An excerpt from the short story American Life

Inga Totmianina squeezed her radio lunch box into the small locker, which had been assigned to her, she remembered, only after the fourth month of her employment at Publicz. The white fluorescent light in the break room never grew on Inga. She’d hated it before, and she hated it now. It was a cold, sterile kind of light, she thought, like the comfort of a stepmother.

          Inga inserted her time card into the square metal device mounted on the wall, which then burped a beep and read forty-three hours. It’d been a while now that she’d been trying to work overtime. Her rent expense had gone down since she moved in with the neighbors from Peru, but it was lonely living with a loud, happy family like them. She reasoned working late was the only productive way to deal with the situation. Now that Igor was gone, it was becoming harder for her to feel useful. She could always go and visit her cousin, or grab a coffee with a fellow Russian, but to waste time and money, she thought, was foolish.

          Swiftly, she got into her green canvas apron, the initials of her name branded into its worn-out fabric, and sat at the square table in the middle of the break room. Her shift wasn’t starting until twenty minutes later, so she wiped the crumbs off one of the greasy magazines left on the table and began flipping through its glossy pages. She took notice of an article, two full pages devoted to it, about a celebrity’s insight on good housekeeping, and she wondered if the lady’s housemaid was present at the interview.

          Sluggish footsteps then approached the break room. Inga straightened her back and looked at the pages with an extra intent gaze. She couldn’t stand him and his rude ways. Kids nowadays showed no respect, she thought. James was a twenty-one-year-old slacker who always idled the day away. The noise of his shoes alone turned her stomach. He thought he was clever, but she was onto him. Numerous times she’d seen him smoking marijuana in the back during his shift, and one day she caught him hiding feather boas behind the Kraft macaroni and cheese packs.

          “Wow, wow, wow…look who it is”, James said rolling his eyes. “And she’s early again. What a surprise!” He turned his back on Inga and started opening his locker when she heard him add, “Get a life, weirdo.”

          In times like these was when she missed Igor the most. He’d been an indifferent bastard, one who’d never cared what people said. That kind of attitude had been refreshing after a long day of being invisible, neglected or ridiculed. She hated the way customers asked where she was from, but never in fact waited for her answer. She hated the way James always repeated what she’d said in a fake Eastern European accent. Igor was actually bearable when he was on her side. But his drinking was bad, he liked his vodka, and besides he was a callous man most of the time. He’d never even tried to understand her condition. It’d been Nature’s ruling that made her infertile, but that hadn’t stopped him from calling her “a fat barren cow” countless times.

James slammed the tiny metal door of his locker, its padlock snapping into place, and grandly left the break room. Inga then looked at the white plastic clock on the wall, which indicated seven minutes to twelve, and she estimated she had about three extra minutes to pass, enough time to maybe go to the bathroom and rouge her cheeks.

She leaned sideways against the bathroom door, and its weight gave in to the solidness of her body. She stood rigid in front of the mirror, and with her plump index fingers traced the dark, unruly eyebrows that contrasted a set of powder blue eyes. One of the light bulbs must’ve burned out as the restroom was now darker than usual, but Inga didn’t mind that one bit. She liked the way her silhouette exposed only the substantial part of her, omitting the irrelevant little flaws of her aged face.

A woman walked in, bringing with her the cool, unintrusive scent of lilac, a scent that made Inga think of great opulent terraces, ornate porcelain tea sets, and lush green gardens. She never considered herself a romantic; those were notions unattainable to people like her. She was a pragmatic woman and women like her didn’t fit into that fine lifestyle, for their fleshy bellies and robust arms poked out of it. She still missed Igor’s demanding tone when asking what was for dinner. She felt useful then, at least, taking care of someone. She would come home and make borscht from scratch, the way he liked it, with more meat and less vegetables; she would make a potful of pelmeni, his favorite, and slather them with warm butter, and sometimes even fry him blini for dessert. Now she shared a crammed apartment with a family who lived like gypsies.

The lady who smelled like lilac walked out of the restroom, and Inga thought it was probably almost time for her shift to start. She headed for the customer service desk to check what register she was on. Kuammesha was there helping a stocky bearded man fill out his Western Union form.

“Hey, girl. What you up to? Oooh, I like that sweater. Very cute. Did you get it in Russia?”

“No, it is not from Russia. I purchased the sweater from Marshals. I am going to go to my register now. It is my shift.”

“Oh, by the way, your husband called.”

“My ex-husband called? Why? Why my ex-husband called?”

“I dunno. I didn’t ask. You, guys, need to work it out.”

An uneasy feeling settled in Inga’s chest, cold and heavy like a coiled snake. She rushed right past her assigned register, her steps small, but swift and determined.

A Lesson in Sharing: A Beginner’s Guide to Ethiopian Dining Etiquette

If you find yourself always going to the same restaurants, the waiters there know your name and you’ve learned the menu by heart, then the verdict is: you are in a dining rut. It is certainly the time for you to experience something new and excitingly different and what better place for that than an Ethiopian restaurant that conveys the warmth and zest of an ancient culture dating back more than 3000 years. Ethiopian dining is an experience. When you have dinner in an Ethiopian home or restaurant, you literally eat the tablecloth!

            For those of you who dare to take the challenge, here are some pointers as to what to expect:

            The facts: Ethiopian food includes tastes and aromas we don’t typically encounter. No utensils are used while dining and food is served on a communal platter. The Coptic Church, the dominant religious sect in Ethiopia since the fourth century, dictates many food customs. There are fast days when meat is prohibited, and pork is never permitted. The hand-washing ceremony before and after meals is a religious ritual. Ethiopian cuisine is spicy and savory but never sweet.  

            The real thing: In an Ethiopian home, one or two of the guests are seated on a low divan and a mesab, a handmade wicker hourglass-shaped table with a domed cover, is set before them. The other guests are then seated around the table on stools about eight inches high. A woman carries a long-spouted copper ewer in her right hand, a copper basin in her left hand and a towel over her left arm. She pours warm water over the fingers of each person’s right hand, holding the basin to catch the excess, and you wipe your hands on the towel that hangs over her arm. When the dome is removed, the mesab is covered with what looks like a gray cloth, however it is not a tablecloth at all. It is the injera, the sourdough pancake-like bread of Ethiopia. When the entire injera is covered with an assortment of stews, you tear off a piece about two or three inches and use it to "roll" the food in. Your host might pop the first little "roll" in your mouth for you. The woman returns with individual long-necked bottles from which you drink tej, an amber-colored honey wine. It is put on a little table close by. Or she may bring a weakly carbonated water, or tella, the home-made beer. Traditional meals are chicken wat and lamb wat—two peppery stews; iab—cottage cheese and yogurt with special herbs giving it a sharp lemon flavor; and kitfo—ground raw beef, which is considered the dessert of the meal. No other dessert is served. Coffee comes in on a tray in tiny Japanese-style cups served black with sugar. Dinner is concluded with hand-washing again and incense is burned.

            The restaurant experience: The food is served on a communal platter on top of the spongy injera and is scooped up with bits of it. The injera is usually 20 inches in diameter, about the size of a large pizza. It is made from fermented teff, a tiny, nutritious cereal grain, and is baked on one side, therefore porous on one side and flat on the other. Typically, the meal consists of various vegetables, meat entrées and side dishes. The custom is to eat with the right hand so the flat side of the injera is placed in the palm of the right hand and the porous side is used to collect food. Another beautiful mealtime tradition is “Goorsha”, the act of feeding a family member or dear friend. This act is a display of affection, respect and honor. To perform “Goorsha”, smile warmly as you scoop up some food with injera and gently place it in your companion’s mouth.

            While it is very unlikely to eat this cuisine gracefully, sharing Ethiopian food with another person would do wonders in tearing down barriers, so if you are adventurous, Ethiopian restaurants are a fantastic idea for a date. They are also great for vegetarians as there is a plethora of unique Ethiopian spices, grains and vegetables such as turnip, red lentils and capsicum. If you’re willing to venture out of your comfort zone and try an Ethiopian restaurant, you’ll find some of the best-tasting and healthiest foods you’ll ever eat.

Metamorphosis

         /Published in Exquisite Corpse, July 2006/

I lie on the bare ground and try to remember how to breathe this kind of air. The kind that carries a whisper of melancholy and nostalgia. The kind that tells  you secrets you don’t want to know. It’s been so long. Almost eternity.  And I have travelled so far away from everything that matters. This was supposed to be  my salvation. I was supposed to cry and become human again. But the mute serenity of  the cemetery no longer affects the little girl, for now she is just a distant echo of what I've  become. I remember everything so vividly. It has been reeling in front of my mind’s eye  day after day, my whole life. Like the credits of a movie that’s already over. The colours  have faded away, though, leaving me with the yellowed picture of my interrupted  childhood. I remember being curled up in a chair, foetus-like, rocking myself back  and forth, searching for answers, my little head not capable of grasping a concept so cruel.  I remember our house full of people, waiting quietly for something inevitable.  I remember the agonized faces; my mum's sunken, acquiesced eyes. The screeching  silence. Nobody daring to ask for their money back -- the money my parents had  been borrowing for medical treatments. All kinds. I remember asking, “Mum, is  Tony going to die?” I also remember the comfort of her reassuring words.  A child’s trust is implicit. It never occurred to me then to question my mother’s promise. I wasn’t there when it all started. I was simply born into it. I remember leukemia just  being part of our lives. It is the most common childhood cancer, they say.  But you never get used to that kind of common. It starts in the child’s blood or bone  marrow, the white blood cells demanding more and more of the little body’s nutrition.  I remember my brother, either feeling all right, giving us all a spark of hope, or gone --  gone in faraway hospitals in the bigger cities of our small country. I remember my  parents becoming frantic when noticing a familiar symptom; my mum rushing around  the house, packing up bags for another trip. I always stayed with my grandparents.  I remember Tony’s absence. I remember being mad at him for not being there to  protect me from the teasing of the neighbourhood older kids. I remember his arms  blue from the needles, the dark circles around his big eyes, his bravery my parents still  talk about, never whining or complaining at the sight of hospitals, syringes, or big pills.  And to think I still can’t take big pills; I'm afraid they’re going to get stuck in my throat.  I remember visiting all types of psychics and healers. I watched my parents’  transformation from agnostics to believers, their faith— a fragile but unrelenting blade  of grass, blown in all directions by the wind of life. A radioactive cloud swept across Europe after the disaster in Ukraine. On April 25, 1986,  ironically, while a new safety system was being installed, the core of Chernobyl’s nuclear  reactor #4 exploded. Central and Eastern Europe received high amounts of radiation.  The Swedes were forced to throw out thousands of gallons of milk each day, because  it was unfit for consumption. But the worst was the increase of cancer cases, many of  them babies. It happened that same year, a few months later. A mother’s instinct is  unmistakable; a week before Tony died my mum dressed us up and took us to the photo  shop. The photograph still hangs on the wall in the living room. I remember standing in  the corners of the room looking at our picture from different angles, my brother’s eyes  always meeting mine. His face, slightly swollen from medication, but still beautifully  peaceful and radiant, glowed with childlike innocence. In my home town the tolling of church bells marks another death, notifies of another loss.  I remember hearing it that day. I remember knowing and the disappointment. The  custom of wearing black for at least a year is an unavoidable reminder of your misery.  Like you could forget! Tony was getting better, and then Chernobyl had to happen,  killing the last breath of hope, poisoning the bodies of children with radiation and stifling  their immune systems. We need gods and idols. We need something to believe in. But  how do you tell that little boy who is lying in a hospital, whose head is bald and body  attached to small round electrodes, tubes, monitors, pumps, respirators, how do you  tell him that God loves him? So now, twenty-one years later I stare at my brother’s massive bed of marble,  thinking of the many lives I've had, and the many times I’ve died. I want to cry, but  I can't. Maybe it’s because I've covered my wounds with the veil of pretentious vigour  and ambition. I moved to a faraway land, the land of unlimited opportunities, to be lost  among the crowds and forget. And now that I am back home, visiting the museum of  my untimely maturity, I start remembering the questions that I once tucked deep inside  of me. How do you become stronger than your parents when you are only five?  How do you convince them you’re enough for them to live and not give up?  How do you give them all the joy they used to get before?  They don’t teach you that in school.

IF

If I put this flower in your hand, would you preserve it?

Would you care for it, and nourish it,

And make sure it does not wither?

If I told you what I think, would you listen?..

And promise not to laugh?..

Consider my opinion, and not discount it?

If I showed you where I’ve been, would you come with me?..

And help me live through it again?

Would you accept it and not pass judgment?

If I were someone else, would you like me better?..

Or try to change me back?

And if I lost my way, would you look for me? Would you miss me?

If I only dared put this flower in your hand…

Going Home

                                                                                                            

        You are so far above your life. Everything you know is getting smaller by the minute. You’re in the middle of something you don’t understand. Your entire life put into terms you can’t define. Sky. It’s all over the place. Right now, it’s all there is.

         The stewardess strolling up and down the aisle, calm and confident, comfortable with her own ignorance.

         A compact community sharing nothing but a destination. A stranger next to you feeling good about dumping his load of a life story on you. Expecting justification and empathy. Seeking the comfort of strangers.

         Where you’re going is the past you left behind, now waiting for you, so it can mock the future you chose, the future that never happened. Set foot on motherland and it’ll devour you. It’s nothing but quicksand. You’re destined to be a failure and to realize one’s destiny is a person’s only obligation. The entire universe conspires in helping you achieve it.

         In your head a whirlwind of jagged memories and thoughts. Your luggage is a knapsack of belongings, the only proof you’re not a ghost.

         The plane is landing and all you can think of is crashing into pieces. It’s a mini mayhem on the plane. People grabbing their stuff, fussing around, talking on their cell phones, coming out of their mental seclusion.

         The guy can’t attach the ramp stairs to the plane. He pulls forward, then backs up and you know he’s drunk. This is your country after all. And he’s probably a decent guy. The stairs are finally on and after that much of a wait, it feels like walking down the red carpet. The whole little plane community scatters, going about their own business. Boris goes through security and first thing he’s asked is how much money he’s brought with him. It’s not random people that get mugged here. In this country everything’s interconnected. Synergy at its best. Paranoia, the best kind of awareness.

         You walk out of the airport and the air tastes bitter sweet. It’s a place that embraces you a little too tight. Uninvited memories start popping out of oblivion. You’ve got the look of a tourist, backpack and all. Backpacking through your future in the past. And you’d thought your grammar teacher was an idiot.

Reality Check

REALITY CHECK /Published in The Collegian, January 2008/

Interpreter of Maladies. Jhumpa Lahiri. Mariner Books / Houghton Mifflin Company, 1999. 198 pp. $ 12.00

          In an age of individualism and competitiveness, emails connecting people and when family is no longer a unit, but a collection of units coming and going on separate schedules, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies is a poignant dose of reality, which evokes an emotional response in the reader by exposing the abstraction of people’s frenzied everyday lives.

          Interpreter of Maladies is a compilation of short stories dedicated to little, everyday tragedies, ordinary achievements and the magnificent quality of the commonplace. Lahiri concerns herself with the things from life that are closest to us, and through her characters’ experiences, she conveys a sense of urgency for love and happiness.

          All of the stories in the book, except for the very last one, are written from a third-person’s point of view. The narrator appears objective, but at the same time very close to the characters. This element enables the reader to see and understand every character’s perspective, empathize with them all and refrain from passing judgments. Along the way, we almost forget that the accounts are in third person, for we have gradually developed deep compassion for the people in the stories.

          In the opening story, “A Temporary Matter,” Lahiri’s characterization is vivid and eloquently delivered. Little details contribute to create a coherent picture of the lives that the characters live. Their habits, flaws and weaknesses make them remarkably human and so alive. We understand Shoba’s ennui who “pried the sneakers from her feet without untying them.” We clearly visualize Shukumar who “ran his tongue over the tops of his teeth; he’d forgotten to brush them that morning.” The ending in “A Temporary Matter” is one that’s unexpected and touching. We, the readers, find ourselves disappointed, not in a sense that we don’t like the ending, but in a personal, moving way. We are saddened because we’ve come to know these two characters so well, we’ve rooted for them throughout the story and we’ve genuinely wanted them to be happy.

          In “Sexy,” the loneliness that exists in the main character’s life is palpable. Lahiri has depicted her daily routines and little joys with such exactness and proficiency that the reader obtains a three-dimensional image of Miranda. The details that the author weaves into the story speak better than any classic descriptions: “He was the first to bring her a bouquet of flowers so immense she’d had to split it up into all six of her drinking glasses...”

          “Mrs. Sen’s” is written from a third-person’s point of view, however Lahiri has shown us her main character, Mrs. Sen, in an ingenious, adept manner as she has described her the way the eleven-year-old boy, Eliot, sees her. The author has expertly implemented dialogue in order to illustrate her characters:

          “Why do you do that?” Eliot asked.

          “To see how many pieces. If I cut properly, from this fish I will get three meals.”

The last story of the collection, “The Third and Final Continent,” is the only one told in a first person’s point of view, but what is even more interesting is that it’s written from the opposite sex’s perspective. The narrative reads almost like a memoir and has authentic qualities. The ending contains internal action and thought. It has a conclusion typical for an essay, in which the main character reflects upon the changes that have occurred in their life.

          It is very easy to get drawn into a world of grandiose plots and larger-than-life, multi-psyche fictional characters, and to overlook the simple things in life that Lahiri has beautifully observed in her Interpreter of Maladies.  Reading these short stories reconnects us to our fundamental human core, makes us reconsider our reactions to mundane everyday routines and reminds us to cherish the interactions with the people we love.  

Coexistence

Groping for the keys in your handbag, you notice the door is cracked open. There’s a particular smell coming out of the apartment. It’s pungent and painfully familiar. The aroma of failure and desperation. The air is heavy with the suffocating odor of dirty socks and boredom. You want to get away. The only resort you can afford is Drugville, Apathy, zip code-five big zeroes.

            Going in is never easy. There are piles of boxes on top of more boxes. Modern architecture on a dormant ground of buried demons. Furniture, electronics, crap, crap and beyond. Things you use for as long as the return policy allows. Get something, use it, return it, with the refund get something else, use it, return it and so on. The thing is it’s not as easy as it sounds. Nothing is. There’s a chart. Certain people, certain days, certain stores and then…rotate. Tanya produced it. The chart. She keeps track of the receipts, the deadlines and the rotation.

            You have all this fancy stuff poking out of your lifestyle. Not meant to fit in it.

            Boris is already gone. Everything else is very much the same. It’s a picture temporarily frozen in time. An ice sculpture on the beach. Your irreversible past entwined with your doomed future. Irra must’ve been looking for attention again. You can tell by the hospital jewelry around her wrists. You can tell by the blank nonchalant satisfaction in her eyes. The cigarette in her hand is the only thing burning. Katie Cleopatra is plucking hairs from his toes. You look at the silver toe ring and you think he must be happy now. Or at least at peace. Tanya is in the shower. You can hear the water running…she’s human after all. The door to her makeshift office, her sanctuary, is shut.

            You miss Boris now. Not in the way people miss other people. More like something’s been taken away from you. A piece of the only constant furniture around. Irra and Katie Cleopatra sitting on top of boxes. Not acknowledging the presence of one another. Not feeling obliged to.

            Tanya comes out of the bathroom trying to look tired or sick, or hung over. Trying to avoid answering questions. She turns her back on everyone and starts walking towards her room. Her wet hair leaving a trail of brunette drops on the floor.

            Groping for the keys in your handbag, you notice the door is cracked open.

Decomposed Reality

DECOMPOSED REALITY/published in The Chattahoochee Review/

Voice of Ice. Alta Ifland. Les Figues Press, 2007. 117 pp. $15.00.  

          Voice of Ice is an enthralling compilation of prose poems by Eastern European poet Alta Ifland. An experimental work documenting a fabled life built upon mutated dreams and amorphous manifestations, Ifland’s debut collection challenges its reader to question reality and consider an alternate, subconscious state of awareness. Voice of Ice creates a collage of distorted images, in which Ifland takes on a quest to extract reason out of the ostensibly absurd human existence, and as she penetrates her own psyche and strips away layers of accumulated ego, a tabula rasa emerges.

          In an effort to understand how words and language affect the constitution of an individual, the author composes her poems initially in French and then translates them into English. Originally from Eastern Europe, she foregoes the mother tongue and finds herself amid two new languages that disturb complacency and call her to engage in rediscovering and as she puts it, “renaming the world”. In this fashion, not unlike Samuel Beckett, the poet searches for an identity that is solely hers.

          Alta Ifland adeptly creates Voice of Ice as an enchanted vessel, in which she takes the reader on a surrealistic voyage from “Birth” to “Death”. The reiteration of images like eyes, bones, shadow, ice, and concepts like time, darkness, silence, soul amplifies the imminent realization of doom and temporality. Fragmentation is a technique used by Ifland, which generates bits and pieces that can be easily moved around. The author decomposes her body into essentials such as blood, tears and bone marrow only to give birth to a more pristine, purified creation, like the song of “a happy cadaver” in “Bones without a body”:

          My limbs are falling one by one. First one arm, then the other. My eyes are falling one by one. One eye, the other eye. My hair is falling bit by bit. From a distance, I watch my body shedding its leaves like a tree. …….And I’m dragging the bones the wind blows through, and my bones are singing like a happy cadaver.

          Morphing imagery plays a big role in the poet’s work. Real, recognizable objects construct dreamlike, incongruous landscapes. This strange combination of elements, for instance in the poem “Metallic Choir”: a “metallic spiral,” “church choir,” “waterfall curtain,” “swarm of bees,” and “white bones,” evokes a psychological response in the reader, both disquieting and haunting:

          At the end of the end of the world the end of a metallic spiral can be seen, coming from nowhere and stopping for no particular reason at this precise spot. If one pulls the end of the spiral, it triggers a sound like that of a child’s voice, singing on Sundays in a church choir. …..Their song, suspended for a moment in the air, and from there, coming back to earth, brings to mind a waterfall curtain. ….When the noise becomes unbearable, the children’s voices will themselves have become a swarm of bees attacking their fragile bodies, which they will gradually strip off their flesh, leaving only the white bones. …

          There is a perceptible softness about Ifland’s images that often disintegrate by spilling or dripping. The forms are phantom-like, elusive and unstable, as they easily morph into other unpredictable shapes. There is a striking resemblance between the eye Ifland illustrates in her “In the Night, a Dog” and the surrealist Salvador Dali’s painting The Eye. Both images appear soft and supple yielding to gravity “drop by drop into the unseeable.”

          An eye fills the whole night. A single eye, wide open. When it dilates, its edges extend beyond night’s boundaries, and then it falls drop by drop into the unseeable. …

          The poet dares to implicitly submit to life as it is. She chooses to dispose of her expectations, hopes, ambitions, judgments, and all the disappointment coming from them. A personal metamorphosis occurs and in the end, along with her acquiescence come humility and contentment. A good example of Ifland’s meekness is illustrated in “A louse”:

          I know I am but a louse lingering in corners and scrawling little louse stories meant to rot in the depths of the eye. … I lick the Masters’  boots and broken pots, and ask for forgiveness for being so little they can’t stop crushing me, and not a drop of blood falls when they do it. I am but a lame louse let loose.

          Voice of Ice is nothing short of an amazing literary work, both daring and mystical, with which Alta Ifland challenges the reader to engage in her quest for reason and resolution. This collection of orphic prose poems unlocks the gates to the boundless subconscious where abstraction becomes reality and verisimilitude loses its validity. The poet disputes the actuality of human scope and confronts primeval views and perceptions. It is an unconventional, distinctive piece of literature that undoubtedly deserves the public’s attention. 

Lost (a very short story)

I’m standing in front of a colossal, ornate gate; a white cherub on each side.  It’s an overwhelming feeling. To hear who you’re going to be.

I'm new. It’s my first time. A combination of random elements thrown together is what I am.

I'm auditioning for the part of a famous pop star. Leaning forward I press the button on the intercom; I tell them I have an appointment. Without warning the gate slowly starts to open. Blinding light is all I see. I can’t see.

I'm new. It’s my first time.

He is sitting behind a desk, looking distinguished…beard and all. On both sides of him respectively an older woman and a younger woman. The stage is infinite. By now I'm so used to the light, it feels completely natural. As natural as non-existent.

All I can think of right now is getting that role. It’s my only chance. Everyone’s entitled to one audition of their choice; failing to get the part means getting assigned another one. Not of your choice.

I float to the stage. He starts throwing scenarios at me; asks me what I’d do.

A unique arrangement of components in a mass production is what I am.

I know I did well. I can feel it. And then he says no.

That’s what I've been picturing as my life all along, being this pop star person. What am I supposed to do now? I'm lost in my own self.     

He tells me I'm too sensible to handle the fame that comes with the role. And I know this should feel like a compliment, but it doesn't. It actually hurts. He says it’d be too boring to watch. Emotionally unstable and dysfunctional combinations are suitable only. They never fail to fail; and that makes it interesting to follow. He announces I'm going to be a nanny.

I'm new. It’s my first time. And it’s not like I have a choice at all. I guess it’s my combination. But hey, it might be fun. And God says,’ NEXT.’

I start walking away from the X mark on the stage and he says, “By the way, you won’t be able to talk during your first 12 months or so. Until you forget. I can’t allow a leak you know.”

I wish it wasn't all predetermined. I wish I had a chance at this thing called life.

            

The Only Constant is Change...

So a few things have changed since I last blogged: I am now a mother, in my thirties and have finally let go of the lofty ambition of writing, replacing it with the humble, much more practical job in writing...CVs. Yes, I guess you could say I've settled for second best, but the way I see it I've just settled. Ambition is a relentless treadmill you need to keep up with. Never been a fan of working out anyway. I think I'll stick to walking, taking my time, taking small steps and sightseeing along the way. 
Things change with age anyway. You start seeing things differently. Growing up, I always wanted to be be like my dad: smart, erudite, resilient. But now being a wife and a mother, I've got a whole new respect for my mum, for all her daily mundane feats. I totally get it now, what she's been muttering under her breath for years, that a man could put a single nail in the wall and it would be there for the whole world to see, whereas a woman would cook and clean and do the washing up and yet there will never really be anything finished or completed, there'll always be more meals to cook, things to clean and loads to wash. 
On a very positive note, I have an absolutely adorable daughter who just turned 1 last week. She's staying with my mum and dad right now basking in grandparent attention and enjoying the tropical temperatures of my native Bulgaria, while here we've got our pants legs rolled up waiting for the floods to subside. 
On another positive note, my husband gave me the surprise of a lifetime and I got whisked away to Paris for my thirtieth birthday. It was a romantic, sunny weekend of which I will always think fondly. Plus now we can say we've added France to the fairly long list of countries where we've had good old McDonalds:-)