I can’t say exactly where I began to love singing. It could have been as a rosy-cheeked child memorizing the Croatian National Anthem in my grandmother’s kitchen, or in the Catholic school basement where we rehearsed the hymns for Wednesday morning mass, or singing Bette Midler’s, The Rose, ad nauseum on my bathroom floor. Just remember, in the winter!...with excessive scooping could be heard on any given Saturday morning. Later it would be Whitney Houston’s classic...And aahh-eee-ahhh-eee, will ahhlways lu-huv yooooooooo-ahh-ee…waving a scarf around, just like in the movie.
I loved theatrics, even though I’m more of an introvert by nature, I feel perfectly comfortable in front of a crowd. Wearing makeup and a costume. There is the magic of the third wall. They don’t see the real you. You’ve turned into a character. Does anyone wonder why I delivered my first oral report in grade school dressed up as Henry the VIII’s last wife with a British accent?
My obsession with becoming an opera singer began after working with my first voice teacher, Lynn. She was an opera singer herself, and almost a caricature: heavy-set, boisterous, loquacious, and made the most outrageous of noises for a grown woman. She always had a new quirky sung message on her answering machine which I would call repeatedly to listen to, and lived with a gay man. We'd go on trips to the music store which was like our candy shop, and ironcially enough her day job was as a chocolatier. She gave me some classically based pieces to start off with and I was enamored.
Becoming an opera singer was my version of becoming Cinderella, who I found tragically pathetic in her simplicity. Opera heroines were tragic in a fierce and exotic sort of way. They were always suffering from deep loss, insurmountable odds, or tuberculosis! Absolument incroyable! Je l'aime! Je meurs pour cela! When a woman can still sing after being strangled to death...that's not just the magic of theatre, that's the pinnacle of human expression.
Catholic school politics wore on me, and my parents could no longer afford the "suggested donations" anyway - so I begged to transfer to public school with a few days to go before the year started. The only remaining electives were shop and choir, and so I was forced to join.
The first day of choir I was required to audition in front of all the other students who had been placed the prior year. I was nervous, as for some reason I assumed everyone in the class would be much better than I. However, at that audition, it was as if the skies parted and I was granted That Thing...That Thing that would make me happy and adored...
"Wow, how can you sing that high?" Said the cutest boy in the class.
I, blushing, replied, "Oh, I don't know, it just does that."
Ah yes! The days of being a tormented loser in Catholic school were over!! Singing would be my key to fame, fortune, envy of friends.
I'm Super, Thanks for Asking
Monday: Fell down stairs due to disoriention from lack of morning caffeine infusion. Bruises and odd elbow pain.
Tuesday: Kitchen fire. See post for full disclosure.
Wednesday: Speeding ticket. Was not speeding that bad, just moving with traffic. Plus, what highway is 55 mph these days?
Thursday: So far unscathed, but the night is young. I'm seriously considering not moving for a while.
Burning Down the House
First I need to thank God for a few things:
1. Mike's friend Jose, from whom we purchased our home who no doubt installed the fire extinguisher that saved my life tonight.
2. Adrenaline. Seriously. Without some raw animal instinct to stop-drop-and-grab-that-f-ing-extinguisher my house might not be here right now.
3. My dearest husband who spent two hours cleaning every square inch of our monoammonium-phosphate-covered kitchen with me while I groveled for forgiveness.
I was planning to make tuna marchand de vin as a surprise for Mike after his hard day's work. Unexpectedly, as a result of the evening's debacle I've decided I'm upset at the British accent. That's right. If it weren't for the British accent tinged recipe urging me quite enthusiastically to channel my inner Child (Julia, that is) - I don't think my kitchen would have become alighted.
"...quite high heat..."
Who says things like "...quite high heat...?" It should have read, "...medium high heat, especially if you have a mother of a skillet that magnifies heat beyond supernormal levels..." That would have been appropriate. But no, I got a recipe from what I can only assume belongs to an old British man who insists on calling tuna with wine sauce tuna marchand de vin and telling little stories about wine merchants in the recipe. I was so happy, pretending to be a chef, armed with the accurate pronunciation of Le Creuset - I grabbed the cast iron skillet duly named and proceeded to increase the heat to “quite high” levels. Here's how it turned out if anyone else would like to try it...
Milena’s Recipe for Disaster
1. Mike's friend Jose, from whom we purchased our home who no doubt installed the fire extinguisher that saved my life tonight.
2. Adrenaline. Seriously. Without some raw animal instinct to stop-drop-and-grab-that-f-ing-extinguisher my house might not be here right now.
3. My dearest husband who spent two hours cleaning every square inch of our monoammonium-phosphate-covered kitchen with me while I groveled for forgiveness.
I was planning to make tuna marchand de vin as a surprise for Mike after his hard day's work. Unexpectedly, as a result of the evening's debacle I've decided I'm upset at the British accent. That's right. If it weren't for the British accent tinged recipe urging me quite enthusiastically to channel my inner Child (Julia, that is) - I don't think my kitchen would have become alighted.
"...quite high heat..."
Who says things like "...quite high heat...?" It should have read, "...medium high heat, especially if you have a mother of a skillet that magnifies heat beyond supernormal levels..." That would have been appropriate. But no, I got a recipe from what I can only assume belongs to an old British man who insists on calling tuna with wine sauce tuna marchand de vin and telling little stories about wine merchants in the recipe. I was so happy, pretending to be a chef, armed with the accurate pronunciation of Le Creuset - I grabbed the cast iron skillet duly named and proceeded to increase the heat to “quite high” levels. Here's how it turned out if anyone else would like to try it...
Milena’s Recipe for Disaster
…turn heat to 8, what the hell, it says 'quite high'…
…Add a little olive oil…
…oh my, some smoke….
…quite a bit of smoke…
…fire? Oh my God…maybe if I take it off the burner…
…Add a little olive oil…
…oh my, some smoke….
…quite a bit of smoke…
…fire? Oh my God…maybe if I take it off the burner…
...ah! It's getting bigger...
...oh my God I'm going to burn the house down!...
Running around the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher, going blind, clawing at the mechanism that kept it on the wall…
…pin, do I pull the fucking pin?…
Pointing and shooting, grey dust leaps into the air…BEHIND ME…
…fuck!...
Turning extinguisher around, spraying…fire out...calm. Calm. Then dialing…
Through tears...excessive blubbering...
Running around the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher, going blind, clawing at the mechanism that kept it on the wall…
…pin, do I pull the fucking pin?…
Pointing and shooting, grey dust leaps into the air…BEHIND ME…
…fuck!...
Turning extinguisher around, spraying…fire out...calm. Calm. Then dialing…
Through tears...excessive blubbering...
“Mike? I almost burned the house down, oh my God, I’m so sorry, I suck so bad…I ruined dinner…I’m so sorry…I’m okay, but I’m so stupid, oh my God…”
So, I ran to the bathroom and cried, running my bleeding hand under cold water (a deep scratch from tearing apart the extinguisher cover) until Mike came home just moments later, gave me a hug and made sure I was okay.
So, I ran to the bathroom and cried, running my bleeding hand under cold water (a deep scratch from tearing apart the extinguisher cover) until Mike came home just moments later, gave me a hug and made sure I was okay.
We salvaged only the baked potatoes as they had been safe inside the oven, accompanied by a side of last night's cold pizza, as everything else in the kitchen was covered in a fine gray dust. We turned on music, I requested Beyonce, we alternated between telling jokes and bickering to pass the time. At least now our kitchen is spotless.
I Saw My Twin Today
I saw my twin at the grocery store today. I almost said something. I thought perhaps the salespeople might get us confused and the authorities should be alerted.
This has happened before.
Do you ever look across a room at a total stranger and think you are looking at yourself? Similarly to de ja vu there is a distinct reason things like this happen, mis-firings of neurons and such…I would explain it…but I don’t have time to check wikipedia.
There she was. Medium brown shoulder length hair, curled today (like me you could tell it was wavy and could be worn straight), determined tromping up and down the vegetable aisle with an important if not sour look on her face. Not heavy, but bottom heavy, moved easily, maybe even gracefully in heels and a dress.
Was she hunting for the herbs to make tuna marchand de vin for her husband after a hard day like I was? Did she come to Hollywood Market because of the coupon flier proclaiming Sweet Mangoes 4 for $5!?
Is that what I look like? It must be, the scene is eerily familiar. I felt like a polar bear seeing its image in a mirror for the first time. (You won’t be disappointed in that link, seriously, it’s f-ing cute.)
But my twin - she looks hurried, unsettled, searching – and not just for vegetables.
I see her a few more times as I make my rounds. Trying to differentiate myself by walking more slowly and trying to be pleasant, also keeping my wedding ring in plain view of the single men buying wine or protein shakes and hot dogs.
I see her leaving the store, walking fast, clutching toilet paper, grimacing against the wind and Michigan drear.
Does she live near me? Does she sing? Is she happy?
This has happened before.
Do you ever look across a room at a total stranger and think you are looking at yourself? Similarly to de ja vu there is a distinct reason things like this happen, mis-firings of neurons and such…I would explain it…but I don’t have time to check wikipedia.
There she was. Medium brown shoulder length hair, curled today (like me you could tell it was wavy and could be worn straight), determined tromping up and down the vegetable aisle with an important if not sour look on her face. Not heavy, but bottom heavy, moved easily, maybe even gracefully in heels and a dress.
Was she hunting for the herbs to make tuna marchand de vin for her husband after a hard day like I was? Did she come to Hollywood Market because of the coupon flier proclaiming Sweet Mangoes 4 for $5!?
Is that what I look like? It must be, the scene is eerily familiar. I felt like a polar bear seeing its image in a mirror for the first time. (You won’t be disappointed in that link, seriously, it’s f-ing cute.)
But my twin - she looks hurried, unsettled, searching – and not just for vegetables.
I see her a few more times as I make my rounds. Trying to differentiate myself by walking more slowly and trying to be pleasant, also keeping my wedding ring in plain view of the single men buying wine or protein shakes and hot dogs.
I see her leaving the store, walking fast, clutching toilet paper, grimacing against the wind and Michigan drear.
Does she live near me? Does she sing? Is she happy?
Why I've Never Asked For a Raise
I was recently given a boatload of new responsibilities at work. I won’t go into the gory details to protect the innocent, but let’s just say it was unexpected and has sent my workflow into a tailspin. I was divulging the particulars to a good friend who then asked, “I’m assuming you asked for remuneration?”
And my answer was a terse and confident, “No Way.”
I don’t ask for raises. I never have. I feel like a pansy for this but then I thought about it a bit more. I like my job, but I like my husband and my sanity more. While I’m committed to doing the best job I possibly can at work, I have things to do after 5pm.
Asking for a raise is like agreeing to go on a fancy dinner date with a guy you don’t really like. You say yes. You go on the date. It’s not unbearable, and he spends over $100. You are impressed and flattered. You feel compelled to put out, even though you are not totally committed to him.
Asking for a raise is the equivalent of going steady with your job. You are telling your job, “I love you, I want more of you…” Do you really like it that much? I mean, unless you’ve found a job you can marry, it doesn’t seem worth it to me.
A raise initiated by your boss is meant to be a reward for a job well done or simply fair to keep pace with the cost of living. A raise you secure by request is your promise to work harder, that you are ready to raise the bar on your current level of involvement. Which is great for a long-term relationship, for building a career.
While I didn’t negotiate for more pay, I did let my boss know that the new responsibilities would have to take the place of some current ones. He agreed and everyone is happy.
And my answer was a terse and confident, “No Way.”
I don’t ask for raises. I never have. I feel like a pansy for this but then I thought about it a bit more. I like my job, but I like my husband and my sanity more. While I’m committed to doing the best job I possibly can at work, I have things to do after 5pm.
Asking for a raise is like agreeing to go on a fancy dinner date with a guy you don’t really like. You say yes. You go on the date. It’s not unbearable, and he spends over $100. You are impressed and flattered. You feel compelled to put out, even though you are not totally committed to him.
Asking for a raise is the equivalent of going steady with your job. You are telling your job, “I love you, I want more of you…” Do you really like it that much? I mean, unless you’ve found a job you can marry, it doesn’t seem worth it to me.
A raise initiated by your boss is meant to be a reward for a job well done or simply fair to keep pace with the cost of living. A raise you secure by request is your promise to work harder, that you are ready to raise the bar on your current level of involvement. Which is great for a long-term relationship, for building a career.
While I didn’t negotiate for more pay, I did let my boss know that the new responsibilities would have to take the place of some current ones. He agreed and everyone is happy.
From Eden to Easter
I'm caught by the paparazzi - my gucci gabana look has nothing to do with the fact that the night before easter I was hanging out at a club called eden celebrating a friend's birthday. And trust me, this was not eden in the biblical sense. Unless Eve wore fake extensions, a lacy black thong, bunny ears, and danced on a bar to JT...hippity hop indeed.
Mike starts cooking his awesome Berber Lamb Shank for what I think will be an Easter tradition - yay!
I did the decorating...
A omnivore's delight...included the lamb, israeli lemon couscous, my mom's famous tabouli and hommous, and scandanavian strawberry-raspberry kissel for dessert. Mmm.
I think this sums it up.
We had a great day and hope you did too, whether you celebrated anything or not...
About My Blogroll
I'm adding a new blog to my roll. My sister it to me via Brazen Careerist, which I sent her, an awesome new blog which many people might already know about, but it's called: thrilling heroics.
I've been having chest pains due to work and school stress related anxiety and I need balance. I'm certain the massive amounts of coffee, sugar, lack of sleep and exercise aren't related to this phenomenon at all. I also had a few snafus at work that made me realize that while my desk is fairly organized, my actual workflow processes need revamping.
My sister coached me a bit and encouraged me to get a book called "Getting Things Done" which upon further review is apparently the bible of productivity with a huge cult following and I'm really late to that game...
And about my blogroll - I'm only going to keep 5 names up there at a time. So if names start disappearing it's not personal, I am just putting them in rotation.
I often find that people's blogrolls are waaaay too long to be meaningful or to know where I should hit up first or next. I figured rotation would give a small window into what I like and changing it up will keep people coming back for more if they like my taste.
I've been having chest pains due to work and school stress related anxiety and I need balance. I'm certain the massive amounts of coffee, sugar, lack of sleep and exercise aren't related to this phenomenon at all. I also had a few snafus at work that made me realize that while my desk is fairly organized, my actual workflow processes need revamping.
My sister coached me a bit and encouraged me to get a book called "Getting Things Done" which upon further review is apparently the bible of productivity with a huge cult following and I'm really late to that game...
And about my blogroll - I'm only going to keep 5 names up there at a time. So if names start disappearing it's not personal, I am just putting them in rotation.
I often find that people's blogrolls are waaaay too long to be meaningful or to know where I should hit up first or next. I figured rotation would give a small window into what I like and changing it up will keep people coming back for more if they like my taste.
Kind of a Big Deal
Michael Thomas: Photo courtesy of The New York TimesMy husband is sort of a big deal. And by big deal I mean sunday edition of the New York Times big deal. Like, he's wearing the suit we got married in how cute is he big deal in his big freakin' picture in the Times big deal surrounded by his designs and he works so hard but never gives himself enough credit big deal.
That - kind of big deal.
Life Support
I’m in grad school. Does my mother really need to check my research paper for grammatical errors and awkward word pairings? I think to myself, practically stomping my feet down the hall.
I’d sent my completed (on Saturday, hah!) paper to my mother, thinking she’d be proud of me and enjoy the topic.
Fast forward to Monday night, I’m at work late about to send it off to my professor, but before I do I’m compelled to call her and say, “I’m turning my paper in!”
Why did the child in me want to run to her mom for approbation? I’m not even going to hide it, there is no psycho-analysis that needs to be done, it’s blatant.
She had offered to correct some of my grammar mistakes over the weekend, but I had to call to let her know I fine-toothed it myself, and tell her it’d be fine, thanks for your help and I gotta go, buh-bye.
“Well, there was something in the first paragraph.” She says in a friendly yet paradoxically ominous voice that all moms must be granted simultaneously to giving birth. Other similar phrases include universal favorites such as, “You don’t want to eat that before dinner.” Or, “You should think twice about going to ____________ with that boy/girl.”
My mother is an English teacher. A damn good one too. She helped me craft every paper I’d written in high school and probably college, not write, but polish. She’s the queen of polish…and while my tax professor mandated no one could even sneeze near my last research report, I figured my mom could check for errors on this one.
“Okay, what is it?” I ask.
“Well, do you really want to say, ‘It must be noted that…’ or ‘However?’”
“However…I guess is better…kay, is that all?”
“Well, the next paragraph…”
And so on. She’s right. Of course she’s right. She taught English for a bajillion years, she's right. But I’m not a dummy and my paper already stands on its own. But still, I tell her to email me her suggestions. What’s going on here?
She’s still alive. I lost my father, but she is still alive. She is here. And I need her.
Not in the same ways, but in some ways. I don’t really need her to check my paper, I’m graded mostly on content, and my grammar is certainly acceptable at this point…but it is a tie we have, the two of us, discussing, arguing over my work, her suggestions. It’s so familiar.
I’m uneasy about it to tell you the truth. Part of me wants to send my paper without her flourishes, part of me knows she wouldn’t care, but part of me knows we’d both be wounded by it.
Just another tiny severing of influence and control…
Oh wait, I just got an email from her...
Domestic Bliss
Ever have trouble finding your car keys? look closely...
Then head on over to ode to simple, which I would plug even if it wasn't my sister's blog.
She is a genius when it comes to organizing, and has created a site dedicated to what I'd consider an art. She once feng shui'd my room in such a way as to stop me from having nightmares. My bed was in the coffin position, (bed right in front of the doorway) ack! And she encouraged me to take photos of crap I don't need but didn't want to part with so I could still "hang on" to them.
I think I've talked about how she got all the normal, calm, and organized genes in the family while I'm chock full o' crazy, including my inability to find anything when I need it. They didn't nickname me the Demolition Squad for nothing when I was younger.
Anyways, this goes out to my sister, who is helping to bring sanity to my home this sunday afternoon.
Much better...
Blog Bot
My husband informed me that the person who left a really long comment on my "Fake Writing" post was a Fake Writer him or herself!
Ironic huh?
Here's a snippet for those who don't care to go find it...
I'm very gullible. I mean, someone wrote it, so I'm not entirely stupid. I figured it was a cut and paste deal. No one writes comments that long. So.
I hope this person would be willing to engage in legitimate dialogue...that's always nice to do.
Ironic huh?
Here's a snippet for those who don't care to go find it...
Don’t believe one optimistic word from any public figure about the economy or humanity in general. They are all part of the problem. Its like a game of Monopoly. In America, the richest 1% now hold 1/2 OF ALL UNITED STATES WEALTH.
Unlike ‘lesser’ estimates, this includes all stocks, bonds, cash, and material assets held by America’s richest 1%. Even that filthy pig Oprah acknowledged that it was at about 50% in 2006. Naturally, she put her own ‘humanitarian’ spin on it.
I'm very gullible. I mean, someone wrote it, so I'm not entirely stupid. I figured it was a cut and paste deal. No one writes comments that long. So.
I hope this person would be willing to engage in legitimate dialogue...that's always nice to do.
Website: Son of a Citation
Okay - for those who are in school I came across a website that has proven quite handy:
Hallelujah. You plug in all your source info, and it cranks out the in-text and works cited formats for four different styles.
My citing skills were rusty...althought I'd be interested if anyone out there could vouch for it's accuracy. I plan on checking an actual style guide to make sure, but this helps. Especially since a lot of my research was taken from web pages of foreign governments.
Hallelujah. You plug in all your source info, and it cranks out the in-text and works cited formats for four different styles.
My citing skills were rusty...althought I'd be interested if anyone out there could vouch for it's accuracy. I plan on checking an actual style guide to make sure, but this helps. Especially since a lot of my research was taken from web pages of foreign governments.
The Little Things
Today was a good day because:
1. As I walked in my house tonight, my husband was in a growling match with our dog. He'd ferreted out where Kiynago was protecting a stash of rotten steak he'd absconded with after ransacking our garbage. Watching Mike hover over Kiynago in a 5 minute stare-down made my heart swell with pride that I have a man who will bother while a rugrat postures against him, and I think this in some weird way proves he'll be a good dad. Or least be able to find our kid's drug stash and yell at him until he repents. It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen and for only that moment I wished I was one of those people with a cell phone video camera.
2. My mother, who reads my blog and still loves me, sent me an e-card from "Tut's Adventurers Club" with a picture of handprints that read:
All your work and effort!!
Dear Mileni,
"Who you are shouts so loudly ....." that even Emerson would have a hard time completing his statement when it comes to you. Thank you for touching so many of our people with your beautiful voice.
Love,
Mama
PS. I have the little handprints that your Montessori teacher, Lor, made for each student. He was so right.
1. As I walked in my house tonight, my husband was in a growling match with our dog. He'd ferreted out where Kiynago was protecting a stash of rotten steak he'd absconded with after ransacking our garbage. Watching Mike hover over Kiynago in a 5 minute stare-down made my heart swell with pride that I have a man who will bother while a rugrat postures against him, and I think this in some weird way proves he'll be a good dad. Or least be able to find our kid's drug stash and yell at him until he repents. It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen and for only that moment I wished I was one of those people with a cell phone video camera.
2. My mother, who reads my blog and still loves me, sent me an e-card from "Tut's Adventurers Club" with a picture of handprints that read:
All your work and effort!!
Dear Mileni,
"Who you are shouts so loudly ....." that even Emerson would have a hard time completing his statement when it comes to you. Thank you for touching so many of our people with your beautiful voice.
Love,
Mama
PS. I have the little handprints that your Montessori teacher, Lor, made for each student. He was so right.
There is so much cute about that I don't even know where to begin. She was referring to my performance this weekend. My mom is my number one fan, but that doesn't mean she is not a critic too, I can count on her for honesty. I don't think she has ever missed a performance either, except when I was in Italy...
3. There are things that beep. Seriously, I take these items for granted. I was just thinking about how if my car light thingy didn't beep, I'd never turn them off, like I did in my old Toyota Corolla which was perpetually stalled.
Fake Writing
I may have to disappear for a few days as I attempt some "real" writing for my International Finance class. The most disappointing thing is that this paper is simply a composite of facts and figures from various sources with a few personal observations peppered in. I keep leaning towards political and economic policy positional arguements but have to slap my hand from typing away...this is a research report. Impartiality.
The reality is though, the subject matter is near and dear to my heart and helps me deepen my understanding of the places I refer to as "the homeland," Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina. In short, they've gone through a rough time, but with the help of the international community they are starting to come around, getting retrained and new technology in place, tax reforms have created some of the lowest tax rates in all of Europe, yet a VAT tax assessed on the value of goods in production has increased government revenues considerably (and a government getting smaller by the year.)
But my blog is where I can spew forth countless arguements no one will grade me on so:
Anyone thinks what is good for the goose is good for the gander here? Is anyone surprised that re-training their constituency, reducing taxes and cutting excesses of government is working for these countries experiencing considerable growth, relatively unaffected by the global economic slowdown? We are teaching them the baby steps to a market economy and they are thriving...why wouldn't we do the same? Sure they are experiencing growing pains, they have to change systems they've grown used to and love despite the fact they are not working, we are forcing them to change, and it's making life significantly better for everyone over there...at least that's what I hear.
It would be nice to get some first hand accounts of the situation, which I've asked my mom who is fluent in those languages to help retrieve from family and friends living there. It would be nice to see if the "man on the street" agrees with the press releases and preliminary findings of various government support programs internationally.
Just some thoughts.
The reality is though, the subject matter is near and dear to my heart and helps me deepen my understanding of the places I refer to as "the homeland," Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina. In short, they've gone through a rough time, but with the help of the international community they are starting to come around, getting retrained and new technology in place, tax reforms have created some of the lowest tax rates in all of Europe, yet a VAT tax assessed on the value of goods in production has increased government revenues considerably (and a government getting smaller by the year.)
But my blog is where I can spew forth countless arguements no one will grade me on so:
Anyone thinks what is good for the goose is good for the gander here? Is anyone surprised that re-training their constituency, reducing taxes and cutting excesses of government is working for these countries experiencing considerable growth, relatively unaffected by the global economic slowdown? We are teaching them the baby steps to a market economy and they are thriving...why wouldn't we do the same? Sure they are experiencing growing pains, they have to change systems they've grown used to and love despite the fact they are not working, we are forcing them to change, and it's making life significantly better for everyone over there...at least that's what I hear.
It would be nice to get some first hand accounts of the situation, which I've asked my mom who is fluent in those languages to help retrieve from family and friends living there. It would be nice to see if the "man on the street" agrees with the press releases and preliminary findings of various government support programs internationally.
Just some thoughts.
We Ethnic: A Play in One Act
Setting
Hallway of university drama department situated in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Several classrooms line the hall. Female seated in hallway, early 20's, long dark hair in a braid, dark-rimmed glasses, wearing all black, studying a script.
Time
Year 2000, mid-afternoon. Classes are in session as girl waits outside for session to begin.
(Two African-American males exit a classroom, heading in girl's direction. Begin whispering to each other and stop to talk to her.)
MALE #1: Hey girl, what's your name?
GIRL: Me?
MALE #1: Yeah, you the only one here!
GIRL: Milena.
MALE #1: (Whispering loudly to his friend) See, I told you... (To the girl) So, where you from?
GIRL: Troy, Michigan.
MALE #1: Naw, where you really from?
GIRL: Uh, I was born in Royal Oak, Michgan.
MALE #1: (exasperated) Naw, where's your name from?
GIRL: Well, my father's Serbian and my mom is Croatian - but I was born...
MALE #1: That's what I'm talkin' about.
MALE #2: Yeah, we knew it.
GIRL: Knew what?
MALE #1: You ethnic. We knew it. But they don't know it.
GIRL: (perplexed) Who doesn't know...what?
MALE #1: White people! (Laughing) They don't know you ethnic, but we know it. We're practically brother and sister, you and me. We both ethnic.
GIRL: (blushing) I guess so.
MALE #1: You know it. Don't you forget it. We gotta go.
(Men go back into their classroom. Blackout.)
*********************************************************
I think about that little vignette from time to time. But let me backpeddle a bit. Last night I was slated to perform at the Serbian Hall in Detroit. The evening was full of ethnic festivities, from the food, to music, to the cheesy t-shirts imprinted upside down with "If you can read this, you've had too much Å¡livo!"
As I was sitting, enjoying an old man's rendition of a folk favorite calling himself "Dr. Guza," which translates to "Dr. Butt" in English, I thought to myself how weird it was that this all seemed perfectly normal to me. At one point my husband leaned over and said, "You know, this is just like the Italians, except somewhere in here there'd be a donkey!"
It reminded me of that story, where those two boys called me out on being "ethnic." Whether it was a quirk of my all-black outfit or not, I was flattered and excited they felt that way. I often wonder if I really do look ethnic, as my parents surely do. This plays into feelings of vanity for wanting to be noticed, to be special. But on a deeper level I think it signals my desire to remain connected to the ethnicity of my parents and ancestors. Slavic people are a crazy bunch, known for their hot women and even hotter tempers. They don't call the Balkans a Powder Keg for no reason. You can thank us for starting all sorts of wars. Sorry.
But, we're not always warring. We like to have fun, to sing songs, drink, and act goofy. We love color, we love drama, we love the finer things in life, and even old guys pretending to be butt doctors for a laugh.
I've felt such a deep love for the Slavic cultures for so long, and last night was no exception. I arrived early to rehearse with an awesome band from Pittsburgh, Junaci, which means "Heroes." And I was able to watch the arrival of gorgeous Serbian and Croatian women streaming in, wearing all black, and perhaps a little too much makeup. Men, with moustaches only my father's could rival, leather coats, dark features. Appetizers included olives, feta cheese, and ham piled on platters, dinner was stuffed peppers and potatoes, red wine, followed by great entertainment. The Serbian Hall was where I spent many weekends as a little girl. I remember being 4 or 5, running around the checkered floor, dancing wildly amidst the fog of smoke and the blare of wild kolo music. I remember setting up chairs to go to sleep when my parents were off dancing and the clock was hitting 1, 2am...my childhood was spent partying, reveling in music, dance, food, life.
And I want it all back.
So, my sister and I are starting a website dedicated to all things Slavic. We're going to extend the reach to all the Slavic cultures, not just the ones we grew up in. We'll debut it soon!
Živeli!!!
No Ma’am, I’m Not Reading a Book
Damn it. Foiled again by Reading Deprivation. I only remember not to read blogs since I’m always in front of a computer. But I’ve been sneaking pages of “Fatherless Women” which I haven’t yet finished.
I am realizing some more things as I go through this horrendous assignment. I read because I need to verify the validity of my thoughts and feelings. Reading is a treasure hunt for approval because I don’t really trust myself. I don’t think I can make a decision on my own. I sometimes want to relegate my life decisions to my husband, which is so old-school, but I can see how a woman who gets married could fall into that role easily. She's lost her parents, she doesn't trust herself, and she's got a new man in her life. But I don't feel comfortable doing that. It's not fair to myself or my husband.
At least with my father, I didn’t have to feel like a dope asking him for advice. He was my father, the authority, and his role was comfortable to me. And with my father gone, I’m floundering. It’s not like he was a major confidant or anything, I didn’t call him once a week for heart to hearts…but I shouldn’t kid myself that the frequency of our conversations had any bearing on their breadth. My father (most likely) ruled my life.
Any psychologist probably would be giving me a congratulatory nod for that one…but if you had spoken to me a year ago and asked me how influenced I was by my parents, I would have given a pat answer about how independent I was, moving into my fiance’s home, “Helloooo, nothing says Grown Up like a mortgage!!!”
I thought I was out of my parent’s grip, but paying your own bills and signing lease agreements barely scrapes the surface of independence. You might as well have given me a bank full of Monopoly money. Since my father’s death and my marriage happened in one fell swoop, I’m seeing how gut-wrenchingly painful it is to be severed from mommy and daddy.
Daughters these days have a confusing role. They are expected to be nothing like their mothers, and everything like their fathers. This fairly new feature in human development shows that women are both encouraged and protected by their fathers. A father cannot treat his daughter like a son, he can be stern, but he still has the instinct to protect and shield. You can see how this dichotomy causes chaos in the female psyche. When I would tell my father I got an A, he replied with, “I expect nothing less.” This was certainly warm encouragement, but it was also edict.
As Clea Simon so eloquently poses,
“For despite our supposed adulthood, our supposed independence, many of us still find ourselves arranging our lives to fit our fathers’ plans…This is not how we react to our mothers…And its roots lie, again, in our early experiences with our mothers, and therefore we have a level of acceptance and understanding that demands less approval. With our fathers, we have nearly the same depth of connection, but we do not have the safety. How could we not, then, work for their acceptance? With fear as an incentive, how could we not rush to internalize the lessons our fathers taught?”
With fear as my incentive I’m finding myself in a place where I feel cemented to the ground, yet my limbs are wrangling to get free.
So, who's got the sledgehammer?
I Met This Guy on Facebook
I know, I know, sometimes I've got funny that just won't quit. But what would you say if I told you this guy was a fake? Not because his beard screams "wannabe" but because he is a manifestation of the hyper-realist sculptures of artist Ron Mueck? The latter would win you the daily prize! My adoration. Just for the day.So click on over to some other sites displaying his work, and prepare to be truly amazed.
6 Things I See Rich People Do
I know a lot of rich* people. They may not even know my name, but I work in an industry where the sole purpose is to help the rich create and manage their wealth.
*For purposes of this post, I’m defining "rich people" as those who generate high levels of income on an ongoing basis. I don’t necessarily mean people who amass wealth over time by pinching pennies and living modestly, which is a great thing, but not what I’m talking about.
This is what I’ve learned about what it takes to get there:
1. Rich People Define Their Goals and Don’t Complain – I have not heard one rich person whine about their life or waffle about their goals. Sure, they’ll have a meeting to hash things out, but they are eager to lock in a plan of action, don’t dwell on minutiae, and don’t deviate unless something is truly not working, not just because inspiration struck. Unlike myself, they don’t waste time doing the hokey-pokey with career coaches or buying umpteen books about realizing their dreams. They go by gut.
2. If They Dream Big, They Sacrifice Big – Rich people give up a lot to realize their dreams. This might mean ditching their kid’s basketball game or missing a dinner date with their significant other because a big prospect called. Lack of meaningful family relationships and health problems are probably the biggest pitfalls I have seen, as business relationships often get the most nurturing. Of course there are the ultra-rich who retire at 40, are hand-fed vegan delights, have shiatsu administered to them daily, and go on world tours adopting children in throngs. But they are the exception, not the rule.
3. If They Don’t Know, They Know a Cadre of People Who Do – Rich people don’t have all the answers, but they know those who do. If they can’t make a balance sheet they’ll hire a CPA. If they can’t pick stocks they get a financial advisor. They know the middle man reduces costs in the end versus bumbling over things they don't have time to master. Similarly, they know they don’t need an MBA or 4.0 to be successful, but that they need to be persuasive enough to get the people who do to work with or for them.
A great businessman I know always says, “The guy who has all the A students working for him was a C student himself.” He’s right, and you know why? It’s not because the C student was stupid, but that the C student cared more about relationship-building than hitting the books, the C student developed people skills because their grades weren’t going to do it for them, the C student dropped out of college and invented the next big idea. Their C didn’t stop them in their tracks and give them a nervous breakdown, their C didn’t matter.
5. They Don’t Care What You Think – Rich people don’t take things personally. Your opinion doesn’t matter. If they need to know what kids are into these days or what their company’s web metrics are, they’ll find someone to give them a one page summary. The only thing that grabs their attention is really bad press and then their lawyers do the dirty work. They stress out about details, not about feelings. However, they can be persuaded by big, profitable ideas. Tell them how to make them more money than it will cost to invest in your idea or hire you, and you’ve got a deal.
6. They Give Back and Give Big – Rich people are motivated to make money, not just for themselves but often for something bigger than themselves. Even though they sacrifice a lot for money, they don’t have hearts of stone, they just get satisfaction from different life challenges. They also know they can’t take it with them, and often share their wealth while they are alive and plan complex tax avoidance (not to be confused with tax evasion) strategies that maximize their contributing power for future generations or charities by passing it on tax free once they are gone.
Have a Heart, Hug a Rich Person Today.
Not Exactly A Retraction, But...
I know my earlier post poked fun at the Big D, but the reality is, the Metro Detroit area has charm all it's own. Other "miserable cities" included L.A. or New York, which people flock to all the time. So I don't think the rating score holds all that much weight when you factor in other benefits of the cities, like the fact that they are situated on major trade routes by land, air, and waterways. In fact, I've had the unique experience of diving into the Detroit River on New Year's Day. If you are really interested in how human reflexes work, I suggest trying that.
I know a ton of musicians and artists that call Detroit home. Everyone knows it's the home of Motown and Techno, artists ranging from Aretha Franklin to the White Stripes. (Or my own band, En Passant!) In addition to playing out for 4 years at Detroit's famous la dolce vita restaurant, I have had the honor to perform with members of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, through the Kirk in the Hills Choir (which won Hour Magazine's Choir of the Year in 2004). Detroit boasts a host of cultural, musical, and artistic scenes that cannot be found in any city.
Additionally, Ann Arbor, the home of my alma mater, U of M, is located only 45 minutes away, and is swarming with intellectual and creative thought. A little known fact is that Ann Arbor actually has more theater (and stadium) seats per capita, than any other city! This info came to me from my boss at the time, an author who I worked with to research, compile, and edit "Seats," entertainment guides for major venues in New York and Chicago, and her business was near Ann Arbor.
Detroit is where my parents decided to set up shop and raise their family, and I'm grateful they did. Detroit and neighboring Windsor, Ontario are home to many Bosnians, Serbs, and Croatians. Would you believe I can buy vegeta, sipak, homemade burek, cevapi, or Bajadera's only a few miles from my house?? (Only someone from the former Yugoslavia would know what all that means...) And while I don't know if my father had a particular fondness for the city, he managed to grow two successful businesses here as an entrepreneur. He even threw the opening pitch at Detroit's Tigers stadium for being business man of the year or something like that.
So, I was not trying to disrespect "The D." It's going through a bit of a rough time, but it's still a good home.
Mike and I enjoying wine before the symphony at the beautiful Max M. Fisher Music Center adjacent to Orchestra Hall.
I know a ton of musicians and artists that call Detroit home. Everyone knows it's the home of Motown and Techno, artists ranging from Aretha Franklin to the White Stripes. (Or my own band, En Passant!) In addition to playing out for 4 years at Detroit's famous la dolce vita restaurant, I have had the honor to perform with members of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, through the Kirk in the Hills Choir (which won Hour Magazine's Choir of the Year in 2004). Detroit boasts a host of cultural, musical, and artistic scenes that cannot be found in any city.
Additionally, Ann Arbor, the home of my alma mater, U of M, is located only 45 minutes away, and is swarming with intellectual and creative thought. A little known fact is that Ann Arbor actually has more theater (and stadium) seats per capita, than any other city! This info came to me from my boss at the time, an author who I worked with to research, compile, and edit "Seats," entertainment guides for major venues in New York and Chicago, and her business was near Ann Arbor.
Detroit is where my parents decided to set up shop and raise their family, and I'm grateful they did. Detroit and neighboring Windsor, Ontario are home to many Bosnians, Serbs, and Croatians. Would you believe I can buy vegeta, sipak, homemade burek, cevapi, or Bajadera's only a few miles from my house?? (Only someone from the former Yugoslavia would know what all that means...) And while I don't know if my father had a particular fondness for the city, he managed to grow two successful businesses here as an entrepreneur. He even threw the opening pitch at Detroit's Tigers stadium for being business man of the year or something like that.
So, I was not trying to disrespect "The D." It's going through a bit of a rough time, but it's still a good home.
Mike and I enjoying wine before the symphony at the beautiful Max M. Fisher Music Center adjacent to Orchestra Hall.
Thanks For Making Us #1!!!
I almost can't believe it. We did it. We really did it. I wasn't sure it was possible, but Forbes.com awarded the metro area where I reside with:
Wow. As if the fact that the state of Michigan having the highest depression, obesity, and suicide rates wasn't enough of a dream come true...zeroing in on the Metro Detroit area itself as being the worst possible place to live in the U.S. really makes my day.
I suppose the fact that I'm not 400 lbs., suicidal, or shot in a drive-by is a monumental victory, huh? I shouldn't be so hard on myself faced with these kinds of odds:
No. 1
Detroit, Mich.
Rank (out of 150)
Commute Times 80
Income Tax Rates 87
Superfund Sites 135
Unemployment 149
Violent Crimes 150
Misery Measure 696 (Does this have anything to do with the craptastic I-696??)
For all my family members and friends that have fled this God-forsaken place, I miss you, but I'll understand if you don't come back...
Organ Donation: One More Small Thing
If I were a better blogger I'd know how to make that pic an HTML link, but you get the idea...
Mike and I registered on Michigan's state website to be organ donors, obviously signing the backs of our license's achieve the same goal, but we don't have fine tip permanent markers.
So, I urge anyone out there (who's religious or personal beliefs allow them to of course) to consider becoming an organ donor too, and registering online is one extra way to ensure your wishes are fulfilled. If you are a minority, organ donation is particularly critical, as finding minority matches can be next to impossible.
Obviously this is a tough subject, we all hope to live a long time, but in the event that we die healthy, wouldn't it be nice to know we might help someone else do that? I cannot urge people enough to do this. Doctors often say that people neglecting to indicate they'd be willing to be an organ donor in writing is one of the biggest obstacles to obtaining viable organs in times of need and tragedy. Without express consent, the decision can be put off to next of kin or power of attorney (if those are even in place) and they may not choose as you would have wanted or in a time frame that allows your organs to be used.
My post, One Small Thing, has additional info on preparing for other personal end of life issues. This woman wrote a post to her husband about how to take care of the finances if she were to die. Gulp, I should do the same.
Perhaps it's morbid to prepare, but it's selfish not to.
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