Yesterday, as I walked into the kitchen for some tea, I was confronted with yet another absurd conversation between my parents, who were unhappy, as always, with the lack of intellect in our stupid young American generation:
Dad: "These idiots have everything available to them, and yet they read less than we did! They have entire libraries that you can just walk through-imagine that! Remember the good old days-it was impossible to get your hands on any book. You could go to jail for reading A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. And yet everyone would still read it!
Me: Wow, that sounds glorious, Dad. I really would give anything to live back then. Poor Solzhenizyn, people used to risk their LIVES to read his words....now all they have to do is walk to the library. He must be turning over in his grave right now, thinking of all those undeserving dirty capitalist hands that are flipping through the pages he wrote...
Mom: "Oh god, I remember, one time, a friend lent me a copy of Master and Margarita for an entire night!! I was so excited, I stayed up the whole night trying to finish it. I was in such a rush to read through it, I don't even remember what happened in the book...
Me: "Wow, that sounds like such a productive way to waste a night..."
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The fun thing about living at home is that I can get into the most entertaining arguments with my parents. Consider yeeterday morning, when my dad, annoyed that I my wax-at-home treatment was taking up 3 minutes of precious microwave time...
Dad: "Do you really have nothing to do with your life?? You realize they sell those things with people who have no better way to waste their time, don't you?!?"
Me: "Well....all I can say is, you are damn lucky you are a man and thus do not have to worry about hiding unwanted facial hair. Ask any girl in the universe, and I am sure that she will tell you she does this too."
Mom: "Yeah, didn't women in the Middle East wax their entire bodies the night before their wedding?"
Dad: "That was only done by people of a certain class! Waxing is a bourgeois activity. Back in the good old Soviet days, you didn't have time to worry about such nonsense, when you left the house at 6am to get to work and didn't come home until 8pm, and then still had to make something for dinner..."
6 year old sister: "Dinner!"
Me: "Well, maybe thats why communism failed. Personally, I'd rather be a bourgeois than live in a world of ugliness and unwanted facial hair."
Dad: "Do you really have nothing to do with your life?? You realize they sell those things with people who have no better way to waste their time, don't you?!?"
Me: "Well....all I can say is, you are damn lucky you are a man and thus do not have to worry about hiding unwanted facial hair. Ask any girl in the universe, and I am sure that she will tell you she does this too."
Mom: "Yeah, didn't women in the Middle East wax their entire bodies the night before their wedding?"
Dad: "That was only done by people of a certain class! Waxing is a bourgeois activity. Back in the good old Soviet days, you didn't have time to worry about such nonsense, when you left the house at 6am to get to work and didn't come home until 8pm, and then still had to make something for dinner..."
6 year old sister: "Dinner!"
Me: "Well, maybe thats why communism failed. Personally, I'd rather be a bourgeois than live in a world of ugliness and unwanted facial hair."
Thursday, August 13, 2009
How to save on hair products
Apparently, the economy is having a rebound, but I have yet to believe these exaggerated reports as so far the only full-time job offer I've had is a salesperson to car dealerships.
Well, anyways, now I am back to living on as close to $0 a day as possible. Which is why I found this article quite interesting. The author,a Canadaian bien sur, claims that shampoo is one of the greatest rip-offs found in a drugstore (if you ignore the prescription section). Apparently 80% of the ingredients are designed to make us feel psychologically clean, by making hair smell better, look shinier, making the shampoo product itself more visually appealing. Then there are ingredients that force us to use more of it by creating a lather effect, making us think we're doing a better job cleaning our hair when in fact the amount of lather doesn't really determine anything. Besides making us use 80% more hair soap than we need, thus forcing us to spend way more than we should, these companies are also destroying the environment. Much like the food industry, shampoo producers disguise harmful ingredients under other names so that no one really knows what they're putting on their head and down the drain.
The solution? Well, the author has pledged to spend the rest of the year shampooing his head with just ONE BOTTLE of dish detergent. Apparently you only need a tenth of the volume of regular shampoo each time you wash your hair. Intriguing, although I don't know if my hair can really be treated the same way as a greasy pan. I guess if you're a guy and truly don't care how shiny, thick, or clean-smelling your hair is it could work. However, I prefer to think that a an $8 bottle every couple of months will pay itself off with free dinner dates that my luscious locks are sure to bring.
Well, anyways, now I am back to living on as close to $0 a day as possible. Which is why I found this article quite interesting. The author,a Canadaian bien sur, claims that shampoo is one of the greatest rip-offs found in a drugstore (if you ignore the prescription section). Apparently 80% of the ingredients are designed to make us feel psychologically clean, by making hair smell better, look shinier, making the shampoo product itself more visually appealing. Then there are ingredients that force us to use more of it by creating a lather effect, making us think we're doing a better job cleaning our hair when in fact the amount of lather doesn't really determine anything. Besides making us use 80% more hair soap than we need, thus forcing us to spend way more than we should, these companies are also destroying the environment. Much like the food industry, shampoo producers disguise harmful ingredients under other names so that no one really knows what they're putting on their head and down the drain.
The solution? Well, the author has pledged to spend the rest of the year shampooing his head with just ONE BOTTLE of dish detergent. Apparently you only need a tenth of the volume of regular shampoo each time you wash your hair. Intriguing, although I don't know if my hair can really be treated the same way as a greasy pan. I guess if you're a guy and truly don't care how shiny, thick, or clean-smelling your hair is it could work. However, I prefer to think that a an $8 bottle every couple of months will pay itself off with free dinner dates that my luscious locks are sure to bring.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Russian cocktail parties and the people you meet
Last week, I was bored enough to contact my old boss and see if he was looking for any help with Embassy events. Turns out, there was one: a Czech art exhibit opening the Russian Cultural Center the next day. I decided the opportunity was perfect: I could make new contacts, possibly find a new job, help my old internship center out, and get free access to an open bar. I doned a pretty pink dress and set out. After chopping vegetables and making caviar sandwiches for two hours, while listening to some Embassy dude complain about how horrible the vodka they had bought was, I was finally given my reward: two hours of free open bar access and schmoozing with the people dumb enough to show up to these things. Well, here is who I met:
1. A Czech artist who spoke a bit of Russian and his weirdo son, who knew a bit of Russian AND English. Thankfully, unlike most Czechs they didn't seem to hold a violent grudge against Russians and chose to simply ignore my presence instead of screaming and blaming me for the death of their grandparents.
2. An extremely odd Russian fulbright exchange student from GW. I spent about 10 minutes talking to him at the very beginning, because...well, there was no one else to talk to. As soon as others started arriving, I promptly abandoned him, but he evidently did not get the hint. Two hours later, when I decided to leave, he followed me and I could not get rid of him for the rest of the night. I had lost all of the random Danish followers I had set out with as well as my best friend, but, like a stoic Russian, he survived against all odds. He persistently made it through four bars and two cab rides, all of which he at least had the decency to pay for. His grinning face haunts my dreams to this day.
3. An Argentinian World Banker/Photographer who seemed very interested in making me his next portfolio model/business partner. Maybe it was the combination of wine and no dinner, but I was very interested in the idea at the time. Three days later, when he sent me a link to his portfolio, I realized he might possibly be a pedophile with a ballet dancer fetish.
4. The only actually cool guys I met...a bunch of cute young workers from the Danish Embassy. It was too bad that, lacking the Russian tolerance for vodka shots, they got too drunk to make it past the bouncers and disappeared at some point later in the night.
Lesson learned? While open bars make people more sociable, they also increase your likelihood of interacting with weirdos. If only cocktails also came with barriers that protected you from those with sketchiness ratingss above 70%....
1. A Czech artist who spoke a bit of Russian and his weirdo son, who knew a bit of Russian AND English. Thankfully, unlike most Czechs they didn't seem to hold a violent grudge against Russians and chose to simply ignore my presence instead of screaming and blaming me for the death of their grandparents.
2. An extremely odd Russian fulbright exchange student from GW. I spent about 10 minutes talking to him at the very beginning, because...well, there was no one else to talk to. As soon as others started arriving, I promptly abandoned him, but he evidently did not get the hint. Two hours later, when I decided to leave, he followed me and I could not get rid of him for the rest of the night. I had lost all of the random Danish followers I had set out with as well as my best friend, but, like a stoic Russian, he survived against all odds. He persistently made it through four bars and two cab rides, all of which he at least had the decency to pay for. His grinning face haunts my dreams to this day.
3. An Argentinian World Banker/Photographer who seemed very interested in making me his next portfolio model/business partner. Maybe it was the combination of wine and no dinner, but I was very interested in the idea at the time. Three days later, when he sent me a link to his portfolio, I realized he might possibly be a pedophile with a ballet dancer fetish.
4. The only actually cool guys I met...a bunch of cute young workers from the Danish Embassy. It was too bad that, lacking the Russian tolerance for vodka shots, they got too drunk to make it past the bouncers and disappeared at some point later in the night.
Lesson learned? While open bars make people more sociable, they also increase your likelihood of interacting with weirdos. If only cocktails also came with barriers that protected you from those with sketchiness ratingss above 70%....
Monday, April 6, 2009
How to tell if someone works for the CIA
1. When asked about their current job, they hesitate, and then say: "I work for the State Department....unofficially"
2. "Oh yeah, that Russian restaurant? I liked going there in the 80s because it was always full of KGB agents."
3. They feel compelled to spend 20 minutes justifying their decision to come to a Russian party that night. "I really felt like I need to try something new, I can't let myself get into a routine at this age..." Clearly, an appreciation for art or Russian culture could never be enough motivation for a normal person to skip out on their night regular bar night.
4. "After 10 minutes of talking to you, they try to convince you that you'd be a shoe-in for employment with the "State". My Russian passport and Arabic skills have nothing to do with this, of course.
5. They know every Russian Embassy worker by first name, but have no idea how to take a Vodka shot.
2. "Oh yeah, that Russian restaurant? I liked going there in the 80s because it was always full of KGB agents."
3. They feel compelled to spend 20 minutes justifying their decision to come to a Russian party that night. "I really felt like I need to try something new, I can't let myself get into a routine at this age..." Clearly, an appreciation for art or Russian culture could never be enough motivation for a normal person to skip out on their night regular bar night.
4. "After 10 minutes of talking to you, they try to convince you that you'd be a shoe-in for employment with the "State". My Russian passport and Arabic skills have nothing to do with this, of course.
5. They know every Russian Embassy worker by first name, but have no idea how to take a Vodka shot.
One Night in St. Petersburg: A Visit to the Russian Cultural Center
One the reasons I moved to DC in the first place is because I thought I'd go to lots of lovely cultural events and hobnob with dignitaries. However, since arriving here, I've discovered that heads of state spend little time throwing back mojitos with the peasants and a great deal of time, well, hiding from peasants. Ambassadors and Prime Ministers are kept safely under wraps, probably in coffins somewhere deep below the embassy, and totted out once a year at the sort of "cultural events" where "guests" buy tickets for $2,000. I've a greater chance of being abducted by aliens while riding on the Circulator bus than raising my glass to old Dimitri any time soon.
To compensate for this, I've resorted attending the kind of cultural events that cost less than $15 and are correspondingly low on diplomats:
Case Study #1: The Russian Cultural Center
According to their website, the purpose of the Russian Cultural Center is to "develop and maintain positive relations between the Russian and American people by sponsoring activities in the areas of Education, The Arts, Commerce, Athletics and Science." Unofficially, it's to encourage Americans and Russians to drink together. And so last Friday,in the spirit of inter-cultural understanding, I grabbed my favorite Russian friend and dragged her to the RCC's lastest event, a lecture by a Johns Hopkins Professor on the art inside the Hermitage , where I hoped to meet many famous Russians, such as Yuri Gregarian and that guy from Sex and the City. Instead, we were greeted by a rather caustic blond woman who insisted that "our names were not on the list." Even after locating our names on the guest list, she demanded $15 apiece. We declined, pointing out that the guest list was for people who didn't have to pay. Then she demanded to see our press passes. Luckily we were rescued by two important-looking old guys, who interrupted her interrogation by touching me on the shoulder and asking, "red or white?" Ms. Tajikistan 1981 had no further questions. The old guys handed us a glass of acidic wine and began quizzing us on our post-graudation plans while I eyed the bathroom longingly. I had been holding it since the G2 bus began its bumpy drive down Wisconsin Wisconsin Avenue. After draining my glass of wine in under 3 minutes, I asked to be excused. Kamilla joined me in the bathroom.
"Those guys are clearly CIA agents," she said casually, as she reached for soap. "Omg, really? For real? We just met CIA agents?" I responded enthusiastically. "Yeah, they're probably here to keep tabs on the Russian Community.Didn't you notice how excited he got when I told him I was from Moscow?"
"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "CIA agents. Maybe this party isn't so bad after all..."
When we returned from the bathroom the CIA agents were no where to be found, and so we headed to the buffet to check out the free food situation, which unfortunately consisted largely of store-bought chips and some ominous looking baked goods. The lights began to dim, so I snatched plateful of Doritos and took one of the only seats remaining, in the first row at the very front of the room.
The presentation got off to a slow start. The presentation was given on one of those old fashioned slide projectors which likely had been imported directly from Moscow circa the end of the Cold War and didn't actually wouldn't work; to add to the ambiance the door at the front of the room kept banging open and closed.
Just as I was planning my discrete early exit out the back door, a very good-smelling stranger slipped into the empty seat next to me. I glanced at his shoes, which were large,leather and sort of pointy. Definitely not American. This could be good, I thought. The professor continued to drown on about religious iconography, and I let my imagination run wild. "Displaced crown prince of Belgium. Heir to a Russian pencil factory. Displaced political refugee/poet." When the lecture finally ended, he introduced himself, and I realized he was just a British guy who worked for a bank and wore cool shoes. So much for that.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Can you feel the love? Cuz I sure can't
Until last year, I always thought Valentine's Day was just an innocent consumers holiday, much like Christmas: the true meaning of it had disappeared and what was left was valentine's day cards, chocolate, and roses. In fact, I enjoyed all the free chocolate that seemed to be available everywhere on that day, whether you were single or taken. It was almost like Halloween, except with much less variety. Those who complained about it, I thought, were just too fat and/or bitchy to get dates. They all needed an excuse to mope around in their drawstring pyjamas, eating boxes of hersheys kisses that they had bought themselves, and watching romantic flics on TV. And then calling their counterparts and complaining about how retarded men are.
As for my own failure to find a date, I explained it in the following way: February=cold. When I'm cold, I'm either unhappy, which makes me depressed and unwilling to talk to people, or else bitchy, which makes other people not want to talk to me. Therefore, I prefer to spend Valentine's eating lots of chocolate, making cool cards, and placing wagers on how many of my friends would end up "breaking up" or in a fight by the end of the night. I never hated it, until last year.
I was studying abroad in Paris. I think Valentine's fell on a Friday, because a bunch of us were determined to go out. Somehow, I convinced everyone to go to my favorite dog-themed bar, which I liked primarily because they made a good Irish coffee (=hot and alcoholic) and was one block from where I lived (less time spent in the cold walking back). And the waiter was cute. Of course, eventually I felt the urge to go to the ladies room, and made my way to the back. As expected from a Parisian establishment, there was an inadequate amount of stalls, and one of the two was out of order. The other was occupied by a some crying chick who had probably been stood up or not been presented with roses by her asshole boyfriend or something of the sort. For the first five minutes, I felt bad for her. Then the feeling that my bladder was about to explode made me annoyed. I persevered, thinking the girl would finally regain her French sense of dignity, dry those tears out, and somehow enjoy the rest of the night. But no, she kept crying, and I kept standing there. This lasted about half an hour.After about five other girls had come in, stood for a few minutes, rolled their eyes and left, my annoyance had turned into anger. Anger against that stupid girl, against all retarded females who depend on guys to make them happy, against the entire idea of Valentine's day, against Hallmark for capitalizing on its popularity, against Romeo and Juliet for making us believe in love in the first place. "F*&! you, St. Valentine!", I thought, as I too, rolled my eyes, walked out of the ladies room, and went to the Men's roomto relieve my bladder in peace.
As for my own failure to find a date, I explained it in the following way: February=cold. When I'm cold, I'm either unhappy, which makes me depressed and unwilling to talk to people, or else bitchy, which makes other people not want to talk to me. Therefore, I prefer to spend Valentine's eating lots of chocolate, making cool cards, and placing wagers on how many of my friends would end up "breaking up" or in a fight by the end of the night. I never hated it, until last year.
I was studying abroad in Paris. I think Valentine's fell on a Friday, because a bunch of us were determined to go out. Somehow, I convinced everyone to go to my favorite dog-themed bar, which I liked primarily because they made a good Irish coffee (=hot and alcoholic) and was one block from where I lived (less time spent in the cold walking back). And the waiter was cute. Of course, eventually I felt the urge to go to the ladies room, and made my way to the back. As expected from a Parisian establishment, there was an inadequate amount of stalls, and one of the two was out of order. The other was occupied by a some crying chick who had probably been stood up or not been presented with roses by her asshole boyfriend or something of the sort. For the first five minutes, I felt bad for her. Then the feeling that my bladder was about to explode made me annoyed. I persevered, thinking the girl would finally regain her French sense of dignity, dry those tears out, and somehow enjoy the rest of the night. But no, she kept crying, and I kept standing there. This lasted about half an hour.After about five other girls had come in, stood for a few minutes, rolled their eyes and left, my annoyance had turned into anger. Anger against that stupid girl, against all retarded females who depend on guys to make them happy, against the entire idea of Valentine's day, against Hallmark for capitalizing on its popularity, against Romeo and Juliet for making us believe in love in the first place. "F*&! you, St. Valentine!", I thought, as I too, rolled my eyes, walked out of the ladies room, and went to the Men's roomto relieve my bladder in peace.
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