Texting is a part of our everyday culture. It’s eliminated the act of picking up one’s phone, dialing one’s number, and hearing one’s voice. It’s simple, mindless, and most importantly, convenient. It’s replaced the romantic, “I’ll call you” phrase to the “Did you get my text?” Not what a girl wants to hear.
Mixed messages in text messages are fairly common. The tone of a text. The length of a text. The actual meaning of a text. It’s all very confusing and often times misleading. There’s always some sort of incommunicado that occurs between two consenting texting adults.
Texting when you’ve had a few too many martinis. Sadly, we’re all guilty of it. You send a message that could potentially change your life. Whether it’s the “I miss you” or the “I’m so mad at you” text, it’s all very humiliating. Painful to watch. In fact, pathetic. You wake up the next morning and immediately try to destroy the evidence. Go to your outbox and say sayonara to the text message that essentially ruined you. Pressing “send” may possibly be the worst thing you can do under the influence. You’re secretly hoping, wishing it never went through. What makes matters worse is getting an actual response from the person you were harassing the following day. Just a friendly reminder that he/she received the message, acknowledged it, then chose not to respond until the timing was just right. Just when you would be of sound mind. Mortified much? We all do it or have done it at some point in our lives. It’s not so much the time you sent it, it’s the actual message that may make you cringe. The things you could never say without some liquid courage. Did you mean what you said? Was it done out of passion, excitement, anger? Who knows. The only conclusion is that texting under the influence is dangerous. Don't do it.
March 16, 2012
March 5, 2012
america- land of opportunity
There I was. 20 years old. Holding a sign that read, “Feed the needy. Feed the poor. Who wants to fight this war?” Our lovely Chief of State declared war on Iraq. I’ll never forget it. I was living in Washington, DC. Georgetown campus. Presidential Classroom Intern at your service. March 19, 2003 in the SSO (Student Services Office.) I had my name badge on with my American flag pin like a true Americano. George W. Bush was on the tube. “My fellow citizens, at this hour American and coalition forces are in the early stages of military operations to disarm Iraq, to free its people and to defend the world from grave danger.” The world would change forever. I was terrified. I felt alone. Away from my parents, away from my friends, away from everything familiar.
Out of 200 applicants, I was one of fourteen chosen. The director of the program called to ask me a few questions. The last and the most memorable, “Who is your hero?” Without hesitation, I immediately responded. “My dad.” Why? Because he moved to this country with nothing and built his life with hard work, perseverance, and tenacity. Barely able to speak the language, he created a life for himself and our family. A few days later, I received a phone call. “Erica, we would like you to be part of Presidential Classroom.” To be honest, I was surprised. I didn’t think I was even in the running. It was decided for me. I was headed east for a short, convenient three months. The first time I would ever be away from home. Camp didn't count.
My parents were excited and terrified at the same time. So much so that they followed me to the nation’s capitol to make sure their only daughter was safe and unharmed. There I was, surrounded by historic monuments and mamma Sardarian wouldn’t let go of my hand. Similar to my first day of kindergarten except this time I wasn’t crying. I was excited. I was the only adult escorted. There was no push to go play with the kids. The push came from me. No longer a teenager, but now an adult. At the time, I was embarrassed. But now looking back, thankful. Thankful, because Aram and Helen cared that much that they flew across the country to make sure I was okay. I was secretly scared. No backing out now.
So, where was I? Oh yes, the “War on Terror” as Bush so eloquently put it. A few of the other diehard interns were just as passionate as I was about the declaration. We needed to stand up for ourselves. We needed to stand up for the people who would be risking their lives to protect us, to protect our country. We did what we thought would be the most effective in our minds. Protest. That’s what they did in the 70’s right? So, we put together a few poster boards, grabbed a few markers, and began brainstorming. Stephanies’s said, “Bush can’t talk. Bush can’t speak. Peace is what we want to seek” Michael’s said, “Illegitimate President fighting an illegitimate war.” There we were. The three of us. On Capitol Hill. Three Americans with a voice. The freedom to speak. The freedom to fight against something we didn't believe in. A moment in history, never forgotten. As a first generation Armenian, I felt a sense of emancipation. The same sense of freedom my parents may have felt when they came to this country, risking everything in hopes of creating a better life for themselves and their future. In that moment, I was proud.
Out of 200 applicants, I was one of fourteen chosen. The director of the program called to ask me a few questions. The last and the most memorable, “Who is your hero?” Without hesitation, I immediately responded. “My dad.” Why? Because he moved to this country with nothing and built his life with hard work, perseverance, and tenacity. Barely able to speak the language, he created a life for himself and our family. A few days later, I received a phone call. “Erica, we would like you to be part of Presidential Classroom.” To be honest, I was surprised. I didn’t think I was even in the running. It was decided for me. I was headed east for a short, convenient three months. The first time I would ever be away from home. Camp didn't count.
My parents were excited and terrified at the same time. So much so that they followed me to the nation’s capitol to make sure their only daughter was safe and unharmed. There I was, surrounded by historic monuments and mamma Sardarian wouldn’t let go of my hand. Similar to my first day of kindergarten except this time I wasn’t crying. I was excited. I was the only adult escorted. There was no push to go play with the kids. The push came from me. No longer a teenager, but now an adult. At the time, I was embarrassed. But now looking back, thankful. Thankful, because Aram and Helen cared that much that they flew across the country to make sure I was okay. I was secretly scared. No backing out now.
So, where was I? Oh yes, the “War on Terror” as Bush so eloquently put it. A few of the other diehard interns were just as passionate as I was about the declaration. We needed to stand up for ourselves. We needed to stand up for the people who would be risking their lives to protect us, to protect our country. We did what we thought would be the most effective in our minds. Protest. That’s what they did in the 70’s right? So, we put together a few poster boards, grabbed a few markers, and began brainstorming. Stephanies’s said, “Bush can’t talk. Bush can’t speak. Peace is what we want to seek” Michael’s said, “Illegitimate President fighting an illegitimate war.” There we were. The three of us. On Capitol Hill. Three Americans with a voice. The freedom to speak. The freedom to fight against something we didn't believe in. A moment in history, never forgotten. As a first generation Armenian, I felt a sense of emancipation. The same sense of freedom my parents may have felt when they came to this country, risking everything in hopes of creating a better life for themselves and their future. In that moment, I was proud.
March 1, 2012
breaking bad.
Bad drivers bother me. Why? Because they slow you down, cause casualties, and leave you frustrated in turn forcing you to act in an un-lady like manner. Giving the finger and honking the horn are a direct result of road rage commonly caused by people who do not know how to properly operate a vehicle.
"Why are you breaking?" Those are the first words I usually utter out of my mouth in the morning. Rage. Coffee in hand, Seacrest on blast, and my aggravation immediately kicks in. I pull up and give him the "What are you doing?" look. The words never really come out. I'm in LA, who knows what can happen. He could have a gun or a knife or worse, a potty mouth that can potentially ruin the rest of my day with one derogatory “F*** you.” You never seem to know. Bad drivers annoy me more than tardiness, unpolished toenails, and chewing with your mouth open. Tardiness, unpolished toenails, and chewing with your mouth open are all annoyances that can be fixed with one constructive comment. Problem solved. Bad driving is an incurable disease. It’s inherited. Bad driving adults breed bad driving children. Making a u-turn in the middle of the road, not knowing how to merge properly, and running a red light without hesitation. All genetic.
Being behind a bad driver is bad news, but sitting in a vehicle with a bad driver is just as awful. What’s worse is paying said driver. Not only have you lost complete control of your life not to mention your sanity, you are now forced to compensate this person for their poor judgment in lane changing.
Friday night. New York City. My roommate and I were all dolled up and ready for a nice night on the town. We hailed a cab, hopped in, and headed to the lower east side. The second the passenger door closed, he hit the gas. Off we went. He was in a hurry. He kept swerving to avoid hitting other cars. It was as if a cop car was chasing him and we were the innocent witnesses at the wrong place at the wrong time. What's the rush, I thought. I kindly asked, “Sir, can you please slow down?” No response. Continued craziness. “Sir, can you please slow down? You’re driving erratically.” Yep, I said it. Erratically! That was the best word I could use to describe this crazy person with a New York State driver’s license, which was probably purchased in a back alley downtown somewhere. “I’m not driving fast,” he responded. “You’re jeopardizing my life. Slow down!” to which he responded, “This is a $40,000 dollar car.” $40,000 car? I thought. I had no idea a Ford Escort was so pricey. I replied, “I don’t care how much the car is. My life is priceless.” We finally arrived at our destination all in one piece. We paid the man and slammed the door. Annoyed and agitated, yet thankful to be alive.
"Why are you breaking?" Those are the first words I usually utter out of my mouth in the morning. Rage. Coffee in hand, Seacrest on blast, and my aggravation immediately kicks in. I pull up and give him the "What are you doing?" look. The words never really come out. I'm in LA, who knows what can happen. He could have a gun or a knife or worse, a potty mouth that can potentially ruin the rest of my day with one derogatory “F*** you.” You never seem to know. Bad drivers annoy me more than tardiness, unpolished toenails, and chewing with your mouth open. Tardiness, unpolished toenails, and chewing with your mouth open are all annoyances that can be fixed with one constructive comment. Problem solved. Bad driving is an incurable disease. It’s inherited. Bad driving adults breed bad driving children. Making a u-turn in the middle of the road, not knowing how to merge properly, and running a red light without hesitation. All genetic.
Being behind a bad driver is bad news, but sitting in a vehicle with a bad driver is just as awful. What’s worse is paying said driver. Not only have you lost complete control of your life not to mention your sanity, you are now forced to compensate this person for their poor judgment in lane changing.
Friday night. New York City. My roommate and I were all dolled up and ready for a nice night on the town. We hailed a cab, hopped in, and headed to the lower east side. The second the passenger door closed, he hit the gas. Off we went. He was in a hurry. He kept swerving to avoid hitting other cars. It was as if a cop car was chasing him and we were the innocent witnesses at the wrong place at the wrong time. What's the rush, I thought. I kindly asked, “Sir, can you please slow down?” No response. Continued craziness. “Sir, can you please slow down? You’re driving erratically.” Yep, I said it. Erratically! That was the best word I could use to describe this crazy person with a New York State driver’s license, which was probably purchased in a back alley downtown somewhere. “I’m not driving fast,” he responded. “You’re jeopardizing my life. Slow down!” to which he responded, “This is a $40,000 dollar car.” $40,000 car? I thought. I had no idea a Ford Escort was so pricey. I replied, “I don’t care how much the car is. My life is priceless.” We finally arrived at our destination all in one piece. We paid the man and slammed the door. Annoyed and agitated, yet thankful to be alive.
February 28, 2012
wanna go steady?
Dating in New York City is as common as hopping in a cab or taking the train. Often times, it can be uncomfortable, long, and bumpy. Other times, it can be pleasant, lovely, and romantic depending on who you’re sharing the ride with. This city is a town of married folks: people married to their jobs, married to their spouse, married to their favorite Italian restaurant, married to the idea of being single in a city where everything is at your fingertips. Nobody in New York is single or at least altogether single, especially the twenty to thirty something successful suitors. The cute guy with the freshly brewed coffee and newspaper in hand hailing a cab is married. Married to his seventy hour work week that promises to provide him the wealth and status he’s always dreamed of. The sweet smile you exchange with the stranger on the subway is the guy who commutes from his beautiful New Jersey home where his wife, two children, and labrador retriever reside. The handsome gentleman at happy hour with the perfect smile and all the right words is married, alright. Married to his single life. Absolutely no cheating. He is fully committed to being single. I won't just pick on the boys. Women in New York are similar in nature. We may not admit it, but we are married to our independence, our success, and the idea of being in love. Keyword: “idea.” We say we want the relationship, the romantic walks through the park, the butterflies. But when it's there in plain sight, are we willing to slightly readjust our lifestyle in order to make room for someone who may be the man of our dreams? You eventually get to a point in your life when you realize that you’re no longer dating just to have fun. It may be time to get serious and really focus on what's important in life. Your profession. Your partner. Or both. Priorities.
Dating can be painful similar to applying for a job. Making the initial contact. Impatiently waiting for the call back and going in for that killer interview. You do your research before the big day. Google, facebook, twitter to find out all the essential information you need in order to be fully prepared for what could potentially be your future career. You look presentable, sit up straight, act like you’re paying attention, and you sell the shit out of yourself. You say and do all the right things to land that job. Firm hand shake. Eye contact. Lots of nods, smiles, and internal dialogue. You're on your best behavior. The effort you put in all depends on how bad you want the job or how long you’ve been unemployed. Regardless of whether or not you want it, it’s the thought of not getting it. Right? You lose. You go home. Essentially, alone. Like any job interview, your take on it is sometimes one sided. You walk away thinking, “Wow, that was great.” You were charming, interesting, and blew all other candidates out of the water. You were eager, but not too eager. You were talkative, but not too talkative. You spoke about your previous experience, but didn’t badmouth past employers. All you want to hear are those three little words all of us want to hear, "You are hired!" You follow up like any normal job seeking person would do. Wait by the phone. Send out a "nice meeting you, thank you" e-mail. Follow up one last time to see if the position is still available. No response. First, denial. Then, disappointment.
Dating isn't as easy as those online dating commercials make it seem. It's tough. It's hard. It can be fun and exciting, but it's one of those things you need to keep doing over and over again until you can perfect your pitch and find the perfect fit. The kind of job that will be long term and steady. One with a big, bright future and hopefully stock options.
Dating can be painful similar to applying for a job. Making the initial contact. Impatiently waiting for the call back and going in for that killer interview. You do your research before the big day. Google, facebook, twitter to find out all the essential information you need in order to be fully prepared for what could potentially be your future career. You look presentable, sit up straight, act like you’re paying attention, and you sell the shit out of yourself. You say and do all the right things to land that job. Firm hand shake. Eye contact. Lots of nods, smiles, and internal dialogue. You're on your best behavior. The effort you put in all depends on how bad you want the job or how long you’ve been unemployed. Regardless of whether or not you want it, it’s the thought of not getting it. Right? You lose. You go home. Essentially, alone. Like any job interview, your take on it is sometimes one sided. You walk away thinking, “Wow, that was great.” You were charming, interesting, and blew all other candidates out of the water. You were eager, but not too eager. You were talkative, but not too talkative. You spoke about your previous experience, but didn’t badmouth past employers. All you want to hear are those three little words all of us want to hear, "You are hired!" You follow up like any normal job seeking person would do. Wait by the phone. Send out a "nice meeting you, thank you" e-mail. Follow up one last time to see if the position is still available. No response. First, denial. Then, disappointment.
Dating isn't as easy as those online dating commercials make it seem. It's tough. It's hard. It can be fun and exciting, but it's one of those things you need to keep doing over and over again until you can perfect your pitch and find the perfect fit. The kind of job that will be long term and steady. One with a big, bright future and hopefully stock options.
February 21, 2012
mortified.
There are moments from your childhood you never seem to forget. Those moments are clear as day. The first day of school, the first time you learned how to ride a bike, the first time you were teased.
I was four years old. Frizzy haired, donning a fluffy, flowery dress. My mother loved dressing me up like a doll. Pink bows in my hair and red reebok sneakers with the velcro straps. The reeboks were really my doing. They were my favorite. I had a pink purse I refused to part with. I was strange. Why? Well, I failed to disclose one small detail. I also wore a patch. Not the ones with the strap that pirates wore. That would be cool. I could pretend it was part of a year round costume of some sort. Arghhh. Admittedly, that would be strange, but not that strange, right? I would just be the kid who was obsessed with Halloween. It would be a phase most kids go through at that age. Slightly endearing don't you think? Unfortunately, my patch wasn't hip. Not even a little bit. It was an over sized beige band-aid that covered one eye. The right one. My frizzy hair went unnoticed. My older brother, who I idolized, would pick on me. Why? Because I didn't look like the other kids. I was different not to mention his annoying little sister.
One day, my mother took us to Thrifty now known as Rite Aid. She would often times take us there for their one scoop for one dollar deal. But before ice cream came the list of items she needed to purchase. There we were. My mother and two rowdy children on a mission. We arrived at the register. The lovely lady ringing us up smiled at me and started scanning. I wasn't sure if the smile was genuine or because she internally felt sorry for me. "That poor little girl with that patch. I feel sorry for her" was what she was probably thinking. At the register there was a clear little box with an opening for a donation as well as a picture of a little girl with big glasses and curly hair. Smiles galore. It was a charitable organization and she was clearly disabled. My brother looked at the cashier and pointed to the picture. "That's my sister," he said. I was mortified. I was embarrassed. I was scarred for life.
I was four years old. Frizzy haired, donning a fluffy, flowery dress. My mother loved dressing me up like a doll. Pink bows in my hair and red reebok sneakers with the velcro straps. The reeboks were really my doing. They were my favorite. I had a pink purse I refused to part with. I was strange. Why? Well, I failed to disclose one small detail. I also wore a patch. Not the ones with the strap that pirates wore. That would be cool. I could pretend it was part of a year round costume of some sort. Arghhh. Admittedly, that would be strange, but not that strange, right? I would just be the kid who was obsessed with Halloween. It would be a phase most kids go through at that age. Slightly endearing don't you think? Unfortunately, my patch wasn't hip. Not even a little bit. It was an over sized beige band-aid that covered one eye. The right one. My frizzy hair went unnoticed. My older brother, who I idolized, would pick on me. Why? Because I didn't look like the other kids. I was different not to mention his annoying little sister.
One day, my mother took us to Thrifty now known as Rite Aid. She would often times take us there for their one scoop for one dollar deal. But before ice cream came the list of items she needed to purchase. There we were. My mother and two rowdy children on a mission. We arrived at the register. The lovely lady ringing us up smiled at me and started scanning. I wasn't sure if the smile was genuine or because she internally felt sorry for me. "That poor little girl with that patch. I feel sorry for her" was what she was probably thinking. At the register there was a clear little box with an opening for a donation as well as a picture of a little girl with big glasses and curly hair. Smiles galore. It was a charitable organization and she was clearly disabled. My brother looked at the cashier and pointed to the picture. "That's my sister," he said. I was mortified. I was embarrassed. I was scarred for life.
February 15, 2012
romance and real estate
New York City is its own universe. The Met, Central Park, Rockefeller Center, the Yankees, but the city that never sleeps has one major downfall. Two words. Real Estate.
The exorbitant real estate market is quite possibly the sole reason, aside from the unbearable winters and ridiculously hot summers, most folks don’t make the move to the Big Apple. “You live in Manhattan? It’s so expensive!” Indeed it is expensive, which is why it doesn’t shock me when many people have a roommate. It’s more affordable to share with someone you know or perhaps don’t know, as long as the rent and utilities are paid on time. You live under the same roof and yet never have to utter one word to each other. It’s an unspoken, mutual understanding. You simply coexist.
Romance and real estate go hand in hand in this city. Due to the slightly outrageous real estate market, men and women have paired up and are hibernating. Together. Cohabitating relationships. One bed, one bath apartment for two, please. Move in with your significant other and save money all at the same time. Makes sense, right? Is the official “we’re moving in together” because you’re truly in love and shacking up is the next logical step before the famous last words, “I Do?” Date, move in, get married all in that specific order? Who better to split the rent with than your “other half” or in most cases the person you’ve been dating for six months. Is the real estate market in New York City single handedly revolutionizing relationships? What if the two of you decide to go your separate ways? Break up, end the relationship. Then what? You’re stuck sharing a one bed, one bath apartment with the one person you can’t stand much less lay next to. Do you move out? Who gets the rights to the place? The coffee maker? Do you work on the relationship in order to stake your claim on the hottest real estate in all of NYC?
It’s not only who you live with in Manhattan, it’s where you live. There’s a certain stereotype depending on which borough you reside in. Where you live can be the make it or break it for any budding relationship. When you meet someone in a bar or coffee shop or even the grocery store, the most commonly asked question even before the generic “What’s your name?” is usually “Do you live around here?” Location, location, location!! What the good-looking guy in Aisle 5 really wants to know is- how far does he have to travel to take you out? If you live more than a few blocks or a long subway ride away, forget about it. Uptown and Downtown? It won’t work. Consider it a long distance relationship and we all know those never work. New York is bizarre in that way, but it makes sense. Date someone closer. Less compromise, more convenience. The one teeny tiny problem with that is if you two ever break up, you may want to relocate. Avoid that cute little coffee shop you both fell in love with, the restaurant around the corner he took you to on your first date, the local bar is no longer your stomping ground. Laundromat? Don’t even think about it. You don’t want him seeing your unmentionables without proper permission. Once you split, you must be fully prepared to forfeit your rights and allow full custody.
The exorbitant real estate market is quite possibly the sole reason, aside from the unbearable winters and ridiculously hot summers, most folks don’t make the move to the Big Apple. “You live in Manhattan? It’s so expensive!” Indeed it is expensive, which is why it doesn’t shock me when many people have a roommate. It’s more affordable to share with someone you know or perhaps don’t know, as long as the rent and utilities are paid on time. You live under the same roof and yet never have to utter one word to each other. It’s an unspoken, mutual understanding. You simply coexist.
Romance and real estate go hand in hand in this city. Due to the slightly outrageous real estate market, men and women have paired up and are hibernating. Together. Cohabitating relationships. One bed, one bath apartment for two, please. Move in with your significant other and save money all at the same time. Makes sense, right? Is the official “we’re moving in together” because you’re truly in love and shacking up is the next logical step before the famous last words, “I Do?” Date, move in, get married all in that specific order? Who better to split the rent with than your “other half” or in most cases the person you’ve been dating for six months. Is the real estate market in New York City single handedly revolutionizing relationships? What if the two of you decide to go your separate ways? Break up, end the relationship. Then what? You’re stuck sharing a one bed, one bath apartment with the one person you can’t stand much less lay next to. Do you move out? Who gets the rights to the place? The coffee maker? Do you work on the relationship in order to stake your claim on the hottest real estate in all of NYC?
It’s not only who you live with in Manhattan, it’s where you live. There’s a certain stereotype depending on which borough you reside in. Where you live can be the make it or break it for any budding relationship. When you meet someone in a bar or coffee shop or even the grocery store, the most commonly asked question even before the generic “What’s your name?” is usually “Do you live around here?” Location, location, location!! What the good-looking guy in Aisle 5 really wants to know is- how far does he have to travel to take you out? If you live more than a few blocks or a long subway ride away, forget about it. Uptown and Downtown? It won’t work. Consider it a long distance relationship and we all know those never work. New York is bizarre in that way, but it makes sense. Date someone closer. Less compromise, more convenience. The one teeny tiny problem with that is if you two ever break up, you may want to relocate. Avoid that cute little coffee shop you both fell in love with, the restaurant around the corner he took you to on your first date, the local bar is no longer your stomping ground. Laundromat? Don’t even think about it. You don’t want him seeing your unmentionables without proper permission. Once you split, you must be fully prepared to forfeit your rights and allow full custody.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)