilte fish alone makes my belly sink in disappointment. “Now we dip the parsley in the salt water to remember how we were slaves in Egypt and…” says my grandmother meaningfully and with feeling. “Yes, let’s do that…’cause we definitely don’t have any more recent sad events to recollect about,” I note. “You say that every year,” responds my mother, visibly annoyed. She is right, I do say it every year. Though to my defense, I say it only once a year, and I am on a roll today – I am acting out like a hormonal teenager and I cannot be stopped.
“Then we take a sip of the wine…” my grandma continues. “Is that the blood of Christian babies?” I ask my cousin. “No, we use the blood of Christian babies in the matzah mix,” he clarifies. “Now we break the middle matzah in half...” she tries to keep us on track before she is interrupted by my mother, who says that we’ve had enough and should just proceed with eating.
“Next year in Jerusalem!” exclaims my mother. “No, stupid, we don’t say that for Passover, that’s for Rosh Hashanah,” my aunt corrects her gently – my aunt is wrong, but it’s the confidence that you have in your voice that really counts. “Na zdorov’ye!” says my husband (he heard it from the movies, and although he knows it’s not correct, finds it amusing nonetheless). “Poyehali!” responds my dad enthusiastically. They’ll have to make do with polish potato vodka today, and if anyone is really watching upstairs, he’ll have to make do with our Seder.
Armed with a Russian-language instruction manual for a Seder, my grandmother tries to initiate the ceremony. Chicken soup is clearly not in any Haggadah (the instruction manual), but that will be our first course nonetheless. “It’s from a kosher chicken!” my mom notes proudly for the umpteenth time. “We’ve heard about the magic kosher chicken a million times already!” I say and immediately regret having said it. Did you know that the bullion from a kosher chicken comes out completely clear and tastes so much better? Now you do! “Nothing’s going to happen to you if you hear about it one more time.” she responds. Aaaah, finally, the Seder has begun.
I am famished and make sure that everyone I come in contact with knows just how hungry I am. My gentile husband inquires if “it’s one of those holidays you have to fast.” For someone who looks so good in a yarmulke, he should really know his holidays. Plus, let’s not forget that Passover was his Lord’s Last Supper.
Passover food is pretty awful. The women in my family really try, but there is just not much you can do. And the sight of gefilte fish alone makes my belly sink in disappointment. “Now we dip the parsley in the salt water to remember how we were slaves in Egypt and…” says my grandmother meaningfully and with feeling. “Yes, let’s do that…’cause we definitely don’t have any more recent sad events to recollect about,” I note. “You say that every year,” responds my mother, visibly annoyed. She is right, I do say it every year. Though to my defense, I say it only once a year, and I am on a roll today – I am acting out like a hormonal teenager and I cannot be stopped.
“Then we take a sip of the wine…” my grandma continues. “Is that the blood of Christian babies?” I ask my cousin. “No, we use the blood of Christian babies in the matzah mix,” he clarifies. “Now we break the middle matzah in half...” she tries to keep us on track before she is interrupted by my mother, who says that we’ve had enough and should just proceed with eating.
“Next year in Jerusalem!” exclaims my mother. “No, stupid, we don’t say that for Passover, that’s for Rosh Hashanah,” my aunt corrects her gently – my aunt is wrong, but it’s the confidence that you have in your voice that really counts. “Na zdorov’ye!” says my husband (he heard it from the movies, and although he knows it’s not correct, finds it amusing nonetheless). “Poyehali!” responds my dad enthusiastically. They’ll have to make do with polish potato vodka today, and if anyone is really watching upstairs, he’ll have to make do with our Seder.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Age of Innocence
And, I am back… I am finally getting over my strep throat, which I suffered through like a baby. A good blogger would have used this unexpected time off work to work on an entry, but all I could think of is what would I be willing to sacrifice to make this awful ear ache go away. The questions begin with the usual : “Would you be willing to lose half of your pinky toe?” The answer, so far, is “No!” “Would you be willing to live ten minutes further away from the city than you do now?” “No way!” (Note, this answer has been constant regardless of my distance from the city at the time) I get bored with the questions after about three or four, as clearly, I am not ready to give up much. More importantly, no one is offering me any deals, and I should probably check my temperature and get on with feeling sorry for myself.
My amazing parents rushed from Brooklyn to Westchester to make me some magical chicken soup my mother refers to as “Jewish penicillin.” I felt lucky, loved, and about fifteen. Then I remembered that I am not fifteen, but still felt lucky and loved. Then I felt not fifteen at all, not even nineteen… I mostly felt NOT. It dawned on me that now is my real age of innocence. The years traditionally referred to as the age of innocence seem more like a time of ignorance and delusions. The real search begins once you’ve been deconstructed, classified and filed by time and events and not just by the little crazies (that’s a real scientific term for you) in your head.
Recently, someone accomplished and successful gave me feedback on my writing. “How old are you?” she asked. “Twenty-six,” I answered. Pause. “So…not so young,” I added reluctantly. Pause. “Not so old either,” she added, also reluctantly. We both were thinking: “You really should have your shit together by now.”
The last few years have drafted an extensive list of things I am not and things I will not be. Disappointing? Today, it is almost liberating.
I have learned to accept that I will always have insecurities. This is very different from embracing your insecurities or accepting your shortcomings. I, on the contrary, have made peace with the fact that I will always be unsatisfied with certain aspects of self. It’s kind of like accepting that you are neurotic… which you shouldn’t – there are many treatment options.
P.S. Being fifteen sucks, of course. And I do have the most important part figured out, fanofpolinaland.
My amazing parents rushed from Brooklyn to Westchester to make me some magical chicken soup my mother refers to as “Jewish penicillin.” I felt lucky, loved, and about fifteen. Then I remembered that I am not fifteen, but still felt lucky and loved. Then I felt not fifteen at all, not even nineteen… I mostly felt NOT. It dawned on me that now is my real age of innocence. The years traditionally referred to as the age of innocence seem more like a time of ignorance and delusions. The real search begins once you’ve been deconstructed, classified and filed by time and events and not just by the little crazies (that’s a real scientific term for you) in your head.
Recently, someone accomplished and successful gave me feedback on my writing. “How old are you?” she asked. “Twenty-six,” I answered. Pause. “So…not so young,” I added reluctantly. Pause. “Not so old either,” she added, also reluctantly. We both were thinking: “You really should have your shit together by now.”
The last few years have drafted an extensive list of things I am not and things I will not be. Disappointing? Today, it is almost liberating.
I have learned to accept that I will always have insecurities. This is very different from embracing your insecurities or accepting your shortcomings. I, on the contrary, have made peace with the fact that I will always be unsatisfied with certain aspects of self. It’s kind of like accepting that you are neurotic… which you shouldn’t – there are many treatment options.
P.S. Being fifteen sucks, of course. And I do have the most important part figured out, fanofpolinaland.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Saving Book
I wasn’t going to write anything until next week or so, but I just couldn't contain myself after reading this article: Bible is America 's favorite book: poll (http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080408/lf_nm_life/reading_survey_dc)
First, the clever Yahoo! marketers (or “marketeers” – the term my pseudo-professor used in a grad school course, which was part of the reason I quit) caught my wandering eye with the promising tag-line, which read something like “Guess which book is America ’s favorite…” Now, it doesn’t take a genius to guess; so I guessed right: The Bible.
I wonder what people giving this answer think they are conveying about themselves? That they are good god-fearing Americans? Do they think this answer fools anyone into thinking they actually read? I’d go so far as to guess that the very same people who give this answer would not buy it from anyone else. And how many of them actually read the bible? I bet few, if any; not even the Cliffsnotes (like Valerie’s pal from the previous post). I admit to reading the children’s version at the tender age of 11 and thinking that Abraham was a real prick. Joseph, on the other hand, was a real mensch, standing by his lady in her predicament. Who is your favorite character, dear reader?
But wait, this gets better: ”Men chose J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" and women selected Margaret Mitchell's "Gone With the Wind" as their second-favorite book, according to the online poll.” The article doesn’t specify if the poll participants were given set options or if they could enter anything they wanted, but in either case – these are real gems (nothing personal against either selection). And note how diverse and open-minded we are as readers...
Back to the Holy Book. I grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood of Brooklyn , surrounded by Soviet and middle-eastern Jews. Syrian Jews live primarily in large, multi-level houses spilling over the modest but priceless plots of land. Much wealthier than their Eastern European counterparts, members of the Sephardic community proudly display their achievements in business by driving luxury German cars and having big, clean, and unobstructed windows. A glimpse into one of those windows, however, offers nothing of interest to a nosy onlooker like me. Aside from rows of religious tomes, I never spotted a single book. Walking by one evening with my father I asked him if he thought they have books at home. “Yes,” he said, “they have saving books.”
*For non-Russian speakers, please note that the term “saving book” refers to a document you receive when you open a savings account (in Russia ).
First, the clever Yahoo! marketers (or “marketeers” – the term my pseudo-professor used in a grad school course, which was part of the reason I quit) caught my wandering eye with the promising tag-line, which read something like “Guess which book is America ’s favorite…” Now, it doesn’t take a genius to guess; so I guessed right: The Bible.
I wonder what people giving this answer think they are conveying about themselves? That they are good god-fearing Americans? Do they think this answer fools anyone into thinking they actually read? I’d go so far as to guess that the very same people who give this answer would not buy it from anyone else. And how many of them actually read the bible? I bet few, if any; not even the Cliffsnotes (like Valerie’s pal from the previous post). I admit to reading the children’s version at the tender age of 11 and thinking that Abraham was a real prick. Joseph, on the other hand, was a real mensch, standing by his lady in her predicament. Who is your favorite character, dear reader?
But wait, this gets better: ”Men chose J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" and women selected Margaret Mitchell's "Gone With the Wind" as their second-favorite book, according to the online poll.” The article doesn’t specify if the poll participants were given set options or if they could enter anything they wanted, but in either case – these are real gems (nothing personal against either selection). And note how diverse and open-minded we are as readers...
Back to the Holy Book. I grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood of Brooklyn , surrounded by Soviet and middle-eastern Jews. Syrian Jews live primarily in large, multi-level houses spilling over the modest but priceless plots of land. Much wealthier than their Eastern European counterparts, members of the Sephardic community proudly display their achievements in business by driving luxury German cars and having big, clean, and unobstructed windows. A glimpse into one of those windows, however, offers nothing of interest to a nosy onlooker like me. Aside from rows of religious tomes, I never spotted a single book. Walking by one evening with my father I asked him if he thought they have books at home. “Yes,” he said, “they have saving books.”
*For non-Russian speakers, please note that the term “saving book” refers to a document you receive when you open a savings account (in Russia ).
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Sheep in the box
Welcome to PolinaLand… Before you make fun of the name of my blog, I’d like to mention that simply “Polina” was taken, as was “popopolina,” “popopopolina,” and many other exciting options. At least PolinaLand kind of rolls off the tongue, right? RIGHT?
Due to my ADD and general inability to focus on any single subject for fear of discovering, yet again, that I am just not good enough, I will introduce completely random topics each week.
I was initially going to write about the many embarrassing aspects of growing up in an immigrant family and circulate it with the five other immigrants I know, so we could collectively make fun of ourselves and our families. Then, two things happened. First, I came to my senses and realized it would hurt my family’s feelings… and that is the last thing I want to do. Second, my Indian friend sent me a link to stuffindianslike.com, and I quickly concluded that my take on the issue would never measure up in wit or in volume!
So instead, I want to share my thoughts on an essay by Rachel Donadio, published in New York Times on March 30, 2008. You can find It’s Not You, It’s Your Books online at http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207800000&en=5dc64df025008fd9&ei=5087%0A
I am by far not as well read as I would like to be. However, it certainly never prevented me from judging others on their literary choices. Hypocritical? Definitely! But, at least I am honest. When I was younger, the books someone read (or didn’t read) served as a simple, if not always accurate, indicator of intelligence. (I know intelligence is really not the right word, but bear with me) I no longer use this criterion extensively for a few reasons: A) I don’t make many new friends B) I had a chance to grow up just a little.
I don’t have “top 5” must read books; though major literary gaps can be alarming. Still, there are many books that will put the reader in my “please don’t talk to me” category. When my high school Russian for Russian-speakers teacher drew a parallel between Pushkin and Danielle Steele (after all, love is such a universal subject…), the world became a little sadder. I looked around the class for other grieving faces to see if I could make friends.
I am not sure how I feel about the idea of book clubs. Discussing books on a schedule is definitely practical and harmless, but something just doesn’t seem quite right about it. If anyone has thoughts on/experience in book clubs, please share.
But I digress… So, how many points do you think my husband earned when he gave me the first edition of The Little Prince as his first gift? A million! It seems that he would find most of the books I read boring or at best, depressing. Yet, he doesn’t reach for a Stephen King novel and instead opts for some essays on math or physics, which don’t interest me in the least. But not only can he see the elephant in the boa, he knows that the sheep is in the box! And that matters…
Due to my ADD and general inability to focus on any single subject for fear of discovering, yet again, that I am just not good enough, I will introduce completely random topics each week.
I was initially going to write about the many embarrassing aspects of growing up in an immigrant family and circulate it with the five other immigrants I know, so we could collectively make fun of ourselves and our families. Then, two things happened. First, I came to my senses and realized it would hurt my family’s feelings… and that is the last thing I want to do. Second, my Indian friend sent me a link to stuffindianslike.com, and I quickly concluded that my take on the issue would never measure up in wit or in volume!
So instead, I want to share my thoughts on an essay by Rachel Donadio, published in New York Times on March 30, 2008. You can find It’s Not You, It’s Your Books online at http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207800000&en=5dc64df025008fd9&ei=5087%0A
I am by far not as well read as I would like to be. However, it certainly never prevented me from judging others on their literary choices. Hypocritical? Definitely! But, at least I am honest. When I was younger, the books someone read (or didn’t read) served as a simple, if not always accurate, indicator of intelligence. (I know intelligence is really not the right word, but bear with me) I no longer use this criterion extensively for a few reasons: A) I don’t make many new friends B) I had a chance to grow up just a little.
I don’t have “top 5” must read books; though major literary gaps can be alarming. Still, there are many books that will put the reader in my “please don’t talk to me” category. When my high school Russian for Russian-speakers teacher drew a parallel between Pushkin and Danielle Steele (after all, love is such a universal subject…), the world became a little sadder. I looked around the class for other grieving faces to see if I could make friends.
I am not sure how I feel about the idea of book clubs. Discussing books on a schedule is definitely practical and harmless, but something just doesn’t seem quite right about it. If anyone has thoughts on/experience in book clubs, please share.
But I digress… So, how many points do you think my husband earned when he gave me the first edition of The Little Prince as his first gift? A million! It seems that he would find most of the books I read boring or at best, depressing. Yet, he doesn’t reach for a Stephen King novel and instead opts for some essays on math or physics, which don’t interest me in the least. But not only can he see the elephant in the boa, he knows that the sheep is in the box! And that matters…
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