BS

I wanted to go to the mountains this weekend. I long to see the snow like a child longs for candy (at the moment it’s just freaking cold in Bucharest but the mountains do look like cotton candy). But, as I sold my soul to a certain media company some months ago and tomorrow is December 1 (our badly chosen national day- who the fuck wants parades in winter) I have to stay here and work. Work by wearing a stupid scarf printed with the national flag and RTV’s logo, distribute books and interview passers-by. I swear this was not in my job description but as I have just recently gotten a raise I can’t complain. Oh, and the books won’t be just any books, noo! They’re entitled “You make Romania” and are supposedly written by the Romanian people. By “the Romanian people” they mean all the crazy old farts and frustrated housewives who bothered writting their oppinion on RTV”s forum or on the walls stationed downtown in most of the big cities around the country. I’ve never heard such bullshit in my life! But, apparently, tv is all about bullshitting. Which leads to the day’s conclusion:

 

The age issue

You can always count on your friends to make you laugh. Today my friend “Bubble” told me she thinks guys over 23 are old. Wtf?! Hahahahah! Let me check- last 3 guys I had anything to do with were 24, 24 and 26. Guess I’m some sort of gerontofile in her eyes. Certainly beats out the time when another of my friends told me: “Damn, I had a fling with an old guy!” “How old? ” I asked. “Really old, like 30.” Oh man, this sort of things crack me up. Not that I’m famous in my group for being the champion of blonde moments or anything .

Princesses are contageous (surrealist proverb via Serban Foarta)

I didn’t like Barbies as a kid- I only used them to play the role of Batman’s girlfriend:). And Disney princesses bore me to death. But somehow this tomboy attitude attracted some sort of princess curse. My first job ever when I was 8 was to play princess Margot in a Nostradamus movie. The dress made it difficult to climb trees but I loved the hair and makeup. Then my cousin Andrei started calling me princess Lu like the character from Mike, Lu and Og. He said I was a small savage with a bob haircut so the nickname came naturally. Whatever, he looked like a girl (a blonde, Barbie loving one)! Years passed and I thought the curse had faded away but when I was in my first year at University some Norwegian students I was working with on an architectural project told me I looked like a princess from a popular Norwegian comic strip. Cartoon characters, comic strips? Come on! However, today I finally reconciled with my hatred of princesses. I indulged my inner nerdyness at the Book Fair and I came out with “Unknown or forgotten princesses” by Phillipe Lechermeier and Rebecca Dautremer. Now these chicks kick ass, love food, talk non stop and enjoy being drama..princesses. I love em! Heck, princess Kuskah (Kage) on the cover even has squinty eyes and a yellowish, elongated face like mine.

Ham ham in Jamaica

November 20, 2006- my second day in Jamaica. The date that will go down in history as the time we (Tracey, Adrian, Miguel, Christine and myself) visited Bob Marley’s house in Kingston, ate fantastic jerk goat in the dingyest market bar ever and forced Miguel to chat up the locals and ask them to share some of their local…aahm, customs with us. What followed really turned our Jamaican holiday into one of the trippiest trips ever: “poeming” on the terrace, some “devirgilations”, “2 rooms of culture” in Port Royal, violating beach regulations, Joy?-ohh, joy! , smoking in the car cos it’s more “pedagogical”, almost getting busted by the police, Tracey saving our sorry international asses, spending the kitty on silly clothes and statues, loads of Red Stripes, Applebees(the rum not the crappy fastfood), trailing the Blue Mountains-”Fucky Mountains”, making our way through a coffe plantation, discussing ham ham(that’s what dogs say in Romanian) for hours in Port Antonio, red snapers, rice with anything, curried anything, fried plantains, all alone in the Blue Lagoon, heavy rain, “alternative” way to see Dunn’s River Falls, crazy “rain”bathing, the end. Ahh, how I miss those times!

Where have all the good parties gone?

Freshmen’s Ball was last week. And maaaan, it sucked! It happened in one of those huge, warehouses in Regie (student neighbourhood in Bucharest)-not that I’m one to frown down on locations. And the music was..ahem, average- Vama and Morandi. But this party lacked energy, it lacked spirit or passion It had like 5 nerds dancing in what they thought to be a sexy manner, most of the leacherous TA’s trying to score, gawky kids dressed in kitschy clothes competing for the tittle of king and queen and, what’s worse, crappy and too little booze. People, this is not the way to organize a party! I want my University parties with fountains of chocolate, colored sugar braceletes, baloon animals and crazy taliban pirates! ( I know, my mental age is 5 ). I want my music to be loud and insane! I want beer kegs, jello shots, enormous vats of sangria and bottles of vodka, gin, whiskey and rum! I also want some fun loving, downright crazy international students. Am I asking for too much?

Ra-teoviziunea

“Cat primeste Teo de la Vantu:

600.000 euro ? prima de instalare
420.000 euro ? salariul personal anual
480.000 euro ? salariul anual al echipei
Total: 1.500.000 euro”

Cat primeste un redactor la Realitatea? 300 euro/luna. E drept, niciun redactor sau reporter de la RTV sau Romantica nu e un brand ca Teo . Apropos, ca sa ajungi un brand trebuie cumva sa urmezi modelul si sa te rogi frumos de sefii ai mari? Ca daca e asa, promit ca-mi schimb strategia de cariera.

One year in Vermont

Yesterday, I was waiting for the bus in Piata Romana when I heard three English tourists asking the lady selling bus tickets for directions. She gave them the wrong ones. I wanted to help them (I was also really pissed because the same woman had refused to extend my bus card). So, I opened my mouth. And, to my amazement I spoke in a very nasal, sing song voice: “ Nahw, she’s stuh-pid. She gave you the wrong di-rek-tions. If you wanna reach the aeir-porht you gotta git on the 183 bus. That’s the right one. Take care and have a safe trip. Aight?”. So much for 12 years trying to get that perfect Brit accent. One year in Vermont ruined all my efforts.

Ups, I also remembered how last week I said that my friend Alice studies in France, in Mon-peh-liahr (Mon-pi-li-ar pt romani). My poor French teacher, she would have died of shame.