LOUD TALKERS IN A RESTAURANT - a snapshot of the Millenials Joyeating

LOUD TALKERS IN A RESTAURANT - a snapshot of the Millenials "Joyeating"

Picture by Frank Bryan

I can feel how the Millenials are salivating already expecting a story about them and only them... I will attempt to do that. My story is based on the valid and reliable data gathered by being a good foodie myself (so is my husband), and our habit to eat out at places, where we meet plenty of guys from the group of the Millenials.

This generation's age varies in the literature, but for the most part includes the individuals born between the early 80s and ends with these born in the early 90s. We will all be in a restaurant. This is the place of action for everything I know about their "joyeating."  I will take credit for this word - joyeating. It best describes the environment they create when eating and drinking in a restaurant.

If you live in USA, you are already used to the idea that there are no intimate Friday dates at a restaurant. There are, but not of the kind the baby boomers know them. There are mostly groups eating and drinking at not too upscale restaurants, sports bars, ethnic places, offering a large variety of dishes. 

Friday evening is not a time to dine with a boyfriend in a quiet setting. The romantic dinners with soft jazz and holding hands are mostly in my dreams. Yes, I am an old fashioned baby boomer. It was not too many years ago, when my husband and I would stop by our favorite French restaurant to exhale from work. The piano would play; the nice wine would flow; the owner would be French - no need to imitate French accent; the food would be not what you can cook at home. Of course, we paid the price and tip for it. It was worth being more frugal the next week.

When you go to a fast food place, you expect fast food; when you go to IKEA's $.99 breakfast, you are prepared to see the long line of parents with kids and young guys carrying their hangover. You can see Millenials at these type of places for a quick breakfast. But I am trying to get to my Friday evening Millenials.

I love them to death -all of them - because most of them are genuine, what you see is what you get. They are everything the baby boomers are not and a lot more!! If you do not like something about them, do not tell any-body from the group. In one second every-body will know. It is what it is.... We may be their parents or grandparents, but they are not wasting time to show everyone who they are.

First important sign of the peeps: Millenials talk loud all the time. I, on the other hand, am a low talker. I can be loud, too - only when I am mad and someone really walks on my last nerve. This is not hard to accomplish. ... American loud is not like the Italian loud, it is not music to my ears. Ha,ha! Yes, they are bothering me in a restaurant, because I have to scream, in order to be heard by my husband. Dinner turns into a screaming match. Involuntary, I become part of their world. ...

Well, we better get used to it, the Millenials are not going to change for anyone.

When waiters see a group of Millenials, they know there is no big tip coming. There will be skating like a hockey player around the table to accommodate everybodies' wishes. And [boy] do they have any? They always need to have an item that is not exactly like the one on the menu; they will ask for combination of items on the menu; they will always have questions. The Millenials like it more spicy, not too spicy (whatever in there mind the standard is), substitute for this with a substitute for that. The waiters may start confusing themselves - totally losing their minds and knowledge of the menu and food preparation. There is no empathy for their job. If a Millennial spends 10 bucks, s/he expects his food wishes fulfilled exactly as requested. If they are not, the plates go back to the kitchen after being tasted, new ones have to come. This time, they better get it right, because there is no pay for the first one. 

They like food sharing. Everyone tastes everyone's food. This event turns into vultures fighting over limited number of pieces. You snooze, you lose. Food sharing is also the preferred option because all ethnic restaurants offer variety of breads, which come free. This way, they can skip expense for a main course. They love healthy food and not-so-healthy food. They like exotic and anything that "looks good" and "smells good". In some ways they are like sweet puppies or my buddy Tiger, The cat. 

What I really like about these peeps is that they barely have any secrets. It is  completely contrary to how the older generations live their lives. We always hide every tragedy in our lives, while bragging about jobs, houses, vacations - everything else. Our life is all roses... The Millenials 'presumably' talk about their jobs, but only to explain how busy it makes them and how tired they get; there is no time for what they really want to do - play. But, don't get me wrong, work is a way to pay the bills and afford the games they like to play. The Millenials don't like to be unemployed; they have student loans to pay, rent to pay, car loan to pay, all the technology gadgets cost money, too. What about the outdoor sports equipment? 

If you are a dumb boss of  a Millenial, she has told you already that she does most of the work in the office and brings most of the money, therefore she should get a raise. If she does not get one, even in this job market, she will be gone soon. If you are not that dumb of a boss, you have to give some yoga time or flex time, or doggy time, or something.... It is an investment, not an expense!!

Besides work and technology, texting during dinner, there is a lot of sex talk at the table. Since they delay marriage, they have free sex talk and everyone is comfortable with that. There is less "let me buy you a drink" - old-fashioned style hook ups, but karaoke is still in style. I have absolutely no problem with the sex talk. It just sounds like they need more sex education at school, or more talks with mom, or dad at an earlier time of their sexual development. Nonetheless, what is "joyeating" without sex talk?

Or, maybe, I don't know what I am talking 'bout. ...  Afterall, this is just a blog....

Image courtesy of imajerymajestic from FreeDigitalPhotos.com

HIP HOP IN THE MRI MACHINE

 HIP HOP IN THE MRI MACHINE

At least once in your life, when you get sick, the doctor will send you to these wonderful medical machines where you get an X-ray, or an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging.) Both are essential for you proper diagnosing and [ultimately], your treatment and recovery. I have had plenty of these done for various organs -- from the brain to the foot. 

There is nothing to fear about an X-ray, just follow the directions of the technician. I wish I knew in the past there was such a medical technician position. I am so fascinated with these machines and their ability to see and read through you. They just show it as it is. The radiologist  examines the results and off you go to the next step.

While writing the blog post, I got interested in who were the brilliant minds behind the X-Ray and the MRI. This was how I ended up with the phenomenal discoveries of Mme. Marie Curie. 

Every time I get an X-ray from now on, I will think of the unique brain of the first woman to win a Nobel Prize, the only woman to win it in 2 fields (physics and chemistry), and the only person to win it in multiple sciences. Pretty impressive! 

Years later, an American medical practitioner, Ramond Damadian created the first MRI scanner. What were we going to do without these machines and the simple stethoscope? We would have been totally doomed....

X-rays are blocked by these parts of the body which are dense. That is why on your X-ray you see these areas as white. Muscles and fluid appear as gray. I never discussed with a doctor how fat would appear.... 

MRI is a different matter. In this big tunnel, you have to stay still, but it is worth every second of it. This machine uses large magnets and radio waves (instead of X-rays) to look into your body and its organs. The MRI includes a computer to create a picture of the part of the body under medical "suspicion." This is what I need for my brain, back, for discovery of tumors, for whatnot. 

The MRI is painless but noisy, very noisy. Earplugs are not enough. headsets are a little better option. I wish I knew that in advance. The last time I had an MRI, I was offered a headset, then nicely asked what music I would like to listen to. Of course, my first thought was rock 'n' roll. I grew up and grew old with it. I was ashamed to say "Deep Purple" or "Led Zeppelin." I was antsy enough; I did not want to delay the test until "my music" was found. But I also thought of hip-hop. "Hip-Hop" it is," said the technician and started the test.

You may wonder "Why all this talk for some music in the MRI machine?" My answer is to make you not choose "Beethoven", or Mozart, or any classical music. It will not relax you; trust me on this. You will not be meditating in this machine. You need hip hop and rock 'n' roll. It is the enhanced noise to give you the "I got your back feeling. You see yourself dancing, not stuck in a machine. At least, this is how I felt.

Image courtesy of farconville/FreeDigitalPhotos.com

After I was done, I still felt the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Maybe, one more hip hop MRI was medically necessary. Ha, ha!!!

 

A PASSENGER IN AN AIRPLANE

Picture courtesy of Frank Bryan

A PASSENGER IN AN AIRPLANE

I am not a road warrior. Even if George Clooney were to be my mentor (as in Up In the Air movie,) I would not have been excited to travel. But I have worked with road warriors. Once on the road, they just can't stay home for a long time. They can live out of a suitcase, work from state to state, without being bothered in the least.

This disconnect between travel in the airplane and the place of my final destination, has a lot to do with my medical condition -- feeling safe and secure only at home.  Once on the way to the airport, the world becomes bigger and unfamiliar. The secondary effects from my medications become primary. To my husband's embarrassment, I want to hold his hand all the time. The panic is overpowering. Everyone in this crowd knows where they are going, what they are doing, they move like robots, armed with suitcases and carry ons; voices, noises - it feels like I am the only one lost. Still, there is one location with relative safety - the bar. I can calm down there. I would have coffee and danish (more than one.) The airport Hell would be sugar coated. 

The next circle of Hell starts once on the plane. I am disabled, thus included in the group for early boarding. Since for us it takes longer to be seated, the plane seats our group first. 

You do not recognize my disability just by looking at me. You have to look at the pills in my purse. I am relatively fast physically. The dilemma is when a little electrical storm in the brain strikes. I have to be prepared for that. That is why I am so antsy, uncomfortable, on pins and needles.

My husband occupies the seat next to the plane's window. He likes to watch the world from above. I have 2 options. None of them works in my favor, though. I can sit in the middle, so that I can hold my husband's hand (in case I have a light seizure during the flight.) No one will notice what happens and I feel safe. 

The disadvantage of this middle position is that I almost always have another person sitting on the other side, who does not understand the concept of personal space. Everyone looks for convenience in the airplane since everyone pays the same price. Only business class people are "special." If you see a 120 lbs woman, you will love to sit next to her. I am the one you want to be next to. I am not chatty and if you do not occupy the full arm rest and sleep on my shoulder, we will enjoy to be neighbors. But if you leave me only tiny space to breathe or stretch my legs, then I will put my grouchy pants. I will be quietly miserable.

I have tried to put my husband in the middle seat, too. He is 6'3'', normal weight man. In the middle of the flight, we switch positions, because, he cannot endure what I can. Afterall, I am half his size. No place for his legs, for his arms, or body. 

This is not all. Some sweet kids are (naturally) pooping in their diapers more often that others. This is normal. Ultimately, we will all go back to the beginning one day. But kicking my seat for an hour, while the parent is watching a movie is enhanced torture. I am afraid to look back and say something to the parents. What if the child starts crying?  I do not want to upset him. I will kick the front seat too, if I am bored flying, or listening how great I am. Moms always brag about their kids. I know from personal experience. There is always "awww of the "awwws" time every passenger owes moms, when describing their kids accomplishments. This was also the time to not allow anyone else to sleep. 

But mommies and daddies, we have to negotiate the bragging and sleeping time. Especially, if it is an overnight international flight.

On one occasion, I was not feeling well, Gary was in his window seat, thinking how good it will be to have his own plane to fly across the ocean. Next to me was an (obviously) business guy, who had closed his iPad (good call) and was taking a nap. The flight assistant asked me if I needed anything. I asked for icy water. She brought me some. Unfortunately, I was so clumsy and uncoordinated, the ice cubes landed on the guy's family jewels. He jumped up. I have heard Americans say, "I am sorry, I am sorry!" He rigorously started wiping the ice from his precious area. The flight attendant came back with more tissue paper. Needless to say, the surrounding rows saw what I did. 

I was still into this American "I am sorry" mode: I was ready to help him wipe himself, too. He did not say a word, just got up and went to the bathroom. During this whole fiasco, what did my husband do? He was still counting the clouds, looking in the opposite direction to where I was. It was not hard to read his mind: "I have not had sex with this woman. I am not related to her either."

We landed soon. My neighbor could not wait to get out of the plane.

I looked at my husband and asked him why he did not come in my defense. He said, "Because it was so funny.... What could I possibly say. Sorry, man, my wife does stuff like this all the time. You'll be fine. You should hear what she did last time to another guy.... She does not mean harm. Sh.... happens and she is always in the middle of it." 

The gist of it was that I found it very funny. I had to hold my breath behind the "I am sorry!" in order not to explode. It was not like a big suitcase fell on his head. Now, that would not have been funny. But some ice on your balls with your shorts on -- that is nothing!

Picture provided by David Contillo Dominici/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Blog Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real situations, real people, living or dead is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious.

I AM SORRY?

"I AM SORRY?"

For the those who want to be in the know, as my daughter, Toni Ti would say, it is time to give some funny cultural examples. One of them is the "I am sorry!"

I have been using this picture by Frank Bryan several times now. It does not show a simple misunderstanding between a woman and a man. It shows a very important cultural difference. Nodding your head in Bulgaria stands for "NO", while shaking it for "YES." There is no need to explain how embarrassed one can find him/herself if this is not understood in advance. There are a couple of scenarios which you already think about, don't you? Coming to America one has to practice this nodding and shaking a lot. One of the first thing I said as a baby was "YES" and "NO." I was not the "aww" baby. I always had my "yes" and "no." How can I get rid of this habit overnight? 

The best example I have for "I am sorry!"  is this one: It happened while I was at the graduate school in USA. I was pleasant and chatty - trying to learn about the new place I was living at as much as possible. I approached one guy from the program. We started a simple conversation about our families, kids. He told me he was already working. I had a serious problem understanding what he was talking about. But one sentence really shocked me. I thought he said he worked for the Federal Bureau of Presents (FBP). 

I knew there is no Federal Santa, but it sounded soo nice. I repeated, "I am sorry? Where did you say you work?" He gave me the same answer. I did not ask more questions, but the mere illusion of America having a Federal Bureau of Presents was exhilarating. 

I researched at home what FBP stood for. Umm, it was not presents, it was prisons. Close enough. 

I continue to have an issue with this "I am sorry". It is one of my language diseases. The issue is that I know when to use "I am sorry"; it just does not feel right. I can use it when I do not hear what the other person is saying, or I do not recognize the word being used. Very often, the word I do not recognize, rhymes with the word being used. Word recognition is a bummer. If I was a rap song writer, that would have been phenomenal.

This language problem is common. It deserves special attention. Here is the story to illustrate it. My husband and I will always remember a visit to a National park in Colorado. We were having lunch at a nice restaurant with his brother. The waitress came and asked [what sounded to me] as "Super salad for the lady?" It was not even the time of "Seinfeld," when Elaine would ask for a "big salad." Looked like everyone was waiting for my answer. Without any hesitation my answer was, "Oh, no, I'll just have a regular salad!" "Soup or salad?" - this was what the girl was asking. Until today - 20 years later, I will ask for a regular salad. The "regular salad" is "the house salad" today.

The restaurants in America are a real pain in the butt as far as giving you enough time to dine, not to eat. Do not register with this pencil #2 that the people on table #25 just came in. The table will be available not earlier than 2.5 hours after their arrival time. This is what all restaurants in the local area have to be aware of, when they see the Colemans coming.

My picture with the supersalad

There is also a mandatory expression to be used at restaurants when you stop eating for a second. "Are you still working, ma'm?" They just can't wait to take your plate away. You have to wiggle with your fork, make some childish movements in your plate to keep it in front of you. Otherwise, it is gone.

The word "working" is in fact what bothers me the most. One day, being frustrated to the utmost, I said with subtle confidence, "I am not working, I am dining." My American spouse accepted this philosophy very fast. Now, he goes first, "No, no, I am not working. I am drinking ma bourbon."

The next difficult part of a restaurant etiquette is taking the leftovers home. The "doggy bag" is a must. If you don't get a bag/box, it may be perceived as if you did not like the food. On the other hand, if you forget the box in your car, your car will never forget the sweet and sour chicken you put there that night.

"I am sorry" is used when you have done something, which the other party does not approve of, or you have not done something the other party will approve of. This is how I see it. The only meaningful "I am sorry" to me is when something "bad" has happened to someone. Loss of a family member, a child, a friend. ...Even then "I am sorry" will not do it. 

A big hug and silence will do so much more. ...

This is just my opinion. ...

CULTURE SHOCK? (part 3)

                     CULTURE SHOCK?  (part 3)

While writing about culture shock, I ran across people of different ages, with various international experiences. One of them was a guy, who had been on a study abroad program in Europe. He was telling me how much fun this semester was. He studied the local culture and language, traveled, tried new cuisine, had fun bar-hopping with the local students, even got picked up by a girl at a bar. Naturally he said, "yes", but what he thought was going to be a long night of intimacy, turned out to be a lesson in how to be a gentleman. The girl did not want to walk alone into the dance club. After an hour of dancing, he felt light-headed. The girl stayed at the club with her girlfriends, while he made it to his apartment very lonely. "I felt a little stupid that night." He said.

He proceeded talking to me about his family. He shared he was able to talk to them and see them on the internet more often than at the time he was in USA. "But after 3 months, I really wanted to go home! Nostalgia hit me. I am ready for a vacation to Europe any time; I can take a short work assignment, but moving to Europe - not permanently."

It is one thing to be a visitor, or a tourist, a totally different thing to immigrate, or be an expatriate. I hate this word! Anyway, this is just a blog. ...

The conversation with the young man made me think, "I must have really wanted the challenge to leave the old life behind and just show up across the Atlantic to try out a better life and better opportunities."

As time went by, we entered the Adjustment stage of the culture shock. Do all Bulgarian immigrants from those days adjust? It depends. There are so many socio- economic factors, which come into play. Even after so many years, I frown upon the immigrants, who try to swallow everything from the new culture in an attempt to blend with the local people. I guess cultural assimilation is the word I am looking for. Bulgarians have lived under Turkish rule for 500 years without being assimilated. How can immigration lead to this situation? How can you forget where you came from?

I will sneak in a comment on a controversial subject among the compatriots. Since I don't live in my country of origin, I don't follow its news and I am not a part of the every day pains and sorrows of the regular folks in Bulgaria. So, I have to exercise extreme caution commenting on what goes on in BG now (as long as there are no wars, open violation of human and civil rights, terrorism, and genocide). The media cannot be my source of information. I have to remember what my husband's father - a good husband and father of seven, a hard working farmer from Colorado - taught him many years ago: "Gary, consider the source." If anyone of my former friends talks against USA and the American people, I can easily say, "You do not live in USA, but I admire your interest in the country!" 

The majority of the Bulgarian immigrants follow their old native traditions, while absorbing the cultural values and traditions of the Americans. Based on the demographic and ethnic structure of the area they live, they may become not just bi-cultural, but multicultural. What more can one ask for? The more cultures you see, the bigger the world becomes for you. 
 
When you immigrate, food becomes an essential part of the bigger world you are in. Living in the most diverse country in the world, USA, you can eat whatever international cuisine you like -- the big American steaks (my husband's favorite), German sausage with sauerkraut, Chinese roast duck, Italian pizza, French beef bourguignon (my favourite), Korean kimchi (my daughter's favorite), Spanish tapas, Vietnamese noodles soup, Pakistan lamb kebab, Indian tofu dishes, and many more.

You can find Bulgarian food in the few Bulgarian stores around. The famous Bulgarian "rakia" drink (not for people who cannot drink) is not to be found easily. Just go with the whiskey and the bourbon. 

Image courtesy of creativedoxphoto from FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I am married to an American man. This is the best possible scenario to learn and see on a daily basis the differences and similarities between the Bulgarian and American cultures. There is humor and loud discussions on how things are "supposed to be done." How can you not laugh at someone, who has learned 14 Bulgarian words + 1 sentence for 14 years of marriage? How can he not laugh at his wife, who can throw money up in the air in a restaurant, because [to her] it is embarrassing to question what your portion of the bill is. If the other women cannot drink martinis, I can. I also like James Bond's type martinis. Do I have to pay more for my better taste?

Next time, I will give you some examples to make fun of myself. Believe me, when time comes to make fun of myself, no one can do it better.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real situations, real living or dead people is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this blog are composite and fictitious. 

COMING TO AMERICA (part 1)

Picture by Frank Bryan

COMING TO AMERICA (part 1)

                                     

I will make this blog colorful, like the Bulgarian national flag. It has 3 colors -- white, green and red. 

 Coming  to America in 1992 for a family of three was not like in "Coming to America" movie. My daughter (12 years old at the time) and I arrived in USA from Bulgaria after my ex-husband. To give you a crash course of where Bulgaria is -- the country is situated in Eastern Europe; it is not part of the former Soviet Union, though SSSR had strong ideological and economic influence on its development in the past. 

All we knew about where we were going to live got into our crazy heads as a result of graduating from the English Language School in Plovdiv. We had good education, good control of the language, (incl. my daughter.) On top of this, we knew all the rock bands:) Ha, ha! "The Iron Curtain" fell in 1989. Finally if one had relatives in Western Germany or Eastern germany, they were able to cross the border and reunite with them. The new life has just begun!!

Emigration time in Bulgaria started as soon as the people realized they can live in other countries, get better education for their children, live the "American Dream", whatever they thoughtt it was. From a totalitarian country, they were flying to a capitalist environment, democracy and everything they believed they missed for so many years. The American Constitution was their pocket book.

My husband at the time was already enrolled in a Master's degree program. My daughter started school as soon as we were able to enroll her in one. We were so poor, we relied on good Americans for everything -- basements to live, covered with cement, food cooked with the worst quality products you can think of, old bagels given to my ex-husband from the university store. This was his second job. I was helping with everything possible in the places we were welcome to live. Even if not asked, I felt I had to do my share. I was also preparing for exams, hoping I would be accepted to a graduate business school. 

The first visit to McDonald's was a real celebration. It was only my daughter, who was able to have a burger. This was the biggest victory of our first year in USA. She was keeping the napkin for a long time.  Probably until we "graduated" to Taco Bell.

It was really smart leaving Bulgaria with several essential items. My daughter and I had thick wool coats. We also had warm boots, hats, a lot of underwear :). We even got haircuts. Mine was actually an Afro. How would I know that there is a separation in hair fashion in USA? I looked cute with Afro style. But, when I arrived I saw no white woman with Afro hair style. I have to tell you, this is their loss! Until my Afro became straight hair, I was already in graduate school. I do not think Afro style was a style I will not choose now (if not "ostracized" by society.) I have been tempted many times to tell a woman at the hair salon "Straight hair does not look good on you. Why don't you choose something that makes you beautiful, not what is modern."

Later, in 1994, when I was in Graduate School, I learned about 'culture shock ' foreigners go through and its stages. I am absolutely sure for us there was no 'honeymoon stage', no 'negotiation stage'. There was a "How To" stage. How to get a roof on top of our heads, how to feed ourselves, how to have our child safe and keep her healthy. Romantic fascination with USA was out of question. Comparisons between life styles and cultures were the last thing on my mind. Survival was all the parents cared about. 

Of course, there was always the option of going back, but this was the last option. There were sooo many options to be explored. Afterall, this is America, the land of opportunities!!!!!!

Bulgaria

Plovdiv

MY PRECIOUS BAG

                

                                                   

                                                            MY PRECIOUS BAG

The line between acting brave and acting stupid is very thin. Looking back, I am inclined to think I was stupid that day. Not that I put my life at a huge risk in the early morning of a working day. Still, it was not a rush hour, crimes occur any time of the day. 

I was walking back from the doctor's office to my office building. As I approached the bus stop, I saw three men waiting for the bus. They were siting on a bench. One of them jumped in front of me unexpectedly. He pulled my bag from my shoulder. 

As all women know, we love our bags. We have everything possible in our bags. Any change to a new one causes huge turmoil in our lives. It is a disaster, it is a tsunami. It takes for ever to remember in what pocket are some of these items: the cell phone, the lipstick, the lip gloss, the hairbrush, the makeup, the credit cards, some cash, the keys, some meds (in case someone drives you crazy and you get a headache), more meds (if you have my disease.) If the office has a gym, a woman may have her sneakers, sports outfit. I do not want to disclose more secrets....There may be more "stuff" in there. You can see a relatively little bag on the outside, but if [God forbid] a woman drops it on the floor, your eyes will pop out.

I loved this wicker bag. The bag loved me, too. It was not expensive, but extremely reliable and well organized. I had it for years. Always there... on my left shoulder. I pulled back swiftly. My head was spinning. I had forgotten my watch. Everything I had was in the bag. 

There was no one on the street. I could not profile the man as a huge criminal, but he reached for his back pocket. You never know what is in the back pocket of someone who is trying to rob a woman on the street. Somehow, this did not scare me to the point of screaming for help. No, no... I took the matter in my hands. I said this is a voice which could scare a bear, "Do you know who you are dealing with?" Then, there was a pause. The guy seemed confused, while I was getting stronger and bigger. So I said what he definitely did not expect, "You stupid co*****er!" He stood like a dunce, while his buddies were sitting on the bus bench laughing hysterically.

I turned around and continued to walk to the office. I was still hearing the voices behind. 

Time came for me to panic. I called my office; explained what happened. Everyone was very concerned how I was doing. I had a feeling I was scared, too. 

Why did I do it? What if the man was desperate enough to rob me and run, or even have a knife, a gun in his pocket? The bag could have been the reason for my meaningless injury. 

I do not think my reaction will be different, if it were to happen today. I would make sure I have a wrist watch, this is the only difference. But my bag is my bag!

THE WHISTLE IS BACK

                                               WHISTLE, WHISTLE, WHISTLE!!!

Picture by Frank Bryan

First order of business -- my list of medical problems is long. So, instead of working on a standard "bucket list" [as everybody my age], I focus my attention on destroying the little things, the little pains in my head and my body. The big ones are bigger than me. I have to leave them alone. We will wrestle each other as it pleases them. I am not running away.

As a result of a medical procedure to save my life, I was left with a scar on my throat. There was a time when everyone who meets me will talk about the scar first. But, then I will start with the medical procedure leading to it. That would be the end of the conversation about the scar.  The talk will transition to the weather outside.

In addition to the scar on my throat, I feel my voice is different. No one else has confirmed this. Only I know how difficult it is to talk for a prolonged period of time.

It is not pleasant not to be able to sing either. I want to make it clear: I was never a singer, or aspired to be one. But not able to do karaoke while living in USA -- what a biiig loss!!!!!

What was very difficult to accept was the fact that I was not able to WHISTLE anymore. When you are in a wheelchair with unclear prognosis on your future brain recovery, the doctor has to be very strong to take such a question seriously. I wanted an answer, but somehow managed to distract myself and remain with no answer. The whistling landed on the back burner.

You may ask why whistling is so important when I have so many other "problems." I associated it with two major functions. First -- going to a soccer game with my Dad. Whistle is equal to Booo. Second -- during my teenager days, the whistle was used as a signal between you and your boyfriend. A couple has a special signal to connect them. It is like today's texting, only more romantic. Ha,ha! There is even a song about it.

All in all, losing my whistling skills was as tragic as everything else my disease brought onto me. Occasionally, I will try blowing the air out of my mouth with all the proper whistling techniques I have remembered. A month ago, out of the blue, my whistle came back. I was sooo happy. Please make a note: I am not referring to a simply whistle; it is rock songs, ballads, classical music whistle. It was a whole day of whistling.  Then, I lost it again.  Then, it came back again.

This time, I am not taking chances. I will use it sparingly -- only for the Bulgarian love song from the '70s, named "Our Signal." It is performed by the famous Bulgarian singer Emil Dimitrov. This is a beautiful, sad love song about a couple in love and "their signal." While the man was away, the girl fell in love with another man. When he came back to see her, he heard "their signal", only this time she was whistling to another man.

I whistle this song beautifully.

WHAT LANGUAGE WAS THIS?

WHAT LANGUAGE WAS THIS?

To live in an area between Annapolis and the Chesapeake Bay, while  the Capital of the United States, Washington, D.C. is at less than an hour driving distance, is not a bad living location. During the day, I often take a walk, not a power walk, an enjoyment walk. Occasionally, a little deer will jump on the road and stare at me. Then hide in the woods fully aware that if I fall, he will be responsible for any medical bills. I follow a trail, which I consider "mine." Plenty of fully equipped bike riders and joggers with gadgets from head to toe pass by me. I am trying to ignore them, but the loud "Coming to your left!" "Coming to your right!" always confuses me. With my disease, it takes time to figure out who and where is the voice coming from.

One day, as I was walking happily, I reached the crossroad, where I usually make a right turn. The path becomes very narrow with tree branches touching your head. As I was making the turn, I saw a man in his 20's running on "my path." The way my brain cells connected was: "He is supposed to move to the left and give me some extra space. Otherwise, we will bump into each other.  He chose not to give the lady (me) the right of way. It does not take long to make me angry. I can make even my medications angry. The second he passed by me, I said in Bulgarian a word, a bad, bad word. I have no clue how this word found its way into my mouth. Surely, it is not a word a lady will use under any circumstances. I must have said this word loud. The guy stopped and sat down in a strange position. He stayed like this for a few seconds, like trying to protect himself, then turned around and said: "You must be from Bulgaria?" I smiled. He smiled. I sat down. Then we both laughed, just like that, in the middle of the tiny path, ignoring all the "nice" American words coming in our direction. 

How can one expect to meet a Bulgarian boy on a tiny trail far from a big city? And how can a lady have such a potty mouth?

Picture by Frank Bryan

THE MOUSE

Picture Courtesy of US Department of Agriculture

 THE MOUSE

I am a foodie; I like to visit restaurants, where the food is exceptionally good -- the type I cannot make at home. I am comfortable in the huge, new restaurants, with the open kitchen area. But the tiny 50-year-old ones give me the creeps. I know the food is great, but I do not see the kitchen from my table. That is the problem...

                                                               
You know how the workplace in America is -- open office area, where people have breakfast, lunch, and dinner -- coffee, sandwiches, salads, Chinese, sushi, Korean, everything you can possibly eat as fast as you can, while working, texting, and talking to several bosses, co-bosses, co-workers, etc.

One day in the office, mice droppings were found. This  unequivocally suggested, "We have mice guests." Exterminators were called; sticky traps were placed...

On the next day, I could not wait to see how successful we were. On entering my office, I saw a mouse on the sticky. I had to share my discovery. I ran into the big office room, holding the trap with 2 fingers. "Look what I found, guys!" The reaction was more robust than I expected. One of the girls climbed on top of her desk; the others were screaming... I looked at the trap and realized that the mouse was making a final attempt to escape. The legs were moving slowly. This was the moment when I felt..."Oh, looks like I am freaking out, too!" Maintaining composure in extreme situations was not my forte.

I was told later I had found my empty sandwich bag and gently put the sticky trap with the mouse in there. Then I had sealed the bag.

I apologized to everyone for the commotion, but I could not get enough joy from"saving the office" from a little mouse. Did I really save the office, or I needed the mouse to save me?

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real situations, persons,living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious.

A CUP OF WINE

A CUP OF WINE

I am born in Bulgaria. My husband (Gary) is American. After 13 years of marriage, we are now an American-Bulgarian or a Bulgarian-American family. We constantly joke about differences in holidays, traditions, culture, while honoring them and learning from each other. Sometimes, the jokes may escalate into innocent fights.

One day, I had cooked a nice dinner -- sauteed salmon with ginger glaze, brown rice, and steamed vegetables. Healthy and all organic. Since I am not too much into vegetables, I used a smaller size plate for my dinner. My husband immediately noticed this. He asked, "Why don't you use the same sized plate for you?" I answered, "Because in Bulgaria for smaller meals, we use smaller plates." He did not give up."As far as I see, you are not in Bulgaria, are you?" I did not give up either. I am not a quitter. I poured his favorite Chardonnay in a big (American) coffee cup. Then, I served dinner. 

Gary looked around and asked where the wine was. "Here it is." I answered, pointing at the coffee mug. "Why in the coffee mug?" "Because in Bulgaria you never pick a fight with your wife at dinner. You do it only if there is not enough rakia and wine. The size of the plates and the glasses do not matter!" This was my final answer.

We laughed and laughed. Gary is a professor at work and a good student at home. I learned to serve dinner in the proper dinner plates and wine glasses, too.Problem solved.

THE ROOSTER

THE ROOSTER

It happened in my childhood. My family was living in a small town in Bulgaria. Everybody knows you there and you know everyone. My father was a doctor, while my mother was a nurse. They must have saved the life of at least one member of every family. I was the younger child in the house. There was a wedding coming up and I needed a beautiful dress. Since these are not the American traditions, it was more important at the time for a child to have a new dress/pants and the child will feel happy. I am 110% sure – if I was expected to wear the same dress as the girl walking to the left of me, or to the right, and perform one and the same “job function”, like carrying flowers, I would not have been very happy. Having “a job” at this age did not sound appealing.  

Don’t get me wrong, I am not against any traditions. I am against following them frigidly. But what did I know about that? I was just supposed to get a dress for attending a wedding. Let’s focus on that.

At the time, there were no stores with cute children’s clothes. Everything was custom made. My mother used one good seamstress with an established reputation for her unique designs. Mom already had the fabric – red velvet… I loved the color, the feel of it, and the smell of it. In my short life, I had never seen a red velvet dress. 

The seamstress told us to come back for a fitting in a few days. When we returned, I tried the dress on. Umm, definitely, absolutely, I did not like it. It was hard to explain in my language how bad the dress looked. It was so “not me.” As far as clothes go, I already knew who I was. 

I rushed out in the yard of the house half dressed with the pins on the unfinished dress – all livid. Mom and the seamstress ran after me horrified. I had a temper, they knew. They started chasing me and begging me to come back. Filled with rage, I did not notice there was a big rooster walking in the yard. He must have had a bad temper, too. I wish I knew that. He bit me on the face, very close to my left eye. You can see the scar [even today]. This made me run even faster. The houses were close to each other. When I got home, I saw some blood runing from my wound. By the time my Mom came home, the word had spread. Everyone in the town knew about THE ROOSTER and ME event. Seems like nothing else hit the news that day…

This was the rooster’s third strike. He had attacked other clients of the seamstress. He ended up into a deep pot the very next day. Red was his favorite color.  Red is the color of passion, they say… 

As for me, I grew up completely in love with roosters. Today, I have roosters from antique stores, galleries, roosters on kitchen napkins, tablecloths, many, many roosters. But, I still keep looking for my ROOSTER and I know he is looking for ME. 

The rooster file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.