"The good old Soviet times..."

When I was about 10, like any kid at that age I wanted my very own bike. I was tired of having to borrow one for just one ride around the block from neighbors. So at 5 feet tall, with my curls in tow, and big pleading eyes, I declared my demands to my parents.

But this was not just any kind of bike that I wanted, this was the supreme hot item of the then Soviet Union: the “Аист” (~Aist, translates to Stork (I have no idea how they came up with that name).

This is a famous brand manufacturing bikes since 1947. They seem to be popular even to this day. At the time, I and anyone my age who did not have one, almost salivated at the site of it as an odd kid with a blaze expression strolled passed on one.

So how does one go about getting something one wants in the Soviet Union?

Well one way was with the help of someone’s favor. Since my parents did not intend to pull any connections for such a child’s whim, I was left with waiting.

Waiting and calling the store. Every day. Waiting to see if they received any additional shipments because there was only one bike store in the entire city, and they were out. This went on for the whole summer. Can you imagine how long of a wait that is for a ten year old? A whole summer waiting for a bike?

Well, my patience ran out. Otherwise, my attention became focused on something else, and I stopped calling. I stopped waiting. Eventually I forgot about it. A little over a year after that, there was no Soviet Union. A year after that, my family moved to the United States.

Where am I going with this?

20 years later. Déjà vu. I have been patiently waiting for my birthday to get a gift card to get an iPhone 4s. While my demands may have grown more particular, as I would only want this phone and only in white, the process does not seem to have changed.

After spending some time at an ATT retail location, the outcome was this: I paid for and technically bought a black iPhone 4s, but I will be waiting for the white one to be received in stock at which point I will exchange the black one for the white one.

What does the ATT rep tell me when I call today to check status? “We don’ t have it in stock yet, call back tomorrow.” Waiting. Again. Having to call, every day. Again.

Communism, shmonunism.

That’s the moral of the story (with the added touch of the “Аист” and the “good old times” nostalgia.)

It looked something like this:

Table for one, please.

I smiled across the table, even though there was no one there to see it. Do you really need to smile only for others? I think once in a while, you deserve to smile just for yourself. No, I had not gone crazy. I had, however, enjoyed minutes of solitude, as I was eating out all by myself for dinner this evening. And I loved every moment of it.

What is wrong with dining by yourself? Is it really such a taboo? I’ve come to realize that there are some things that I took for granted as a single person. Things I now miss. Sometimes. Going to the movies by myself is one of those things. Having dinner alone at a restaurant, is another. I’ve always felt empowered by these activities. Perhaps because I felt I was being different. I am one of those social butterflies and so finding a dinner date was never a problem. Once in a while, however, I just simply didn’t want one.

Now that I am far from single, there is even a higher feeling of empowerment. An enlightenment? A luxury, even. How often do you find yourself surrounded by no one particular? (The staff and other patrons of the restaurant do not count). I am surrounded by people, decisions, activities, to do lists, to accomplish lists, to follow up lists, to pay lists, all the time. Having that “me” time is simply priceless.

I still found myself asking (and I’m sure whoever is reading this does also): “Why would I go to dinner by myself if I have a perfectly good husband at home waiting for me?” Indeed, why would I? Because none of my friends picked up the phone when I called them? No, that’s not it. Simply. Why not?

I enjoy moments of solitude. Does that make me an insane person? I don’t think so. If anything I am probably at the height of saneness. I sometimes even wonder whether I would make for a good bald monk in a bright red robe. A realization of the fact that I just like to be by myself once in a while is a simple acceptance. I feel lighter thinking about it.

And for a moment I even felt like I needed to make a point out of checking my phone, or reading a book, or looking through my huge bag finding some odd thing or another. I needed something that would say that I’m busy, even if I’m by myself. But why? Why can’t I just get lost in my own thoughts? And so I did. Call it a free therapy session. Well I guess it wasn’t totally free since I still had to pay for the food, but you get the gist.

I even tried overhearing other people’s conversations. You know, something to do. It’s quite easy when you’re by yourself. Especially when you have a phone or kindle, or in my case a notepad that you make it look like you’re playing with as you’re waiting for the food to arrive. It just wasn’t very interesting. (At least those conversations at that time weren’t very interesting to me.)

My only challenge then was actually ordering food for one. It is truly a challenge because whenever I am out with people or another person, we always share. So how much food should I order just for my individual self? Inevitably, I ordered a little more than I could handle. You live and learn.

For those that are concerned that I left my husband at home hungry. No worries. I took food to go, just for him.

The spirits of festivities are here!

It is that time of year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, which I think only happens in the United States ("that time of year" that is). I am excited! Aren’t you?

Hold on to your shopping bags, and let the festivities begin.

Many people who are not catholic, or religious, or “American” (i.e., the immigrants – my favorite peoples) say that it is their favorite time of the year. How can you NOT love it!?

Lights are popping up on rooftops. Store displays are complete with a mix of Christmas and Chanukah decorations. Luminous trees are peaking in from windows. Rows of green fur and that forest pine cone smell are lining up the sidewalks.

There are tons and tons of commercials with that holiday theme of snow, red cars, shopping, shopping and more shopping. There’s the Victoria’s Secret show that makes most women of America skip breakfast, lunch and dinner the day after. Did you get your angel wear yet?

There are also the Hallmark and Lifetime channels that turn into a 24/7 operation of cozy, get under the blanket and have some hot chocolate movies. It is as if this is the only time of year that families and loved ones reunite. It is the only magical time of year where people suddenly start living the life they’ve always wanted, but now they realize that nothing is happier than the life they’ve lived all along.

What makes this time of year even more festive is all the birthdays. Mom’s birthday, friend’s birthday, friend of a friend birthday, toddler twins of a friend birthday, etc. You get the point.

There are a lot of birthdays, including my own. And I am going ice-skating, in NYC, in the park, with the huge center piece of a Christmas tree, surrounded by hundreds of crafty, smoky, glamorous, luminous, put a smile on your face booths. Yep, it’s Bryant Park. Can you think of a better way to celebrate?

Then, after all this, we get to ring in the New Year. I can’t believe 2012 is just around the corner, just as I squeeze in a post for November!

Aleph...what?!

At any given point in time as I am taking my beautiful walk across City Hall Park I am full of anticipating of an Aleph opening up and me plunging into it with a beautiful stranger whose energies match mine. If you’re confused, it’s OK. You must not have had the chance to pick up the #6 NY Times Best Seller yet.

I only even know this word, Aleph, because I just finished reading Paulo Coehlo’s most recent book, Aleph. And I am still confused as to what exactly it is and how it all goes down.

As I quickly Google the word and refer to my ultimate primary source of knowledge Wikipedia.com, Aleph is essentially, a letter, number, term, etc. meaning different but similar things in various ancient and modern languages and sciences. No great, or at least helpful, insight there.

Very little of the official origin of the term was included in the book. The author chooses to maintain the term within spiritual lessons of the book. So the following may as well serve as a book review.

First, a little pompous are we? The author’s main character is THE AUTHOR! (Oh how we love thyselves!). Everything the main ‘character’ experiences is presumably and implied so, was experienced by the author about 5 years prior to when I purchased the book. This includes world renowned book distribution chains, publishers and editors in every country, readers eager to meet their beloved author and get invited to private suppers and requests for personal visits by Russian Presidents. Oh, and of course, a beautiful young Russian woman was just so madly in love with the author (about 30 years her senior). This was the kind of love in as much as a woman can love a man. And yet the man resisted because he loved her like the river. (NO COMMENT NECESSARY, INSERT SOUND HERE {_________})

Second, I am so jealous of the author's, main character's opportunity to take the seven time zone trip through Russia, from Moscow to Vladivostok on the Trans-Siberian railway. (NOTE TO ADD ON MY LIFE'S TO DO LIST!!)

Mostly, however, the focus of my curiosity is the aleph (Aleph?) business. In my own words, as I understand from the book, Aleph is a spiritual phenomenon (or what I have come to conclude, at least a delusion) that has comfortably settled with many followers and believers. Imagine you’re walking and then suddenly you think you’re crazy while feeling anxious, excited and afraid at the same time because you keep seeing images from your past many centuries ago. (I have to mention that there is no hitting on the head involved).

Although I am not sure how accurately it works since it does not seem like you’ll be randomly transported to the age of the cave men. More likely it will be the time when you do something really really really bad, and can’t forgive yourself and need the person who you hurt or didn’t save, or worse, to forgive you. (Remember the Witchhunts, or better yet, The Tudors?) You need their forgiveness desperately.

How is that different from the present problems, you say? I am not sure. This must have been somewhat prior to forgive and forget. Or is it forgive but not forget? I always confuse the two.

Anywho, the Aleph, gives you the ability to understand that there is no separate past, present and future. We are all a combined energy(?) of our past, our present and our future. I wonder what the Jetsons or the Flinstones have to say about that?

Point well taken, enjoy life, breath in the sounds of nature, stay in the moment; but the explanation did seem a bit too far out there. I still can’t get the image of falling into a black hole out of my mind, perhaps it’s the Alice (in Wonderland) in me.

There is certainly a pro-feminist/humanist undertone that underlines the history of oppression of women for no good reason. (The witchhunt.) There was also an example of the 'shaman' (just Google it) who were initially all women being the spiritual leaders due to their intuition. Neverthless, the men's tendency of seeking power has finally overtaken that role to the point that only men are allowed during certain ceremonies. The joke is on the men, however, since women just do the same ceremonies right across the lake. (Finish reading the book!)

But still, as I quote from above: "Oh, and of course, a beautiful young Russian woman was just so madly in love with the author (about 30 years her senior). This was the kind of love in as much as a woman can love a man. And yet the man resisted because he loved her like the river."

Finally, I realized that some Paulo Coehlo books are certainly more my cup of tea then the others. Unfortunately this one, the Aleph, was one of the others. I had very much enjoyed Eleven Minutes, however, which keeps persisting to stay on my favorite books list.

To have and to hold…a husband.

It started with:

“It’s so weird to say ‘Fiancée.’ I still don’t get what the big deal is. You’re either married or not married, everything else seems kind of pointless?!”

And so about four months after that we had the pleasure of letting me do what I was looking forward to in the first place – calling someone my husband.

It all happened with the officiality of the city clerk’s office, with closest friends and family. All it took were laughs, beautiful flowers, casual and chic dresses, memorable shoes, unforgettable photos, tourist excursions on the Brooklyn Bridge, French food, lounge music, heartwarming toasts and some wacky dancing.

Everyone, I am sure, feels and experiences the tradition of marriage in various individual ways. What stands out for me, as the newest member of the club, is this husband business. Voila, I am now married and possess a husband.

What a possessive witch, you say! Sounds like it, doesn’t it? But the idea of a husband ‘to have and to hold,’ as the saying goes, is basically what it comes down to, doesn’t it? You are now legally bound to share your happiness, your tears, your memories and your future, your wealth and your pauperness. When I am dancing, sitting, driving, reading, sleeping, eating, laughing, crying next to him, I think:

“Wow, I now have a whole other person who is mine to share whatever with.”


There is also the little fact of the almost universal support and announcement of marriage by a simple, molded piece of metal around one’s finger. Just imagine how these lightweight shiny him and hers circles hold all this power, message and symbolism of the eternal love.

As of September 30th, 2011, I have a husband and I am someone’s wife.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Feeling like ‘da bomb’ this past Friday is an understatement! Well, not really, it was pretty lame and funny actually, but staying up until a whopping 3am was nevertheless refreshing.

The highlight of the evening/night will probably go down as my coolest moment in history. After dinner, and a couple of unsuccessful attempts of finding the right spot of the evening, I remembered about a place whose owner I know through a friend of a friend. And so we grab a taxi (or more like fight for a taxi in the monsoon of a Friday that took over NYC that night.)

We pull up next to ‘the place’ with no line, but people hanging out or smoking nearby. Mind you, I have never been a fan of night clubs, or waiting in line to be facecontrolled, or not waiting in line after being facecontrolled, or generally waiting in line to get into any “hot/new/chill/popping” place.

Nevertheless, the velvet rope was there. This magical velvet rope had the power to stay closed, or be opened at the total discretion of a scrawny wannabe with a clipboard and a pretend guest list.

And so my star moment went something like this…

Guy at the door with a clipboard and a pretend guest list (the Guy): “Hey guys, can I help you?”

Me in my cute rain day outfit with rain boots and umbrella on a side(Me): “Hi, we just wanted to come in to hang out and have a drink.”

The Guy: After a two second pause (supposedly face controlling) “Sorry we have a private party here tonight.”

Me: “Private party, here? Really?”

The Guy: “Yeah, sorry.”

Me: (Thinking that this must be one of those facecontrol moments, which of course has nothing to do with me and my cute rain day outfit, but nevertheless the moment when I must redeem myself because I draged my friends all the way from the west side to get here) “Hmm…is Mike here?”

The Guy: (After processing the magic words) “Hmmm…you know Mike?”

Me: (Pulling out my iPhone to text Mike.) “Yeah, I know Mike.”

The Guy: (Looking at my iPhone about to text Mike.) “How do you know Mike?”

Me: “He’s a friend of mine.”

The Guy: “Hmmm…why don’t you guys come in.”

Me: (putting away the iPhone) “Cool, thanks.”

The Guy: (Pointing at some loner who was standing next to us) “Is this your entourage?”

Me: (Did he just say ENTOURAGE?) “Oh no, its just the four of us.”

And that’s how that was done!

Private party my behind. We were totally facecontrolled. How lame (of the wanna be with a clipboard and a pretend guest list)!

This was also the moment when I gained a whole other orbit of respect from a friend I know for at least a decade. I am not making this up, she told me herself. The free drinks that I got from the owner was also a nice touch. Thanks Mike!

So friends, amigos y amigas, beware. I know people! :)

Serenity Now!

Remember that time, back when there was always some event or activity or person to be soooooo excited about? When you added those extra “o”s because it wasn’t just exciting, it was soooooooooo exciting!

So and so’s birthday is next month, PARTAY! Drinks after work, 4:59pm, time to GO! Can you believe I met HIM on the train???

I recently realized that even though celebrations, outings and happenstance encounters are still a big part of our lives, what keeps us going, laughing, smiling and what keeps us checking our calendars regularly. That “sooooo excited” feeling, has somehow transformed and has been substituted with “life is good” feeling. The excitement has certainly gone down a notch or two.

Am I wrong?

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It is only natural that when you’re young, you can’t get enough of everything, all the new places, things and people to see, touch, eat, smell, meet, kiss and travel to. When you’re no longer young but young-ish, and slightly wiser (let’s just say for argument’s sake), it’s not about what’s next, but more so about now, while keeping the eye on the next.

Don’t get me wrong, we still plan, expect and look forward to. Only now, those feelings lack that immediacy. Is it because most of us have already felt some drawbacks in life? Have we learned to expect more cautiously? Or is it because we can feel happy and content even if life hasn’t turned out exactly how we thought it would?

- How do you make God laugh?
- You make a plan.

So it’s almost as if we’re experienced enough to know that this PARTAY is not the end of, or the top of, or the best of, or most exciting of life’s bestest, most beautiful, meaningful or precious moments.

My life is not perfect, but life is good. All I ask is a peace of mind and some LOL moments, no matter where, when or with whom.

Happenstance and serenity! (Just because I like those two words)

60 kilos of luggage...

I have been infrequently but now regularly taking trips to the motherland of my russian-speaking town of Odessa in Ukraine. One trip every three years or so. There is always a mixed confusing emotion which creeps up in the few days leading to the trip. It has nothing to do with the joy, excitement, peacefulness, hominess and satisfaction of spending time with my grandfather, cousins, aunts, uncles, childhood friends, an odd classmate here and there; walking down the same streets that I ran through on my way to school; playing in the sands of the beaches and watching out for jellyfish in the Black Sea.

It is something else entirely and it involves one or all of the following emotions: nerves, embarassment, worry and anxiety. The source of the anxious emotions is simply the logistics of the actual trip. The plan ride, the layover in Kiev, the gazillion bags of suitcases, one half of the suitcase of which is actually my clothes with the rest bearing gifts, the customs in Ukraine and of course being surrounded by my fellow countrymen in much bigger numbers than I am accustomed to.

A friend of mine reminded me before the trip, "I try not to worry about things I have no control over." Well, "try" is the key word here, right after "no control." I know its irrational, I know that the hassle, the haggling and the chaos are just a few of the ridiculous pleasures of this aspect of the russian-ukrainian-soviet culture. It is what it is. They are who they are. I am who I am.

So let me explain or elaborate in further detail. The first impression is always the flight attendant crew of the Ukrainian airline. I have not yet met a more sour, unhelpful and often rude air crew bunch. The ancient American flight attendants of a certain American airline have nothing on these guys and girls. Evidently, there are a lot more male attendants (and most likely straight attendants) than what I've seen elsewhere.

I keep telling my mom, "You have to speak English to these people, otherwise they treat you as one of their own." Which expectedly might be a good thing. In this case, being treated as one of their own is not. The better part of me keeps saying that they don't mean to be mean, they're just not used to people smiling, or having/wanting to smile back. Excellent customer service has nothing to do with servicing customers for them. We're just spoiled with this phenomenon in the US. They just don't know any better. You can't be mad at a person for something that they may never have experienced in their life. Finally I realize, that's just the culture.

The layover. Typical stuff, you can get to foreign soil, but need to transfer to a different flight. You know you have to go through customs. You know you need to check-in for your transferring flight. What you don't know is where, how and whether or not your transfering flight has left already because this one was over an hour late.

If only you could ask someone. If only there were signs, instructions, arrival/departure schedule posted. Those thoughts kept running through my head as I tried to quickly maneuver through the chaos of other passengers with other transfers, with may be two staff members trying to service this chaos, not knowing where to go and how long it would take. Imagine the check-in person, a representative of one or who knows how many airlines (noone knew, there were no signs), with about 40 hands pushing their passports in the represenetative's face, with just as many voices trying to ask "Where am I supposed to be going?" or "Did the Warsaw flight leave already?"

15 minutes left to scheduled flight departure. The good thing in Kiev is that this is quite enough time to go through passport control, collect your gazillion bags from baggage claim, befriend a bunch of people that are in the exactly the same situation as you trying to make their transfer flight, go through customs and explain exactly how many electronic products you're carrying with you, get out of the terminal, go on foot to a whole other terminal, check-in with two other countrywomen gently pushing you from the back, go through another security check point and finally arrive at the gate with your tongue literally hanging out of your mouth.

All this could not have been done of course without a bunch of "Please let us through we have a flight in 10 minutes" and strongly taking the staring and the sour faces of those that well, still, let us through. As a former soviet this push and shove attitude quickly comes from the shadows of your don't want to intrude American attitude, and saves the day. Running up and down the stairs and across terminals with various inclines, declines and puddles with over 60kilos of luggage is quite an exercise. (Apparently they don't have such lavish accommodations as an elevator or escalator. Apparently they don't have disabled people in the country. At least not the kind that travel or go outside of their home. Slight tangent here, but worth the mention.)

All of this was worth it, however, to see the smiles of my aunt and cousin as they were impatiently waiting for us, swiftly picking up all the bags and driving home. It was worth the excitement on my grandfather's face as he saw his daughter and granddaughter run out of the car to hug him. This home that I speak of, thousands of miles away from my actual home in NYC, is the home where my mom grew up, where I was born, where I spent most of my summers as a kid. Still same old home, courtyard, streets, trees, cars, pharmacies, bazaar, school, childhood friends and the people. A home that in a glimpse makes me feel like I just came back from a 15 year vacation. The only difference is the sea of outdoor advertising.

Rocking the oysters!

Wow, it has been a while since I last posted. Well, you know, LIFE! The refresher, therefore, deserves a pretty special event.

I always imagined how one day, the renowned chef of a restaurant would come to my table and we would have a nice chat about the amazingness of his or her food preparation. The power of this imagination came true last night! “Uber chic and warm, Mehtaphor situated in Duane Street Hotel, poised to stand its own ground amidst the Manhattan skyline, for its eclectic cuisine and charming dining experience.” Right on target!

If you’re familiar at all with Iron Chef programs, then Jehangir Mehta may be a household name. It was Jehangir that came to greet us and let us praise the multitude of zestiness in the flavors of his food. He is a Mumbai-born graduate of Culinary Institute of America playing in the competitive restaurateur world of New York City. It was a pleasure to meet him.

For the official restaurant review, I would not necessarily give the full 5 star rating. But this has to do more with the layout of the restaurant, rather than the food. Let’s just say that the intimacy and charm is probably more evident during night time, when you don’t have to look at feet of pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk. And if you think you hear elevator music during your dining experience, you’re probably right; the restaurant is practically the lobby of the hotel.

Aside from all that, the food was a true adventure! If you look at the description of the restaurant, you see a lot of “Asian” references, yet the menu includes ceviche, pizza, raw oysters, tres leches and much much more. Any foodie would appreciate the surprise and treasure hunt of guessing what’s in the food.

Pop rock oysters!

That is right, as in pop rock candy. Need I say more? Ok, lobster bloody Mary!

Or, truffle, crab and goat cheese pizza!

I would go back any day just to try the rest of the menu.

If you happened to come with a non-foodie, be prepared to hear “small plate” and “weird” every other dish. Keep in mind though that you’re always welcome to invite me and hear none of that!

Atlantic City, the land of the creepy...

While I very much enjoyed my time with my friends in the historic Atlantic City, and its old and new resorts this past weekend, frankly I still find that the place is the epitome of creepiness.

Where do I start?

You know that you enter into a casino, any casino, old or new, from the millisecond of the time that the slot machine sounds take over your eardrums. Creepiness #1: somehow, unconsciously learning to tune out this sound during your entire time in the casino. You still manage to order drinks, chat with friends, or curse the slot machine as you lose another set of $20.

Moving along, as you sit down at a Black Jack table, you are greeted with a tray and a smile. The waitresses, again any casino, old or new, are ancient! Creepiness #2: Why do all the casino waitresses need to wear their underwear for the whole casino to see? Seriously, do those uniforms really make or break the extra buck that she might earn? For the record, why are they all female?!

How drunk do you want to get? If you’re ordering from the bar, and actually pay for the drink, then you might just get your typical buzz. Creepiness #3: If you order from the waitress, she might as well bring you orange/brownish looking water.

What time is it? The casino world may never know. Creepiness #4: Not only are there no clocks in the casino, but the lighting and general lack of windows, with good distance from any entrances makes it impossible to tell what time of day it is. I’m surprised no one confiscates watches or cell phones at the door. God forbid the patrons knew that they’ve spent a whole 5 hours at the table.

Where do they find these people? Creepiness #5: The patrons. They speak for themselves. It is the most eclectic mix of people, age, nationality and gross income. So at any given time you may be sitting between one of the cast members of the Golden Girls, a lady of the night on her midday shift, or a future Pulitzer Prize winner. Randomness is key to any casino marketing campaign.

What's your casino creepy moment?

Lovely weather we're having...

Lovely indeed. Zero sarcasm. I swear.

Remember the days of 35F degree weather with freezing driplets attacking your face as you're trying to make it into the safe haven of a local Starbucks, or finally the lobby of the office building? Me neither!

It's May! Finally. I have been waiting for you for so long. The warm droplets of water from the sky do not phase me, as the temperature is still above 60F. I even purposefully forgot my umbrella and was left to fend for myself in my new raincoat (Purchased just for this exact occasion).

Sometimes I wish I lived in Northern California where it is Spring year- round. But then I remember that it is only a flight and a few hundred dollars away. I am truly an all four seasons person. Most of all, unsurprisingly, I adore Spring.

How can you not? Look at all the greens and pinks, yellows and purples all around you. Even the shoes, the shirts, the outfits and the umbrellas start to reflect some color.

A black silhouette, the unmistakable New York uniform, caves in. Perhaps it gets its inspiration from the lonely (from the winter cold) gray benches now sprinkled with pink hues of cherry blossom. The dampness of the rain makes the contrast even more vibrant.

Welcome May! New York City needs you; and I have truly missed you.

We, simply, rock!

How lucky I am to be surrounded by such powerful women. And although I also have a number of male figures in my life that make it worth loving and living, this is not a contrast/compare note. It is a seize of a moment and a recognition of a more feminine nature. My mom and my friends, are simply and irrevocably awesome human beings. That's all.

This reminds me of an introduction to Kabbalah event that I attended with a friend a few months ago. One thing that truly stayed with me from that event was the idea that women are a force of their own. I am reminded of that almost every single day.

Even if we are sad or scared, we can smile in a way that brightens up the day and makes it seem like anything is possible. We sacrifice for our parents, our children and our partners in crime. Even if we know the truth, we sometimes know it is better not to say anything about something that is false. We have unlimited reserves of energy and the sky is the limit ambitions, yet we have the patience to let our men do their own thing.

No matter how many hats we wear day-in and day-out we always manage to be able to fit in one more. Multi-tasking is an understatement. It's not just about what we do. It is the grace, the discretion and the force with which we do it.

Sometimes we admit it. Sometimes we don't. Sometimes we realize it, but sometimes we don't. We gently persuade, flirt and ultimately strategize everything from a shopping spree, to our next promotion or nonprofit business venture. Most importantly, we do an amazing job with it.

I am proud because we, simply, rock.

The smile vow.

A reminder (to self mostly). If you put positive energy and smiling attitudes out into the universe, what may actually happen is the same burst to the power of a multiple multiples in return.

Who said that 1+1=2? :)

Mathematics aside. Philosophies neatly sitting to the left. Psychology lightly nudging from the back. Medicine being a whole different universe -- happiness, brought on by smiling, can be and should be viral.

I enjoy smiling. It is a simple physical act that has limitless power. It can vary from an emergence of dimples, to a full-on showing of pearly whites. We see it, we know it, it comes naturally. We don't need a textbook or a manual to tell us how to do it.

Early in the morning as you're making your short trip from the subway to the office, it can set the state of mind for the rest of the day. Usually the sun reaching through the empty spaces between the buildings, the branches and the leaves makes it all too easy. The sun rays play hide and seek with you as you're walking through the City Hall Park. How can you not smile?

Late in the evening after a stressful, one of those days, day it can make you forget about all your troubles. The prompt may be a glimpse of a moment as a couple is reaching to hold each other's hand. It may be the tiny little fingers of your soon to be toddler that grip your neck with as much strength and excitement as they can, because they missed you after a full day's activities.

A smile has the power to cure and the power to enforce. It has a tendency to spread, rapidly. It trenscends cultural, national, religious and personal barriers. You can see it as you pass a Coca Cola sign in the middle of a dirt road through the jungles, forests and mountains of Costa Rica. It creeps up on you as you watch GREEN M&M in action on television during Super Bowl. Next time you're at an airport, hesitate for an observation of the arrivals lounge. You'll be sure to see smiling faces as they've found familiar faces coming out of baggage claim.

Smile today! I bet you'll get a smile in return.

The difference between nuts and maps

One of our destinations was the Monteverde region or otherwise known as the cloud forest. This region has the most fickle and at the same time the most beautiful climate. As you drive up to the mountains you are surrounded by fog and you feel that pouring rain will be coming down any minute. It will not, because as you start going back down the winding road the sun starts shining. The most eye catching rainbow opens in front of you and follows in front of you for the rest of your drive.

I should note here that most of Costa Rica does not use proper addresses. As I later found out from one of the locals, the post man delivers a letter or a package according to something like this: "100 meters North from Cafe San Pedro, then 200 meters south to the second house on the left with two trees in the front." No kidding! And so our Costa Rican GPS could not even recognize the town where our hotel was located, so we had to call for directions, which consisted of something similar to the above address.

Later, we had a laugh with the owner of the hotel who we befriended (Rustic Lodge)who gave us the directions and a word of caution. The following conversation ensued:

"You told us not to buy nuts from anyone. What´s in the nuts?"
"What nuts?"
"The nuts that you told us not to take from anyone when you gave us directions to the hotel."
"I told you nuts?"
"Yes."
"No, I said don´t buy any maps!"

We had a big laugh about that as we were later dining with the owner at one of the local starting out restaurants, El Olivo Restaurant. It is an almost family business (the guy´s girlfriend´s mother was the cook) and it was one of the most delicious meals we´ve ever had, despite the menu consisting of only 3 different choices: fish, beef or chicken.

The most memorable personal moment ensued in this region during our canopy tours and zip lining. Sliding 1KM at the height of 100 meters (at approximately 60 kph) can only be compared to what I would imagine to be the flight of a bird. I was at a loss of words to describe the feeling that you get as you glide through the air with a bird at your side just a few feet away.

The bird probably smirked at me and thought "Loco touristos." And I wouldn´t blame her. It was the craziest and most thrilling experience that makes you feel alive. It was an unprecedented sense of freedom.

Ad of the day was:

Canopy + trams = tranopy

90 mountains high

"This is awesome!" exclaimed Slava with the excitement of a teenager after svooshing down the waterslide in the Tabacon Hot Springs resort near the Arenal Volcano, the most active volcano in the world.

The flowing water ranges from cold to hot and flows down a number of black stones, big and small. Some massage your feet in knee deep pools as you make your way to the many mini waterfalls. Others serve as a seating area behind a glass of water flowing down on you. This way you can poke your head out into the air, as if behind a curtain, or stick out your feet and arms as entertainment for the photos.

The first realization that I was in Costa Rica came on the middle of the highest hanging bridge as it swayed at 90+ mts (Mts = mountains for our bunch, or meters for the rest of the world) above the trees, the hills, the animals, the reptiles and other tourists. This was also our first introduction to the green, moist, cool and humid rainforest.

The warning sign before entering the park indicated that we should speak in LOW voices, as to not scare the animals. With our bunch it was an impossibility and we were shushed a few times by the other groups with actual guides pointing to a plant here and an animal there. We must have missed a dozen "Wow look it´s a sloth."

Seriously though, animals are not stupid. If they even hear someone walking they will not be making their apppearance. They are kind of like the celebrities, the ones that want to be seen will be seen, and will aproach no matter how many papparazzis are around. Unlike many fellow tourists we did not have binoculors or high powered photo lenses. We just had a regular old camera to pose with hair looking leaves, or to zoom in on something that almost looks like a back of a bird or an animal. Mostly we just entertained ourselves with funny looking faces and sexy poses.

The word of the day was:

Битка = битва

Using it in a sentence:
Подожди, тут битка между муравьями за листик.

Spiderman here I come!

Waterfall rappeling should not be confused with bug repelling. The former is an activity for humans. The latter, well actually it is also an activity for humans but it is less fun. It can be fun for the bugs as they are rappelling down the human body. Down and up in some cases. But enough about that.

Waterfall rappeling is like doing half of mountain climbing. You are conveniently driven to the very top of the first waterfall (the were five declines total: 4 waterfalls and 1 dry wall). And then you just swoosh down.

The best part was being mostly in control of your body and your speed. So theoratically you can get as wet or as dry as you wish. So I chose to be very wet on the front and very wet on the back, with just a small dry spot on my behind. Seriously that was done on purpose as I tried to look cool and look like I know what I'm doing--spreading my legs apart exactly as I was told (imagine spiderwoman), holding my right hand, my control hand, just below my hip a few inches away from it.

I have a sneaky suspicion, however, that I had absolutely no control after all, as the spotters from the top and the bottom would not let me try out my spiderman jumps. Imagine, this could have been my audition video to the Spiderman musical on Broadway. There must be a good reason why they're postponing the show -- they are waiting for me!

The word of the day was:
Прикопчать = прикрепить
:)))

A room with a view...

The anticipated journey began.

We were eager to get to Costa Rica, and so approximately one and a half hour before the scheduled arrival time we began getting together our bags from the overhead storage and lining up near the emergency entrance door. For some reason the flight attendants looked to us with fear, but some of the other passengers decided they were no worse, and began to prepare their bags as well.

JUST KIDDING! It never happened, but we had a great big laugh about that possibility.

We were excitedly chatting about all the possible activities that Costa Rica has to offer. Things we´ve only read or only heard about from our peers. The onlookers from neighboring passport control lines were eagerly eavesdropping on our conversation. Although once in a while there was a look of confusion as every one of us would inadvertently drop-in a russian word or two or three into the conversation.

V´s orange was sadly confiscated at Customs, however the extra Cherry Hill bought sandwiches have made it through, only to be thrown out a little while later because we were anticipatingly deciding where could a group of 8 go to eat in San Jose on a Monday night at 9 o'clock in the evening.

The young lady at the front desk was most helpful in recommending a local food place nearby. She was also apprehensively laughing at our jokes. It must be a culture thing.

On a swift ride to San Jose´s busiest 24-hour joint, Tapia, the cab ride was a $2 fare (2 cabs, 8 people, roughly 0.50 cents a person and that is with a generous tip.) Our food, a classic midnight snacker was full of fries, plantaines, a burger, fish nuggets, sandwich special with everything on earth on it, a grilled chicken with rice and beans (supposedly the localest) and a mountain of colorful ice cream scoops decorated with fruit. Let´s not forget a round or two of Imperial beer. All in all the almost midnight snack was a success for a whopping 33,420 of local currency (a value approximated at $8/person).

The night was complete as we pretended for a second that we were in Mexico, roughly in the late 90s. Annie Lenox, Smashing Pumpkins, Robbie Williams and TATU filled the sound background from a local music channel. S was hurriedly cutting limes with a plastic knife on top of a plastic bag, after S2 and J1 had mysteriously obtained them and salt. J2´s purchase of tequila at the duty free back in JFK did not go to waste.

This morning I woke up to a lovely view of a simple garden enclosed for the viewing pleasure of the patrons of this cozy (=tiny) room. I suspect, however, that other patrons in other rooms have similar views. Hotel Grano de Oro is lovely, but in an isolated location. The staff is super friendly and helpful. We will be here again on our last night in Costa Rica, with plans to dine at the best restaurant in San Jose.

Today off to the hot springs and the volcano!

Up, up, and away...

Why is it, that the day before or a few hours before one is scheduled to go on vacation, a panic ensues?

There is this sudden eerie feeling that I forgot something. Worse, the feeling is that I forgot a lot of somethings. May be even close to a million somethings. This includes replying to someone's email, thanking someone for the good times had at an engagement party during the past weekend, or letting someone else know that I will be sporadically unavailable for the next week or so, because I am traveling outside of the country.

There is also this urge to set an "Away Message" for your personal email. Seriously, everyone that should know you'll be away, already knows. And those few that may not, they will either not find out, until you get back and email blast everyone your vacation pics, or if they do need you, you can always respond back via email. I am not going to Mars after all.

I will soon be buckling my seatbelt on a flight to San Jose, Costa Rica and exploring all the goodies of Costa Rica with another A, two Js, three S's and a V. My hope is that I will have the energy and the internet connection to do daily updates of our adventures.

Bug repellant, check. Old sneakers, check. Red nail polish, check. Passport, check. A smile on my face, check. OK I think I'm ready for Costa Rica.


Tootles....and HOLA!

The car almost hit him.

A chilly, but sunny morning awoke a wave of urbanites hurrying on their various ways to work. If the man on the sidewalk swayed an inch forward... If the car swerved to avoid a pothole... If the wind blew away the page... More importantly, if I hesitated to reach out…

This would turn out to be one tragic morning. (Not something I would be able to brag about on Facebook). I would have never forgiven myself. I would have blamed myself for not stopping him. A fatal mistake.

The excuse – it would be awkward, wouldn’t it? Reaching out to a total stranger in a big, grand city of millions of faces? Extending your hand and actually touching a stranger? Unheard of? Just the thought of this awkwardness makes me say: “What has the world come to?” Yet it has, come to this.

I was almost responsible for this man’s life. He was/is a total stranger. A New Yorker. A pedestrian. A husband? A father? An architect?

I hesitated to warn him that he should step back from the approaching wave of cars. Fortunately for all, the cards passed uneventfully. The side view mirror may have been an inch away from his face, as he was reading the paper. It could have been a foot away, but looked like an inch. Either way I almost reached out. Either way I didn’t.

‘Almost’ is such a powerful word because when you hear it, whatever comes after it comes true to life in your imagination. But yet, it is a false prelude. It has the power to drastically change whatever it was meant to introduce. It can minimize significance or magnify a minute nature. It instantly lets you sympathize or smile of joy.

Within an instant the realization comes that whatever was implied to have happened, never did. Yet we usually sigh in relief that something “almost” happened.

Almost does count. It should. Sometimes.

Fitness trainers take note.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. There should be no other reason, why an otherwise perfectly good fitness trainer would go around the gym trying to recruit anyone that would listen.

As I was steadily elipting away, listening to my Pandora channel I noticed the chatty fitness trainer. A woman well into her 50s, a professional employed by the gym, who befriends many of the patrons of the women’s locker-room. She seemed to be stopping by every single fellow gym patron on the section of the floor with elliptical machines.

I was fifth in the row. My music was purposefully set to a high volume. It was high enough that it would drown out any other noise, chatting or music around me. I was hoping that she was just going to say ‘hello’ and move on.

It was finally my turn. As she was saying some last few words to my neighbor on the left I had a strange feeling that I would not be able to just smile politely, nod and continue with my cardio session uninterrupted. Unfortunately, I was right.

She stood right in front of me, slightly to the right of the machine. She was searching to hold my gaze long enough so that I took out one of my earpieces from the headphones. She introduced herself. I told her my name as well. She inquired as to what my purpose of the visit was. (DUH?) To be fair, since I knew she was a fitness trainer I told her that I was on my cardio session. (I am still elipting away as I am talking to her). And then I was flabbergasted.

She asked me to come over to the mat behind me so that she could show me some exercises. Seriously? I am not an expert, but I am half way through my 30 minute session. Did she expect me to suddenly stop, with no time to cool down my heart rate? I politely declined, noting that I have been going to the gym for a number of years and that I was happy with my own routine. (Still elipting).

Then, I blinked in utter surprise. She asked me how old I am. This was not half bad since she probably needed to be able to put me into a certain fitness category, like the machines have a schedule of heart rates for fat burning and cardio programs for various age groups. What stroke my ultimate nerve was that she was looking me up and down as she was talking to me. She was examining my need-to-work on areas. Again, seriously???? I may not be the fittest person in the world, but I am pretty healthy. How dare she?

I don’t know if it was my face expression or my frozen polite smile but I think the woman finally got the point. She made some final comments on continuing cardio (good job!) and starting to lift weights (at my age) and slowly made the turn to continue on her “begging for work” session.

Her next victim, a scrawny teenage boy.

A word to the wise to the fitness trainers: let the people come to you. It is enough that people are self conscious about their looks. Having a fitness expert looking you up and down, is like sitting next to a plastic surgeon giving you unsolicited advice about your face's possibilities.

You have to fight for the right to create.

Just finished reading the War of Art. (Not the Art of War, but I’m sure this was not an accidental use of wording). A pretty quick read that outlines why anyone with a creative bone in them should fight to create. This includes but is not limited to writers, painters, photographers. I can also see how the main theme of the book can be transitioned to those that have all those entrepreneurial ideas, but many more excuses why not to bring the ideas into action. This has been hinted in some parts of the book, but the author focused mostly on writers and artists.

Not only do you have to fight to create, you have to do it day in and day out. That’s all it takes, according to the author. To be successful you have to sit your bottom down and do something. Don’t waste time and energy waiting for inspiration or muses to come down. They will anyway, you just don’t know when. But when they do you will be ready. By that time you would have brought the talent of an amateur to the level of a professional.

No point of me regurgitating the book and the concept. Go read it for yourself! But get to work first. Write something. Paint someone. Prepare a business proposal.

One classy lady.

“Money can’t buy you class.” – Ex Countess a.k.a. New York Housewife #3.
If money can’t, what can? Anything? Is it inherited? Does it swim in the gene pool? Does it twirl around in the DNA? Can it be learned? Will universities ever begin offering a Bachelor of Arts with a major in Class? Can you get an internship learning Classy skills? Will it come as an inspiration if an apple falls on your head?

Did you ever hear “I want to be a classy lady when I grow up”? I think I have. Well, I certainly have said it to myself once or twice. Not out loud of course. That would be weird.

Is it a career? Is it a lifestyle? Is it a personality?

What is having class? What does it mean anyway? Is it saying please and thank you? Is it learning to speak beautifully? Is it having cucumber sandwiches with afternoon tea? Is it folding your legs in a way that makes you look like you’re about to fall of the chair?

I learn to be poised. I keep my composure. Patience certainly helps. Speaking in a low voice forces people to lean over and listen.

Is it the way you glance, not in vain and not with a superior attitude? Is it the angle at which your chin peacefully sustains its posture as you listen to someone else speak?

Or is it the way you bring your index finger to neatly caress your brow as you think of the fastest way to seduce your male target? The way you nonchalantly wipe away the strawberry jam as it smudges on your poka dot dress? Perhaps it is the way you drool in front of the Tiffany's window display? Is it the way you silently measure the confidence or lack of the person interrupting you? Is it when you let someone get on the train first, even though you have the full right of way?

These are all kinds of my classy. Let’s go get some tea and scones, and may be a hat or two. Let's stop smoking!

A cat fight in corsets.

I genuinely wonder what is the fascination of the Tudors and the like?

Let’s summarize. The beheadings were the featured entertainment of the time (3D IMAX theaters did not exist during those times). The jewels weighed just as heavy on the Queen’s chest as the King’s. The fake smiles of grinding teeth glistened behind silent vows of betrayal and treason. The unspoken sexual encounters attracted hopeful viewers for every season. The conspiracies, the religious debates, the international alliances were not too foreign to today’s global politics and intrigue. Of course, one cannot complain to have the opportunity to see the shirtless Henry VIII, or at least his modern life portrayal, all over again in the reruns.

It’s not the history, is it? I can’t imagine the mass population of viewers going back to check the history books for the controversies of the inaccuracies of the historic events, figures and costumes. Let’s face it, Jonathan Rhys Meyers looks nothing like His Royal Majesty (thank goodness, I may not be watching it otherwise). Even the Other Boylean Girl tells quite a different story about Anne’s and Mary’s powers of seduction.

There is not too much action going on either. Although I wonder if Jason Statham would make for a good Duke of York and such? There was some spear poking on horses. As the crowd of watchers gasped in disbelief one poke even put the King in danger of getting hurt. He had survived, or otherwise I can’t imagine what would happen for the right to fight for the throne. There was an arm wrestling match for the right to come back to court. But there were no special effects. No 3D or 4D glasses wearing kind of action.

Perhaps its an excuse for a power trip? The Machiavellian principles are in full force. Some people just live vicariously. I am sure I could find some folks that would claim that the way of international politics and intrigue haven’t changed a bit since the times of the Tudors dynasty.

It is certainly not the powerlessness of the position of women that is lauded, is it? This was especially true of the numerous starlets that took up the Queen’s seat (There were 6 marriages, allegedly). I have lost track of the bed laying and the illegitimate children. Not to mention the inability to breath – the corsets! And what was with the obsession to have a male heir, legitimate or otherwise?

I am truly enthralled as I watch the reruns of the first season on BBC America. I cannot wait for the Borgias to start!

The girl with a flower on her hat.

As I crossed 3rd avenue, along St. Mark’s Place, I noticed a young woman.
I do that sometimes. I observe people. I don’t stalk. I don’t dwell. I just wonder.

In this brief moment of time, the glowing red hand magically made the jay-walker hesitate before crossing. It was just before the light was ready to turn into a little green man. I glanced on the windows of the top floor of the Cooper Union building on Cooper Square, the same building I used to visit often that Summer of 1996. A moment of curiosity came upon me.

Where is she hurrying to? Would I ever be friends with her? Will I see her again? Does she have a parrot for a pet? Does she run her own company? What is she doing on the Lower East Side in the afternoon? Does she know they have the yummiest creme brulee in that Italian restaurant on the next block? Where did she get that hat?! Why didn’t I go on to art school? Who is John Gault?

As I began crossing the street and the young woman disappeared from sight I dwelled on the next thought. I allowed myself for a second to imagine that I went on the path of becoming an artist. That is, instead of swerving to go off to business school, I would float on the cloud of my childhood passion of becoming an architect. I would take up a spot at Cooper Union.

Did I even know what ‘being an architect’ means as I proudly declared my future plans as a toddler? All I knew was that my dad was an architect and my mom was an architect, and I was simply proud to be in their company. Despite my ignorance of whether I even had any talent for the craft, it was the purest of dreams. I did not consider how much money architects make or whether there was a demand for any. It was as easy to say as it was to dream: “I want to be an architect when I grow up.”

Dreaming of the artist lifestyle I never had, I wondered. Would I know what heels look like? Would I have pink streaks of hair? Would I make the East Village my home? Would I permanently own a canvas bag? Would I be where I am today. Most importantly, would I be surrounded with the same people that I dedicate my time and attention to day in and day out?

Would I? If only I? Could I? If only I’d?

I did what I did. I yam who I yam. Art school or not, I am happy. It has made no difference. I could just go and buy myself a hat with a flower on it.

On the Soloist.

The Soloist. The angle that piqued my interest was a writer’s search for a story. As I sit down and think about writing the blog I go through the same experience. I think of the day. I think of a story. I welcome the muses. I absorb the words that fill the screen as I type them out. I think of how to tell the story in a way that brings my vision to the imagination of the reader and makes the reader curious about what happens next. The story should always have a human interest, the touch that reaches the reader's soul.

This was a story of a young Julliard drop out, now homeless. There would be no story if the journalist was not able to find the homeless musical genius after their first encounter. There would be no story if the schizophrenic’s admiration for Beethoven did not move the LATimes Mr. Lopez’s appreciation for the depth of the human soul brought out by music. While Mr. Ayer’s mind was not all there at times, his love and talent for music, however, has never left. Robert Downey Jr. and Jamie Foxx portrayed the true life story characters.

It was also a story about friendship. It is sometimes difficult to realize that the best thing you can offer someone is your friendship. After all it is a basic human need to socialize. You don’t have to try to save someone else. You don’t have to try improving someone else’s life. You don't have to keep thinking that you know what is best.

All you need to do is offer your handshake and some company. A shared interest, a passion and the depth of the power of music did the trick in this case. That was the end of the Soloist story, while the friendship between the two unlikely companions continues.

The good stuff of home.

Talking about all this good stuff makes me thirst a Snapple. (Peach Iced Tea, or perhaps Green Tea with lime?) The stuff I am refering to is the regular old stuff, however. Some call it the crap, some the treasure. Others may refer to it as memories and history.

How much stuff do you have lying around your house or apartment? Isn't it the stuff that make your home, your home and noone else's? No wonder psychologists consider the experience of moving as one of the most traumatic experiences of one's life. Mostly because no matter how excited you may be about your new home, you first have to get through all the stuff of your old one. This is the time that you dig up that Valentine's Day card from your ex of 10 years ago. The tears may start flowing as you pack your child's first pair of shoes.

It's the picture frames, the old greeting cards, the candles, the books, the magazines, the souvenirs. My gosh, those souvenirs and that collection of shot glasses, one from each and every one of the places that you visited or was visited by someone else that knew you were collecting shot glasses. It is also the notebooks or momentos from junior high school. Old high school pictures, HAHA, look at that outfit and that HAIR! :)

Without all this good stuff, your new apartment/house just looks plain empty. It craves all that stuff to be spread across the shelves, the fireplace, the counter, the walls and the side tables. It is also a good excuse to get all that new good stuff, as your old stuff sleeps away in the garage or the storage space. ($1 for first month storage?) It is this good stuff, old or new, that truly says "Welcome Home"!

I believe I could fly...

I am so excited! This feeling comes from many walks of life for me, but most importantly it comes with food. Today, I am looking forward to the simple, most common and one of the messiest of dishes – buffalo chicken wings. This indulgence screams for my attention every once in a while. The infrequency of this habit is what makes is so special.

The napkins are ready. The blue cheese cannot wait to be dipped. A plate of fresh veggies is dying of anticipation. All necessary accompaniments are tapping their fingers on the table as the Domino’s delivery guy is driving through the windy day. The race to get the most ‘thigh’ parts is on! No finger-licking delays can come between me and my wings.

Hallelujah for Domino’s online ordering – hassle free and can even be scheduled for a specific time. This order is extra special due to the addition of Sweet Mango Habanero wings. Sounds exotic. All in all, about 40 wings for a total of $34 bucks. A lovely dinner party.

Bring on the yumminess and the napkins! Warning: wings do not come with parachutes. :)

The thing about attorneys...

We all have friends that slightly irritatingly and to the annoyance of others always have an opinion; it happens to always be an opposing opinion which tends to focus on deciphering every word that was just mentioned in order to get through to the truth, which ends up being ambiguous anyway. (Phew, that was a mouthful). For my friends, that person happens to be me. Although I am sometimes sugarcoated as the United Nations, as I try to bring peace and diplomacy to the mix above.

As an attorney, as if that is a human purpose all on its own, I spend half of the time trying to defend my traits of personality that have nothing to do with being an attorney. The other half, I just want to scream out, SO WHAT?! Embrace your self! (May be Madonna could use that in a Music Video?)Embrace your lawyerlyness! Find happiness with the attorney within you! You deserve it! And so I did.

I am a professional above all. Most importantly, I am a multi-faceted professional with a variety of career goals and lifelong aspirations. What I am beginning to realize is that being an attorney, is like being neat. It is only one aspect of your professional endeavors. One can be neat and creative, funny and detail-oriented, all at the same time. Being an attorney by schooling or training should in no way stop you from pursuing any other aspirations.

Being an attorney is neither better nor worse than being a writer, an advocate, a researcher, a blogger, a painter, a photographer, an inspirational speaker, a business consultant, a program manager, an executive director or a director of a board. I start the journey of embracing and pursuing life, on a professional level, that encompasses all of these titles. Words of wisdom - if you get paid for it, it is no longer a hobby.

My first task, as I embrace my professionalism, is to answer a very practical question. To incorporate or not to incorporate?

What is with the pickles?

Once in a blue moon, as I purchase a sandwich for lunch, especially if I take it to go, I get stuck with a pickle. The actual, green, sometimes slimy, marinated, god knows how old, pickle. Today I got one from the Bread Factory.

It seemed nice and fresh, don't get me wrong. But why? I hadn't asked for it. It wasn't on the menu or in the description of the sandwich. I highly doubt that it was included in the displayed count of calories. If anything it was a waste of a perfectly good pickle.

The only crowd I know that can savour the pickle bite, is the Russian-speaking one. And even then, as far as I know, this historic practice has been limited to stay-at-home family dinner gatherings. I prefer the ones in brine. I think they are known as the Polish pickles.

My curiosity got the best of this pickle situation. I decided to investigate the history of pickle eating with sandwiches. And that is exactly what I googled.

I found that apparently, it remains a strong symbol of New York's culinary heritage. Also, people's relationship to pickles runs deep within a culture. Yep, you guessed it. It is the immigrants' fault! Especially it is all those Eastern Europeans that had a significant influence on the introduction of pickled foods, not just cucumbers to the United States. Did you know that in 2001: The First Annual New York City International Pickle Day began?

You learn something new every day. I still think, however, that this practice is a waste for the most part. I don't think people appreciate all this history and culture that is nonchalantly included in their to-go bag. I might be wrong. I hope that I am.

I want to be a superhero!

Sweet and sassy. Classic and chic. Sophisticated but playful. Trendy and cool. Fun and sexy.

Which one am I? Which one will I be tomorrow? What about the day after? If you’ve ever bought a pair of new eyeglasses for yourself or with/for someone else, you may know what I’m getting at. This gentle and elegant piece of metal comfortably sitting on your nose may seem so simple from afar but yet it is so intertwined up close that it can possibly be responsible for getting you to ace the next job interview. The bold statement of a wide plastic rim almost caressing your temples has the potential of letting you close that big sale. Don’t get me started on the sparkles that flare behind the sensuality of the UV protected lenses.

Let’s admit, some frames make you feel like a superhero. Others, not so much. Some get oooohs and aaaaahs from your friends. Others get zip of attention, not even a glance in their direction. You have the right to bear a perfect frame! That is exactly what I did yesterday.

I wish I had the budget to buy a pair of eyeglasses for every one of the above categories, i.e. sexy, sophisticated, trendy. For now, I will only be getting one pair. It has the power to say it all, but doesn’t give away all. It makes you be noticed by others, but at the same time lets them know that you’re not that easy to approach.

A shut out goes out to Village Eyecare on the Lower East Side and the owner (semi-owner?) and staff that helped me make the decision that I’ll be living with for at least a year or two or three. They have a great selection, suitable for any New Yorker and even an occasional tourist that promenades along St. Mark’s place. (A French couple left with a pair to bring home as I was picking out mine). Yes, they have the Guccis and the Pradas, but those are just the beginning. Did I mention there’s a view of the Brooklyn Bridge through a red brick wall? A beautiful hand-painted mural.

I am looking forward to picking up new pair soon! Or I might just stop by to say hello to the girls.

Where did my closet go?

A very rare opportunity presented itself to me. I, a commoner, along with my two friends, perhaps semi-commoners, through a friend, who sent an email to someone, which was forwarded to another person and confirmed by the final answer, were invited to Marc Bouwer's fashion party at the Soho House New York. You know, how it is.

Of course, the first and only thing that went through my head and was the subject of my thought obsession was a dreadful question. What am I going to wear? I had even begun to question my ability to accessorize. Will Rachel Zoe love it or hate it? Is my outfit going to end up on the Worst or Best Dressed list? (No list, I was hoping, actually). My worst fear, will I have to withstand the scrutiny of being compared in that “Bitch Stole My Look”? (This almost came true, but luckily my accompanying friend wore different shoes, PHEW!)

And so as I open up my closet doors I am ghastly astonished. I do not have a closet. Instead, somehow, at some point, I became an owner of a vintage shop. At least there were no moths gasping for air as I go through my hangers of shirts, dresses, jackets (all anywhere between 5 and 10 years old), anything that may even in the least bit resemble something that is fashionable today.

With some deep digging I came up with a cobalt-bluish Nicole Miller dress. Never mind that it was an outfit for a wedding once, it went well with black stockings and equally black booties. Thank god, I grabbed those off the sales rack at Marshall’s a few years ago. Then, I spent agonizing seconds picking and choosing the right jewelry. Less is more was my motto. Less is more. And less it was. Simple long layers of metal (yes metal, not silver, nor gold, metal) were hugging my fully covered boobies. Hoops were hanging neatly from the ears. A square bluish black metal surrounded my middle finger. A chunky watch accompanied the wrist. The look was finished with a dark navy fitted jacket with the sleeves rolled up.

So finally, I made it to the party looking fashionably normal. It was enough to fit in with no statements behind my back about cluelessness or questions about who invited me (at least I hope). I believe I blended well with the background with my themed drink at hand (a Ciroc Starlet), exchanging laughs with my co-observers. That was really the best I could hope for. I do not go gaga for celebrities, especially pseudo reality celebrities that flocked the event (of course I mean the Housewives, NY and NJ). It is enough to see them on TV and watch others talk about them on the entertainment channels like E! or Bravo reunion specials. I do watch their shows with love and obsession.

Nevertheless, I had a great time! Just being there, behind the scenes, so-to-speak, is an experience of its own. The production management team was busily texting each other every location of every celebrity as they made their way to the event. Photographers were wild with flashes at the sight of anyone remotely famous. The entertainment channels were grabbing anyone (worthy) they could get their hands on to make sure they have a shout out to their station. (I almost had the urge to scream out something in Russian to Johnny Weir, but I thought better.) The hosts were getting glammed up and looking perfect for the celebrity interviews, doing (many) takes of introductions, wit and originality.

The morning after, it was time to buy a fashion magazine. I made the plunge. Glamour made the cut. Apparently, the 70s are back? Did you know that? Only a few days ago I was hearing about shoulder padded jackets of the 80s. How time flies, albeit backwards. So I will soon be shopping for platforms (although I still have some leftover from the 90s), wide leg pants (although there are a couple of them taking up the top shelf) and bright color strips attacking shirts and dresses (when did these go out of style?!).

While I wait for my next invitation to a fashion event, I need to think new, however. I need to get my closet back. So eshopping I go.

What do Putin, McQueen, Zuckerberg and 50 Cent have in common?

A memoriam to Alexander McQueen and the first showing of Anton Kandinsky’s art work on the theme of “Obsession” at the CATM Chelsea gallery, hosted by DEPESHA magazine. Sounds like a good night out for a Saturday.

The organizers may have underestimated their promotion skills, however. It was certainly a crowd pleaser. At least the weather spared some snow. There was a longish line of little glares of cigarettes and eager onlookers who were trying to catch a glimpse of an arguably controversial collection through the gallery windows that shown against the dark night.

If you have some free wall space and about $50,000, you’re in luck. The paintings are rather bright (as far as the use and choice of color). Did I mention illuminating rubies and crystals sprinkled throughout the canvases? But there were much deeper and mostly darker themes of power, dynasty, ambition, recognition and success. In other words, what do Putin, McQueen, Zuckerberg and 50 Cent have in common? These were the huge name droppings in the works, representing a melting pot of impressionist, surrealist and romantic periods (in my non-expert opinion).

Not surprisingly, the gallery exhibition opening attracted a bunch of characters that typically swarm to these events (in my experience). Alice in Wonderland movie production was probably missing some costumes. All in all, it was good times filled with curiosity about the mindset of the artist and the attendees. And so, my friends and I decided to move on and let others take in the chattering air. We went for some cheese and wine tasting a block away at the Drunken Horse.

My perfect Sunday morning on a Saturday

When was the last time you had a luxury Sunday morning?

Mine was actually yesterday (on a Saturday). It just happened to be that kind of a weekend morning when you have time and some quiet time to make a proper breakfast, make your own cup of coffee and sit down with your techi toys.

I have realized that life just wouldn't be as sweet or as convenient without my Sony VAIO laptop, my iPhone and recently my Kindle. What more can a girl ask for? Between these super wonders I get to learn what goes on in the world, keep up with what goes on with my friends, listen to any choice of music, read a book chapter and play a round of Tetris or two. I used to love the fresh crisp smell of the sunday paper. Now it is NYTimes.com.

All of this, in any order I wish. Sipping my coffee.

It was a perfect Saturday.

Mom's pink shoes.

The beauty of being 2 years old… All you do is play. If you want an apple, you get an apple. If you want a banana, you get a banana. You laugh, dance, sing. You get to watch cartoons sitting with your arms around your two best friends, one brown and one blue teddy bear.

There’s a full service pink kitchen at your disposal and no obligation to cook a dinner for a family of three. A pink computer grabs your attention as you type away to a sing along, with no deadlines to meet. The telephone is pink, but you don’t worry about having to sit through that important conference call.

Needless to say, with all my pink references, my little muse is a ravishing girl with a pink bow hugging her blond locks and a shirt with pink sparkly crystals. All those play things get boring too easily for my smiley heroine, however. Her main focus is something else entirely. What could be more fascinating than her mom’s flip flops, especially when they are pink as well? They do not compare to her own pink, warm snuggies that have the features of a cute animal that resembles something between a piggy and a doggy.

And so even at two years old we begin to spend our lives knowingly or not, trying to fill our mom’s much bigger, much brighter, much more grown-up shoes.

Kudos to KC! Go Egypt!

The world lashed out at Kenneth Cole. How dare a company use marketing ploys to promote its new Spring collection?! The tackiness! Let’s boycott. (If you just google “kenneth cole offends” you’ll get a full rundown and timeline of the back and forth tweets and analysis).

But is it really? Is it tacky or is it smart? Or perhaps the question should be, is it responsible? I am no fashion history buff, just a sporadic shopper (great shoes!), but KC is actually one of those companies that put their famous name along the lines of do-good messages hidden behind edgy ad campaigns. (I saw an interview of Kenneth Cole, the individual, once.) I would call these messages the silent advocates, but advocates nonetheless. So what if they sell a watch or a bag while they are at it? They wouldn’t be able to communicate to the masses that otherwise would keep to their oblivion, without those sales.

I very strongly disagree that being socially and humanly responsible while being famous (for something else), is an oxymoron. Would you know of the existence of P.E.T.A. if it wasn’t for Pamela? Sadly, I’m afraid that many in the US may not have paid too much attention to what was going on in Cairo, until they heard about the daring tweet. Was it tasteless? Was it bad PR? Well, someone like me, a nobody really, is talking about it, and so do/will the other masses. Go Egypt!