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.
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