2.71828182845904523536...

What a crazy world…

2010-08-22T17:21:00.002Z

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

A cautionary tale for the ladies...

2010-07-28T23:40:00.003Z

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.

Laika

2010-05-24T06:57:00.002Z

I think I'm overfeeding her...

...and I feel fine

2010-04-14T08:02:00.001Z

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.

Mooooo!

2010-04-13T04:04:00.000Z

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

Hello my lovely little friends...

2010-03-13T20:05:00.004Z

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.

Like a ship without an anchor…

2009-12-06T02:40:00.002Z

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?

Oh, JCPenny....

2009-08-27T03:03:00.002Z

And I’ll continue blogging forever just because…

2009-07-01T05:41:00.000Z

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,

2009-07-01T03:29:00.002Z

I don’t know what to ramble about.
But I want to ramble about something.
So, I’m rambling.
About nothing.

A Very Important Study Every American Should Read

2009-05-28T14:35:00.003Z

http://www.unm.edu/~gfmiller/cycle_effects_on_tips.pdf

A Letter to God.

2009-05-07T14:31:00.002Z

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 every ~~god~~damn 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.

2009-04-17T05:54:00.002Z

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.

If I were to get a tattoo...

2009-03-23T13:47:00.001Z

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.

God knows I want to break free...

2009-03-17T10:24:00.000Z

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.

A conversation with my bro

2009-02-23T22:55:00.000Z

“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!”

=(

Because California is on the brink of bankruptcy...

2009-02-23T07:53:00.003Z

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.

Confession.

2009-02-23T07:44:00.003Z

I love Демо. There. I said it.

Isn't she lovely? And jumpy? And adorable?

Soviet Humor

2009-02-23T01:46:00.001Z

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. . .

FIFO, LIFO and Ida (FILO)

2009-02-19T15:52:00.003Z

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.”

Caution: This is a Love Story.

2009-01-19T13:34:00.003Z

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.

A day in the life...

2009-01-12T13:33:00.003Z

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!!!!

This is your brain on drugs...

2009-01-08T10:25:00.001Z

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.

Far From the Madding Ida.

2009-01-08T09:31:00.000Z

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 and ~~wiser~~ 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“ .

All by myself....

2009-01-05T07:38:00.004Z

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.

Sunday Morning

2009-01-04T18:39:00.001Z

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.

I failed to save the Gaithersburg economy.

2009-01-04T08:33:00.006Z

Now that I'm gone, so is the Gaithersburg Borders.

How very, very sad. That Borders is ~~two 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).

S novim godom, s novim schastyem...

2008-12-31T22:01:00.005Z

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.

The most beautiful scene in film history...

2008-12-25T23:50:00.000Z

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".

Confusion

2008-12-09T00:04:00.002Z

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…

Smile!

2008-12-01T15:57:00.002Z

I’m feeling Tom Sawyer-ish. I’m painting the fence and tons of individuals are voluntarily picking up the brush and giving me delicious freebies.

This whole photography thing is a total blast! Every goddamn individual within a five mile radius wants their picture taken. Welcome to Hollywood.

Word’s been spreading. Friends put up the pictures I took of them onto all sorts of social media networks and suddenly friends of friends are asking for my digits and offering pretty fantastic exchanges.

As for the latest, meet my personal trainer. He plays the piano. And the guitar. He’s a stunts man and a Steely Dan fan and that makes him totally awesome. When he isn’t busy modeling, he’s kicking my [big, but soon-to-be-smaller] behind.

Soon, I’ll be need someone to help me paint my crib. Or tile my kitchen. Cheeeeezeee anyone?

Also, I encourage everyone to get hitched cause wedding photography is where the dough is.

What’s the male-to-female ratio in Australia?!

2008-11-10T22:11:00.004Z

I’m confused. My coworker offered me candy. And I never question the intentions of those who offer me candy. To prepare my mouth for the sweet sensation of either fruity, chocolate-y, caramel-y, etc-y...I inquire; “What candy?”

“It’s an Australian Lifesaver”

Oh. Okay. Fruity. And exotic! I like fruity. And I like Australians. I dig in.

My coworker is watching me; “What does it taste like?”

“WHAT?! You haven’t tried it?! It tastes like I just licked a man!”

“Hehe! It’s musk.”

Let us kill our babies!

2008-11-10T07:36:00.010Z

Dear Religious Zealots,

We need to chat. In the past few days, me and the collective “You” have been at odds. You think a few cells inside a uterus are a little human twit. I think a few cells inside a uterus have less consciousness than a cockroach.

Don’t you understand, that if all the people whose values allow them to abort a few cells would do so, it would translate into a future majority for you? YOU would multiply and prosper while the baby-killers and the condom-lovers would go ~~to hell~~ extinct. Evolution, I mean, Intelligent Design, at work!

And regarding the “GAY” issue; Why does it matter to you how marriage is “legally” defined? How does it affect you? I don’t get it. I seriously do not fucking get it.

“But OUR children would be taught that marriage is between individual A and individual B, regardless of gender.”

And your children are also being taught that the world was created without a Big Bang between Mary and Joseph. But that’s besides the point; schools do not teach what “marriage” is. That’s the parents' job. Marriage is not a legal definition. It is a learned concept. My parents are married. Had they not been “legally married“, it wouldn’t alter my perception of our family unit. Marriage is a creation of kinship outside the bloodline, not a definition found in a High School textbook.

Ugh.

Yours truly,
-An Imported, Un-aborted Jew

PS. Please do not outlaw self-abuse. Or adult toys. 'Cause that would blow, ahem.

The Sticker

2008-11-05T05:02:00.006Z

Chorus (repeat 2x)
I did it all for the sticker!
Come on
The sticker!
So I can take that sticker, and stick it on my shirt (yeah!)

Why did it take so long? (the line)
Why did I wait so long, huh? (7:58PM)
To figure it out
But I did it!
And I'm not the only one (damnit!)

I’m mucho excited; I won’t have to marry a Canadian. The sub-zero winters are harsh on my skin.

Ode to Coffee Bean

2008-10-28T06:23:00.005Z

I’m in a pleasant mood today (a change of pace from the past 22 years, 4 months and 8 days). After my gig as a corporate bitch, I took “my” laptop to Coffee Bean with the intention of updating my resume, browsing job ads, and thinking of alternate ways to rake in the dough (hustling, pimping, and bank robbing).

Initially, I was going to begin with Step (1) of the job hunting process: thinking of ways to creatively showcase all my splendid accomplishments on my resume (read: use impressively big action verbs such as; executed [my fellow coworkers], accelerated [my job search], communicated [my dissatisfaction], reorganized [my desk], forecasted [my last day], etc.)

I got to The Bean, laptop in tow, ordered my nightly caffeine concoction, unwrapped my TJ’s 72% dark chocolate bar, and began the tedious process: I turned on my work laptop (take that, my current place of employment!). But alas, a single mouse click on my soon-to-be Lenovo thinkpad halted all progress (take that, stupid, lazy Ida!). Just mere minutes after the laptop booted, prior to my even opening a word document containing my ~~web of lies~~ resume and cover letter (Goddamnit, Do I really need a cover letter? Can’t I just beg? And cry? That used to work so well when I was five.), I discovered something that only a person of Jewish descent can fully appreciate: (hold your breath for 56.239 seconds)……Coffee Bean now offers FR*E [thank G*D!] Wi-Fi! I think my nose grew 0.0234mm.

Oh, how I love you, Coffee Bean!!! Let me count the ways..

1) You, my dear, have a patio! Sure, it’s filled with who's-who of the West Hollywood Russian crowd, and it reeks of cigarettes and pot, but gosh, the comrades are so entertaining! And when I miss the beauty of the Russian language spoken with a distinctly thick Armenian accent, this place offers such exquisite words of comfort: blya, pizdets, idi na huy.

2)You’re 100% Kosher. And even though I had a turkey sandwich before adding dairy to my coffee, you make me feel like a better Jew.

3)The Barista gave me a free coffee refill. He even offered me pastries! SWEET, SWEET, PASTRIES! FOR FR*E! Cause I smiled. I need to brush my teeth and figure out his work schedule.

4)You’re all over. By work, by home, by the park, near the beach, on Sunset Strip, inside Ralphs ~~and on my way to the gym~~ .

5)You’re open on Christmas. Starbucks is closed. Let’s get married? I’ll consent to naming our kid Joe the Coffee Cup.

Seriously, DC, wtf?!

2008-10-15T05:45:00.002Z

I want FALL. I came here for FALL. Goddamnit.

There only traces of fall. Mere fucking traces. I want full blown out winds. Thunder. Rain. Colorful, twirling, leaves. But instead, I get sing-song birds, blue skies, and blooming flowers. Disgusting.

DC, you got five days.

PS. Where should I watch the presidential debate? I want authentic atmosphere. Stuffy ties, leather shoes, blackberries. And cheap liquid, too.

Obscure.

2008-10-13T02:40:00.000Z

I’m scared.

Scared that if I quit the rat race. If I leave. Disappear. Run away from it. That, one day, I’ll find myself useless.

One day, when I’m old, gray, and alone…I’ll wish that I had a career.

One day, I’ll realize that I should of tried harder. One day, I’ll think back to today and imagine the missed opportunities. One day, I’ll wish that I was less idealistic and more materialistic. One fucking day when I’m fifty.

But this “one day” is not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day afterwards. It’s not Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday.

Because today I’m a dreamer. Today I want to be a stewardess. Or a barista. Waitress, maybe. Or a photographer. Journalist. Writer. Poet. A bum. A hustler. A drunkard, too.

Today, I want to go to bed and dream of things I’ll never be.

Buenas Noches.

Everybody's Working for the Weekend

2008-07-25T14:58:00.005Z

I’m having a panic attack. I think.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I know what I don’t want to do; This. The 9 to 6 gig.

I’ve confined myself within a mental vortex. I see people doing things I would like to do; write, take pretty pictures, fly ‘round the world, build things, change things. And I tell myself “Wouldn’t it be grand?” And so I fabricate lavish dream that exist beyond the walls of my cardboard cubicle.

But the truth is, I’m afraid…to take a leap, a chance, to phone HR and exclaim “Hasta La Vista, baby!” The fear is not grounded in financial hardship. I could care less. I can survive on less. And I did. On much, much less. In America, there’s really no “worst-case-scenario”. There’s Chapter 7 and the ‘rents’ basement.

The root of my fear lies in mediocrity. I’m terrified that my passion won’t substitute for lack of talent. I fear that, even if I try, people will point, laugh, and poke me with sharp sticks.

I fear that I’m lying to myself; Maybe I’m just fabricating trillions of excuses to escape my present reality, which is not as dreadful as I perceive it to be. Am I inflating my misery tenfold? People deal with this shit all the time. People work their whole lives. Then they retire and die (and the lucky few are able to afford am imposing gravestone on a nice parcel of land in an upper class cemetery).

I hate this “working” thing.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Yes and No. I think some people disillusion themselves into believing they enjoy what they do. It’s all such bullshit. People lie to themselves, just like me.

In reality, the vast majority of the population doesn’t enjoy doing things as much as they enjoy talking about the things they do and how seemingly important they appear to be. Auditors get a kick out of bragging about their superiority and criticize their clients in front of their backs; “the accounting department is weak, under staffed, under qualified, and unfamiliar with the latest FASB pronouncements” They will throw in a few key terms like “significant deficiency, material weakness, FAS 123R” and other cool sounding words and concepts that they claim are beyond the mental capacity of their clients. (See, doesn’t all that sound oh-so-very impressive?! I’m such an important and smart little girl! Oh, how I love my job! GAAP, GAAP, HORAY!)

As soon as you hear your fellow, enslaved, comrades begin to plan their brief encounters with absolute freedom (in corporate America, absolute freedom is defined as limiting checking email to thrice daily and returning ‘important’ phone calls no sooner then an hour and 10 minutes later) and abide by their heart’s content - whether for a one week vacation in Hawaii or a three day Holiday weekend – it’s easy to realize that given the opportunity, or a winning lottery ticket, the merry-go-lucky worker would flick off his manager and quit momentarily. But alas, we’re all just consensual slaves to the wage.

I feel like I’m riding a Lexus on a career superhighway. Passing all my friends in their crappy little corollas. And they let out ooh’s and aah’s in awe of how fast I’m moving and how far I’ve gotten. They like my pretty, shiny, glamorized Camry and so I keep driving, pressing the sole of my foot against the gas pedal and dreaming of riding a bike on a dirt path.

Goodnight, Little Children...

2008-07-24T07:21:00.004Z

In the Motherland, no child went to sleep prior to watching "Spokoinoi Nochi, Malishi" - "Goodnight, Little Children". Here's the usual ending clip, after which every little punk in Russia was hypnotized into deep slumber while his or her 'rents got busy breeding more little twits who'd eventually drift off to sleep to the sounds of "bayu bye"

Here's a butchered, unartistic translation that sadly fails to transcend the lyricism of the song:

The tired toys are sleeping
Books are sleeping too
Blankets and the pillows are awaiting the little children
Even the story is sleeping, so as to appear in our dreams
Wish the story “bayu bye”

In a story, you can swing on the moon
And ride a rainbow on horseback
Befriend an elephant
And catch a feather of Zharptitsa*
Close your eyes, “bayu bye”

Bayu bye, every person is supposed to sleep at night
Bayu bye, tomorrow will be another day
A day’s worth caused us much exhaustion
Wish everyone a good night
Close your eyes
Bayu bye

*Zharptitsa - (from Wikipedia) firebird; invariably described as a large bird in majestic plumage that brightly glows in red, orange and yellow light, like a bonfire that is just past the turbulent flame. The feathers do not cease glowing if removed, and one feather can light a large room if not concealed. A typical role of the Firebird in fairy tales is an object of difficult quest. The quest is usually initiated by finding a lost tail feather of the Firebird, upon which the hero sets out to find and capture the live bird, sometimes on his own accord, but usually on the bidding of a father or king. The Firebird is a marvel, highly coveted, but the hero, initially charmed by the wonder of the feather, eventually blames it for his troubles.

Anyhow, I'm resuming old patterns. Bayu Bye.

Test 1,2,3..

2008-07-23T16:36:00.001Z

www.flickr.com

Go to pickles0618's photostream

Haphazard thoughts and happenings...

2008-07-22T22:51:00.005Z

The “BMOC” of the Southern California practice is here (in the office) today...so I have to put in a bit more effort into my “working girl” act and try to stay under the radar. But, given my cube’s proximity to one of the office printer, the encounter with Mr. Big Wig was inevitable.

Mr Big Wig crudely interrupted me while I was stuffing myself with an orange. He assertively thrashed his hand forward and pompously stated his identity.

“Hi. I’m XXX YYYZZZ”

Yuck, I know who you are. In my mind, I summon up an image of a 70’s porn star with a nickname like “The Massive ‘Stache.”

Before I even have a chance to tear myself away from my juicy (conventionally grown) orange, he continues…

“You’re Ida, right?”

His hand is still extended forward.

“Yup”. Shit, did I seriously just say yup? Yup.
“I’d shake your hand, but then we’d stampede over each other for the race to the kitchen sink.”

He raises his eyebrow, gives out a pseudo laugh, and walks away. Whew.

***

One of the books I’m currently reading is From Beirut to Jerusalem. It’s an insane account of an American Jewish Journalist (Thomas Friedman) who was a foreign correspondent for UPI and the NY Times in the Middle East during the late 70’s and early to mid 80’s. I figured his account would deter me away from my captive fascination with Journalism and Middle East, but it only stirred up my interest.

As a little girl, when nosy adults pinched my cheeks and inquired as to my future ambitions I’d state that I wanted to be a detective (my brother had a much more mature outlook on his future career plans, when asked that same question, he’d reply “I want to be like grandpa, a retiree.” Brilliant little twit.) I think my childhood dream was shattered when my parents threatened a torturous death before I’d even have a chance to apply for the CIA. But, the weird fascination with uncovering "secrets" and being in constant danger still lingers. As a little Jewish chick in the Middle East, I’d doubt I’d survive for more then a week, but I’m still enthralled with the idea.

***

The “suits” from the surrounding office buildings all congregated at Whole Foods for lunch today. The check out lines were INSANELY long. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but suddenly my favorite Whole Foods gained major popularity. As I was standing in line and contemplating starvation, a tall, black dude ahead of me turns around and offers a trade, “I’d let you cut in front of me in line if you give me your phone number”. That’s the second best pick up line I’ve heard. First place goes to the San Diego dude (turned stalker) who helped me with a bin of chili mangoes and tried to converse with me in Portuguese. I kept nodding and saying “sim”.

Anyhow, we completed the transaction =)

***

"The Next Big [or disappointingly small] Thing"

2008-07-21T18:09:00.003Z

I am a health nut (yum, nut!). I design my own multivitamins. I know the list of fruits and veggies with high pesticide content by heart and thus only buy those organically grown. I barely ever eat out (Whole Foods Salad Bar and Organics-To-Go notwithstanding). I’m also metamorphosizing into a pseudo vegan. So naturally [excuse the pun], when it comes to birth control I refuse to pump my body with excess hormones.

However, I’m very pro anti-baby protection; I’m a safe-rather-then-sorry type-a-gal, which is why I’m uber excited about men’s birth control. Men shooting blanks is like the epitome of anti-evolution.

I love humans and all of our crazy innovations. Why not let someone else screw with their body while you [safely] screw them?

Speaking of anti-babyness; I think men everywhere are becoming pussies:

Water is contaminated with estrogen.
Men drink water.
Men+estrogen= (apple+orange+grapes)+peanuts

‘Nought ‘bout fruits, babies, and men. More ‘bout me.

I’ve been doing some thinking. Yes, thinking. I’ve been working for a year, and working for another year, and then another year…until I celebrate my first heart attack, and retire at the ripe age of 62, doesn’t much appeal to me. It’s not that I’m turning into a bohemian; I’m a strong believer in [other people’s] work.. Society needs corporate bitches and tedious workers. Where would we be if it wasn’t for people slaving away their youth as corporate shmucks, doing the same shit day-in, day-out, saving for their 401-K’s, IRA’s, Roth IRA’s, Health Savings plans, taking two weeks off a year for a picture next to the Eiffel Tower?

I should of known this a year ago. But I desperately needed to move, live alone for a bit, get the feel for “working”. And now that I had more then a feel, a grope dare I say – I’m through with it.

I’m considering other alternatives, including…

1)Starting over: getting a Math and Nutritional Science B.S.
2)Move in with the ‘rents, save money, read “Vagabonding”, and globe trot.
3)Develop my hobbies: Photography, Digital Arts, Web Design, and Computer Science.
4)Get married. Kill Husband.
5)Make money the old fashioned way…by robbing, stealing, cheating, and lying.

Within the next year, I will

1)Quit my job
2)Tone my body
3)Have a 5 minute conversation with Tim Ferriss
4)Learn Spanish
5)Take belly dancing, tango, and salsa lessons.
6)BLOG MORE!

I can gather all the news I need on the weather report...

2008-07-15T06:32:00.003Z

For a more "worldly" perspective, try BBC News.

"Yack, yack yack...Ida when will you write, something, you know, SUBSTANTIVE...yack yack yack"

I don't know. I have no inspiration. I'm about one third into a fucking mid-quarter-life crisis. The folks are worried I've abandoned all "reason, logic, and rationality". Maybe I'll elaborate soon. Maybe even tomorrow, whilst switching between 1298098317 Excel spreadsheets and helping the ~~idiots~~ less talented with vlookups and pivot tables.

But probably not.

Meanwhile, my bed is practically a virgin again - it hasnt been getting laid [in] in a while. So, good night and...wet dreams! Ahem.

Through Jack's eyes...

2008-06-24T08:16:00.002Z

Grammy

Diana

Songs that suit me...

2008-06-23T20:12:00.004Z

I had a “Fuck-I‘m-Getting-Old-Pity-Party” this weekend. No one gave me a cane. Maybe next year.

I’ve been too lazy and too busy to jot down the endless minutia of my everyday affairs. Plus, I’m a working gal and writing [crap] don’t pay [crap].

I saw BNB yesterday, prior to driving off to Redondo. He has a talent to catch me when I’m 1) with the bro and 2) bearing a close resemblance to a Venik. Last time we had a conversation that went beyond a silent exchange of waves was when I locked myself out of the house for the 1239809th time. I was outside in pajamas mumbling obscenities underneath my breath. So the conversation was somewhat one sided.

I can never figure out how I feel at a certain moment, until I find the right song. And after an hour of sifting through my music collection, I found it…

“Мои года - мое богатство“ by an amazing Georgian singer/lyricist - Vahtangh Kikabidze I initially attempted to translate the lyrics - but my efforts proved futile. There is absolutely no way to translate the song without butchering it. The simple gist of is in the title, “My years - my treasure”

Boy-Next-Building

2008-06-20T06:22:00.002Z

I have a huge, huge crush on my neighbor in the next building over.

We don’t talk. Just stare at each other. He said “Hi” thrice. I waved thrice.

I barely see him nowadays, and the last few times we bumped heads, I was with my brother - who happens to stay over at least once a week and parks his car directly behind mine. This poses a problem; Boy-Next-Building (BNB) probably assumes that my brother is (yuck) my significant other. Which means he’ll never, ever talk to me. And I’ll never,ever talk to him…because boys are icky. Plus, he is adorably shy. Semi-cutesy…but ultimately unreproductive. According to hardcore scientific theory; two shy people have a 0.002323*10^3432 chance of mating.

So, how do I clue in BNB to my single-lady-with-a-dog-and-a-brother status whilst appearing nonchalant?

It's My Birthday and I'll Cry If I Want To...

2008-06-18T07:02:00.002Z

365 days ago, I thought I’d be in a different state.

I am. Physically.

My state of mind, however, is well...debatable.

It’s a full moon. Maybe it means something.

But, because, I’m a realist.
Because I’ve always been a realist.
It means absofuckinglutely nothing.

I can't stop listening to this (from Moskva Slezam Ne Veret). It just fits.

The sun is shinin’ in the sky…

2008-06-02T08:46:00.001Z

I fucking love LA.

Bad girl?

2008-05-26T12:12:00.009Z

I was having a really, really good day. I haven’t heard back from the city regarding the speeding ticket I received back in March. I was reminded of it when I tried attaching yet another note to my fully camouflaged fridge. (My complex fridge note-system is not yet fully implemented). I called the phone number on the back and found out that the "ticket number entered is not found". I was overjoyed. That would of surely been a few points on my record, ensuing in driving school and no less then half a grand for going a meager 55mph on Laurel Canyon.

On my way to Borders, I picked up Lora and boasted about my speeding luck. First time, I semi-cried my way out. Second time, the officer was not particularly impressed with my act; but the LA judicial system was. “Life is beautiful!" I happily stated, whilst Lora, always one to enjoy looking at the bright side of ~~life~~ the road, exclaimed “Turn on your lights - third time's a charm!”.

This I did.

We found a Kosher parking spot; a hop and a scotch from Borders. But, I knew things were not going to end on a high note when:

1) I parked next to a stolen meter
2) In close proximity to Michael Jackson .
3) And found three condoms scattered alongside the road.

But in actuality, my day did end on a VERY high note: To the sound of a siren right around midnight (after having dropped Lora off at home).

“Step out of the car!”

Okay. Sure. Step out. Trip. Silly me.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

“Yes, a few shots of espresso”. The officer is not amused. Mental note to self: do not joke with cops.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

Mr. Panties-in-a-Bunch states “I’m doing a DUI investigation.”
“Wow, that is very impressive! Can I take a breathalyzer test- I always wanted to!”

Mental Note to Self Numero Dos (I really should attach this one to my fridge - perhaps I already did): DO NOT JOKE WITH COPS.

“You’re driving with the lights off”

We’re in LA! On SANTA MONICA, in the heart of West Hollywood ! It’s brighter then day light! I felt like saying something along the lines of “officer, did you notice all the pretty rainbows!” but that would certainly land me behind bars.

He shuffles me into the backseat of the cop car. It was kind of cool for a minute or so. He looks up codes for what I did wrong and am potentially doing wrong on his handy-dandy cheat-sheet. Newbie.

“Driving recklessly. Under the Influence. Without lights on.” he mumbles random codes and with his utmost effort to sound hardcore and official, he demands to see my license.

“It’s in the car”. He finds my wallet, and after a five minute struggle, finally figures out how to open it. Not the brightest little crayon.

How old are you?

“Twenty one. Almost twenty two.”

With my ID in his hand and after inquiring, he states; “You’re nineteen”

He’s not very mathematically inclined and potentially deaf.

“Sir, you have my driver’s license in your hands. Please refer to the birth date.”

He proceeds to ask me all sorts of standard questions.

Address: Fountain Ave
Phone: 323
Birthplace: Uzbekistan
Insurance: 21st
Registration: In the passenger’s compartment.

Wait…birthplace?! Is that relevant?

I began to feel claustrophobic, and for once….scared. I take random walks alone at night , get lost in Southeast DC, wonder through the ghettos of Delaware, and never once worry for my safety. But, being locked in a cop car, by a person designated to “protect” me, made me feel queasy. I was actually relieved to see another cop car pull up. Maybe nothing was going to happen. Maybe I was overanalyzing. But it all seemed very odd. And very illegal. The other cop was older. He questioned Mr. Panties as to what was going on. I was clearly sober and looked innocent enough. Mr. Older Cop opened the door and after hearing me complain and noting that I was clearly sober…he APOLOGIZED.

All in all, 24250 and 16028(a) beats 22359VC any day.

Anyhow, how does a big, bad criminal look like after a wild night of downing espresso shots and studying at Borders?

Oh, “What’s that in your hand,” you ask?

My Apologies! I forgot to introduce you guys to Jack! My new toy! He has a long extremity that expands up to 6 inches for a steady, long distance shot.

Recently, I almost jumped on another toy (to be named Lou, as in, Reed). But, that big extremity on Jack’s body costs almost twice as much as Lou in his entirety. Besides, I need to learn how to play with Jack before I begin pulling Lou’s strings.

Two heads and a heart.

2008-05-18T19:01:00.001Z

I found the perfect man. He’s married.

Physically, he’s not my type - at all. He isn’t very tall. Or particularly good looking.
Yet there’s something very attractive about him; little quirks that are impossible to pinpoint and summarize. He’s sexy - in the way George Clooney is sexy. In isolation, his features are ordinary, perhaps even somewhat grotesque. But in combination, his features are like the thick brush strokes on an impressionist painting; you must take a step back to appreciate the piece in its entirety.

But, for once, it wasn’t the physical I was attracted to; He is an absolutely amazing person. Caring, personable, smart, and silly. He’s a “nice guy”. He helps people. He’s charitable. Sympathetic.

It’s an insane experience for me.
Maybe I’m growing up.
Maybe, in another month, when I turn ~~into an old fart~~ twenty-two, I’ll have more crushes along the lines of this one.
Maybe my next crush won’t be married.

Damn the maybe’s.

My mom was right. What matters is in a man is what “is up there, in here, and down there”. (Her motions were, as she once told me this phrase, very animated; she pointed to the places on her body where a man’s head, heart, and other head stood - no pun intended).

Things

2008-04-26T21:04:00.000Z

Things I want:
-Guitar
-DSLR
-a Dog
-a Life.

Things I have:
-my own pad
-a laptop
-a Job

Things I don’t want (now):
-husband(s)
-kid(s)
-roommate(s)

Things I want to do:
-write
-drink coffee
-dance
-a boy.

He’s just not that into [me]?

2008-04-14T18:50:00.007Z

I have these moments of hardcore insomnia; I claim that it has nothing to do with my nightly concoction of coffee, wine and chocolate (all of which I consume purely for their associated health benefits and not because I’m a caffeine addict, an alcoholic, and a fatty). It happened again last night- My pillow did not get head until 4AM and consequently, I missed my morning run. Gosh, I feel insanely shitty now.

During the aforementioned “moments”, I have a big[ger] tendency for insanity. I will do something so abso-fucking-lutely stupid that as soon as I wake up in the morning and recall the proceedings of last night; I want to crawl underneath my blanket for all eternity.

Of’ course, last night was no exception, but given my tendency for cliffhangers- last night’s story will have to wait till my next post. Instead, let me begin with the proceedings of last week.

Currently, I’m using my school e-mail as my only means of online communication, the storage limit of which is 100 megabytes. Every couple months, this forces me to clean out the e-mails I receive and send. And so it happened that last week I had exceeded my e-mail quota, and thus all of ~~the ‘Prolong your shlong’~~ my friend’s e-mails were not making their way through to my inbox.

Thus, in order to ~~naturally enlarge my breasts~~ receive all of my vital e-mails, I had to delete the old ones. The starting point was September, and the first e-mail of the month was the one from this guy.

Without much thought, I pressed the reply button and wrote:

“What happened to you?”

It didn’t seem like a big deal then. Just a question. A remark, rather. Who cares? Not me. Not now. Not until dawn. And as the first ray of sunshine, illuminated my bedroom and stabbed my eyes; I began recalling last night’s proceeding. I felt silly, but I quickly dismissed it. It wasn’t a big deal. I barely knew the dude and the likelihood of seeing him again was miniscule.

Midday, he wrote back a one-liner.

“What do you mean what happened to me? Haven't been hit by a car in a while”.

I had hoped he wouldn’t write back at all. I decided to ignore it. At least while the sun was still beaming.

And then, at some point past midnight, I realized his response wasn’t good enough. I needed specifics. I wrote back:

Okay, I got a question. It's rather odd. In fact, it probably borders on being ridiculous. But, it's bugging me – a lot.

So, when I was over decades ago, and you had to babysit your nephew, or something along those lines, was that a ploy?

Ciao,
-Ida

Oi-goddamn-vay. At night, again, it didn’t feel excessive; I felt absolutely “okay”, perhaps slightly intoxicated, but defiantly in touch with the majority of my senses. It was a gutsy move- way beyond my usual self. The next morning (or that same morning, rather) I woke up to the sound of birds welcoming spring with their irritating chirping outside my windowsill; for a brief instant, the annoyingly perfect weather and the blooming oak tree intruding into my bedroom through an open window, awakened me to a “new" beginning; and just then, I realized I can never have a new beginning because I always analyze the inconsequential affairs of the past. And after that brief moment, I felt anxious. Antsy. Self-conscious.

I checked my e-mail a gazillion times that day. And by noon, he replied.

“No, that was not a ploy. My sister has a habit of putting me in situations like that. Had it been a ploy, I wouldn't have asked you to stay and watch a movie a mere 10 minutes earlier. To the contrary, I thought you were hot and I was only hoping I could keep from trying to make out with you. So there.

That is funny though how you remember that.....not weird, just funny. I'm sorry it’s taken so long to explain the situation.”

Wait. Stop. WTF?

I thought it was me. I was convinced it was me. Was there spinach in my teeth? Was it my frizzy hair? My tired, after-work, appearance?

Nope. This time, it was all him. Doofus.

Yummy yummy in my tummy.

2008-04-09T05:38:00.001Z

I got a new laptop. Its very big brother-ish. I taped over the webcam.

My neighbor gave me brownies and cupcakes! It was just what ~~my neighbor’s~~ [the] doctor ~~legally prescribed~~ ordered.

I feel silly. And jump-y. And mucho excited.

I am I said

2008-04-08T17:14:00.000Z

I decided to be sick today. Again.

My voice is slightly hoarse, my head feels slightly stuffy, and as my momma would say, “ti boleesh hitrost’u” (“you’re sick with coyness”)

So, I e-mailed work, and let them know I’m in a devastating condition; I can drop dead at any moment. The e-mail worked magic; I feel cured.

I’m not sure for how much longer I can tolerate the whole real-world “job” thing. I don’t want a friggin career. I don’t want to move “ahead”. I want to move backwards. Back to school, back to no responsibilities and no financial obligations (rent, bills, car insurance).

I can’t pinpoint when I lost all ambition and desire for the “top” of the bitch ladder. Did I ever really have it?

I was so miserable over the last few months. If I “dropped” my current career, would the ‘rents be disappointed? What else can I do? What about a family? Kids? A White picket fence and a two-story, three bedroom, townhouse in the San Fernando Valley?

I don’t want it. Any of it. Not now. Not yet.
Not ever?

I don’t want to live a grandiose lifestyle, filled with dinner parties, or corporate events that serve wine with cheese and crackers. I want beer and peanuts. I want travel, a dog, a guitar, music, good friends, and good times. I want to write, and take dance lessons, and compile videotapes and pictures of exotic looking places, people, situations.

I want to stay where I am now. Literally. At a local coffee shop, sipping coffee and munching on bits of dark chocolate whilst watching the LA types pass about in their flurry of piled on bright fabrics and face-blocking sunglasses.

I hate the life that I don’t have.

2008-03-10T14:59:00.001Z

I want to wash dishes.
And mop the floor.
And hand wash dirty boxers
And have little, annoying twits.

I want to quit my job.
And play in the sun.
And drive to the beach.
And learn to play the guitar.

The usual, please.

2008-02-25T09:19:00.001Z

There you are.
Sitting across from me. Exchanging pleasantries. Flirting.

I made up my mind two minutes prior to arriving at this hole-in-the-wall artsy coffee shop; I don’t like you.

The coffee is bitter. Italian Roast.

You are blabbing. Places you’ve been to, books you’ve read, movies you’ve seen. Blah, blah, blah. It is unsaid, but we both know why we’re here; clearly, it’s not out of good platonic relations.

I’m awaiting a proper point in the conversation to introduce the anticlimax of the “date”. So when the mister finally runs out of stories, I do a well rehearsed routine; “Jack, a friend of mine…blah blah”

He is confused. “Jack seems like a cool kid.”

“He is.”
“So, may I inquire as to what the status between you and Jack is?”
“You may. He’s a good friend. I’d never see him as much more”

Without much hesitation, he will force further inquiries

“Why not?”
“No chemistry”

And inevitably, he asks, “How do you see me?”

“As a friend.”

I need adult supervision…

2008-01-16T16:24:00.000Z

Given my previous experiments with alternate hair styles, I [once again] decided that I wanted to grow out my hair. Problem being, is that I never had short hair, and if I were to grow it out- probably never would. Thus, the only rational solution, or rather, what seemed to be the only rational solution on a dreary Saturday afternoon, was a pair of scissors in the hands of a guy named Andre.

Off to work go I.
Coffee, Borders, and potential blogging afterwards. I promise.

Toodles,
-Ida

Que Sera, Sera

2008-01-04T22:22:00.000Z

It wasn’t too long ago, a matter of months really, when I imagined I had a future. It wasn’t optimistic, as is my nature, but it was there. I wasn’t making elaborate plans filled with dreams and hopes or envisioning anything concrete- marriage, kids, career, family, or relationships. It was analogous to the Universe; unpredictable, mostly unexplainable, and expanding endlessly without limitations; I just had to find and solve the right equations.*

Or maybe, my future was a big blob of paint on a surrealistic painting. But the “blob” itself was there and my future, perhaps uncertain, was plausible; Overtime, the paint cracked, faded, and the blob grew fainter, until only minimal traces remained on a blank canvas.

And now…now I can’t see it or re-paint it; a black hole swallowed my damn paintbrush.

Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see…

*The answer to which, by the way, is forty-two. (Or, in my case, forty).

Chick flick for men: The Tao of Steve

2007-12-25T08:31:00.000Z

"Look, men try and achieve success for one reason: to impress women, right? That's the only reason they build companies, write books... or compete in sports and stuff. The problem is, if you figure out how you could get laid without achieving anything... then you could lose your motivation altogether. So there's no reason to get off the couch. "

The Tao of Steve offers a few words of wisdom in dealing with the female types. The movie is targeted at males, but utlimately, the plot is pure chick flick; over romanticized and complete with boy-gets-girl happy ending. 7 out of 10. See it, yo.

Today I spent the majority of the day cleaning my apartment and mentally preparing for my parents' visit. Alas, all my prep work was in vain; 10 minutes after the 'rents arrived, I was contemplating suicide.

“Your apartment looks like a furniture graveyard” My mom commented, pointing to the two mirrors kneeling against the wall.
“I haven’t been home in 2 months and haven’t had sufficient time to re-arrange my furniture since buying it”
“Why is your TV on the floor?” My dad inquired, clearly concerned with his means of entertainment over the next 9 days, 21 hours, and 33 minutes.
“I don’t use it. I was planning on selling it on Craigslist.”
“How do you watch the news?”
“ The ‘net, dad…‘I can gather all the news I need on the weather report’”
“Oi-yo-yoi” my mom sighed, in pure Russian mannerism.

On the semi-bright side, their arrival did force me to clean* my shithole.

*Clean- verb 1) to stuff random shit into random drawers; 2) to place out of sight.

You are the dancing queen, only seventeen…

2007-12-05T04:50:00.000Z

It’s cold here. Yesterday, as I was driving to Philly, a few snow flakes twirled in the air and melted on my windshield. I seriously contemplated moving back.

I consulted Lora; “Ida, you can’t keep re-locating. It’s not a long term solution”

I don’t do long term. I can’t. I get tired. I need a change. My first “official” boyfriend lasted a week.

In Philly, I met up with “I”, one of my brother’s friends. He inquired as to my “life”. He said I am tense. Fidgety. All over the damn place.

We chated about boys and girls. We always chat about boys and girls. He said I was the “pickiest person he’s ever known”. Gosh, such honor.

We talked about coasts: East and West, being on the go, living out of a suit case. I love it. When I grow up, I want to be a vagabond; I’d play the garmoshka and hopscotch through the SIX Continents.

I’m getting old. I’ll be twenty-one and a half in 2 weeks. In 6 months and 2 weeks I’ll be twenty-two. And then, in 88.5 years and 2 weeks, my existence will amount to a mere glimpse of evolutionary history.

In two and a half days (when I turn 21, 5 months, and 18.5 days), I’ll be back in DC to give it another go…

Friday night and the lights are low
Looking out for the place to go…

Outta here.

2007-12-01T05:33:00.000Z

Finally. I have a brief moment.
To sit. To reflect. To whine my goddamn ass of.

I am at the San Diego airport awaiting my red eye to DC for the weekend (in between work in Delaware).

I have 2 minutes to write something meaningful.

I chopped off my hair. Again. I didn’t mean to.
Hair grows. Shit happens.

(Yup. Meaningful)

Screw you, quasi gay, but misleadingly straight* hair stylist.

Boarding time! Toodles!

*Oh yes, there is a story to be told. Oi vay. Oi-fucking-vay.

I am not on strike.

2007-11-15T15:38:00.000Z

I began paying attention to the dismissal of my femininity when an absolute stranger commented on it; “you’re not really a girl”. When I let out a puzzled “huh” followed with a bemused look, he elaborated; “you know what I mean.”

And goddamn it, I didn’t.

I forget in what context it was said or meant, but I’ve heard it before, it just never hit me as it did then; in fact, prior to the incident, it was a matter of pride. Through out childhood and through most of High School, I was what is commonly referred to as a “tom boy”.

But lately, every two-headed individual (my brother, mi amigos, and now my coworker) inquiring as to my opinion tends to disregard it when I give my best shot.

“I need advice. You’re kind of a girl, right?” My coworker inquires
“Uhm. Kind of?” I reply mockingly; slightly offended, yet indifferent.
“You know what I mean.”
“You mean my wardrobe doesn’t consist of differing shades of pink and I don’t go off on random tangents about shoes?”
“Eh, never mind your opinion is useless; you’re not really a girl.”

***

“Do you like this shirt” my brother asks.
“Yuck. It’s very A&F-ish. Pop yo collar.”
“Whatever, you’re a hippie. Plus…you’re not really a girl”

***

“What do you think of me in a BMW Z4?”
“Eh. I don’t like men in flashy cars. What about a Prius?”
“Yuck. Your opinion is useless and incompatible with evolution”
***

Screw you, guys. I am a girl. My emotions are fragile, erratic, and entirely irrational. Maybe I just need a low(er) cut shirt and a new pair of shoes to bring out my femininity.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Work. I am working.
Sucks. It is sucking.
If I get to my hotel at a decent hour today, I’ll write something substantive.

Happy Dress Like a Hoochie Day!

2007-10-31T20:58:00.001Z

Lunch time I was standing in line at Ralphs when a grotesquely chunky man behind me, dressed as Willy Wonka, accosts me as to my lack of holiday spirit.

“Why aren’t you dressed up?”

“I am.”

“As?”

“An accountant.”

“Do you dress like that on a daily basis?”

“Yup.”

“Then it’s not a costume.”

Houston, we have a problem! According to Mr. Shopper, numerous girls are not partaking in the true festivities of Halloween, because they “dress like that on a daily basis”. Upon browsing my myspace “friends” whose pictures change more often then their underwear, I noticed a trend in outfits.

1) Hoochie Nurse
2) Hoochie Cop
3) Hoochie Dorophy
4) Hoochie Mama. Woops. Skip.
5) Hoochie Hooters Girl
6) Hoochie French Maid.

I might head to the Gay Parade in West Hollywood tonight. The gay concept of dress like someone you’re not is by far superior.

A Note to Google

2007-10-29T18:12:00.000Z

Seriously, Google, we need to talk.

I love you. I really do. I google all sorts of oddities and you use all sorts of orgasmic logarithms and algorithms to assist me in my quests. And to boot, you have tons of super duper cool features; gmail, google reader, blogger. Totally, awesome!

Oh, Google, you absofuckinglutely rock! If you were tangible and had manly extremities, I have a feeling I’d be really into ~~exploring~~ firefoxing you.

But like many of the male types, you have numerous vices; one in particular must be addressed now, before I become too invested in you.

With that being said, please don’t take this to heart; it’s constructive criticism, not a condemnation.

Google, would you PLEASE re-examine the searches that bring folks to my blog?

I don’t mind when you direct those who google the first 20 digits of e and end up here. Dorks are cute. I grant you that, Google. But why, why, why….are you sending weirdos who google “lactating grandmas breasts” to my blog? Now, I understand that like attracts like, but nonetheless, how does one searching for the aforementioned end up here?! Have you considered directing them to appropriate adult content providers?

The following searches took place last week (and were linked to either here or here). Please look over them, re-examine your sexy codes, and make the needed adjustments.

russian big breast
russian food is full with fat
nutrition for bigger breasts
men big breast photo
big breasts mostly glandular

Mucho gracias!

And tomorrow is another hard working Monday..

2007-10-22T07:04:00.000Z

I don’t know what it was like outside today. It was warm in my apartment.

It may have been cold and bitter.
I heard the winds beat up the cardboard walls that encapsule the empty space constituting my residence.

The wind chimes on my balcony played a tune whilst I played pretend. To me, it was a record breaking cold day. Inside, it was warm and cozy. I made myself a lovely meal and a cup of coffee. Wrapped up in bed sheets, I surpassed the three bills haphazardly arranged on my dining table, and opened the four red envelopes that have been compiling since Monday. The phone rang a few times. My brother. Grandma. Diana. It rang a few more times. I got up and unplugged it from the wall. It felt good to be disconnected. Damn good.

Midday, I was contemplating sleeping, but after a few shots of caffeine, I resorted to exploring and exploiting the contents of the aforementioned red envelopes. So, I watched a few movies and drank a weird concoction of coffee and wine. I cried a little too. I still can’t pinpoint the imputes behind the relatively sudden crescendo of emotions; it could have been a brief chic flick moment in Goodbye, Lenin. But it felt….I don’t know, it just “felt”. Lately, I haven’t had feelings of any kind.

Then, I played dress up. The dress I bought two months ago, which hugged my hips and accentuated my waist, now resembled an extra large flannel shirt. I should of bought a smaller size. Should of, could of, would of. I proceeded to try on a blouse I purchased during the same shopping spree. My ribs were protruding. Yuck.

I’m leaving in a week for three weeks. San Diego. For work. Not [foreseen] play. I’m greatly anticipating getting away; even if I have nothing to get away from (which is perhaps the basis behind my current state of emotional nonchalance.)

May public servants live long and thrive!*

2007-10-18T17:24:00.000Z

I’m cheery this morning. Again. Perhaps I’m victim to pattern.

But today, the raison d'être behind my cheeriness is not the weather; in fact, the weather is dreadful. It’s “perfect”; warm and sunny. Yuck.

So, if not the weather, why the departure from my natural grumpiness?

Well, kiddos, a lovely fundraising fair for firefighters is being held by the mall that is steps from my office building (and a 3 second dive out the window). The men are, wow, absolutely sweltering. Super duper hot. On fire, quite literally.

I know where I’m headed for ~~roasted meat~~ lunch today. And you betcha, I’m getting me desert. Simple carbohydrates are, on occasion, good for the bod, yo!

*With the exception of police.

I’m only happy when it rains...

2007-10-15T17:22:00.000Z

I woke up this morning and, for once, it felt pretty damn good.

The morning was cumbersome, gray, and chilly; for a split second I felt a slight tinge of happiness; after which I was hit with a severe bout of nostalgia. Back east, the leaves are metamorphosing into brilliant shades of reds, oranges and yellows that are on occasion juxtaposed against a clear blue sky.

Most of the time the sky is gray and it rains; but the gray mutiny is in itself lovely.

“Big Bear has seasons. I can take road trips there” I reassured myself whilst bidding my farewells at BWI.

“The summers aren’t humid. The weather is always perfect”

God, the monotonous weather is exasperating.

“Friends; I have friends in LA”

Such bullshit.

I can’t seem to pinpoint where I belong. Maybe here. Maybe there.

Maybe, nowhere.

“Home is where the heart is”
My heart- sometimes I doubt its existence.

Perhaps its not even nostalgia that is fabricating this verbal vomit, but rather, a bitter realization; I moved to LA on a whim. I was unhappy. I’m still unhappy. But in DC, I had an opportunity to blame everything, with the exception of myself; the weather, my parents, humidity, architecture, the relatively flat terrains and dead winter trees.

“I won’t miss this hell hole.”

The locals claim LA has seasons a reasonable drive away. But no one here really cares for seasons, nor a two hour commute to get to them. People go about their lives, constantly on the look out for new clothes to wear, and new people to try on.

In a year (or two) I’m taking off to New England.

"I won't miss this hell hole" either.

Ouch. He didn't call.

2007-10-11T17:54:00.000Z

As I was leaving, conversation kept flowing. He kept yapping. I kept replying.

It was interesting. He was interesting.

I didn’t have much of a doubt that he would call. It wouldn’t be immediate. But after a few days passed and the likelihood of communication approached zero; I was stunned. And really goddamn puzzled.

Was it me?

“No honey, of’course not! It’s his loss”

Is it? ~~The bible~~ Sex and the City says so! It’s always his loss. Alcohol fades, your facial features become apparent. But never mind that, it’s his loss. Your weight exceeds that of a Hummer. It’s his loss (your gain!). You’re dumber then timber, and surely, that’s his loss (knock on wood).

Maybe it’s you. And maybe it’s me.

Maybe I’m not the epitome of female beauty. Maybe I’m slightly chunky. Maybe my cranial capacity is somewhat lacking. Maybe I’m not funny. Or interesting.

Maybe he’s dead.

“Oh, don’t be so cynical! Plenty of fish in the sea!”

Oh yes, Sex and the City wisdom!

Catfish. Sole. Bottom-feeders. Throw a bait, any bait. Those fuckers will eat it.

The Neighbor, Mary Jane, and the Locksmith

2007-09-24T18:37:00.000Z

Last week, I had a very lovely coffee date with a very lovely lady.

Afterwards, I realized there are two things I really miss; stimulating conversation (head out of the gutter) and writing.

So here I am, in my long awaited (re)debut…And much like tradition dictates, I begin this entry with a story, the moral of which is...well, I am not sure what the moral is; but it surely hits on how fucking confusing men are.

And so, without further adieu...

The Neighbor, Mary Jane, and the Locksmith

On a hot summer night, Ish, Hector, Tanya and her boy, decided to brisk in the delights of spirits, and fate (okay, fine, I) led us to Lola’s. As the night progressed, hunger stroke and I knew just the perfect place to satisfy our ~~alcohol induced horniness~~ appetites; Bossa Nova.

The waiter happened to be the same one who a month prior has found (and later dialed) my digits.

As we await the bill, I am panic stricken.

“Holyfuckingshit. I have to RUN. My eggs are on fire!”

Bewildered looks followed, perhaps awaiting a brilliant metaphor. But alas, my creative genius was lacking and my stupidity was overcompensating “I LEFT MY EGGS ON THE GODDAMN STOVE”

At the time, I was fostering two dogs. Even if the house did not turn to dust, I assumed the water would have boiled over and natural gas would make its way into my doggies’ lungs.

I drive home, desperately trying to avoid the Pedestrian Froggers that are on the verge of “Game Over”, run up the stairs, and fiddle with the lock. As I unlock the first door, and reach for the handle of the second door, I realize it’s locked. The only way to lock that door is either from the inside or with a key, which I do not have.

My dogs begin to bark and attack the door. My initial reaction was one of much joy; I was really goddamn relieved they were alive. This followed with “Holyshit. The landlord was here.” I’m not “allowed” to have dogs.

Considering that it was way past midnight, it would have been very “un-neighborly” to knock on someone’s door in an attempt to figure out what happened. The dogs were alive, which was all that mattered, and I can wait till morning to climb over my neighbor’s balcony. Just then, I saw the light! And heard hymns! All on my downstairs neighbor’s TV.

I knock, the neighbor opens the door.

“Did you hear the fire alarm? Where the firefighters here? Was the landlord here?!”

He leaned in, took in the alcohol still lingering on my breath, and shook his head.

“Calm down. There were no fires, fire alarms, or landlords”

I explain my situation, chewing half my words and skipping sentences. We have a pretty interesting conversation, the specifics of which escape me, but at some point he asks “Mind if I smoke?” and without much hesitation, I request a joint.

I tend to function best when I’m high; after my second joint, it hits me; the little fuckers locked me out (by jumping on the lock and turning it)! Those damned mutts!

After much deliberation, and no possible alternatives, I call a locksmith.

I strike him as slightly psychotic from the get-go;

Ida: “Hi. My dogs locked me out”
Locksmith: “What?”
Ida: “Yup. My dogs locked me out.”

He, however, strikes me as rather handsome looking.

We make our way up to my apartment, and he begins to fiddle with the lock. It turns out, the lock is from around the 19th century (gross overestimate) and is thus impossible to pick. The only alternative is to drill through it. It’s way past midnight. My neighbors are in the midst of their wet dreams.

“How long would it take to drill it”
“15 minutes”
“Ugh, fuck it. I’ll sleep on the steps”
“That’s silly; your neighbors will get over it.”

I am aware they won’t. I’ll be the topic of conversation for at least the next 3 months. But the steps aren’t exactly cozy and my skirt is not flannel.

“Okay, go for it”

He begins to drill. Its uber loud. The dogs bark. The cats meow. My neighbors…don’t flinch.

After 15 minutes of consistent drilling, he finally unlocks the door.

I run to the fridge get some wine, and offer some to my new hero. He takes me up on the offer, pets my doggies and sits down at the table. We begin conversing. Time passes, he gets a call; his services are needed.

“Great, I’m not the only moron who calls a locksmith in the middle of the night”
“Nope, there are many of you”

Before he leaves, he inquires whether I like to salsa.
“Yup!”
“Awesome! Can I call you sometime?”
“Yup!”

And with that, he departs.

He never called me again.*

And this is what riddles me. He was attractive, but definitely not the type I am usually interested in. Perhaps the whole “damsel in distress” thing (and the substantial $200 discount) elevated him to “has potential” category. Whatever may be the case, I’m rather puzzled as to why he didn’t call. He was certainly interested, more so then I was.

So, what the hell happened?!

*Not entirely certain; his number is blocked. And both times that I got blocked calls afterwards I did not pick up.

99 miles from LA...

2007-08-24T06:56:00.000Z

Ouch. Its 12:05 I have to wake up in 5.5 hours.

To the Mr/Ms who inquired as to my whereabouts: I'm in LA.

Semi-permanently.

Updates:

1) My landlord is a poopoohead. More on that later
2) Workin' aint half bad, but I prefer edumacation.
3) My savings rate is 0. See numero uno.
4) I adore the LA office(s) and do not regret my decision to transfer West.
5) The hottest spot in the San Fernando Valley is Woodland Hills.
6) I am extremely apolegetic towards the auditors of Countrywide
7) I say death to adjustable rate mortgages (unless interest rates are bound within limits)
8) Americans have a negative savings rate
9) Chinamen buy US dollars/bonds.
10) In reality, Chinamen control US economy. See 8 and 9.
11) I'm not impressed with Bernanke.
12) I got off topic. I didn't have a topic. I'm hittin' the hay, yo.
13) Buenas Noches.

I'm a working gal..

2007-08-20T00:54:00.001Z

Tomorrow, I'm joining the ranks of corporate slaves.

Working for the man. 9 to 5.

Godfuckingdamnit.

What’s cookin, good lookin’?

2007-08-16T23:13:00.001Z

Somewhat recently, my best friend and I got into a ballistic argument. We were on the verge of completely loosing one another. Fortunately, our mutual stubbornness caved in to common sense and rationality. In retrospect, it was silly and moronic to let a decade long friendship suffer the rage of PMS (kidding, it involved far more then bodily fluids and hormones).

Having cried out 90% of our body’s sodium content that day, our nutrient depletion led us to Lala’s (an Argentinian grill on Melrose), where I spotted the man who now stars in my wet dreams.

He was sitting in an opposing corner with an older gent who appeared to be his dad (and was later joined by a married couple with a baby). My unfortunate lack of 20/20 eyesight mislead me into believing he was periodically glancing in my direction. It was puzzling; was I hallucinating? Was he looking past me? Was there a cute, bubbly blonde with humongous titties directly behind me?

So naturally, I ignore the situation and do not acknowledge his existence. Not because I’m an egomaniac or am playing “hard to get”. To the contrary, I neither have an ego or game strategy.

I often find myself in such situations. My intuition convinces me there is a vibe. But I do not smile, wink and pass along a napkin smeared with red lipstick and my digits . Instead, I revert back to being an elementary school girl; I avoid all eye contact and pretend my empty plate has more interest and appeal.

My (senile) body can’t handle much more C2H6O.

2007-07-12T04:26:00.000Z

But in typical LA fashion, I’m going to Privilege- the microcosm of LA

So here’s to another night of butt grinding with Frat/Actor/Waiter types with alluring orange tans.

“Come on, Barbie, let's go party…ooh oooh yeaah”

I'm tired.

Post in the works. Tomorrow.

FuckingA

2007-06-30T21:03:00.001Z

Oi vay. I'm slowly re-gaining balance.

I know, all updates are decades over due!

Soon, folks, soon.

:(

Broken Promises?

2007-06-13T19:55:00.001Z

I promise to write (after the 19th). I do. I really do.

I have been mucho busy. Mucho. But I have a storrry to tell. A wonderful, miraculous story! One that inspires you to dream, to hope, and to believe. One that centers around Bossa Nova and its yummmy meat. MAN MEAT. But one that is to be told at a later time, as my computer use is severely restricted, and i must run...far, far, away, to a land of fairies, smelly roses, and hot male servers.

Toodles!
-Ida

Party at Grandma's

2007-06-04T04:20:00.001Z

Marketing: the Business Equivalent of Rocket Science***

2007-05-24T14:34:00.000Z

Bravo to the genius PhDs behind my marketing textbook. Their words of wisdom resonate deep within my brain. I almost feel pinches of sadness having to sell my textbook, but I prefer yummy cash to random bits of wisdom. Just glancing at every odd page, I find the most bizarre and ground-breaking research. Let me enlighten you all…

1) Major breakthroughs: “studies show that satisfaction and dissatisfaction affect consumer repeat purchase behavior.” Yup, it takes a ton of research and many bunched-up smartie-pants to conclude so.

2) “In general people in the upper classes are targeted by companies for items such as financial investments, expensive cars, and formal evening wear.” Woah, that’s some hardcore theory! Poor people buy bread and college students live off Ramen noodles. Didyaknow?!

3)In Russia and Poland the “thumbs-up” sign has an “offensive meaning when the palm of the hand is shown.” Really? Having grown up in Russia (former USSR, rather) I was not aware that the open palm thumbs up gesture was offensive. Shoot! No wonder the Russian mafia is after my ass.

***Do not misinterpret this rant to imply that I am bitter about failing my class (and by failing I mean I got a B+, duh)

In other events, I am revisiting my favorite thrift stores. One of which is Deja New, the most adorable thrift store in Middleofnowheresville.

Holyfuckingshit

2007-05-22T03:05:00.000Z

While sipping my morning coffee late into the afternoon (ahem, midnight) I log into my sitemeter account to stalk my ~~stalkers~~ readers…and BAM! Approximately 293041209381290380 people visited today (plus/minus the round off error) I dug around site meter, to discover that wonkette linked to my little hole-in-the-wall blog!

In non-related news, the rumors of my return sparked the talks amongst friends of introducing me to male comrades.

“Well, I’ve been wanting to [forcefully] introduce you to so many smart [ugly, bald] guys”

Honeybuns, while I appreciate your fear that I will die old, alone, with 2 cats, 3 dogs, a turtle, and a dozen of greenish-blue beta fish, “he isn’t my type” does not translate into “if you introduce us we’ll form covalent love bonds and have 2.4 deformed babies”.

It’s not like I have one boob and a third nipple; I can fetch my own (with a little help from a a secret formula)

Mommy WOW, I’m a big kid now!

2007-05-21T16:51:00.000Z

I immersed my self in religious texts on a quest to determine the Jewish view on abortion. This turned out to be a Herculean struggle and the five minutes I spent flipping through the Torah and examining the Commandments proved to be a futile effort. At last, I turned to grandma, whose phenomenal wisdom and infinite knowledge would not lead me astray. And so I came to discover that according to Judaic doctrine, a fetus can no longer be aborted when it graduates college.

Today, I am proud to announce that I am an actual, living, breathing. human being.

And yet, this “human being” feels nothing in regards to its “re-birth”

Minutes after my last final, my best friend called.

“Wow, congratulations! So are you ecstatic?!” She inquires with overstated enthusiasm
“Eh…not particularly”
“Hmm. Yeah, I getchya. You’ll miss college”
“En…not particularly”

My brother calls minutes later; “Wow, so you just had your last final?! How do you feel?”
“Eh. Okay.”
“Okay?!!!”
“Eh. Okay.”

My nearly monosyllabic speech drove both nuts, and I was pounded with emotional phrases to squeeze out some type of feeling.

But I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“But wow, what an accomplishment” friends repeat in tandem.
Is it? Is graduating college an accomplishment? Why are college kids, who have magnitudes more free time then any corporate bitch, considered to have “accomplished” something upon graduation? When in fact, graduation is the first step to corporate slave-dom?

Rachel said, “at least you didn’t quit! That’s an accomplishment”
I beg to differ. At college, I spend 95% of my time on me. If I “quit” I’d face several repercussions 1) ballistic parents 2) less free time. Thus “sticking out” is not an accomplishment, but the path of least resistance.

“But Ida, I work part time and go to school full time.”
Boo-hoo. So did I. But your part time job is bullshit. Had it not been, you wouldn’t be on AIM to congratulate me.

(And this is why I was not the commencement speaker)

The Battle of the He-She

2007-05-19T00:13:00.000Z

Those were the good ol’ days. The times when wrongdoing was excusable, and even sort of adorable. My good bud Rachel and I were like fluffy, disoriented puppies that soiled the carpet; You just couldn’t blame us, our accidents were mere “oopsies” and “boo-boos”.

Our cherubic gazes and sweet, rosy cheeks magnetized Plummer Park grandmas and initial impressions rendered us harmless; we were damn cleverly disguised behind our seemingly innocent gazes and saccharine coated porcelain skin.

On most random sunny afternoons, we would find ourselves unsupervised and in desperate search of means to entertain ourselves. Usually, we did so at the expense of the unfortunate few whose fate led them astray. We figured it was their bad karma, and it was up to us to balance out their cosmic negativity.

I vividly recur one such instance.

There we were. A long spring evening spread out before us. Rachel’s mom just exited the apartment and told us to “behave”. We smiled sweetly; our menacing grins disguised by the beaming light of our halos. She trusted us. Fully. As did every adult we ever encountered.

As the knob turned, and the door shut, we got down to planning.

Where should we start? We were home alone, and forbidden to go outside. But alas, even the off-white walls that imprisoned us within the confines of Rachel’s apartment would not block our access to strangers: The apartment had a balcony. And we were armed.

Our weapon of choice? Dihydrogen Monoxide.

Every kid is familiar with the properties of Dihydrogen Monoxide. It is used on the battlefield along with blow-up latex. We lacked latex, but for our purposes, latex was easily substitutable with ceramic pottery. We took a few ceramics and poured in the compound.

First, we examined our battlefield. Rachel’s balcony was on the 4th floor and was perfectly situated directly above the entrance into the apartment complex.

We laid down on the balcony, as though it were a ditch, and armed with ceramics containing dihydrogen monoxide, we patiently awaited the enemy. The enemy, however, was slow to arrive. At last, a white van pulled up to the building and from it exited a blonde lady; she was beaming with negative karma.

As she approached the gate of the building, we fired and hit her dead on. The chemical turned her hair a darker shade of blonde and dissolved her white blouse.

Feeling victorious, we left the balcony in search of new projects and new enemies. The blonde lady, however, wanted a rematch.

Minutes later, we hear a violent knock on our door, and a strong, baritone, MALE voice shouting, “OPEN UP! POLICE”

Glancing through the peephole, we saw the blonde “LADY”. The bombardment on our fortress continued for about 2 minutes. Then it stopped. And was resumed at random intervals. The He-She also poked our lock, desperately trying to dismantle it.

We were scared shitless and expected the worst; the he-she would break down either the lock or the door.

Our only means of survival was to hide. But where does one hide inside a 2 bedroom apartment? Closets and beds are obvious places. Miss Man would find us within minutes. We figured our best bet was to lie down in the bathtub and crouch in a fetal position, leaving the curtain 1/4th way open, so as to give an impression of an empty bath.

As time dragged on and the bombarding continued, we had to resolve to desperate means: Feeling slightly defeated, we phoned the ‘rents.

“Hi mommy, some psychotic lady-man is trying to tear down our door”
“What did you do to provoke her…ahem, him?”
“Oh nothing mommy, you know, LA is filled with crazy folk”
“Okay, we’ll be there in 2 minutes”

My parents arrived, Miss Man had vanished, and Rachel and I remained victorious. :)

The End.

I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle!

2007-05-18T01:06:00.000Z

Woohoo! Friday is Bike to Work Day!

Whiz out your bike and take it for a spin. And if you don’t have one…DAMN YOU TO THE ETERNAL FLAMES OF….GLOBAL WARMING*!

In honor of bikes and hippies (and hippies on bikes) the theme for today’s musical selection is….BICYCLES!

With the initial thoughts of Queen and Pink Floyd, I figured that this post will be a speedy brainstorm session. But alas, the terrain turned out rather rocky; apparently wussy songs about “lovesick blues” and “firm feeling women” are preferable to the environmental integrity of bikes. Shame!

But I am not one to give up, and have thus compiled a list (although the theme has been simplified to include songs with references to bikes)

“Bike” Pink Floyd
“Bicycle race” Queen
“ldn” Lily Allen
“Bicycle rider” The Beach Boys
“Fat angel” Jefferson Airplane
“Jesus the Mexican Boy” Iron & Wine
“Going to the Run” Golden Earring
“This Charming Man” The Smiths**
“My Little Town” Simon and Garfunkel
“Pisces Fish” George Harrison
“Lightning Strikes (Not Once But Twice)” The Clash
“The Fox In The Snow” Belle & Sebastian
“Wishful Thinking” The Ditty Bops***

Send word to Morrissey: more Bike songs please!

*Eh well, as an infamous high school teacher once stated, “we’re all going to die anyway!”
** Told yah!
***The Ditty Bops are playing at the Henry Fonda Music Box Theatre 07/28/07. Come!

Hello sir, can I offer you a lap dance?

2007-05-16T17:55:00.000Z

As the governator wisely expressed; “I’ll be back.” And today, I share a similar predicament; I impulsively purchased a ticket to….LA! As in, Louisiana! Err, kidding.

Problem being is that my brother is planning to move out of his cozy West Hollywood apartment, and thus I can no longer leech off of him. (“leech” is a rather misleading term. Our relationship is entirely symbiotic; he pays and I provide awesome company. I sometimes sweep the floor, too).

But spending the summer in LA means I have to resort to WORKING for a living. Full-fucking-time. Well, without the fucking. Obviously.

On second thought…Sunset is within walking distance. But it’s too damn competitive. The “chicks” on Sunset are superbly well equipped (big boobies, bigger penises). Although, not always prepared- on many an occasion, a he-she outside of the Sunset 7-11 will inquire about “borrowing” a condom ( my generosity knows no bounds; I let the mister/miss “keep it” )

Speaking of he-she’s reminds me of my favorite Rachel-Ida memory. One day, when finals are a thing of the past, I shall reminisce. But meanwhile, its back to put-call parity.

PS. Oleg thinks I can totally make it as a stripper:

“why not strip clubs? you'd make tons more money. Chip n’ dales refuses to hire me, otherwise i'd be working there”

I have my doubts (and a mirror reflection). But, my fragile ego appreciated the stroking. Well done, Oleg. Well done.

Boo-hoo!

2007-05-16T13:04:00.000Z

In regards to my last post, I missed the quintessential failure/procrastination song:

"Cause I got High" AFROMAN!

I was gonna go to class before I got high
I could'a cheated and I could'a passed but I got high
I'm takin it next semester and I know why
Cause I got high
Cause I got high
Cause I got high

Goddamn Classic.

Chill out yo!

2007-05-15T02:24:00.000Z

...and seize your virtual poking; some of us have finals to fail this week.

Speaking of finals, today’s playlist theme: Failure/School

"Another Brick in the Wall" Pink Floyd
"The Headmaster Ritual" The Smiths*
“Expectations" Belle and Sebastian
“Failure by Design” Brand New
“The Hard Way” The Kinks.
"The Logical Song Supertramp
“Suspended from Class” Camera Obscura

*Holyfuckingshit, is there a Smith’s song that does not fit a given theme/scenario?!

My brother wants a pimpmobile...

2007-05-06T03:43:00.000Z

My brother, who after years of college now earns a decent pay check, has amassed a small fortune. As a man in harmony with evolution, he seeks a way to utilize his newfound wealth to attract the gold-digging sex.

Having been deprived of hot toy cars in his childhood (solely on behalf of the toy-stealing, younger sister) he is on the lookout for a pimpmobile that would induce many a woman to go au naturale.

In dire need of advice, he turns to the little sis to deduce what type of vehicles the ladies find panty dropping. Among his choices is the BMW Z4 convertible.

I almost vomited.

There is a certain stereotype that goes along with men in flashy cars that I find repelling. Perhaps my train of thought is an anomaly to evolutionary history, but I can not stand the corporate-ladder climbing fuckers (or trust fund kids) that usually occupy such vehicles.

In the end, we came to an agreement:

Me: “There is no backseat. No groceries. No threesomes!!!”
Bro: “You’re right. The downside of a small car is if you want to get it on, you gotta do it on the hood”

...AND WHAT ABOUT THE GROCERIES?!!

A story about a grasshoper named I-ho

2007-05-03T23:35:00.000Z

Grasshopper I-ho was a merry, little, fellow. I-ho danced, giggled and enjoyed the matters of the flesh throughout her tenure in Happyland. While her contemporaries, ants, slaved away belligerently and laboriously in dimly lit cubes and rat-infested restaurants.

And now comes winter and I-ho decided she wants to hop over to Los Evil-ous. However, I-ho did not store the fruits of her labor, and instead frolicked in grass filled forests, blowing whatever she earned during the past summer for bits of Mary Jane* and pretty, dirty, things.

How will grasshopper I-ho manage to survive in the frigid Los Evil-ous? Will she find herself Ant Shugah-Pop? Or will she resort to Sundown Blvd?

"We don't let eras define us..."

2007-05-02T00:18:00.000Z

When I lost my mp3 player , I discovered the greatest station of all time: 94.7 The Globe (Preceding Globe, I believe 94.7 was a Classic Rock station which was moderately okay).

Prior to Globe, the DC wavelengths were trashed with the likes of Kelly Clarkson and Fall Out Boy. My only “mourning” salvation was NPR.

The station’s musical selection is absofuckinglutely fantastic. It’s not a pretentious hipster station designed to replay indie bands that are “so unknown and so in.” Nor does it solely concentrate on vintage records. Rather, the DJ’s spin songs from the great antiquity of classic rock to the newer, up-and-coming artists. What’s even more impressive about The Globe is it’s mission statement; it’s commitment to the local community and the globe goes beyond pretensions (it powers its 50,000 watt signal using renewable energy).

Admittedly, the station does have a few downsides. I noticed they replay a few “hits” more often then what is preferable (especially The Frey, Coldplay, Jack Johnson, and U2.)

I usually listen in on my way home from class, which happens to be during “Eclectic Lunch” when listeners call in to request songs congruent to the day’s theme.

A recent theme was: Cover songs- Boys playing girl songs and Girls playing boy songs. It was fantastic, I never heard Patti Smith’s rendition of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” prior to it.

I was so inspired by the theme, that I compiled my own list, sticking only to the first part of the theme.

Some of my favorite covers:
The Cardigans “The Boys are Back in Town” (Thin Lizzy)
The Ramones “California Sun” (The Revieras)
The Decemberists “Up the Junction” (Squeeze)
Sublime “No Woman no Cry” (Bob Marley)
Dynamite Hack “Boys in the Hood” (Eazy E)
David Bowie “China Girl” (Iggy Pop)
Johny Cash “Hurt” (NIN)
Nirvana “The Man Who Sold the World” (David Bowie)
Me First and the Gimme Gimmies “Build Me Up Buttercup” (Temptations)
Bright Eyes "Mushaboom" (Feist)
The Shins "We Will Become Sillhouettes" (Postal Service)
Beatles "Act Naturally" (Buck Owens)
Cake "Excuse me, I think I got a heartache" (Buck Owens)
Patsy Cline "Blue Moon of Kentucky" (Bill Monroe)

Most blasphemous covers:
Limp Bizkit “Behind Blue Eyes” (The Who)
TATU “How Soon is Now” (The Smiths)
Cowboy Junkies “Sweet Jane” (Velvet Underground)
Patti Smith & Leonard Cohen “Sweet Jane” (Nothing rivals the original.)
Radiohead “Wish you were here”(Pink Floyd).

Any additions?

Paganini/Casanova

2007-04-23T03:11:00.000Z

Niccolo Paganini, an Italian violinist, was so proficient in stringing a tune, that in the 18th and 19th century it was rumored that Paganini sold his soul to the devil. Paganini’s musical expertise is very much comparable to womanizing capabilities of a fat, balding, unemployed male who manages to seduce and bed multiple good-looking chicks.

You may disagree that such occurrences happen, or argue that if they do occur the obese, balding gentleman at hand must have presented himself under false pretenses (i.e., rich). I, however, happen to believe that there are men out there who constitute the very essence of physical disgust and yet have some sort of expertise in attracting females.

I second handedly (through a friend of a friend) know such a guy. He is shorter then a Japanese girl. He is rounder then a sumo wrestler. He has less hair then Homer Simpson. But for some unexplainable reason, chicks flock to him like transexual hookers to Sunset Blvd.

Does his lack of attractive physical characteristics mean he has to make up for it with his personality and smarts? Nope, he has a limited grasp of either. Is he filthy rich? Nope. And yet, his stories are legendary.

Take Tom Leykis, who is also the antithesis of physical beauty, but manages to attract above average ladies. Tom Leykis, however, employs a system and rules to score by, whereas the aforementioned guy does not possess above average brains, and luckily for him, his “skills” are ingrained. He does not analyze what he is doing or how he is doing it; for him it just seems to flow.

Initially, most think “Oh yes, your ‘friend’ is a jerk. That’s how he does it.” Intrinsically, we tend to divide the male population into “jerks” and “nice guys”. Jerks get the girl. And, ironically, the “nice guys” are forced to substitute girls for masturbation or bestiality.

And primarily do to such biases, many self proclaimed nice guys fall into the “act like a jerk” routine. After failing miserably, they begin to publicly proclaim their veteran “nice guy” status as a badge of honor; one that is “unappreciated” by the female species. The "nice guy" begins to envision himself as righteous, mature, and above every “jerk-drawn” female.

The truth is, scoring is not determined by either classification. It’s actually somewhat of a skill, which is sometimes ingrained (‘my’ friend) and sometimes learned (Tom Leykis).

So while both ‘my’ friend and Paganini have an ingrained talent in their respective categories, one can learn to play a violin (perhaps not on a virtuoso level) much like one can learn to score.

------
(Side note: Limited updates till mid May; I have things to do. People to finish. Ahem…. )

Hey you...

2007-04-20T19:35:00.000Z

Hey you, out there all alone
Sitting naked by the phone
Can you hear me?

Bleh.

2007-04-17T01:08:00.000Z

I am not dead. Well, not entirely.
I am vegetating; I sleep, eat, and poo-poo. Occasionally, I contemplate getting busy- not in the blissful “getting busy” way that results in overpopulation, but in a “fucking-a, I gotta finish [start] a gazillion papers” way.

I am also beyond broke and am officially my parent’s bitch. “You need gas money? Clean the kitchen and scrub the toilet.”

Fuck.
Fuck the IRS.
Fuck the State of Maryland.
Fuck Social Security, Medicare, and Unemployment Insurance.
Fuck the millionaires that aren’t knocking on my door.
(Wait, fucking millionaires may not be such a bad idea, but I digress…)

Hello E-bay. Goodbye shoes. Goodbye Purses.
Hello Ramen Noodles. Goodbye yummy, pricey organic foods. Goodbye Whole Foods.

Odd Phenomenon

2007-04-12T18:28:00.000Z

The later I wake up in the morning (and the more disheveled I look) the more boys talk to me.

Case in point: Today, I woke up at exactly 6:40. To make it to class by 8, I have to be out of the house by 6:45. At 6:50 I hit CRAZY traffic. I made it to class 15 minutes late, short of breath, sleepy, and anything but appealing. Had I been more scantily clothed, I would of definitely passed for trailer trash.

Apparently this “look” is rather appealing. Thus far:
1) Boy in 8AM class attempted to converse and smiled, oh so cutely.
2) Prior to 9:30 class, I was typing away on my laptop and groovin’ to music, when a boy approaches, taps on my shoulder, and tells me “ you’re glistening! From the bottom of the stair case, your laptop gives you a radiant glow” (Great, so now I can resort to using my laptop to achieve a “radiant glow”)
3) Adrien Grenier Boy in 11:00 class, sat a seat away. He usually sits on the other side of the lecture hall. And he appeared to be glancing in my direction. Luckily his mouth obstructed from movement for the longevity of the class (the boy is in dire need of a brain).

I’m prone to overanalyzing any set of random events, but such occurrences tend to reoccur when my hair is a horrible frizzy, curly mess and my clothes are picked off the closet floor. Maybe my unkempt appearance makes me an “easy target“.

I’ve always taken a minimalistic approach to how I look, there are two reasons for my doing so.

1) I’m goddamn lazy
2) I can continue misleading myself into believing that if I put in the effort I can look appealing.

This realization forms the basis of what constitutes my type of man-meat.

While I am a huge health freak and am paranoid about aging (no signs yet, whew!), loosing elasticity in any part of my body, or gaining 0.0005 lbs, I absolutely hate spending time making myself presentable. Time that it takes to do my hair or make-up is time I can spend doing something more productive (sleeping). How does this translate into qualities I like in guys? Well, I’m very particular about a guy’s taste in other females. That is, if we disagree on what constitutes beauty, he is rendered un-datable/do-able. Why? Because being consciously aware that someone finds the qualities I lack to be attractive does not do wonders for my (lack of) self esteem.

My type of ladies include the likes of Audrey Hepburn, Audrey Tautou, Jessica Alba, Adrianna Lima, and Halle Berry. What does not appeal to me is what I refer to as “laborious sexy”. To get their look, I would have to put forth much time and effort. This category includes Jessica Simpson, Paris Hilton, the lead chick from Pussycat Dolls, Gisele, Anna Kournikova, along with numerous others. I can see why others deem them to be hot, sexy, etc., but they just don’t cut it for me (it’s called narcissism: the aforementioned ladies and I do not share mutual features.)

Not only are preferences for facial features included in the selection process, but body features are of even greater importance. I’m not a fan of big boobies, because, well, mine aren’t exactly of massive proportions. And although I don’t have much excess weight, I can stand to loose a few pounds and thus I prefer guys who are not fond of hot, tall, stick figures and are into relatively short, “curvy-ish” girls (e.g., Scarlet Johansen, less the boobies).

Ida- a Cyberstitute?

2007-04-09T18:40:00.000Z

After my SeekingArrangement profile was re-edited without my consent, I again re-submitted my original content. This time, my legitimacy was re-evaluated and allowed and I uploaded pictures that bear no resemblance to Ida 2.0. Within minutes of my profile being “approved” I began receiving inquiries from disturbingly sterile men.

This week, I introduce you to Mr. D

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MESSAGE

Tell me you're being silly. Silly can be fun, as long as it can be serious other times. Are you real?

best wishes,
Doug
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MESSAGE

I am real. Except boobs. They are big, but lot silicone. You like silicone?
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MESSAGE

So you're related to Borat, yes? If I meet with you will there be a camera nearby?

I think I would like to hear your voice. Do you feel like talking on the phone?

hugs,
Doug

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MESSAGE

Borat? Ew! He make joke of Motherland.

I no have phone. I poor student.

You spend 1,000 on me? That cheap.

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MESSAGE

Too bad you don't have a phone. If you were a female goofball I have a feeling I'd still enjoy talking to you.

Really cute pix, though. Do you have any more you could send me? If they're *really* cute I could pay you for them.

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MESSAGE

I no goofball! You make me sad.

I have lot pictures. But I good girl. I no take clothes off in pictures.

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It’s comforting to know that if I drop out this semester, I have alternate career paths.

Barberini Faun

2007-04-06T01:45:00.000Z

All sexual frustrations aside, sculptures such as the one pictured above should not be shown in an art history class!

First off, my note taking ceases.
I don’t care that the chiastic composition centers on his open pose.
I don’t care how his “uninhibited” mannerism ties to Dionysius and elite self-fashioning.
I don’t care about which elements are stylized and which are naturalized. ~~He has a itsy bitsy teenie weenie.~~ I have a BIG imagination.

Note to professor: If exam requires identifying stylized and naturalistic elements, I am justified in pointing out the stylization of his penis; had it been naturalized it would have been massive, I'm sure. Silly Hellenes.

I am a classy lady, pun intended. After a brief glimpse of the Barberini Faun, I ventured into the Craiglist “casual” encounters section….tales to come!

Go west, young (wo)man

2007-04-05T02:15:00.000Z

I’ve long been proposing a cross country road trip to everyone I know and have yet to find someone willing to take me up on it.

“Why don’t you just take a trip to New York or Philly and get the ‘road trip’ nonsense out of your system?” Because, I’ve been to New York. I’ve been to Philly. I walked (drove) that walk. I want to head West!

I want to camp out at National Parks, drive the deserted Texas dirt roads, ride a cowboy, play the license plate game in every state, sing my goddamn lungs out for the longevity of the journey.

I want to pack up all my stuff on a random day and donate whatever doesn’t fit into my trunk and head out without notice or formal plans and expectations.

I want to venture off highways at whim. Good neighborhoods. Bad Neighborhoods. Farm land. Urban Metropolis.

I refuse to center my trip around major must-sees; I want to discover my own Mount Rushmore.

All my “mature” and “rational” friends dub me a nutcase, an idiot with over-romanticized expectations. They pinpoint that plans are vital for a “successful” trip: If you head to France, you must book a four star hotel, plan where to go, and what to visit. You must memorize the map of Paris and print out the driving/metro directions to the Eiffel Tower. You must visit the Louvre. You must drink wine and fatten up on cheese. You must, you must, you must! To most, the aforementioned constitute the essence of France. You might as well have stayed home if you did not take a picture with the Eiffel tower in the background.

As for me, I can Photoshop in the Eiffel Tower later. I won‘t put in effort prior to the trip to know of it‘s exact whereabouts. Rather, I’ll wonder around the city in search of it, converse with the locals, and perhaps find something else along the way that stirs my fancy. I’m interested in what and whom I find, and if I never see the Eiffel tower- I won‘t be crushed. I’m certain that my journey to it will be far more exciting.

Same philosophy applies to my cross country trip. I have an idea of what sights and monuments I want to visit and precisely where they are located. I’ll visit Mount Rushmore if my GPS device tells me its on the way. I’ll stop by the Grand Canyon at some point. But I refuse to center my trip around them.

Yet everyone I ever propose the idea to needs concrete plans. “What roads do we take? Where do we stay? What do we see?” And of’ course most proper ladies refuse to camp out in National Parks; “I can’t poo poo and pee pee in holes in the ground”. Ugh.

Where is the adventurous spirit? The romantic fascination of Lewis and Clark? The Manifest Destiny of John O’Sullivan?

My life is on hold. So is my blog.

2007-04-04T01:51:00.000Z

I’m awaiting a potentially life changing e-mail. No exaggeration!
I’m on my toes.

Can’t sleep. Can’t think. Can’t eat.

Sleep is for the weak. And well, I have limited thinking capacity anyhow. But I do wish I could stop stuffing my mouth.
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Interestingly, the folks I meet lately have a creative vibe. I’m lovin’ it! Check out Troy’s podcasts. If I owned a radio station, I’d hire him (plus he has a sexy voice)!

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Some time ago, I expressed my anger thusly: “I want to bite off a boy’s penis”. And while I said it figuratively, this girl meant it literally.
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Judge orders discharge of an anti-war Marine.
I too thought Marines were all about peace and love.
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I'm frugal..

2007-03-31T18:43:00.000Z

Russian Bride? Think twise...

2007-03-31T16:58:00.000Z

FOB Russian women are the “starved” little bitches that every “curvaceous” American women despises. Every American man thinks they are the epitome of physical perfection and will submissively slave away night and day for their man’s happiness. Impressions aside, Russian ladies are more manipulative and damn smarter then stereotypes dictate. They will bitch slap the average American male with a deep pocket

Unfortunately for FOB Russians; unlike their attitudes, their looks are ephemeral. Upon arrival in US, they slowly begin to explode into an uncontrollable, acne-prone, mass. Naturally, Americans assume their expansion to be a product of poor nutrition in the home country: “Aww, those poor Russian women are finally being fed.”

Frankly, starvation is not the root or cause of the problem. The problem is a vicious cycle having to do with our (American) diet and what we deem to be a “healthy look”.

Based on the Russian diet, you’d expect us to be fatties. Blinchiki are fried. Smetana is pure fat. And we love our grandma’s pirojki. Bread, butter, potatoes (and vodka) are our staples.

So the problem must be the quantity of food one consumes. Oh, those poor Ruskies just couldn’t afford the quantity of food they consume here, and are finally being fed the “proper” amount of food. But quantity is not the sole problem: Although some FOBs do fall into gluttony, most consume the same amount of food.

If quantity, and “quality” stay relatively constant, then why is nearly every Americanized Russian female exploding in size?

In an effort to explore and explain this phenomenon, I thought back to my initial arrival here. For the first few weeks, EVERYTHING tasted overly sweet or overly salty. Bread tasted like cookies. Cookies were both sweet and salty. And both had a weird un-natural flavor. Eventually, my tastes readjusted; Bread could use a bit more sugar, cookies can be slightly saltier, and anything “strawberry” flavored was all the rage.

Take a trip to your fridge and pull out a random ready-made “salty” product (bread, frozen pizza, whatever other shit you consume) and browse the ingredients. Note that ingredients are listed by quantity. Now, notice that not so far down the list is “high fructose corn syrup.” What is a sweetener doing in *insert name of crap in your fridge*?!

First up, a little bio lesson:
Table sugar is not readily available for energy use; when consumed it is broken down into two simple sugars: fructose and glucose. Glucose is the body’s main energy source, and is utilized by the brain. Whereas fructose is broken down in the liver and then converted to energy, fat, or glucose. High fructose corn syrup (HFCS) consists of mainly (duh!) fructose. A diet high in HFCS often overworks the liver (potentially leading to diabetes). Additionally, consumption of glucose sends the message to the brain that the body is full. Whereas, fructose needs extra time to be converted to glucose (and FAT), and leads to excess consumption.

How does this benefit food manufacturers? Well, (1) HFSC costs a fraction of the cost of table sugar, (2) HFCS adds more bulk then table sugar , and (3)you consume more to feel full.

How does that benefit you? You become a "BBW."

Must see movies: Short summaries

2007-03-30T13:48:00.000Z

1) Osama- A story about Osama, a young girl who lives with her widowed mother and grandmother. Under the Taliban regime, women are not allowed to work, and thus Osama’s all-women household is dirt poor. In order to survive, Osama’s mother decides to pass Osama off as a boy. Osama’s head is shaved and she is enrolled in a Taliban school. The pretense Osama puts on is punishable by death. The “movie” is brutal, but probably more realistic then exaggerated. 9/10

2) Paradise Now- Two “chosen” Palestinian suicide bombers are strapped with explosives and cross the border into Israel. The analysis of the Palestinian/Israeli conflict does not involve picketing for either side. Rather, the story unfolds in a documentary like manner. Instead of bombarding the movie with emotional propaganda (a stark contrast to Munich), the director digs into mentality and impetus for suicide bombings. The Last Supper reference is brilliant. 8.5/10

3) Magdalene Sisters- The Magdalene Laundries were actual nunneries set up for “badly behaved” Irish girls. The girls were forced to slave (wash) away their “sins” by doing laundry, much in the way of Mary Magdalene. The movie showcases the inherent abuses in the Catholic system and would not be complete without a frisky priest. 7/10

Let my people go!

2007-03-29T04:02:00.000Z

In biblical times, when the children of God wondered the desert, a robotic replica of Michael Jackson would have impeded the founding of Israel. Thusly, Passover traditions should be re-examined.

Latkes with a Michael Jackson likeness, anyone?

Pass the Matzo Ball soup,
-Ida

Recollections...

2007-03-28T04:02:00.000Z

Diana, left today. And I have a horrendous sinking feeling. Her visit was the most fun I ever had in un-merry land.

We hit up Ultrabar. Diana, being the good influence that she is, refused to let me out of the house without bearing a slight resemblance to a hoochie: Black short sweaterdress, pantyhose, and red boots (which were repeatedly commented on by numerous boys).

During the beginning of the night, she was desperately trying to get me laid. Surely, all efforts failed. Our conversation went something like this:

Diana: him?
Ida: No
Diana: What about him?
Ida: No.
Diana: Hmm, that guy is super duper hot!
Ida: Eh, frat-ish. Nope.
.... repeated 10X...
Diana: I give up.

Nonetheless, we enjoyed ourselves. I found a short, Asian, dancing buddy, that was SUCH an amazingly good dancer; that I barely noticed that my dress ended up...uhm...very hiked up. At a few intervals, it was more of a sweater then a dress. Eeck.

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A few memorable Diana quotes:

We're waiting for Diana's luggage, and its taking a goddamn long time to roll out. She freaks out: "all my expensive facial products are in there! And my clothes!" Then, seconds later, "but all I really want is my underwear"

We're in a CROWDED mall (Tyson's). Diana has an urge to pee and eat, and of'course she expresses her feelings rather loudly "all I need is a bathroom, food, sleep, and a good fuck". Ten people in front of us turn around at once. I almost inquired whether they wanted to volunteer.
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Our bed prep:

First: We meditate.

Then: We role-play

And then, we turn off the lights....;)