Back To School


I absolutely love the pictures my Facebook and Instagram friends are posting about the first day of school of their kids, I really do. Not me, though.
Oh, I had my pic planned out as well for my kids, a close up of my champagne glass and fuzzy slippers, with my angry, backpack-carrying kids in the background. Pretty cool, huh.
Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. As I am driving to work on a certain day,kids resting comfortably at home in PJs, I get a call from school assistant, asking me if I am aware lower elementary started, which means Ella is MIA. Turns out we have the wrong day for the first-day-of-schol.
Like the responsible parent I am, I turn around, grab a bewildered Ella and drop her to school, me looking perfectly polished and put together, my daughter’s hair wild and outfit crazy. As I am apologizing profusely, I am informed politely Matei, too, is supposed to be at school. So, I run home again and grab a “I can’t believe this is happening” Matei and do the second walk-of-shame of the day.
Finally, I return home yet again, divide and pack the school supplies, dropping them in what now marks the third walk-of-shame to school.
So. If I am not home, please leave my Parent Of The Year Award at the door. Will add it to my large collection of winning-at-parenting trophies. Thanks.


The Right Side of Things-A Beauty Travelling Journal


“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.” – Tim Cahill

So this year, as in the years past, my family and I went to Belize for vacation. We love the country, the people, this piece of heaven. Our digs in Ambergris Caye are the magazine-perfect tropical picture.  Upon arrival to paradise, as the social media whor-lly cow, I almost dropped the “W” bomb-I meant as the social media queen, I promptly posted pictures on my Facebook, with the witty comments people by now I’m sure are expecting from me.

I was looking forward to pool lounging pictures, swimming with sharks and stingray pictures, impromtu, natural-looking pictures (after playing with makeup for about an hour), the whole enchilada. Well, I did all that: lounging by the pool, swimming with sharks (I mean, how cool am I at this point?) and stingrays, etc.

But truth is, you ain’t seeing any pictures of the author. You see, when I arrived, I looked tanned and healthy (spray-tan, just to give me that tropical glow, as I step off the plane), my hair coiffed to almost perfection, discreet make up, Jackie-O glasses and manner.

Right about now, the author is looking more like a chicken-pox stricken model from Weird Science Magazine. Let’s just start with that. Upon arriving at our sprawling digs in Amergris Caye, we had the fortune of meeting two amazing couples, American expats living in Belize. Incredibly warm, funny, welcoming, generous. You get the idea. My family instantly attached itself like leech to these wonderful people. The first night, they invited us on their cool boat, for a trip to Caye Caulker for an exotic dinner and what they loosely call the sports bar (the only sports bar i know with one TV). Anywhoo, after a few hours of fun and banter, we returned to our said digs, most of us happy and grateful. By that time, however, I seem to have rid myself of all social manners and was instead scratching like an ape. Especially on the right side. Apparently, yours truly became a feast for the famous Caye Caulker sand flies and is alergic to these creatures’ bites. So I want you to pause for a moment and imagine the whole right side (hand and leg, and back) filled with pustules. Sexy, huh? Let’s just conclude this part of the journal by saying the Anti Itch Continuous Spray and Benadryl Gel my awesome neighbors insisted on providing me,  while discreetly averting their eyes, became my most trusted companions.

As I am sitting in my sprawling digs, writting this journal, I am gingerly moving my butt cheeks, rocking gently from side to side. Yesterday, yours truly went on an awesome snorkling expedition on the famous Hol Chan Marine Reserve. Perfect sunny weather, amazing guide. I was in awe at the nurse sharks surrounding us, the stingray calming passing by, the amazing reef and fish variety that was all around us. Waves gently rocking us as we abandoned ourselves in the beauty below us…wait. stop. The same gentle waves in reality made Yours Truly so sea sick, we had to stop the said a-mazing expedition, and instead expedite the trip back to the digs, lest a barfing session is one’s idea for a perfect trip. But back to my gingerly butt cheeks. Despite adding generous amounts of sunscreen, while covering my top body with a rash guard (still confused about the name, since it seems to do me no good in that area), I woke up this morning with a burning sensation in my gluts area. I know what you are thinking. All that work with the snorkling flippers must have done some good to my already hard-as-a-rock bums. You’d be wrong. Except for the area my tiny bikini provided as a pathetic cover, my lower back and bums area are a nice lobster-shade of red. They (the hard-as-rock lobster cheeks) are constantly throbing like a morse code.

Speaking of that famous lobster shade-of-red, not to be outdone, the front side of me decided to compete with the back side. Not to be accused of symetry, the front side goes like this: One half-inch of angry red at the hairline (where the snorkling mask did not cover) and one very angry red shin area on the…you guessed it, RIGHT side. Ankle and thigh not included.

Remember that spray-tan glow I was talking about upon arriving in Belize? Well, don’t be surprised if I arrive back home with more of a Feta-glow. There have been complains from pilots landing planes in Ambergris Caye that a ray of blinding white light has been coming from the Hol Chan area. I’m saying nuttin’.

Finally, to conclude this beauty travel journal, I would like to mention my famous mane nowadays looks more like a bird nest surrounded by a frizzy halo than the gorgeous waves my Facebook profile picture showcases.

Alas, despite the sun-burnt, chicken-pox right side of me, the averted eyes of anyone who is lucky enough to encounter me, this trip has been loads of fun. Now I have to excuse myself, as it is 8:00am and I am late for my rum punch date in the pool with my awesome new BFFs for life.

I am incredibly lucky to have met Kelly, Brad and their awesome daughter Olivia, who is attached at the hip to Ella, and Jeremy and Reina. Thanks to you guys, we built amazing memories and we already made plans to be back for more.

What Down Syndrome Means to Me


Today is World Down Syndrome Day. A play-on-numbers, 3/21 symbolizes what Down syndrome is: three copies of chromosome 21. To all of us in our community, it is a celebration.

I came into the world of Down syndrome somewhat unexpectedly. Many years ago, Michelle  and I were acquainted through our respective work companies and saw each other at different Chinese-related events. Although we were not friends at that time, we were friendly and respected each other. I remember the Chinese New Year party, in 2005, when she told me she was expecting. I was happy for her, as I knew she had been wanting to have a baby. We did not keep in touch as much, but I knew she had given birth to a baby girl.

Months later, she invited me to the event that honored her as one of most influential women in cable industry. As I went upstairs to the VIP reception, I saw her holding Sophia. I remember very distinctly, Sophia was wearing a beautiful white and pink dress. As I approached Michelle to congratulate her, she asked me to put a pin on Sophia’s dress. I will never forget that moment, when I realized Sophia had Down syndrome. I remember recoiling, from the sheer surprise. I did not know. I just didn’t. I asked some of my former colleagues why nobody had told me about it, and one person, I won’t name names,  said: “Who would want to talk about THAT?”. I may not have known anything about Down syndrome, but I knew that was wrong. It. Pissed. Me. Off. I immediately felt, with only the passion a Romanian can have, and for various personal reasons, the unfairness of that comment. I could not forget the image of Sophia, in her mom’s arms, trying to grab the microphone as Michelle was giving her speech. I emailed Michelle and I told her I would help her in any way I can. She immediately responded and few days later, I volunteered at the first Symposia, featuring the late Dr. Cohen. The rest, as they say, is history.

That was over seven years ago. As I look back, I realize  how much I learned about Down syndrome, and just how much more I am still to learn about it. I don’t claim to be an expert or to know what a parent goes through every day, but I know enough to make a difference. I like going to work knowing that at the end of the day, through awareness, PR, research, and hard work, all of us at Global make a difference. That ALL of us in the Down syndrome community make a difference. I am proud of the work we have done so far, knowing there is still SO much more to do.

I am proud to be part of this community, and for Sophia, Michael, Kenleigh, Beth, Gertie, Yadira, Lexie Grace, DeOndra, Tim, Alex, Karen and everyone I had been fortunate to know, happy World Down Syndrome Day.

Throughout the years, I have heard a lot of different personal interpretations of what Down syndrome means to folks. Although is unfair to describe it all in one word,  when I think of Down syndrome, I think of the word INSPIRATIONAL. I am almost always in awe, despite the number of years at this job, of how unique, capable, funny, typical, people with Down syndrome are.  If I hope to impart something meaningful to my own “typical” kids, is that everyone is different, everyone is special and everyone can be inspirational. And I owe this life lesson to my job.

Happy World Down Syndrome Day to all.

I dropped the F- Bomb and Kids Say the Darndest Things


Life without children is like a tree without blossoms or fruit. Adaptation of Khalil Gibran quote.

Yes. I dropped the “F” bomb. As in: right in front of my five-year-old. I came home one evening from work and decided to help Husband with the most important part of the dinner: open and pour the wine. As I walked back and forth around the kitchen, I did not bother to read the label on the wine. I only realized upon swiftly and expertly opening the bottle, I was dealing with a sparkling Moscato. As I watched-and felt, mostly- in horror as the Moscato got sprayed all over my face, dress and kitchen floor, I let out a heart-felt, totally-mean-it, “F%%&&K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”. I got THE look from Husband and yes, you guessed it,  from the noisy five-year-old, who asked for an explanation.  Now we know the word “FF%%&&K” is a Romanian word and our teeth will fall out if we ever repeat it.

Despite what the title may lead you to believe, this is not about me as a parent. No, the story was just an intro to how we are put in awkward situation by our kids. You know, with their quick-wit and honest demeanor, say-it-as-it-is attitude. They can make us parents look bad.

Last Halloween I imposed the same rule I always do: only two candies per kid and only before 8:30pm. After the kids brought the candy home and ate their share, they went upstairs (their cousins were here visiting from England) and I decided to lighten up the heavy load. I dove into my favorite KitKats (they are amazing with Malbec, if you ever wonder). As Matei came down, he immediately noticed some candies were missing (freaking pint-size Raymond Babbit) and asked if I had eaten some. I responded with a high-pitched “no”. I hadn’t realized I gave birth to Sherlock Holmes. He found the wrappings in the trash, picked ’em up, put ’em in my face and asked mockingly if the candies have eaten themselves. Mr. Sarcastic. Luckily for him, my intellectual prowess was greatly affected by the Malbec at the time, otherwise I am positive I would have come up with a smart, witty, put-you-in-your-place comment.

Two years ago I was running late for some year-end school party for Ella. As I got home (from work), Husband angrily told me I was late for Ella’s “graduation”. As in from 3-year old to the 4-year-old same exact class and location. I didn’t know what that meant though at the time and I felt horrible. I broke down in tears and as I was driving fast towards graduation, I kept saying:”I am a bad mother, I am a bad mother”. My eldest must have felt bad for me, because he gently said:” Mom, you are not usually a bad mom. Only today you are a bad mom.”  Awww, thanks, sweetheart.

Take my trip to Minnesota three years ago as another example. MotherInLaw, five-year-old Matei and myself flew out to Minnesota for the christening of my niece, Jada. As the flight attended came by, I hesitated for merely half-a-second as I was trying to decide if I wanted a ginger ale or water, when Matei loudly said: “Mom, just order your Sangria, you drink that every day anyway”. Plastered waxy smile on my face, I ignored my noisy neighbor and haughtily asked for the water. MotherInLaw leaned over the seat and gave me THE look (yes, it runs in the family). (Luckily, since then, MotherInLaw joined me on the good side and now favors Margaritas and Moscatos. Coincidentally, she also became more relaxed and funny).

I have curly, coarse, long hair.  During the week, I usually tame it with a curling iron so that it can be presentable. But in the weekends, I go pretty care-free and let my hair air-dry. Few weeks ago, as I was coming down the stairs for breakfast, Matei took couple of steps back, protectively put his hands in front of his eyes, turned his head away and said: “Whoa, mom. CURLS”. I had a fleeting thought of packing his bags and sending him to Siberia.

And then there is the time when Matei unexpectedly asked me about the process of giving birth to him and his sister. I was completely unprepared. The Husband was conveniently travelling to China at the time. I could not think of a birds-and-the-bees analogy, so I blurted out the truth. We were both traumatized, me more than him, especially after he let out a long “eeeewwwwwww” and ran upstairs to explain it to his much younger sister. Needless to say, I had to deal with my youngest, a daughter, who came downstairs and demanded to know if when she will have a baby in her tummy, it will come out the same um, avenue. Thankfully, after two G&T vitamins, I found my confidence again and made it through the evening with great parental pride. I sincerely hope I will be the one travelling to China when they demand to know how they got in my tummy to begin with. Daddy did it, Daddy explain it.

Up until last year, I used to cook. About three times a week. The kids  liked my cooking. I was their superhero. Until Husband decided to steal my cap and start cooking these amazing gourmet dinner, you know, home-made risottos and chianti ribs (by the way, nobody told me the ribs were supposed to be cooked in the chianti, not with the chianti, so Husband got unfairly mad at me when the bottle went missing) and other amazing dishes our kids love. I decided one weekend I shall mark my territory again (no, not like that). So I made bacon with eggs. Ella threw her fork and told me I should never cook again, because even the bacon tastes better when her daddy cooks it. Same day, I bought a voodoo doll who bared a striking resemblance to her daddy.

All of us women need a little bit of encouragement and support, don’t we? It doesn’t matter where it comes from, but it is carries so much weight when it comes from your own flesh and blood. Last week, I went with Husband on a date night, and headed to a great Mexican restaurant. Since the burrito was giant, I decided to easy it down with couple of Margaritas. I came home and as I was having a shower with Ella, she looked at me and asked: “Mommy, do you have a baby in your tummy? You look like So-and-So’s mommy, who is going to give So-and-So a little brother.” No, I do not, but I am tempted to take my youngest offspring back and trade her  for a better model.

I would love to provide a moral of the story, but alas, this is just the beginning. My two Einsteins are near-by, conspiring, I am sure, to make our lives more challenging. And yet, you guessed it, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

About Heartbreaks, Confidence and Life Lessons


“This life is what you make it. No matter what, you’re going to mess up sometimes, it’s a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you’re going to mess it up.” (…) ” Just because you fail once, doesn’t mean you’re gonna fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don’t, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling.” -Marilyn Monroe”.

We all experience heartbreak. And we all deal with it differently.

I learned about heartbreak in childhood. Heartbreak at my father’s problems, at our poverty and other experiences that I have no wish to talk about. I was a sad,  shy, introvert kid. And I was far from pretty. I had no confidence, and I found solace in books, day-dreaming, spending few hours at my cousins’s house, and spending time with my mamaia, my grandmother. And in coffee. I know. But yes, coffee.  I started drinking coffee when I was sixteen. It reminded me of my father, making his Turkish coffee every day. It was also my way of  rebelling against my mother.  I loved the smell and taste of it. Yet Mother did not allow me to drink it. Real coffee was hard to find in communist Romania. She drank a lot of chicory coffee as a substitute. So when she would find a box of Nescafe, she would hide it and keep it for special days. I would find it, break the seal and secretly savoring it every day after school. I remember the day she found the one open box. It was not pretty. Despite the harsh punishment, I reveled in my satisfaction. Upsetting my mother by drinking her coffee was a way of dealing with heartbreak. Yes, I was quite the  rebel.

When the Revolution happened, I was fifteen. My mother worked in the Counter-Terrorism department of the Romanian Securitate. During the first days of the revolution, in the panic and the confusion that ensued, her group was considered the enemy of  freedom. A group of her friends and coworkers were caught as they were protecting the streets, decapitated and their bodies mocked in the streets. Her  friend’s 18 year old son was shot in the head and killed. In those days of revolution, my mother did not come home.  My grandmother was a wreck. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had called in the early days and said her goodbyes. She did not think she would ever come home.

The worst part of the experience is to see that our neighbors wanted nothing to do with us and refused to help my grandmother. My mother’s friend, whom we called on, told us to never contact her again and hang up on us. For a fifteen year old, that was a tough thing to experience. To this date, I still have nightmares from the Revolution. That month of December 1989, I learned a different kind of heartbreak, and, I admit, I learned what the idea of revenge feels like. It brought some level of relief.  And it brought the ambition and drive to overcome, attributes that have guided me later in life. I also  learned to be strong. I took care of my kid sister, I went out to get bread and food and despite the fear, rejection and humiliation, I learned to hold my head high in front of the neighbors. I learned pride and I reveled in it.

Despite some horrid experiences of the revolution, I also experienced the best of what life, people and true friendship have to offer. I was horrified that when I went back to school, my classmates will react the same way my neighbors and Mom’s friend had. I was an emotional wreak. And yet, the day before I was due back to school, my phone rang. On the phone was my friend and former classmate Gino. He talked to my mother, asked her how she was, and told her he will be waiting for me at the gate of the school.  Gino was the real rebel. He was always at risk of repeating the year because of chemistry and physics classes. All he cared about was basketball and he spent a lot of time on the court. He was the cool jock of the highschool.  He asked for my help and we spent a lot of time making sure he learned his chemisty table so he could pass his tests. And when it was his turn to help, he never wavered. Next day, Gino escorted me into the school. Unbeknownst to me, two other classmates, Cosmin and Vali, had made the same promise. I don’t think I will ever be able to express my feelings upon entering the classroom, and seeing all my classmates gather around me, relieved my family and I were okay. I cried. Up until that winter vacation, I was the nerdy, shy kid, overwhelmed by the maturity of some of her female classmates, who were far more beautiful and experienced in all things boys and life  than I. It was the status-quo of my life and I never questioned it. Up until that winter, I had never known my fifteen year old classmates could care as much as they did. The same day, as we proclaimed democracy and held elections for the first time in our highschool, they selected me class president. In those two weeks of the revolution and immediately after, I had matured beyond a normal fifteen year old.  And I made lifelong friends. To this date, Gino and I are still great friends. The best attributes of our friendship are the honesty towards each other (who can forget the speech last year during his visit), and that we never waver in our commitment to each other, despite geographic separation or life experiences.

And now let’s talk about love heartbreaks.

It was in my first year of college that I had started to understand the effect I had on men. Sure, I had a highschool crush, but I never talked about it. Or with “it”. I was in love from afar. I thought of myself unworthy.  I was far from cool, I was wearing third generation hand-me-downs, I was growing skinny and tall, and I hated my curly hair.  I was so convinced of my unworthiness, that when one of my classmates called to profess his love for me, I laughed at him. What I was lacking in confidence, I more than made up in sarcasm. He never brought it up again.

In the year after highschool, I went to Gino’s 18th birthday party. It was one of the first parties I have been to (yes, I was brought up Spartan-way). I started to dress a bit more feminine. I started wearing make up and heels. (I should stop and credit my change to my sister Ruxandra, my biggest fan and critic, who always pushed and encouraged me;  and to Dora, my friend and college classmate, who saw what I couldn’t see and helped change me for the better.).  At the party I sat observing from distance, in my usual way, when  couple of Gino’s classmates came by and asked who I was. I was annoyed they didn’t recognize me, feeling the re-iteration of what I already knew to be true about myself: always fading in the back, always unmemorable. I knew exactly who they were, who their girlfriends were, and which class they were in for all four years of highschool. They were surprised to learn I went to same highschool and in the same year. One of them said wistfully he would have remembered me. I shrugged and thought of them as immature. Never said thanks for the compliment.

I remember very clearly though the first time a grown man complimented me.  Also in my first year of college. I was leaving the internship job to go home, when one of our partners came running after me. As we were walking together towards the bus stop, he said something that surprised and in a strange way, changed me. He said I had the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. I remember stopping and looking at him quietly for a long time, trying to decide if I should tell him he’s full of crap. Then I just left him standing on the street.  I didn’t say anything. I just turned around and left. But that evening, I spent a long time in front of the bathroom mirror. And from that day on, I never thought of myself as unmemorable. Yes, I still felt self conscious and I still struggled in my relationship with men, but I did not beat myself up anymore.

Alas, “the most beautiful eyes”, newly-found confidence or life experiences did not protect me from heartbreak. Like most of us, I loved deeply and hurt deeply. I remember to this day, as if it was yesterday, THE heartbreak. Curling on the floor in a fetus position, crawling to the bathroom and throwing up from the pain. Wishing I had suffered a great deal of physical pain that would take away from the emotional pain. To this day, I remember the feeling of rejection, the pain of learning love is not always shared, no matter how much you will it so. And yes, to learn the one you love has feelings for another. How is that for heartbreak, Miss S? Still, I don’t regret any of it.

I will never forget my life experiences, my friends, my loves.  Sometimes I found it a little harder, sometimes it took me a little longer to move on. I still struggle through rejection, lost friendships, life lessons. Because of friends (thank you, Livingston) and family  (thank you, lil’ sis), I keep moving on. I hope to return the favor and make a difference in somebody’s life.

In the end, despite the heartbreaks,  rejection and hardship, I am grateful  my life  has molded me in the person that I am today: the good, the bad, and most importantly, the strong.

I Wanna Be Six


Ageism is live and well.

I am profoundly amazed by how smart five year olds are. To be specific, I am amazed how smart five and-a-half, and five and-a-quarter year olds are.

I didn’t realize,  till my daughter got to be the BIG five, that at that specific stage in your life, being somewhere around the age of FIVE is a bid deal and, depending where specifically you are on the scale from five to “almost” six, it can really make the difference in the life-changing decision of who will be your “friend” versus your “BEST friend” for the next year.

I used to have hard times keeping up with her classmates’ name. But not anymore. NOW, now I have something to remember them by : Brynn is “just”  the mere five year old, as where her best friend Kendra is the  “almost” S. I. X year old. Gasp.

Oh, wouldn’t you LOVE it if someone would refer to you as: “She is ONLY 38 years old?”

Ella cannot wait till she is  five and a-half-year old. For which she has to wait a whole.month. Till then, we just have to be pleased with being “almost” five-and-a-half.

She keeps asking me if there would EVER be a chance for her birthday to change and take place before her friend’s birthday, because, oh, wouldn’t it be so “awesome” if she got to be a bit older than the competition?

It IS refreshing to see her desire to be older, isn’t it? I really wish we all could learn a good life lesson from her: “Oh, yes, I cannot WAIT till I am 39! Oh, please, please, birthday, will you come around quicker, so that I can finally be 39?”

Alas, knowing this girl’s mother, she will probably stay in her late 30’s for a whole nother decade.


The Best Friend I Never Met


“A friend who is far away is sometimes much nearer than one who is at hand. Is not the mountain far more awe-inspiring and more clearly visible to one passing through the valley than to those who inhabit the mountain?”- Khalil Gibran

I am starting to see a trend here. Blogging about unlikely friendships.

My friends are the surrogate for the family I love and miss, back home. I don’t have a lot of close friends, but the ones I have I care deeply for.

Take Livingston and Diana for example. All work gals, whom I have a deep friendship with. I think they will all agree, it took me a long time to trust ’em. With Livingston, was about a whole year before we became friends. I admit, I have  trust issues that keep me from sharing my life with others.  Alas, I’ve had the same problem trusting men. But that’s a whole new blog in itself.

Amazingly, every once in a while, I find that one person that I connect with instantly. Take Arpie for example. I met Arpie for the first time in 2007 in my first year at the Foundation. I don’t know what exactly stroke me about her, but I immediately felt an instant connection. Maybe because she is Armenian. She is one of “us”. I trusted her implicitly and we became friends.

Than there is Jen. Jen requested my friendship on Facebook about a year ago and on an impulse, I accepted it. I have never met Jen in person, and I don’t know her well,  but I am now pals with her and I admire her from the distance.  She is probably one of the most selfless, strongest women I have met. I want to be her when I grow up.

And then there is Farrah.

I hope I can describe through words what an unexpected, and faithful friendship this has become. I am still amazed about it and strangely, Farrah is one of my best friends. Thing is,  I have never met Farrah.

On the Tuesday after the Aurora horrific shootings, I was at my desk, when I noticed the voicemail light blinking on my phone. As I listened to my voicemail, I became more intrigued and confused. The woman on the phone had gotten my name from a local reporter and wanted to ask for permission to visit the “victim in the hospital”. Since I work for Global Down Syndrome Foundation, naturally, I felt intrigued. I called the woman back. And so it began.

Farrah, as it turned out, was a reporter in Texas, who was doing the story on one of the victims in the shootings. I spent a good 10-15 minutes or so talking to her and put her in touch with the right contact at Anschutz Medical Campus. Something about this woman really fascinated me. She had a slight accent. We spoke very naturally. We talked only about work and we were very matter-of-fact, and yet, it was almost as though we did not want to hang up the phone. She thanked me for taking the time to help, and she followed up with a message, one that said: “I don’t believe in coincidences, I believe there is a reason why we got connected.”

We have never stopped writing to each other since.

We truly became what in the old days used to be called “pen pals”.  I learned, through email exchanges, that Farrah’s name means “happiness” in Farsi. Now that I’ve known her for couple of months, I think it fits her well. She is East Indian. Grandparents hail from India, while her parents are from Africa. Was born in Tanzania, went to school in London and Canada. A nomad, she lived in different countries and states, till she decided to “live on the edge” and moved to a small town in South Texas, to witness the gap between the very rich and the gaspingly poor. (yes, I made up the word)

I feel compelled in my emails to her to be  honest and to trust her. She has found a way, through her writing, of  bringing me out of my shell and share personal things that I would otherwise never share, especially with… well, a stranger. We called eachother this past weekend and we just spent a long time chatting about work, my family, psychology, just about…stuff.

I have no inkling as to what drew me to make the instant connection with this stranger. Or how to explain her innate ability  to know I am having a bad day. Or how she knows to pick a perfect Paul Coelho quote that fits my mood in a certain day.  We think the same way and we like the same things. We both love to run and bike, we listen to the same kind of music and have the same fascination with the Middle East, Gibran and classic literature in general. There are strange similarities in our lives. Well, you get the idea.

I keep on trying to rationalize the strange coincidence of that one phone call. By all accounts, it should have never happened. A metaphorical Freudian slip of faith.

Will I ever meet Farrah in person? I hope soon.

But right now, I am  grateful for the “should have never happened” phone call that brought us together. And so here is to you Farrah, the best friend I never met.

The Idiot’s Guide to Understanding English (and Romanian) Idioms


There are some hard to learn languages out there: Arabic (tried, and gave up), Hungarian (would rather start all over with Chinese–no offense, Balazs), Farsi. Then some lesser challanging languages: Chinese (I know, right?), Spanish, French or Romanian. Trust me, I know. I speak all of the latter ones fairly fluently.

English? Easy by comparison. But what makes it really hard for me to understand, is the logic behind certain English idioms. I am also baffled by homonyms, similar-sounding words that really mean different things. I can write and explain eloquently what “grandiloquence” means, yet I am baffled by “tweezers-Twizzlers”.

About three weeks after getting married I was getting a bout of flu. I tried to get my husband to commiserate with me and told him I was feeling sick. When he failed to come up with the right response,  I put my hands on my hips, leaned over to him and asked: “Did you hear what I said, I feel obnoxious!!”  His swift response: “Honey, I think you mean nauseous“. No, I think I mean you get off your bum, fetch me some tea and cater to my every wish.

And then there is my husband’s ten year high school reunion. Dressed up to the nines (another illogical idiom, if you ask me), and you know, feeling good about myself. Long, flowing hair, tight (really tight) dress, flashing smile. Feeling Angelina Jolie-ish and imagining walking the red carpet (it was dirty green) at the Oscars (it was the Arvada Double Tree hotel). Paparazzi fighting to get my pictures (it was an overweight sweaty old man), giving the queenly wave to the adoring fans (ok, so there was a Silver Sneaker convention happening at the same time). But I digress. When I suddenly noticed my spanking new (is this appropriate??) husband looking intently at this… woman. Yeah, she may have had a smokin’ body, really low cut spandex dress and dripping in cubic zirconia, but which,  in my modest opinion, could not compare with yours, truly. I asked my husband, rather discreetly and through clenched said-flashy smile, who was the object of his intent staring. He played really surprised. Yeah, um, I do the acting in this family, and honey, you make the money. Anyway, later on, during dinner, I catch him looking sideways at the woman. Mad by now, but still trying to save face and make a statement, I declared that I don’t understand men. “It seems to me”, I said haughtily, “that men always think the neighbour’s goat gives more milk than their own.” The husband choked on his food and with an embarrassed laugh explained to the rest of the table: “I think she means the grass is alwasy greener on the other side“. Yeah, whatever. I hope you found the grass is always greener on the other side of the doghouse.

Four years ago, I had sent out invitations on my office’s behalf, to a black-tie event. I was asked by Jamie, our co-worker, what the dress code will be. Without hesitation I told her it would be befitting her to dress in a white nightgown. Still reeling from the shock, she asked: “You mean evening gown, perhaps?”.  Americans are well known for their ingenuity. Couldn’t they find another term for sexy pajamas?? Did we have to use same time of day and come up with confusing terminology?? Think about the foreigners, people, think about the foreigners.

Oh, yes. Diana at our office has her favorites. She  insisted I write about hers. You know about our Be Beautiful Be Yourself Fashion Show, right? Two years ago we had Eric Hutchinson, a young singer, coming to perform. We gathered two nights before the event to talk about gift baskets. We found ourselves at a cross point, when we found out the guy is vegeterian. I say, good for him. Point was, well, what would we replace the Perky Jerky with??  I followed logic and I thought about something chewy. So, loud and clear, I spoke my mind: “What about tweezers?”. Confused looks around the table and finally, Diana, who by now understands my English scarily well, explained: “She means Twizzlers“. I have never seen or heard Ellen snort before in my life. My favorite part of the story though is the next day Emily and Diana ceremoniously presented me with a Costco-size box of Twizzlers. I hated them. Still do.

We sometimes have long meetings at the office. Some people drink coffee, others check their blackberries. Well, Emily likes to draw. I asked her in one of these meetings what was she grazing. I don’t think I can accurately describe the reaction in the office. It was more like hollering.  Please y’all tell me doodling is more logical and than laugh at me.

And then there is my own way of describing surprise. I was trying to convey to Diana that I was taken by surprise by an unexpected event. Romanian language is very rich, and colorful, and sexy. And so yes, I sometimes inadvertently revert to ad-litteram translation from Romanian to English. Remember the goat example? Well, this time, my explanation sounded like this: I felt like a cow staring at a new gate. I can still hear the crickets in the background as she was trying to make sense of what I said. It just means that I looked completely shocked and bewildered. Cows get scared of new things. Get it?

Anyway, I have many more examples, but I think you had enough. I hope you will try to put yourself in my shoes and walk a mile in them (No, literally, I want to see it, I wear 6 inch stilettos). I dare you to follow my logic and I am sure you will commensurate with me.       Wait. Um. Commensurate? Commiserate?? Where is Diana?? D-I-A-N-A !!!!!!!!

My Father’s Daughter


For my sister Ruxi. And for our half-sister, whom we never met.

For the past few months, I have been struggling to write about my father. I have been very private about him to all but few friends and I have always been confused about my feelings. I still am. For better or worse, I felt the need to bring to light my feelings. I am nervous, and I hope my first attempt to articulate who he is to me will be just.

Dad was born on April 4, 1939 in Bacau, Moldova. He was a brilliant student and  was the only one in his blue collar family to go to college. He quickly made his way up to becoming lieutenant colonel in the Internal Affairs Ministry, or the now-deceased Securitate. He also taught German and English at the Police Academy and was a tough but encouraging teacher. He was handsome, charming, witty and generous. He was an erudite. To this date, for some of his friends I seem to fail making my own mark, as I am still addressed to as “Ghinet’s daughter”. He was a ladies man and has been married three times. He had three kids, myself and my sister Ruxi, –whom he barely knew, but who is his spitting image– and a half-sister, out of the wedlock,  across the continent, and someone whom my sister and I never met.

My first memory of my dad is the two of us walking in the dark from the bus station to our first home, in Drumul Taberei. He was dressed in a black suit, and was wearing a beautiful 3/4 quarter jacket on top. I remember holding his hand, my right in his left. We stopped by the little icecream shack. I remember very clearly the old shopkeeper, who was just about to close, who had saved the last icecream for his granddaughter, but who gave in to my insistance and sold it to us instead. Dad and I sat on the sidewalk while I savored (it was vanilla) my desert. We went home and mom never found out the reason for my sudden “tummy ache”. I love and cherish that memory. For it is one of a handful of happy memories.

For as charming, smart, witty, generous he was outside the home, he also had a vice that destroyed us and which ultimately led to his untimely death. My father was an alcoholic. If the problem would have stopped at just that, maybe I would not have been so challenged. But unfortunately, my father was violent when he drank. For the sake of his memory and for my own’s, I will not go into details, other than to say having a black eye, a split lip was a common state of affairs at the house. Both my mom and I met the wrath of his sudden, drunken anger. I remember not being let into the house, or him sitting in the armchair in front of my room to make sure I was not going to open the door for my mom when she came home late one night, after passing her driving exam. I remember-with pride- standing up to him,  looking him in the eye, shaking but firm, passing him in the hallway and opening the door for mom. That day I got away without a beating. My mom was not so fortunate.

I know it will sound surprising, but communist Romania did not have Social Services. And given his status, my teachers were afraid of the consequences of complaint. I desperately buried my head in books and was spending a lot of time at my neighbor’s and outside. Finally, when I was 14, after one serious beating, I ran away from home. I left a message to my mom at the neighbor’s and told her I will not be going home. She finally gathered up the courage, filed and went through the divorce. I had a ticket to freedom and happiness.  Or so I thought. I was wrong. But about that some other time.

My mother never forgave my father for his failure to leave alcohol behind and for his failure to love her. To this date, my mom never dated and never remarried. Two years after the divorce, I saw my father for the last time. I did not recognize him. His hair completely white, walking with a cane. We spent some hours together. I remember being shy but happy.

My father died in his sleep on September 3, 1993. I was in the midst of my exams to enter Bucharest University. For those who don’t know, getting admitted into Bucharest University was a very hard, intense and painful affair, it required incredibly tough examinations. I managed, the next day, to pass my oral Chinese examination, and went through three more written examinations, making the cut for the only 10 admitted that year in the Chinese  language department. I have a phenomenal memory, and yet, those days are a blur. I was alone at the funeral, my mother away in China, my sister who was living with my grandmother never wanting to attend. I remember looking at him before they closed the coffin and having mixed emotions. He got full military honors.

Last year, for the first time, I went to see a therapist. I quietly told him my story. He asked if I hated my father. He was surprised when I said I didn’t. I feel sorry. Sorry for not having a father, for destroying himself and I feel sorry that I never got the chance to know him. I know without a doubt he would have loved my son. Although I failed to be the son he wanted, I know before his death he was  proud of me.

I recall one morning after yet another brutal beating. He came to my room, all sober, took my face into his hands, looked into my eyes. I had a black eye and a split lip.I didn’t say one word. Neither did he. But I saw his eyes,  I saw the raw pain and the deep regret. And the tears. If only I was older and wiser, I like to believe I may have been able to help him. I don’t hate my father.

I am my father’s daughter in certain ways. I like to believe I am as smart as he is, that I will be the erudite that he was, and that I took after his generous side. I like to drink when going out, and I enjoy a glass of wine couple of times a week.  I got drunk four times in my life and I remember each of those  instances.  But I am not and will not be my father. I owe it to him, to me and to my kids to be the best person and best parent I can be. I am not my dad. I am not my mom. I am my sister a little, my friends a little and my kids a little. But most importantly, I am me.

My Own Proustian Madeleines


Holidays are hard on me.

Especially Christmas and Easter.

I feel a sense of longing during this time that I find hard to articulate. Part of it is the feeling I have of belonging to two worlds: here and there, back home. The nomad in me feels so restless at times and gets the urge to pack the family up and try living in a new place.  Or spend the summer basking in the sun and living a minimal life on a beach somewhere or in the village of Moeciu deep in Transilvania.

I miss the smell of foreign airports. The smell of duty free shops, of expensive French perfume and rich coffee, the prelude to an exciting trip home, or an exciting new endeavor. Sitting at Heathrow or Frankfurt airport,  basking in the sounds of foreign languages and people-watching, trying to guess the origin of passers-by.

I long for home, I long for the busy sounds of the boulevard early in the morning at my apartment, the smell of fresh Turkish coffee and fresh bakeries my mom buys every morning.

I long for bakeries, the image of the now-gone Cofetaria Bucuresti with its famous profiterol always so vivid in my mind. I even long for the fighting neighbors, the loud and obnoxious gypsy music and the church bells on Sunday morning.

I  miss the smell of my aunt’s home and her cooking, sitting at her oval table in the Chinese room with my uncle telling endless travel stories and filling up glasses with visinata or Johnny Walker.

I miss the shops downtown Bucharest, the busy cobble stone streets in the “old town”,  the busy coffee shops with its oblivious and loud patrons, the sight of Intercontinental. I miss the Romanian traditional restaurants with their violin players and the sound of old traditional songs and romantze, accompanied by the occasional cigarette.

I miss the sight of  Bucharest University, the smell of the old building that brings back memories of endless examinations. I miss the smell of the library and the silence, the image of students with their heads buried in the books.

I miss the Easter celebration, and the sight from the balcony of my appartment of hundreds of lit candles at midnight, the sound of “Cristos a inviat” and the smell of sarmale, friptura and cozonac.

I miss the carols at Christmas time.

I miss the early days of my childhood, and my grandma’s stories from her times past, with her Moldavian sub-dialect, our own personal colloquial Creanga. The way she was reading our future in the cards, the whispering of  some sort of magic onto the cards. I miss believing in what she told us our future will be like.

I miss the long nights spent chatting till the wee hours of the morning with my sister, almost always-allright, who am I kidding–always revolving around boys. I miss the late nights out in the restaurants, the radio chatter in the taxis, the Serbian restaurant where we end up invariably on my last night home.

My cynical Romanian friends  would be quick to point  out to my idealized view of Romania, and its  harsh reality. I am aware of it all. But I miss Romania and in times of hardship or longing, it keeps coming back with its vivid memories.

A mish-mash of memories. A mish-mash of my own proustian madeleines.