Jeez – the last year has been intense. Everything that could have gone done the drain, was flushed down with plenty of toilet paper. But, I’m recouping and I came to the realization that I currently have nearly everything I want (a wonderful puppy, my own place, the greatest parents, an awesome older bro, and amazing friends) and things I don’t want (a soul crushing corporate gig).
It’s time to slow down, figure out the things and people that stretch my lips from ear to ear and eliminate everything that puts my tear ducts into overdrive.
It’s wonderful and sunny outside. And I have a date with Jack!
Ciao!
-Ida
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A cautionary tale for the ladies...
Each year, sixty million girls from around the world go missing. After yesterday’s proceedings, I could have been part of the statistic. And while I may be overanalyzing what happened to me, I figured I’d share my story, in case someone else ends up in a similar situation.
I was driving along Fountain, towards La Brea. There were several cars in front of me, and we were all slowing down to prepare for a stop at the upcoming red light on Poinsettia. Suddenly, a woman who appeared to be in her mid 40’s, jumped out in front of my car (and, thinking back on it now, I realize she was pretty selective about the cars she jumped in front of. There must have been three, maybe four, cars in front of me, going the same speed as I. Maybe I looked like a sucker. Or maybe, she was looking for a girl.) She looked frazzled and told me that her mother just had a heart attack. She then proceeds to ask me If I can help out by driving her. Meanwhile, there are cars behind me and an insane amount of honking ensues (I did, after all, stop at a somewhat busy intersection), so I pick up my dog Laika, who is sitting in the front seat, and tell this woman that everything is going to be just peachy and ask her to get in.
She tells me to drive to La Brea and Olympic, which puzzles me, because there is no hospital on Olympic and La Brea. I know there is a hospital on Olympic and Fairfax, because my grandmother had been there before. In any case, I don’t probe, at least initially. This woman appears to be in total shock.
From the moment this woman stepped into my car, Laika began biting her hands and when I would try to intervene, she’d bite mine too, but gentler. She has never done that with such persistence. I had plenty of people drive alongside Laika before. She might bite initially, but is quick to calm down, especially once I tell her to stop. But she’s still a puppy, and once in a while she’ll have her “I feel like being a little punk” moments.
Because Laika kept biting the woman’s hands, I glanced over at her nails. Two nails on her left hand were painted a bright pink shade, and the rest were disgustingly yellow. She noticed me looking.
“Excuse my nails” she told me.
I show her mine, to make her feel better; “Look, mine are not in the best shape either.” I had remnants of nail polish left on my nails, and while they were not nearly as bad, they were definitely not in tip-top shape.
She told me she is homeless , but didn’t look the part. She had a purse and no other belongings. Her clothes were clean and her shoes were way cuter then my 99 Cents Store flip-flops. She had make up on too; black eyeliner (which made her eyes appear bead-y and gave her face a slightly slanted appearance) and reddish-pink blush.
As we continued down La Brea, she turned the conversation away from her and her mother, to me.
“I’m psychic. And I feel like our energies click” she told me. “Did you ever meet people, who you just felt like you knew for a lifetime.” I have. Everyone has. And, I did just pick up a random woman on the street. Telling me I have stinky energy was not going to get her very far. Literally.
She continued; “You’re a really good person. You do a lot for others, but rarely get much in return.” Well, I did just pick up a total stranger, so I guess in relation to her, I am pretty darn nice. Plus, I haven’t met many “psychics” who begin conversations with” “You’re a horrible fucking person, your energy just radiates negativity; Clearly, I just HAD to jump into your car”. I just don’t think that’s a good sales pitch. But that sentence still stroke a nerve, because I am in a bit of a pickle right now and lately, life’s been kind of rough. Maybe it wasn’t even what she said; I was in a poor emotional state prior to picking her up. And nowadays, I’m a total cry baby. Shit, I cried when my neighbor, who has a cat, recently brought up the issue of the “no pets” clause in our lease. I mean, that certainly sucks (because I’m on the verge of getting kicked out), but it shouldn’t instigate someone to cry in front of pseudo- strangers. I just had a ton of shit just crash. And I’m a girl. So, yes, I ended up letting a tear slip in front of this strange woman.
“You are hurt” she proceeds. And I let another tear slip. No shit, Sherlock.
“You are suffering from a broken heart. You were in love.”
“It wasn’t love. It may have been infatuation” I reply. In reality, it was neither. But it’s a long story and I’m not driving her to San Francisco (where she said she was from).
“I’ll give you a reading. A true reading. I connect soul mates who may be millions of miles away. I have clients all over the world whom I’ve helped.”
And it should have hit me at this point that this lady is fucking bananas. But, as previously noted, I’m a bit fucked in the head right now and I assumed she just wanted to make some dough from her self-proclaimed psychic abilities.
As we’re driving along, I once again ask her if she’s sure that her mother is on Olympic and La Brea. There is nothing at that intersection, besides a gas station and a donut shop.
“My mother died nine years ago” She states.
Wait. Did I hear that right? Is she just in shock? Maybe she’s crazy? Or just needed a ride? I didn’t want to keep probing. It’s only a couple miles and it doesn’t take that much time out of my schedule. I guess I can be a pro bono taxi for a day. But then, she asks me if she could use my phone.
I look for my purse, take out my phone and give it to her. She dials a number, and calls some guy to ask him where he is. Odd, but I drive on.
He tells her he is on Pico and La Brea, at some market or a gas station. Fine, that’s just another block down from Olympic and La Brea and I can’t wait to let her out already; Laika’s constant biting is irritating me and the whole situation just keeps getting weirder.
I make a couple of U-turns, and get stuck at a red light. At this point, I begin to probe.
“So who had a heart attack?”
“My grandma,” she replies a couple seconds later, as though I caught her off guard.
“Okay. And who is this guy you’re meeting?”
“Oh, he is my grandma’s caretaker. He is supposed to give me information as to where she is.” And again, she bursts out in tears (but none come out).
How did she know his location prior to calling him? Was he usually hanging out at gas stations around that area? If so, why? Why couldn’t she get the needed information over the phone? Why did she have to ask a stranger to drive her to a pre-determined location, when she simply could off stood outside of a near-by Ralphs (which was 5 steps away from where I picked her up) and asked someone for change to use a pay phone, or their cell phone, to get the information she needed? Isn’t that a lot simpler then hitching a ride?
And, yes, at that point, it really should have hit me. But I continued driving. I was still confused as to where I’m supposed to leave her. So I picked up my phone again and was about to hand it to her call this guy again so that she can find out where he is, when I noticed that she left my phone on and he was still on the line (it’s been about three minutes since the first time she called him). Weird.
As we approach the intersection, I handed her the phone and told her to ask him where he is.
“Where are you? Oh, a gas station on Pico and LaBrea? I see it. Pump #5? Ok. We’ll be there really soon.” He says something to her, to which she replies, “just wait for me Rick, please, you won’t be disappointed. I promise.” This time, I noticed she hung up the phone.
And yes, again, that last sentence should of set off an alarm in my head. But I continue on, and Laika continues biting her, and me, when I try to stop her. At some point, the woman raises her hand, and gently hits Laika. She then states, “don’t make me hit you, puppy.” She noticed my facial expression in response to her statement, smiled and laughed it off, as though she didn’t mean it. It was at that point that I realized that this woman wasn’t Laika’s biggest fan and if something bad happened to me, something bad would happen to Laika as well.
After I made yet another U-turn (the gas station was on my left, and we had passed the intersection), we were stuck at a red light. I told this woman I’m not going any further, and that she needs to exit my car and cross the road to get to her friend.
She doesn’t get out and keeps looking over at the light.
“Are you getting bad vibes? I’m a woman too, I understand” she tells me, but still doesn’t move.
“Look, I’m not going any further; you have to come out here.” She waits a couple seconds, still intensely concentrated on the red light. I tell her again. This time, she finally gets out. There is no thanks. No "take care". No goodbye.
I realize that after reading this, many of you may be thinking “Jeez, Ida, you’re a moron. Wasn’t it obvious from the get go?” But honestly, it wasn’t. It all happened really fast, and seemed legit. This woman did not appear threatening and she distracted me by continually switching the subject; "let's talk about you," she'd say. I assumed she wanted some money and needed a ride. Would I do the same thing if a scary-looking, homeless man popped out in front of my car and asked for a ride? Probably not. Which is probably why a clean-cut, middle-aged woman is a more effective bait.
A lot of my writing here is post-analysis. At the time this was happening, my brain shut off and my emotions took over. I think it’s part of human nature, especially female nature, to want to help others. At times, It’s our Achilles heel.
It really wasn’t until after I got home that I realized just how thankful I should be that I am home and safe. And, I must say, I’m extremely thankful for Laika. Had it not been for her strange reaction towards this woman, and her consistent biting the entire way, I probably would have driven this woman all the way to gas station pump #5. It now occurs to me that I could of pulled up to a fairly empty gas station and been presented with a gun pointing to my head and there’d be nothing I could do.
Postscript: I was in a similar situation last Wednesday. I went to Whole Foods to get my weekly fill of their salad bar, and left Laika in the car for a couple minutes. It was a pretty cool morning, but it was getting hot fast, so I was running through the parking lot towards my car when I was I was intercepted by a girl with a baby, who were both sitting in the backseat of a car that was being driven by a man who I assumed was the girl’s dad. The girl claimed she was raped and pregnant. She showed me a hospital tag on her arm. The guy driving the car gave me the creeps and I was in a hurry. I tried to find out how I could help her, but she wouldn’t clarify. I told her I was running late and that she needed to stop and go inside the store so someone there could help her. Right after I got into my car, I felt horrible for leaving her. I still do.
I was driving along Fountain, towards La Brea. There were several cars in front of me, and we were all slowing down to prepare for a stop at the upcoming red light on Poinsettia. Suddenly, a woman who appeared to be in her mid 40’s, jumped out in front of my car (and, thinking back on it now, I realize she was pretty selective about the cars she jumped in front of. There must have been three, maybe four, cars in front of me, going the same speed as I. Maybe I looked like a sucker. Or maybe, she was looking for a girl.) She looked frazzled and told me that her mother just had a heart attack. She then proceeds to ask me If I can help out by driving her. Meanwhile, there are cars behind me and an insane amount of honking ensues (I did, after all, stop at a somewhat busy intersection), so I pick up my dog Laika, who is sitting in the front seat, and tell this woman that everything is going to be just peachy and ask her to get in.
She tells me to drive to La Brea and Olympic, which puzzles me, because there is no hospital on Olympic and La Brea. I know there is a hospital on Olympic and Fairfax, because my grandmother had been there before. In any case, I don’t probe, at least initially. This woman appears to be in total shock.
From the moment this woman stepped into my car, Laika began biting her hands and when I would try to intervene, she’d bite mine too, but gentler. She has never done that with such persistence. I had plenty of people drive alongside Laika before. She might bite initially, but is quick to calm down, especially once I tell her to stop. But she’s still a puppy, and once in a while she’ll have her “I feel like being a little punk” moments.
Because Laika kept biting the woman’s hands, I glanced over at her nails. Two nails on her left hand were painted a bright pink shade, and the rest were disgustingly yellow. She noticed me looking.
“Excuse my nails” she told me.
I show her mine, to make her feel better; “Look, mine are not in the best shape either.” I had remnants of nail polish left on my nails, and while they were not nearly as bad, they were definitely not in tip-top shape.
She told me she is homeless , but didn’t look the part. She had a purse and no other belongings. Her clothes were clean and her shoes were way cuter then my 99 Cents Store flip-flops. She had make up on too; black eyeliner (which made her eyes appear bead-y and gave her face a slightly slanted appearance) and reddish-pink blush.
As we continued down La Brea, she turned the conversation away from her and her mother, to me.
“I’m psychic. And I feel like our energies click” she told me. “Did you ever meet people, who you just felt like you knew for a lifetime.” I have. Everyone has. And, I did just pick up a random woman on the street. Telling me I have stinky energy was not going to get her very far. Literally.
She continued; “You’re a really good person. You do a lot for others, but rarely get much in return.” Well, I did just pick up a total stranger, so I guess in relation to her, I am pretty darn nice. Plus, I haven’t met many “psychics” who begin conversations with” “You’re a horrible fucking person, your energy just radiates negativity; Clearly, I just HAD to jump into your car”. I just don’t think that’s a good sales pitch. But that sentence still stroke a nerve, because I am in a bit of a pickle right now and lately, life’s been kind of rough. Maybe it wasn’t even what she said; I was in a poor emotional state prior to picking her up. And nowadays, I’m a total cry baby. Shit, I cried when my neighbor, who has a cat, recently brought up the issue of the “no pets” clause in our lease. I mean, that certainly sucks (because I’m on the verge of getting kicked out), but it shouldn’t instigate someone to cry in front of pseudo- strangers. I just had a ton of shit just crash. And I’m a girl. So, yes, I ended up letting a tear slip in front of this strange woman.
“You are hurt” she proceeds. And I let another tear slip. No shit, Sherlock.
“You are suffering from a broken heart. You were in love.”
“It wasn’t love. It may have been infatuation” I reply. In reality, it was neither. But it’s a long story and I’m not driving her to San Francisco (where she said she was from).
“I’ll give you a reading. A true reading. I connect soul mates who may be millions of miles away. I have clients all over the world whom I’ve helped.”
And it should have hit me at this point that this lady is fucking bananas. But, as previously noted, I’m a bit fucked in the head right now and I assumed she just wanted to make some dough from her self-proclaimed psychic abilities.
As we’re driving along, I once again ask her if she’s sure that her mother is on Olympic and La Brea. There is nothing at that intersection, besides a gas station and a donut shop.
“My mother died nine years ago” She states.
Wait. Did I hear that right? Is she just in shock? Maybe she’s crazy? Or just needed a ride? I didn’t want to keep probing. It’s only a couple miles and it doesn’t take that much time out of my schedule. I guess I can be a pro bono taxi for a day. But then, she asks me if she could use my phone.
I look for my purse, take out my phone and give it to her. She dials a number, and calls some guy to ask him where he is. Odd, but I drive on.
He tells her he is on Pico and La Brea, at some market or a gas station. Fine, that’s just another block down from Olympic and La Brea and I can’t wait to let her out already; Laika’s constant biting is irritating me and the whole situation just keeps getting weirder.
I make a couple of U-turns, and get stuck at a red light. At this point, I begin to probe.
“So who had a heart attack?”
“My grandma,” she replies a couple seconds later, as though I caught her off guard.
“Okay. And who is this guy you’re meeting?”
“Oh, he is my grandma’s caretaker. He is supposed to give me information as to where she is.” And again, she bursts out in tears (but none come out).
How did she know his location prior to calling him? Was he usually hanging out at gas stations around that area? If so, why? Why couldn’t she get the needed information over the phone? Why did she have to ask a stranger to drive her to a pre-determined location, when she simply could off stood outside of a near-by Ralphs (which was 5 steps away from where I picked her up) and asked someone for change to use a pay phone, or their cell phone, to get the information she needed? Isn’t that a lot simpler then hitching a ride?
And, yes, at that point, it really should have hit me. But I continued driving. I was still confused as to where I’m supposed to leave her. So I picked up my phone again and was about to hand it to her call this guy again so that she can find out where he is, when I noticed that she left my phone on and he was still on the line (it’s been about three minutes since the first time she called him). Weird.
As we approach the intersection, I handed her the phone and told her to ask him where he is.
“Where are you? Oh, a gas station on Pico and LaBrea? I see it. Pump #5? Ok. We’ll be there really soon.” He says something to her, to which she replies, “just wait for me Rick, please, you won’t be disappointed. I promise.” This time, I noticed she hung up the phone.
And yes, again, that last sentence should of set off an alarm in my head. But I continue on, and Laika continues biting her, and me, when I try to stop her. At some point, the woman raises her hand, and gently hits Laika. She then states, “don’t make me hit you, puppy.” She noticed my facial expression in response to her statement, smiled and laughed it off, as though she didn’t mean it. It was at that point that I realized that this woman wasn’t Laika’s biggest fan and if something bad happened to me, something bad would happen to Laika as well.
After I made yet another U-turn (the gas station was on my left, and we had passed the intersection), we were stuck at a red light. I told this woman I’m not going any further, and that she needs to exit my car and cross the road to get to her friend.
She doesn’t get out and keeps looking over at the light.
“Are you getting bad vibes? I’m a woman too, I understand” she tells me, but still doesn’t move.
“Look, I’m not going any further; you have to come out here.” She waits a couple seconds, still intensely concentrated on the red light. I tell her again. This time, she finally gets out. There is no thanks. No "take care". No goodbye.
I realize that after reading this, many of you may be thinking “Jeez, Ida, you’re a moron. Wasn’t it obvious from the get go?” But honestly, it wasn’t. It all happened really fast, and seemed legit. This woman did not appear threatening and she distracted me by continually switching the subject; "let's talk about you," she'd say. I assumed she wanted some money and needed a ride. Would I do the same thing if a scary-looking, homeless man popped out in front of my car and asked for a ride? Probably not. Which is probably why a clean-cut, middle-aged woman is a more effective bait.
A lot of my writing here is post-analysis. At the time this was happening, my brain shut off and my emotions took over. I think it’s part of human nature, especially female nature, to want to help others. At times, It’s our Achilles heel.
It really wasn’t until after I got home that I realized just how thankful I should be that I am home and safe. And, I must say, I’m extremely thankful for Laika. Had it not been for her strange reaction towards this woman, and her consistent biting the entire way, I probably would have driven this woman all the way to gas station pump #5. It now occurs to me that I could of pulled up to a fairly empty gas station and been presented with a gun pointing to my head and there’d be nothing I could do.
Postscript: I was in a similar situation last Wednesday. I went to Whole Foods to get my weekly fill of their salad bar, and left Laika in the car for a couple minutes. It was a pretty cool morning, but it was getting hot fast, so I was running through the parking lot towards my car when I was I was intercepted by a girl with a baby, who were both sitting in the backseat of a car that was being driven by a man who I assumed was the girl’s dad. The girl claimed she was raped and pregnant. She showed me a hospital tag on her arm. The guy driving the car gave me the creeps and I was in a hurry. I tried to find out how I could help her, but she wouldn’t clarify. I told her I was running late and that she needed to stop and go inside the store so someone there could help her. Right after I got into my car, I felt horrible for leaving her. I still do.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
...and I feel fine
Maybe happiness is like a sweet & sour recipe? Chicken. Ketchup. Brown Sugar and Pineapple Chunks .
Or a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s after a marathon? Calories out. Calories in.
Maybe, you’re supposed to feel a little sad when you’re happy? Or a little happy when you’re sad?
Maybe I’m just confused. Or really hungry. Or, potentially both.
Or a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s after a marathon? Calories out. Calories in.
Maybe, you’re supposed to feel a little sad when you’re happy? Or a little happy when you’re sad?
Maybe I’m just confused. Or really hungry. Or, potentially both.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Mooooo!
Dear Internet,
Here’s my sexual fantasy: I want to have sex in a barn. Covered in hay. Makin love to the sweet, sweet vocals of a cattle chorus.
-Ida
Here’s my sexual fantasy: I want to have sex in a barn. Covered in hay. Makin love to the sweet, sweet vocals of a cattle chorus.
-Ida
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Hello my lovely little friends...
I’m alive. Yup.
It’s pretty grand to be alive.
There are flowers. And there is sunshine.
And in eight weeks, I’m quitting my job.
Last day of corporate prison - May 14th!
Yup. It’s official! I will no longer buzz around from nine to five with all the other silly little worker bees, flying from one excel spreadsheet to another. I’m taking the window exit out of the cube farm.
And then, I will write. And play in the sun. And take pretty pictures.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Like a ship without an anchor…
During the last couple of months, I began harboring this itch. And I know this itch. I‘ve scratched it before.
It began at the exact place I’m sitting now; at the table nearest the trashcan in my favorite Barnes & Noble in Maryland. And, the more romanticized aspect of this whole affair is that I can almost positively state that it was exactly three years ago that I made the decision I’m currently set on reversing.
I remember the “aha!” moment. I didn’t drive straight home and tell the ‘rents “look, come summer, I’m moving back to LA…hasta la vista”. I kept it to myself, but spoke of it with certainty. I told random strangers, but never my closest friends.
And here I am. Again. Sitting next to my very own version of the Bodhi Tree (which stinks of sugary Starbucks concoctions). And it almost feel reverential.
I’m digging for a deeper meaning, when the pure reality of the situation is that I don’t like the “real life” I have in LA. It’s not the life I imagined three years ago. So, I’m re-imaging a life in DC; I’d land the perfect gig, meet awesome people, go to awesome places, and do awesome things. And magically, I won’t be the person I am, but instead be the person I want to be.
Moving is my short term, fuck-it-all solution.
I do love LA. When I’m not there. When I’m not working. When it’s not sunny.
And I hate DC. When I’m here. And when I’m working. And when it’s snowing.
If I quit a well-paying, upwardly mobile gig that supplies me with enough dough to grocery shop at Whole Foods, afford my own pad, and buy useless techie toys, would it be stupid? If I gave up and vagabonded cross country for a couple months, would it be crazy?
Better yet, is it rational to wake up in the morning, dread my day? Week? Year? And repeat it over a lifetime?
And is it absofuckinglutely insane, knowing that in three years time, I will likely reverse the reversal of my decision?
It began at the exact place I’m sitting now; at the table nearest the trashcan in my favorite Barnes & Noble in Maryland. And, the more romanticized aspect of this whole affair is that I can almost positively state that it was exactly three years ago that I made the decision I’m currently set on reversing.
I remember the “aha!” moment. I didn’t drive straight home and tell the ‘rents “look, come summer, I’m moving back to LA…hasta la vista”. I kept it to myself, but spoke of it with certainty. I told random strangers, but never my closest friends.
And here I am. Again. Sitting next to my very own version of the Bodhi Tree (which stinks of sugary Starbucks concoctions). And it almost feel reverential.
I’m digging for a deeper meaning, when the pure reality of the situation is that I don’t like the “real life” I have in LA. It’s not the life I imagined three years ago. So, I’m re-imaging a life in DC; I’d land the perfect gig, meet awesome people, go to awesome places, and do awesome things. And magically, I won’t be the person I am, but instead be the person I want to be.
Moving is my short term, fuck-it-all solution.
I do love LA. When I’m not there. When I’m not working. When it’s not sunny.
And I hate DC. When I’m here. And when I’m working. And when it’s snowing.
If I quit a well-paying, upwardly mobile gig that supplies me with enough dough to grocery shop at Whole Foods, afford my own pad, and buy useless techie toys, would it be stupid? If I gave up and vagabonded cross country for a couple months, would it be crazy?
Better yet, is it rational to wake up in the morning, dread my day? Week? Year? And repeat it over a lifetime?
And is it absofuckinglutely insane, knowing that in three years time, I will likely reverse the reversal of my decision?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
And I’ll continue blogging forever just because…
This is a blog that never ends
Yes, it goes on and on, my friends
Some people started blogging not knowing what it was
And they'll continue blogging forever just because
This is a blog that never ends……
Yes, it goes on and on, my friends
Some people started blogging not knowing what it was
And they'll continue blogging forever just because
This is a blog that never ends……
Oy-yo-yoi,
I don’t know what to ramble about.
But I want to ramble about something.
So, I’m rambling.
About nothing.
But I want to ramble about something.
So, I’m rambling.
About nothing.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Letter to God.
Dear God,
If you’re anything like the dude in the Torah; you’re probably not my biggest fan. Plus, you’re really busy listening to the prayers of devout Jews who keep kosher and don’t do shit on Fridays (although, technically, I fit the latter criteria…and when I feel fat, I skip the BLT for lunch). Anyhow God, when you’re not overly busy burning bushes on top of Mt Sinai, please take a quick read through my letter. If not for me, then do it for the environment.
God, I don’t ask you for much, as opposed to my whiney friends who constantly bombard you with their silly requests for a soulmate. I don’t bug you with requests for a winning lottery ticket either; although I do think you should consider it; just imagine all the good that can do. I wouldn’t ever have to go to work and that would make a lot of people happy.
But enough of tangent deliberations. The reason I’m writing this letter is that I’ve been noticing certain patterns that have drawn my attention to a few shortcomings in your intelligent design. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job; you’ve been doing it for eons and you’re probably better at it then I would be. Although, I am a really quick learner and am looking for a part time gig. My resume is enclosed.
Anyhow, God, every couple of months I get an urge to restock all of my bras. So, for the past week I’ve been doing some undergarment shopping and noticed that everygoddamn store is out of brassieres in 34B. Which leads me to believe that either 1) you’ve made too many women with my boob dimensions, much to the displeasure of many men or 2) you’re not producing enough kids in third world countries to work in bra factories?
Maybe you’ve been taking some time off? I’m guessing that’s why men invented plastic surgery and halter tops. Sometimes, you have to take the bull by the horns, right? Or maybe the prayers of men have been drowned out by the exploding Chinese population. I feel you God, one Chinese is hard to understand…I can just imagine how tough it is to decipher the prayers of two billion.
God, I’ll be stopping by Victoria’s Secret after work. Please make me a 34C by end of today.
Best Regards,
-Ida.
If you’re anything like the dude in the Torah; you’re probably not my biggest fan. Plus, you’re really busy listening to the prayers of devout Jews who keep kosher and don’t do shit on Fridays (although, technically, I fit the latter criteria…and when I feel fat, I skip the BLT for lunch). Anyhow God, when you’re not overly busy burning bushes on top of Mt Sinai, please take a quick read through my letter. If not for me, then do it for the environment.
God, I don’t ask you for much, as opposed to my whiney friends who constantly bombard you with their silly requests for a soulmate. I don’t bug you with requests for a winning lottery ticket either; although I do think you should consider it; just imagine all the good that can do. I wouldn’t ever have to go to work and that would make a lot of people happy.
But enough of tangent deliberations. The reason I’m writing this letter is that I’ve been noticing certain patterns that have drawn my attention to a few shortcomings in your intelligent design. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job; you’ve been doing it for eons and you’re probably better at it then I would be. Although, I am a really quick learner and am looking for a part time gig. My resume is enclosed.
Anyhow, God, every couple of months I get an urge to restock all of my bras. So, for the past week I’ve been doing some undergarment shopping and noticed that every
Maybe you’ve been taking some time off? I’m guessing that’s why men invented plastic surgery and halter tops. Sometimes, you have to take the bull by the horns, right? Or maybe the prayers of men have been drowned out by the exploding Chinese population. I feel you God, one Chinese is hard to understand…I can just imagine how tough it is to decipher the prayers of two billion.
God, I’ll be stopping by Victoria’s Secret after work. Please make me a 34C by end of today.
Best Regards,
-Ida.
Friday, April 17, 2009
I love silly boy messages.
“Hi Ida….uhm..uhm…ugh…I just called to say “Hello”. Hello!”
The kid was so off-script, I could sense mild apprehension.
I found it insanely cute-sy. Almost instantly, I felt a sense of comfort. I giggled and called back; “Hello…I’m just calling to say Hello.”
Maybe this “dating” stuff ain’t too shabby.
On a more cautionary note; if I like him, it means he’s crazy. And if he’s crazy, then I won’t like him. And if he’s not crazy, then he’ll think I’m crazy. And if he thinks I’m crazy, then he won’t like me.
Nevermind. This dating stuff is totally shabby.
“Hi Ida….uhm..uhm…ugh…I just called to say “Hello”. Hello!”
The kid was so off-script, I could sense mild apprehension.
I found it insanely cute-sy. Almost instantly, I felt a sense of comfort. I giggled and called back; “Hello…I’m just calling to say Hello.”
Maybe this “dating” stuff ain’t too shabby.
On a more cautionary note; if I like him, it means he’s crazy. And if he’s crazy, then I won’t like him. And if he’s not crazy, then he’ll think I’m crazy. And if he thinks I’m crazy, then he won’t like me.
Nevermind. This dating stuff is totally shabby.
Monday, March 23, 2009
If I were to get a tattoo...
I’ve been thinking (and that in itself is quite a rarity); I want a tat.
I want it to be something special.
Something that showcases my origin.
Something that can capture my individuality.
Something narcissistic .
And something simple.
I decided on… Знак качества.
I want it to be something special.
Something that showcases my origin.
Something that can capture my individuality.
Something narcissistic .
And something simple.
I decided on… Знак качества.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
God knows I want to break free...
I have been a corporate bitch for 1 year, 6 months and 27 days. I was hoping I’d dream up a plan by end of March and move on to “something or other.” It’s 13 days to month end, and no such plan has materialized; primarily because instead of dreaming and scheming, I’ve been snacking and slacking.
I’ve had quite a few mediocre plans, the majority of which involve 1) getting laid off or 2) quitting. I prefer the former. I’d like me some unemployment benefits. Besides, no one likes quitters, particularly not the ‘rents. As is apparent from the first sentence of my pseudo-rant, I’m still employed. So, I’m in a bit of a conundrum and have been forced to consider alternate ways of breaking free from the corporate shackles: alternative numero dos - quitting.
What would I do if I quit? I’d sell of all the useless shit I’ve accumulated, abandon my fancy-shmancy Hollywood crib, pack a few pairs of underwear and socks into my piece-of-shit Corolla and vagabond through the good ol’ States for a few weeks/months. Then, I’d cash in on my insurance policy; i.e., the rents’ couch,
I’d mooch off the folks for a couple of weeks and then take off to Moscow. There, I can stay at my dad’s friend’s crib. Maybe he’ll feed me too. When winter kicks in, I’ll hitchhike/couchsurf through Eurasia and the Caucasus . Once I run out of dough, I’ll re-occupy the rents’ couch until the reverse-mortgage part of the parent-child contract kicks in. That’s when I default and dodge. I’m thinking that once I hit thirty, I can combine internet dating and photoshop to meet another sucker whose photoshop skills rival my own.
The plan sounds pretty sweet, eh? The only unrealistic part of the whole shenanigan is moving back home. It was pretty sweet visiting the ‘rents for 2 weeks last year. They fed me well and baked me cookies. They didn’t insist I clean my room or closet; in fact, they cleaned it for me. They washed the dishes after me and bought me presents. It was lovely. But, having lived with them for twenty years, I know better than to fall for a 2 week honeymoon period. I’m fairly certain that after a month, I’d want to shoot myself. And if I shot myself, the plan would never materialize. And if the plan never materializes, what’s the point of moving back home?
Oi vay. I need a better plan. I’m working on one involving a millionaire and a puppy.
I’ve had quite a few mediocre plans, the majority of which involve 1) getting laid off or 2) quitting. I prefer the former. I’d like me some unemployment benefits. Besides, no one likes quitters, particularly not the ‘rents. As is apparent from the first sentence of my pseudo-rant, I’m still employed. So, I’m in a bit of a conundrum and have been forced to consider alternate ways of breaking free from the corporate shackles: alternative numero dos - quitting.
What would I do if I quit? I’d sell of all the useless shit I’ve accumulated, abandon my fancy-shmancy Hollywood crib, pack a few pairs of underwear and socks into my piece-of-shit Corolla and vagabond through the good ol’ States for a few weeks/months. Then, I’d cash in on my insurance policy; i.e., the rents’ couch,
I’d mooch off the folks for a couple of weeks and then take off to Moscow. There, I can stay at my dad’s friend’s crib. Maybe he’ll feed me too. When winter kicks in, I’ll hitchhike/couchsurf through Eurasia and the Caucasus . Once I run out of dough, I’ll re-occupy the rents’ couch until the reverse-mortgage part of the parent-child contract kicks in. That’s when I default and dodge. I’m thinking that once I hit thirty, I can combine internet dating and photoshop to meet another sucker whose photoshop skills rival my own.
The plan sounds pretty sweet, eh? The only unrealistic part of the whole shenanigan is moving back home. It was pretty sweet visiting the ‘rents for 2 weeks last year. They fed me well and baked me cookies. They didn’t insist I clean my room or closet; in fact, they cleaned it for me. They washed the dishes after me and bought me presents. It was lovely. But, having lived with them for twenty years, I know better than to fall for a 2 week honeymoon period. I’m fairly certain that after a month, I’d want to shoot myself. And if I shot myself, the plan would never materialize. And if the plan never materializes, what’s the point of moving back home?
Oi vay. I need a better plan. I’m working on one involving a millionaire and a puppy.
Monday, February 23, 2009
A conversation with my bro
“Lets drive to Alaska. Girls dig well traveled men.”
“No”
“You can claim to have fought loony bears with your bare hands…We can go to a bar, and I’ll confirm the story to the girl(s?!) you’ll be flirting with.”
“Wouldn’t you do that out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Goodness? Of MY heart?”
“Oh. Right. Still, NO!”
“It’s your birthday present. You have to go.”
“Fine, we can drive up to Yosemite.”
“You’re a genius! from there…it’s only a hop and a scotch to Alaska…”
“No!”
=(
“No”
“You can claim to have fought loony bears with your bare hands…We can go to a bar, and I’ll confirm the story to the girl(s?!) you’ll be flirting with.”
“Wouldn’t you do that out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Goodness? Of MY heart?”
“Oh. Right. Still, NO!”
“It’s your birthday present. You have to go.”
“Fine, we can drive up to Yosemite.”
“You’re a genius! from there…it’s only a hop and a scotch to Alaska…”
“No!”
=(
Because California is on the brink of bankruptcy...
It’s Friday night. 10PM. I take the Highland/Hollywood exit off the 101.
Goddamnit. It’s standing. The Oscar prep is on full blast. 5 minutes. 15 minutes.30 minutes. I finally make it to Sunset. The place is a parking lot. I can’t switch into the right most lane to make the right turn, so I decide to go straight and turn right on the next block. That’s the beauty of LA. The roads form an endless giant grid. There are hundreds of ways to get to your final destination; via a zigzag pattern, the no-bullshit-linear pattern, the kill-the-least-pedestrians pattern, etc …
I pass Sunset. Finally. There are tons of bright orange cones ahead and the lanes merge into one. Construction? An accident? Scattered around the orange cones are about 2 to 3 dozen cops. Are they taking a forced Friday off? Begging for change on the streets? Stupid Budget Crisis. Stupid Schwarzenegger. I drive slowly and cautiously, reaching for my jar of change.
There’s a stop sign. I stop. Count: One. Two. Three. Gas.
I continue on my merry path, moving at 2mph, trying to remain nonchalant. Traffic is boring. I make eye contact with a cop. Accidently.
He shines a flashlight and motions for me to pull over to the right.
Oh. Great. But I’m an exemplary, law abiding citizen! One who temporarily misplaced her driver’s license and who was just pulled over yesterday.
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I pretend to panic and frantically search for my purse. The whole damsel in distress bit worked quite well yesterday. I pull out my purse and continue the search for my wallet, which in theory should contain my driver’s license.
“A lady with a purple purse!” One of the cops jubilantly shouts. They’re both smiling at me.
I let out a deer in the highlights look, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’re fine, this is a random sobriety check point.”
Seriously. A sobriety check point? Right off the 101 Hollywood exit? It took me half an hour to drive two blocks! Multiply this by hundreds of cars, and hundreds of gallons of gas and 2-3 dozen cop salaries and I think we know why California is out of dough; Yes, it’s all my fault. I’ll try to cut down on my alcohol consumption.
Goddamnit. It’s standing. The Oscar prep is on full blast. 5 minutes. 15 minutes.30 minutes. I finally make it to Sunset. The place is a parking lot. I can’t switch into the right most lane to make the right turn, so I decide to go straight and turn right on the next block. That’s the beauty of LA. The roads form an endless giant grid. There are hundreds of ways to get to your final destination; via a zigzag pattern, the no-bullshit-linear pattern, the kill-the-least-pedestrians pattern, etc …
I pass Sunset. Finally. There are tons of bright orange cones ahead and the lanes merge into one. Construction? An accident? Scattered around the orange cones are about 2 to 3 dozen cops. Are they taking a forced Friday off? Begging for change on the streets? Stupid Budget Crisis. Stupid Schwarzenegger. I drive slowly and cautiously, reaching for my jar of change.
There’s a stop sign. I stop. Count: One. Two. Three. Gas.
I continue on my merry path, moving at 2mph, trying to remain nonchalant. Traffic is boring. I make eye contact with a cop. Accidently.
He shines a flashlight and motions for me to pull over to the right.
Oh. Great. But I’m an exemplary, law abiding citizen! One who temporarily misplaced her driver’s license and who was just pulled over yesterday.
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I pretend to panic and frantically search for my purse. The whole damsel in distress bit worked quite well yesterday. I pull out my purse and continue the search for my wallet, which in theory should contain my driver’s license.
“A lady with a purple purse!” One of the cops jubilantly shouts. They’re both smiling at me.
I let out a deer in the highlights look, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’re fine, this is a random sobriety check point.”
Seriously. A sobriety check point? Right off the 101 Hollywood exit? It took me half an hour to drive two blocks! Multiply this by hundreds of cars, and hundreds of gallons of gas and 2-3 dozen cop salaries and I think we know why California is out of dough; Yes, it’s all my fault. I’ll try to cut down on my alcohol consumption.
Soviet Humor
An American and a Soviet soldier kill each other and end up at the pearly gates
at the same time. Peter says “well, we have national division in hell as well,
but you may choose where you’d like to go. There is an American hell and a Russian hell.”
American: what’s the difference?
Peter: well, in the American hell you have to eat a shovel of shit a day.
Russian: and in Russian hell?
Peter: two shovels of shit.
American: I’ll go to American hell.
Russian: well, two shovels of shit, it’s not nice, but I was a Russian alive and I died a Russian and I’ll go to Russian hell.
Millenniums later, the same two soldiers end up doing sentry duty at the checkpoint at the border between American and Russian hell at the same time.
Russian: Hi hi hi! How you doing! Long time no see!
American: Hey! How are you, you look good!
Russian: how is it over there in American hell?
American: oh, one shovel of shit a day, you get used to it. How about Russian
hell?
Russian: well, you know how it is, one day there’s no shit, the next day no
shovels. . .
at the same time. Peter says “well, we have national division in hell as well,
but you may choose where you’d like to go. There is an American hell and a Russian hell.”
American: what’s the difference?
Peter: well, in the American hell you have to eat a shovel of shit a day.
Russian: and in Russian hell?
Peter: two shovels of shit.
American: I’ll go to American hell.
Russian: well, two shovels of shit, it’s not nice, but I was a Russian alive and I died a Russian and I’ll go to Russian hell.
Millenniums later, the same two soldiers end up doing sentry duty at the checkpoint at the border between American and Russian hell at the same time.
Russian: Hi hi hi! How you doing! Long time no see!
American: Hey! How are you, you look good!
Russian: how is it over there in American hell?
American: oh, one shovel of shit a day, you get used to it. How about Russian
hell?
Russian: well, you know how it is, one day there’s no shit, the next day no
shovels. . .
Thursday, February 19, 2009
FIFO, LIFO and Ida (FILO)
I am so tired.
My eyes are closing. Burning.
I’m at a client. In a conference room. Alone. Staring at my laptop. Trying to “get shit done”. My manager is calling. I pick up. She blabs and blabs. She asks me something. I reply with something. I’m Sleep-talking. She invaded my dreams last night.
It feels like I never really woke up.
Lost reception. Fantastic.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I still doing here?
The client’s Controller comes in. “Good Morning! Did you sleep here last night?!” He too blabs and blabs…”I hope you’re the senior on this job next year!” Oh god. Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. I inadvertently blurt out, “if I’m back here next year, shoot me.” He lets out a phony laugh. I try to elaborate “it’s not you…it’s me” This feels so much like a break up. I wish it was.
He knows I’m not kidding. We discussed this endlessly over lunch yesterday. I actually took a lunch yesterday . It was weird; stepping outside, daylight stabbing my bloodshot eyes. The pain trickled down. My heart ached. Gosh, sunlight. I wish I could be out playing.
This goddamn pattern. Will it end? Wake up. Work. Gym. Sleep. Repeat 5X. Chores. Clean. Gym. Bills. Repeat 2X.
Repeat 52X. Continue for the next 40 years. Retire. Die.
My mom called me last night. It was midnight in Crabby state. I’m just getting off work.
“You sound tired, gavnushka”
“I am mom”
“Everything will work itself out, you’ll see”
I can’t bear this. These words; they sting more than sunlight.
How can she say this? Nothing ever “worked itself out” for her.
I gag, holding back tears.
“I got to go Mama. I’m driving. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
My eyes are closing. Burning.
I’m at a client. In a conference room. Alone. Staring at my laptop. Trying to “get shit done”. My manager is calling. I pick up. She blabs and blabs. She asks me something. I reply with something. I’m Sleep-talking. She invaded my dreams last night.
It feels like I never really woke up.
Lost reception. Fantastic.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I still doing here?
The client’s Controller comes in. “Good Morning! Did you sleep here last night?!” He too blabs and blabs…”I hope you’re the senior on this job next year!” Oh god. Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. I inadvertently blurt out, “if I’m back here next year, shoot me.” He lets out a phony laugh. I try to elaborate “it’s not you…it’s me” This feels so much like a break up. I wish it was.
He knows I’m not kidding. We discussed this endlessly over lunch yesterday. I actually took a lunch yesterday . It was weird; stepping outside, daylight stabbing my bloodshot eyes. The pain trickled down. My heart ached. Gosh, sunlight. I wish I could be out playing.
This goddamn pattern. Will it end? Wake up. Work. Gym. Sleep. Repeat 5X. Chores. Clean. Gym. Bills. Repeat 2X.
Repeat 52X. Continue for the next 40 years. Retire. Die.
My mom called me last night. It was midnight in Crabby state. I’m just getting off work.
“You sound tired, gavnushka”
“I am mom”
“Everything will work itself out, you’ll see”
I can’t bear this. These words; they sting more than sunlight.
How can she say this? Nothing ever “worked itself out” for her.
I gag, holding back tears.
“I got to go Mama. I’m driving. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Monday, January 19, 2009
Caution: This is a Love Story.
I don’t write love stories (actually, nowadays, I don’t write much period). They’re cheesy and mega annoying.
But ever since that fateful day in March, I’ve been in love.
We met online on a slickdeals forum. I clicked on a link someone posted, and voila! There was Jack. His picture captivated me: He was black, strong, and made of steel. It was love at first sight. But I couldn’t just rely on impulses and emotions. Sure, he seemed perfect; but, like any other man, I’m sure he had his vices.
So, I did what any intelligent, human girl would do: I google stalked. I read up on my object of affection. His reviews were overwhelmingly positive. I’ve seen him at Best Buy before. I’d pass by, wink and pat my eyelashes. I don’t know if he noticed me then and there.
And then, on a decisive LA morning I skipped work and made my way to Best Buy; biting my nails, thinking of ice breakers, and figuring out what I can afford to offer in exchange.
When I laid my eyes on him again, I knew I had to take him home. So I did.
At first, I didn’t know how to handle him. I was scared. Scared that if I make the first move, unwrap his package, and snap away, we’d hit a point of no return. What if I don’t like him afterwards? What if he’s not who he appears to be? What if his extremity is not long enough? His focus is not sharp enough? And what if…I’m just not that into him?! He’d be an expensive mistake and I can’t afford to make those; I have a fragile heart (and an even more fragile bank account).
But you know what? I took a chance...and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
But ever since that fateful day in March, I’ve been in love.
We met online on a slickdeals forum. I clicked on a link someone posted, and voila! There was Jack. His picture captivated me: He was black, strong, and made of steel. It was love at first sight. But I couldn’t just rely on impulses and emotions. Sure, he seemed perfect; but, like any other man, I’m sure he had his vices.
So, I did what any intelligent, human girl would do: I google stalked. I read up on my object of affection. His reviews were overwhelmingly positive. I’ve seen him at Best Buy before. I’d pass by, wink and pat my eyelashes. I don’t know if he noticed me then and there.
And then, on a decisive LA morning I skipped work and made my way to Best Buy; biting my nails, thinking of ice breakers, and figuring out what I can afford to offer in exchange.
When I laid my eyes on him again, I knew I had to take him home. So I did.
At first, I didn’t know how to handle him. I was scared. Scared that if I make the first move, unwrap his package, and snap away, we’d hit a point of no return. What if I don’t like him afterwards? What if he’s not who he appears to be? What if his extremity is not long enough? His focus is not sharp enough? And what if…I’m just not that into him?! He’d be an expensive mistake and I can’t afford to make those; I have a fragile heart (and an even more fragile bank account).
But you know what? I took a chance...and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Monday, January 12, 2009
A day in the life...
Woke up, got out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and Somebody spoke and I went into a dream
***
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
If I say it enough times, will I get sick?
Are you sick? Can you sneeze on me?
AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and Somebody spoke and I went into a dream
***
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
If I say it enough times, will I get sick?
Are you sick? Can you sneeze on me?
AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
This is your brain on drugs...
Have you guys seen those anti-drug commercials? The ones that go….“This is your brain on…" I wonder if they’re looking for a few exemplary “cautionary cases” I am such a perfect candidate!!!
I found this the other day. I think I’ll title it “This is Your Brain after…1.5 years in Public Accounting.”
I always knew I belonged in Hollywood.
I found this the other day. I think I’ll title it “This is Your Brain after…1.5 years in Public Accounting.”
I always knew I belonged in Hollywood.
Far From the Madding Ida.
I don’t fucking get you, stupid “smart people“.
Scratch that. I do get you. You just don’t get yourself.
Or maybe, I don’t get whether I get that I don’t get you.
Smart people do not understand the most basic concepts. Smart people try too hard, too much, and go to far. Smart people preach that ignorance is bliss, but proceed contrary to that logic. Smart people are society’s whipping boys. How stupid.
Do smart people ever question themselves as to why they strive so damn hard to “achieve“ something? Why do they spend countless hours, entire lives even, solving complex problems? W-H-Y?
When I was “smart”, solving hard problems was like a masochist‘s wet dream. The solving part hurt like hell…but arriving at a solution was the smart-people equivalent of an orgasm. When I grew older andwiser stupider, I thought, “why must one suffer agony to reach an orgasm? Isn’t there a more direct/optimized path?”
It took years of hardcore research, experimentation, and the sacrifice of millions of brain cells; but I found the answer.
I feel like I figured out the “prime formula“ .
Scratch that. I do get you. You just don’t get yourself.
Or maybe, I don’t get whether I get that I don’t get you.
Smart people do not understand the most basic concepts. Smart people try too hard, too much, and go to far. Smart people preach that ignorance is bliss, but proceed contrary to that logic. Smart people are society’s whipping boys. How stupid.
Do smart people ever question themselves as to why they strive so damn hard to “achieve“ something? Why do they spend countless hours, entire lives even, solving complex problems? W-H-Y?
When I was “smart”, solving hard problems was like a masochist‘s wet dream. The solving part hurt like hell…but arriving at a solution was the smart-people equivalent of an orgasm. When I grew older and
It took years of hardcore research, experimentation, and the sacrifice of millions of brain cells; but I found the answer.
I feel like I figured out the “prime formula“ .
Monday, January 5, 2009
All by myself....
My living conditions are completely devoid of life. So, I got a basil plant. But it sort of died. I think it needed to be watered or something. Then, I bought this purple flowery thing, and I watered it once in a while. It was so lovely! But then it too wilted and died.
I think I’m going to get a cactus. But cactuses need sunlight. Maybe I’ll get a kitten. Do kittens need sunlight? Or water? I hope not. My apartment is pretty shady . Although, it’s a tad bit brighter since being painted last week. Today, the bro came by to check out my newly painted crib. After a tour of the living room, a quick rest in the restroom, he wondered into my room...
“How do you like the peaceful shade of light blueish-green? It‘s called Playa. Spanish for the Beach!”
He looks around. “You know….”he pauses briefly, his neurons fire back and forth in an attempt to find the most expressive words, “I really, REALLY, like your toilet paper. It‘s so soft.”
I may not make the best aesthetic choices, but I sure know how to pick toilet paper.
Anyhow, back to the kitten. I think it may need water. Which isn’t an issue, the toilet is overflowing. It probably needs food too though. I’ll let it hunt for mice and cockroaches. I might not have any, however. In which case, I’ll let it outside and it can fight the homeless fat cat for the charity food bowl. I’m sure it will win, if not…I’ll get another cat that can either fight or hunt.
If the kitten doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll get a roommate. They’re less likely to die.
I think I’m going to get a cactus. But cactuses need sunlight. Maybe I’ll get a kitten. Do kittens need sunlight? Or water? I hope not. My apartment is pretty shady . Although, it’s a tad bit brighter since being painted last week. Today, the bro came by to check out my newly painted crib. After a tour of the living room, a quick rest in the restroom, he wondered into my room...
“How do you like the peaceful shade of light blueish-green? It‘s called Playa. Spanish for the Beach!”
He looks around. “You know….”he pauses briefly, his neurons fire back and forth in an attempt to find the most expressive words, “I really, REALLY, like your toilet paper. It‘s so soft.”
I may not make the best aesthetic choices, but I sure know how to pick toilet paper.
Anyhow, back to the kitten. I think it may need water. Which isn’t an issue, the toilet is overflowing. It probably needs food too though. I’ll let it hunt for mice and cockroaches. I might not have any, however. In which case, I’ll let it outside and it can fight the homeless fat cat for the charity food bowl. I’m sure it will win, if not…I’ll get another cat that can either fight or hunt.
If the kitten doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll get a roommate. They’re less likely to die.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Sunday Morning
Sunday morning
And I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Ugh. Sunday. Friggin Sunday. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW!
Maybe I’ll win the lottery. Or get hitched to a Millionaire? Perhaps stumble on a million dollars someone dropped by the side of the road (hey man, I heard bank robberies are on the rise. Speaking of which….Maybe I’ll rob a bank.)
It’s too bad my dreams are completely unrealistic: No lottery today. No straight millionaires in close proximity. No banks open on Sundays. Fuck, why can’t things ever go my way?! Life is so unfair.
And I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Ugh. Sunday. Friggin Sunday. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW!
Maybe I’ll win the lottery. Or get hitched to a Millionaire? Perhaps stumble on a million dollars someone dropped by the side of the road (hey man, I heard bank robberies are on the rise. Speaking of which….Maybe I’ll rob a bank.)
It’s too bad my dreams are completely unrealistic: No lottery today. No straight millionaires in close proximity. No banks open on Sundays. Fuck, why can’t things ever go my way?! Life is so unfair.
I failed to save the Gaithersburg economy.
Now that I'm gone, so is the Gaithersburg Borders.
How very, very sad. That Borders istwo miles from my parent’s crib a total gem. It was so lovely and quite and filled with...ahem, just me.
I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. However, my new resolution just happens to coincide with the new year. From today on, I will do things when I think of them. On my list of shit-to-do is 1) Write a goddamn cover letter 2) Start writing a goddamn script (or a certain person of Macedonian descent might give up on me.) and 3) Blog. I miss blogging.
And while I'm thinking of blogging now, I'm also thinking of going to sleep. Given that its past 1AM, the latter takes precedence. Buenas noches, mi amigos (oh! I’m also thinking of learning Español).
How very, very sad. That Borders is
I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. However, my new resolution just happens to coincide with the new year. From today on, I will do things when I think of them. On my list of shit-to-do is 1) Write a goddamn cover letter 2) Start writing a goddamn script (or a certain person of Macedonian descent might give up on me.) and 3) Blog. I miss blogging.
And while I'm thinking of blogging now, I'm also thinking of going to sleep. Given that its past 1AM, the latter takes precedence. Buenas noches, mi amigos (oh! I’m also thinking of learning Español).
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
S novim godom, s novim schastyem...
I used to love New Years. Growing up in the Motherland, New Years was (and probably continues to be) the biggest holiday of the year. It’s hard to explain to Americans why New Years is such a major and important holiday for my comrades. The easiest way to get across the meaning of New Years is to compare it to Christmas. We have a pine tree and pine tree décor, our own version of Santa (Ded Moroz), and gift exchange at midnight.
Why did New Years come to be such a major holiday for folks living in the former Soviet Union? In essence, New Years is a “socialization” of Christmas post the Bolshevik Revolution. The “Russian” New Year isn’t religious in nature. It is about good times, good food, and good drinks. Mostly the latter.
Some Orthodox Russians still celebrate Christmas, albeit on a different day. Celebration is brief and simple in nature and does not receive much media exploitation. Christmas to an Orthodox (Christian) Russian is like Hanukkah to an Orthodox Jew; a relatively minor holiday.
For the past twenty one years, I celebrated every single New Year’s with my parents. I always wanted to get away, and when the teenage years hit, I always did (after midnight, of’ course, like the rest of my Russian friends). But this New Year’s, while I have so many places to get away to, I have no one to get away from. My parents are 3,000 miles away. And it feels terrible.
So I’m sad. And I’m nostalgic for my kiddie years during which New Years was such an overbearing joy. My most fond memory of New Year’s was when my dad got a hold of Coca Cola and mandarins (I’m assuming on the black market). I lingered on every gulp of Coke and on every bite of the mandarin (The glass bottle of Coke lasted me for four hours, and I ate my mandarin over the span of one hour). New Year’s also meant cheese, kalbasa, and two pieces of chocolate.
I sort of laugh at it now; how could a glass bottle of Coke, a mandarin, and a few bites of chocolate bring such joy? Because such things were a deficit.
New Year’s in America never hit that same level of ecstasy. I have enough Coke to clean my toilet bowl….and I’m miserable. Why? Because while everything else is readily available; happiness in the good ol‘ USA, is considered a delicacy.
Why did New Years come to be such a major holiday for folks living in the former Soviet Union? In essence, New Years is a “socialization” of Christmas post the Bolshevik Revolution. The “Russian” New Year isn’t religious in nature. It is about good times, good food, and good drinks. Mostly the latter.
Some Orthodox Russians still celebrate Christmas, albeit on a different day. Celebration is brief and simple in nature and does not receive much media exploitation. Christmas to an Orthodox (Christian) Russian is like Hanukkah to an Orthodox Jew; a relatively minor holiday.
For the past twenty one years, I celebrated every single New Year’s with my parents. I always wanted to get away, and when the teenage years hit, I always did (after midnight, of’ course, like the rest of my Russian friends). But this New Year’s, while I have so many places to get away to, I have no one to get away from. My parents are 3,000 miles away. And it feels terrible.
So I’m sad. And I’m nostalgic for my kiddie years during which New Years was such an overbearing joy. My most fond memory of New Year’s was when my dad got a hold of Coca Cola and mandarins (I’m assuming on the black market). I lingered on every gulp of Coke and on every bite of the mandarin (The glass bottle of Coke lasted me for four hours, and I ate my mandarin over the span of one hour). New Year’s also meant cheese, kalbasa, and two pieces of chocolate.
I sort of laugh at it now; how could a glass bottle of Coke, a mandarin, and a few bites of chocolate bring such joy? Because such things were a deficit.
New Year’s in America never hit that same level of ecstasy. I have enough Coke to clean my toilet bowl….and I’m miserable. Why? Because while everything else is readily available; happiness in the good ol‘ USA, is considered a delicacy.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The most beautiful scene in film history...
The scene is from the movie "Karnavalnaya Noch" (Carnival Night). It's a Russian New Year's classic...
The title of the song "Pesenka Pro Pyat Minut" is translated as "A Song About Five Minutes".
The title of the song "Pesenka Pro Pyat Minut" is translated as "A Song About Five Minutes".
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Confusion
For the past year, I’ve been trying to set plans, goals, and expectations.
In High School, setting goals was so elementary (no pun intended). The seemingly objective questions of where I see myself in 5-10 years was never really a question of “where” I actually see myself. It had nothing to do with physical presence. It wasn’t a matter of Guatemala or Czechoslovakia? California or Middle-of-Nowhere, Maryland? “Where” was meant to be interpreted as where do I see myself slaving away as a corporate bitch? I was even given tests to find which type of bitchdom is best suited for my specific type of personality. Was I best suited to be an ivory tower bitch? A corporate ladder climbing bitch? A “would-you-like-fries-with-that” Bitch?
Back in my younger days, I wanted to be a neurobiochemophysicistbitch. And then, along my merry path to thicker glasses and heavier textbooks, I spiraled into a hardcore state of depression. At sixteen, I dropped out of school. Now, I don’t see myself doing shit.
My most remembered memory from times long past, is a quote from a High School teacher “If you weren’t such a goddamn lazy bum, you could of gone to Harvard”. It was partially because of him that I didn’t.
Fast-forward to life after high school, I ended up working in an accounting office. There, through millions of other people’s tax forms, I discovered that ivory tower bitchdom pays significantly less then corporate-ladder-climbing bitchdom…. So I set my dreams on getting me some dough.
Dough was something my family was familiar with. “Fresh Off the Boat”, my parents, both ridiculously brilliant physicists, slaved away at an orthodox Jewish bakery from 4AM to 8PM and took community college classes from 8PM to 10PM. As a family of four, we lived in a one bedroom apartment. It was pretty fucking brutal. My brother and I were constantly chasing each other with tennis rackets and fighting over personal space.
My depression hit just when my dad moved to the East Coast (he landed a “real” gig). And even though our income skyrocketed to the likes we have never experienced, the mentality of “we-are-still-dirt-poor” never vanished. My mom continued to work incredibly long hours in the same shit hole that my dad abandoned. Hungry for personal space, and tired of hearing my mom bitch about my dad’s “undoing of our family unit”, I packed my bags and headed East.
I don’t know if that was a wise decision. I don’t know if any of the decisions I’ve made were “wise”. By the time I moved, I had already set my “5 to 10 year plan”. I wanted a “Big C” title. CFO, CEO, C-something-or-other-O. I planned on raking in the green, owning top of the line business suits, and wearing pearls and Channel to elaborate dinner parties.
So what happened? Why am I giving up on this whole career business?
My upbringings preached that “financial stability” was the golden route to happiness. And only recently did I realize, I prefer the dirt path.
To be continued…
In High School, setting goals was so elementary (no pun intended). The seemingly objective questions of where I see myself in 5-10 years was never really a question of “where” I actually see myself. It had nothing to do with physical presence. It wasn’t a matter of Guatemala or Czechoslovakia? California or Middle-of-Nowhere, Maryland? “Where” was meant to be interpreted as where do I see myself slaving away as a corporate bitch? I was even given tests to find which type of bitchdom is best suited for my specific type of personality. Was I best suited to be an ivory tower bitch? A corporate ladder climbing bitch? A “would-you-like-fries-with-that” Bitch?
Back in my younger days, I wanted to be a neurobiochemophysicistbitch. And then, along my merry path to thicker glasses and heavier textbooks, I spiraled into a hardcore state of depression. At sixteen, I dropped out of school. Now, I don’t see myself doing shit.
My most remembered memory from times long past, is a quote from a High School teacher “If you weren’t such a goddamn lazy bum, you could of gone to Harvard”. It was partially because of him that I didn’t.
Fast-forward to life after high school, I ended up working in an accounting office. There, through millions of other people’s tax forms, I discovered that ivory tower bitchdom pays significantly less then corporate-ladder-climbing bitchdom…. So I set my dreams on getting me some dough.
Dough was something my family was familiar with. “Fresh Off the Boat”, my parents, both ridiculously brilliant physicists, slaved away at an orthodox Jewish bakery from 4AM to 8PM and took community college classes from 8PM to 10PM. As a family of four, we lived in a one bedroom apartment. It was pretty fucking brutal. My brother and I were constantly chasing each other with tennis rackets and fighting over personal space.
My depression hit just when my dad moved to the East Coast (he landed a “real” gig). And even though our income skyrocketed to the likes we have never experienced, the mentality of “we-are-still-dirt-poor” never vanished. My mom continued to work incredibly long hours in the same shit hole that my dad abandoned. Hungry for personal space, and tired of hearing my mom bitch about my dad’s “undoing of our family unit”, I packed my bags and headed East.
I don’t know if that was a wise decision. I don’t know if any of the decisions I’ve made were “wise”. By the time I moved, I had already set my “5 to 10 year plan”. I wanted a “Big C” title. CFO, CEO, C-something-or-other-O. I planned on raking in the green, owning top of the line business suits, and wearing pearls and Channel to elaborate dinner parties.
So what happened? Why am I giving up on this whole career business?
My upbringings preached that “financial stability” was the golden route to happiness. And only recently did I realize, I prefer the dirt path.
To be continued…
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