MY MATH TEACHER - Mancho Nenchev

MY MATH TEACHER - MANCHO NENCHEV

Everyone has a favorite teacher from High School -- the one, who deserves credit, or be blamed for the human/math being I have become; the one who was simply the BEST. 

Everyone wants to believe (at least I do) that it is my unique math aptitude, which served as a premise for his encouragement and motivational words. 

It has been many and many years since I was in High School.... I suffered from a brain infection, which left me with seizures. But, no matter how much brain is in my head, there is still a reserved space for the teacher from whom I learned the most. It is not just maths he taught. Mancho Nenchev was bigger than maths. In fact, the math lessons are gone, I do not remember much; sadly, Mancho passed away several years ago, too. But he left behind the Art of Teaching. 

I will not call him Mr. Nenchev, he will not forgive me this grandiose language, he will always remain in my heart as бай Маньо (in Bulgarian.) 

As if it was yesterday, I see him walking between the rows of desks talking to us and sometimes singing. You must really enjoy what you do to sing in class. I was so fortunate; the song he loved the most was bearing my name. As one classmate put it recently, the song "Imala Mariana" was "the hallmark song of his, with you in it." This song was very popular at the time; it was performed by one of the most famous singers; it had some jingle rhythm. "Imala Mariana" is a happy, jovile song.

In the song, Mariana had a big, good heart and a hat with a feather. While walking through the little town, she met a boy. They said "hi" to each other. The boy asked if she would give him the feather, but Mariana started laughing. She laughed so hard that her hat fell. Then, she "negotiated" to give the boy the feather, but get his heart in exchange. And the boy surrendered. He gave her his heart. 

This is a free translation. All you -- teachers and poets, please let me have this song my way. Afterall, the song has my name on it.

By the end of the song, the math problems were solved; the new lesson was taught. Everything was smooth and easy-going.

I visited Bulgaria 4 years ago. It was my birthday. The family had decided to celebrate it in a nice folk restaurant with live music, folk dances and fantastic food. When the singer came to our table to ask me what song I would like her to sing for me, I answered right away "Imala Mariana." But, she wanted to play another birthday song, more appropriate for today's times.

I was disappointed. It felt like my time had passed away. "Imala Mariana", with бай Маньо singing it, had passed away, too. 

What is left is the BIG heart of a BIG Teacher. It will beat with his students' hearts. Chi-chi-chi-la-la-la....

Blog disclaimer: The content of the blog post is based on current interpretation of events, which may have occurred in the past. What I write on my blog is not to be taken as fact nor absolute. No harm intended.

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.

DIVORCE IS A DIVORCE & A LITTLE MORE

DIVORCE IS A DIVORCE & A LITTLE MORE

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles/FreeDigitalPhotos.net
 

Before you start writing about divorce, you ask yourself if there is anything anyone does not know or has not read about it. If you have nothing new to say, then, what is the point? Since I was married in a communist country in the late '70s, then got divorced in the early '90s in a different land (American) and remarried on that same land, I must have noticed  painfully or painlessly the transpiring events -- sometimes being part of them; sometimes analyzing them, running the heck out of them; and, finally, jumping around with heart full of love, getting ready to explode any second. Let's take a look at the latest available data, or rather, what my research was able to provide. These are the statistics from the divorcemag.com, which has used data from US Census Bureau and National Center for Health. Let's consider some of them:

• There were approximately 2, 230,000 marriages in 2005 -- down from 2,279,000 the previous year, despite a total population increase of 2.9 million over the same period. The divorce rate in 2005 (per 1000 people) was 3.6 -- the lowest rate since 1970,  down from 4.2 in 2000.... The marriage rate in 2005 (per 1000) was 7.5, down from 7.8 the previous year. 
  
• 8.1% of coupled households consist of unmarried heterosexual partners, according to The State of Our Unions 2005, a report issued by the National Marriage Project at Rutgers University. The same study said that only 63% of American children grow up with both biological parents-- the lowest figure in the Western world. As of 2003, 43.7% of custodial mothers and 56.2% of custodial fathers were either separated or divorced. And in 2002, 7.8 million Americans paid about $40 billion in child and/or spousal support (84% of the payers were male).

Some of the conclusions to be drawn are the decrease is the absolute numbers and percentage of marriages per 1000 of the population; the couples households are primarily unmarried heterosexual partners. Additionally, 63% of the American children grow up with both biological parents, which is the lowest figure of the Western world.

Looking at Dr. Phil's show Statistics from 2003 on Marriage and Divorce, you can find some additional data:

• The average age of a woman getting married in the United States is 27. Bride's Magazine. "The average age of a man getting married in the United States is 29." Bride's Magazine.
   
• 88 percent of American men and women between the ages of 20 and 29 believe that they have a soulmate who is waiting for them." University Wire, Louisiana State University.
   
• 60 percent of marriages for couples between the ages of 20 and 25 end in divorce. " National Center for Health Statistics  65 percent of altar-bound men and women live together before getting married." Bride's Magazine 
   
• Children of divorce have a higher risk of divorce when they marry, and an even higher risk if the person they marry comes from a divorced home. One study found that when the wife alone had experienced a parental divorce, her odds of divorce increased to 59 percent. When both spouses experienced parental divorce, the odds of divorce nearly tripled to 189 percent. " Journal of Marriage and the Family."

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles/Free Digital Photos.net

Judging by this data and the sources used, I learned quite a lot. The "Bride's Magazine" is not just a magazine with beautiful brides, wedding planning and fancy wedding locations. They tell you more than you will want to hear at your wedding preparation time. When you get married, you do not plan your divorce and choose your divorce attorney. You believe that if 50% of marriages end up in a divorce, you will be in the other, good 50%, which will be the "in sickness and in health" group. No one can take this away from you. You look in his eyes and you do not see anything bad he can do to you -- you will always love each other and raise your children to love and respect you and others.

But, things do not always end so well. Then come the attorneys, the custody battles, the assets division, the DIVORCE. During all this time, the little or adult creatures - the children - are watching. Is this good, is this bad? Is it for better or for worse? We are to be surprised one day how much they have remembered, or how much you yourself have forgotten in order to protect yourself from pain, or plainly, to just move forward. 

Note: I should have made this note from the very beginning. I try to analyze the divorce just by browsing though it. I do not want to write a thesis on the  connection between divorce and the influence of the parents' education, the religious beliefs, and other factors.  My primary focus falls on the children and the mother in the center of this all. I stick to the data and occasionally share my opinion. Gay marriages are really the "lucky" factor. There are 17 states in the Unites states, where gay marriages are considered legal. Their number will continue to grow. However, we cannot accuse them for the future 'possibly' increased number of divorces, or the aggressive children's behavior. 

Looking at the data, I was surprised to find out that the average age of marriage is not that different in Eastern Europe in the late '70s and the respective time in America. There is similarity in the situation of a woman with kids after a divorce, too. If there is no support from family, the children will suffer tremendously. Being a divorced mother in Europe, or never married with a child was an ultimate disgrace (for the woman and the children.) -- it was the same in America. You have to pity a child born out of wedlock; a woman going through a divorce at that time was always considered the guilty party; she was the one who was thought to be a .... (I don't know a civilized word for this.)

Since everyone has advanced education in Eastern Europe, if the marriage goes sour, the assumption is that the mother has to leave her job and take care of the child. The other option is daycare. The father does not babysit. He will not leave his job to watch kids. This is not always related to his pay; this is a societal matter. Luckily, the grandparents are the ones to help. It was and is considered totally normal. Older families are helping out the younger ones. 

I am getting to a topic I tried to avoid very hard -- divorce in a foreign country. Divorce abroad means hiding it from the family you left home -- they will feel too sorry for you; hiding the divorce from your co-workers -- crying only in the bathroom; having no one to share it with.... Fighting for yourself, by yourself. In many cases, there is shared custody of the children, but what if you cannot provide the fun and food and movies the father can. What if you are really suffering and does not see the way out. What if you are no longer fun? 

The divorce of the immigrants is interesting from the standpoint of its timing -- parents know when to show their egotistic behavior. It occurs when there are cracks in the "house of marriage." They plan it before they come to the foreign land. One of the parties believes that the new land provides new opportunities for success and a chance to build a "new house." The other views it as a way to prove how much better the new land is for s/he for getting out of everything old and starting a new life. Forget the kids! Forget her/him! I did it all! I deserve it! 

The worst part is when after the divorce of the parents, all  settles down and parents find a second or third happiness, but the children are stuck -- just where you left them -- on the old crappy couch.... Why? They have everything? True, but they have this couch, which no one wants to buy....

Image courtesy of mrpuen/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

THE MAGIC OF "PLEASE"

 THE MAGIC of "PLEASE"

  

"Please" is such a magnificent word. It can take you to a new world - a world of people whose parents, or other relatives had the time to teach them, or the kid was smart enough to hear it from older siblings and learn on his own the advantages of using this word. 

When you get older, "please" loses its attractive power. You can't tell your boss, "Please, do not fire me today! I just got a new granddaughter!" - it rarely works. You can't allure your boyfriend with "Please, let's get married!" 

In fact, not being so civil at an older age is not such a disadvantage. Until you finish saying to your son, "Please, call the doctor", you would have wasted 2 precious, life - saving seconds. It is already assumed that by being elderly, you can not be following all the norms of society, so I will recommend, go with "call the doctor!" The doctor, or 911 do the magic. Forget this "please!"

I am quite positive in the early '90s there was not much attention given to "please" and "I am sorry". In Eastern Europe, it was also the time of early marriages. Most of our kids were either in daycare, or raised by our parents. Daycare was not so much a place to learn. It was a place to keep your baby safe, change his diapers, and feed him, while you were at work. 

The education part took place during the weekend - at home. The family structure always included a father and a mother, no exceptions. Divorce was frowned upon.

In many cases, kids' education just happened - without any parents' efforts. There was no negotiations, no rewards, no emulating what parents say. You learn as you go.

There is a language component in this chaos, too. The Bulgarian language allows you to say everything in so many different ways. The word may be missing, but you feel it. A sentence containing the same words can be said in so many different ways based on your intonation, emphasis on a specific word, tone of voice, body posture. "Please" and "Sorry" may remain mute. 

Living in these tiny communist style apartments - with no places to play, no yards, made a commute to the small town [called a village], where the grandparents lived, mandatory. Everyone was able to play soccer outside. That was the major game of the '90s and still is the major outdoor game. The girls were mostly enjoying the stories of their grandparents, all ears and smiles from ear to ear. 

This is how respect and connection with the grandparents was born. There was no need "to teach" it. It was "naturally born." 

Image courtesy of worradmu from FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This was the way to see you grandparents grow weaker and pale with time; repeat an old story 110 times. This is how kids understood what getting old meant. Ultimately, kids learned to open the door of a restaurant, when they saw an old lady with a cane, waited for her to get in first, picked up the purse she dropped on the floor. ...

One thing we, the parents, forget is to tell our kids to ask as many questions as they want. Our answers may change over time. They will sort through them one day and laugh at our imagination and creativity. I know my daughter will. ...

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.