Darts Season 2009-2010 Kicks Off in Pitesti

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One Day, Huh?

The following is an edited part of an email I received earlier today from a friend. The thoughts concern another good friend who is now going through a rough patch and who has lately started to see only the cloud, and no longer the silver lining around it. However, it applies to more than one person that I know of. Maybe even more will take a minute to look in the mirror, remember who they are, how unimportant some things that we strive for are and how important those that we already have, but often forget about.

Let’s hope that ‘the depression will begin to lift and he will be able to see more clearly and eventually be able to review the vicious circle he is trapped in and try to change his objectives and stop chasing impossible dreams. […] He never stayed in today, but was always running as fast as he could towards tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He is someone […] who never stopped to smell the roses and one day he will be dead and sitting on a cloud wondering what it was all about!’ He is […] ‘looking in all the wrong directions, putting his faith in all the wrong people and making the same mistake over and over again. I wonder if he will ever learn that happiness is now, within, and waiting to be allowed to emerge, not somewhere beyond, with a label on it. Until he allows his brain to disconnect from the futility and rejoin his spirit he will go on in the same downward self-destructive spiral. He is so open to spiritual (and I don't mean religious) ideas, healing thoughts, and ideas unconnected to materialism...that it would only take a small step or a few small steps to break free of the trap he is in and begin again. […] He takes on board enough garbage and waffle from those people he thinks are so wonderful, yet turns away from those of us who really care about him. One day, huh?’

Darts in Romania

Darts is played in Romania, but don't think for a second that it is 'just a game' for the people who play it!

A few years ago, you could hardly find an electronic dartboard in the corner of some dingy pub in a basement somewhere, nor could you obtain an answer if you asked any of the regulars there what 'darts' was. However, over the last 3-4 years, this has changed dramatically.

The BTDL (Bucharest Thursday Darts League - Steel Darts only), has grown from a handful of people looking for an excuse to socialise and have a pint, into a competitive League where a number of 20 teams (over 150 players in total) meet every Thursday (BTDL season: September to May) to win points or defend titles.

A growing number of pub owners have realised the benefits of accommodating darts teams and becoming League venues. Some of the most famous (or infamous!) are: Dreamers (27 Plevnei St), O'Hara Irish Pub (13 Franceza St.), The Dubliner Irish Pub (18 Titulescu Blvd.), Terasa Florilor - Tati Bar (42 Ion Maiorescu St.), The White Horse (4A George Calinescu St.), Whispers (4 Brezoianu St.). It is highly unlikely that you'll walk into any of the above and not find a darts partner (if the boards are free, that is!). You will find that most darts players in Bucharest will be eager to challenge or be challenged by a new player, as they've been playing against each-other for so long that they're starting to get bored already! Although few pubs will have a spare set of darts behind the bar for the occasional chance challenger, people will be more than happy to lend you their own if you show an interest.

The Romanian Darts Federation (www.frdarts.ro) has just disputed its National Title in its second year of existence. Rumour has it that it will affiliate itself to the World Darts Federation, and several Romanian players have already participated in international Darts Competitions with remarkable results. The Federation has turned darts into a nation-wide endeavour, with regional clubs and competitions sprouting and flourishing in Timisoara, Oradea, Odorhei, Tg. Mures, Brasov, Pitesti and other cities and towns. Players will travel as much as 800 km to attend a competition and win the sought-after Federation points throughout the season, which would enable a player to participate in the end of season Masters Tournament and hence have a chance at the National Title, as well as the motivating prizes (mostly money and booze offered by the sponsors).

A Bucharest Tuesday Darts League is now being brewed by several of the players who no longer fit into the already crowded Thursday League, as well as by those who would like to spend two rather than just one day a week battling on the dartboard.

Many pubs are now organising their own small-scale darts competitions (Terasa Florilor-Tati Bar is the most perseverant), specialised darts clubs are being opened (La Sageti, on 30A Liviu Rebreanu Bvd. is the latest one), darts and accessories are being imported and sold by more and more companies and enthusiasts (www.dartsgames.ro, www.dartsromania.ro, www.dartsbar.ro), TV stations have become interested in broadcasting international competitions, as well as news of local darts events, and more and more people are buying and installing dartboards in their own home.

If you are as passionate about darts as we are, come and give us a challenge and we promise you a good time, whoever wins (normally the player who doesn't collapse first after as many pints of beer as winning doubles missed).

First published on: http://www.earth.org/travel-guide/Romania/darts

Beauty Spa My Ass!

I told this story to a friend the other day (in order to prevent her from going through the same trauma herself!) and after sounding like choking in a fit of laughter on the phone, she asked me why I hadn’t posted it on my blog yet. Well, to tell the truth, to me, it had seemed rather more traumatising than hilarious until then, but indeed, why not judge for yourselves!?

 

The Marketing Trap

(or: ‘Why Reading Shit While Shitting Can Be Dangerous’)

More than a month ago, while reading a silly magazine on the toilet, I fell into the marketing/advertising trap (metaphorically speaking). I picked up the phone (after exiting the bathroom, of course!) and dialed the number at the bottom of the full page ad announcing that ‘the slimming and beauty spa’, could make you lose 7 kilograms (1 stone and 1.43 lb, that is! No more, no less!) in 2 weeks and all you’d have to do is pay them 150 Euro and let their specialists relax and reshape you with their cutting edge technology. What can I say? I fell for it. But here’s a warning to you all: be afraid! Be very afraid!

The Prep Meeting – Part 1

(or: ‘How a Beauty Spa Can Make You Feel Ugly’)

I made an appointment for what the extremely polite, pleasant and patient receptionist (faced with my obvious ignorance of the ‘beauty jargon’) called the ‘prep meeting’. She explained that a doctor would see me and discuss whether I indeed needed to lose all that weight and what the best ways to do that would be. I showed up for my appointment the next afternoon and my first compelling desire after closing the door behind me was to jerk it open again and run as fast as I could. I should listen to my instincts more often! The waiting area was filled with women who could have easily been mistaken for models at a D&G, Chanel or Versace presentation, had they not been sagging middle-aged hags in search for their long lost, dead and buried youth and beauty. Faced with their sparkling jewelry, shiny bags and shoes and ostentatious designer clothes, I suddenly felt like the cleaning lady (and the way they were eyeing me up and down with disgust and contempt did nothing to change that).

I said my name in a whispering voice over the marble counter laden with tiny boxes of face cream which cost more than my gas bill in a winter month. A pompous usher in a white coat appeared and took me to the doctor’s office, with a fake smile and a marketing slogan for every step she took.

The doctor shook my hand and invited me to take my shoes off (and your socks, please!) and place my bare feet on a shiny (and cold) steel plated device, which, it turned out, was nothing more fancy than some scales. After the minor inconvenience that my feet seemed to be too small compared to the Yetis the scales had been designed for, the doctor shook her head, indicated that I should ‘hop off’ and take off my trousers this time, as well as lift my blouse. She started coiling a measuring tape around my thighs, stomach, breasts, arms, jotting down my obviously alarming measures. She then picked up from her desk what I had mistook, until then, for a mouse pad. She started applying it to various parts of my body, where, to my horror, the almost transparent ‘mouse pad’ changed colour dramatically going from dark brown to deep, depressing black. I was about to run for my life when the doctor explained it was not voodoo, nor a mouse pad, but a cellulite measuring device. My worst fears came true: black was bad – the worst. What worried me more was that I had never even considered if I displayed signs of cellulite, never mind worry about it’s stages, aspect, treatment, etc. Suddenly, my whole perception about myself changed. I felt exposed, ugly, unworthy of calling myself a woman. She gave me a pitying look, as if she had just informed I had a rapidly advancing brain tumor and would be dead within 1 week, and sent me to the next room, for counseling.

The Prep Meeting – Part 2

(or: ‘Where the Truly Great Salespeople Are Hiding’)

The next room had no scales, mouse pads, measuring tapes or other scary devices. Or so I thought. But the hidden weapon was the doctor clicking nervously at the mouse and trying to smile politely but vaguely in my direction at the same time. ‘Right’ she said – and I almost expected her to roll up her sleeves and start the difficult job of making me beautiful – ‘I see your biggest problem is cellulite. We have to do something about that immediately, or it will be too late’. It sounded like a curse, a bad omen, a verdict, a death threat, my worst nightmare come true. By the time she started looking at ‘the most efficient method’ of improving my condition even a little bit, I had completely forgotten that I had never, in my entire adult life, thought of cellulite, noticed it or considered ‘doing something about it’. I forgot I was there because I saw an ad in a glossy magazine while I was sitting on the toilet the previous morning, obviously unaware of the cunning cellulite creeping up the very behind I was sitting on. And most of all, I forgot that I had made the appointment because I gullibly fell for the 7 kilos in 14 days trick, that I was there because I wanted to lose weight, not destroy some ‘orange peel’ aspect of which I hadn’t even been aware of until then. She was probably used to the panic in my eyes, and, as a skilled salesperson (why did she have to be a doctor too?), tried to sell me the most expensive series of ‘cutting edge technology’ to help me fight my newly discovered parasite monster. Everything sounded extremely convincing, to the point where I was asking myself how I could have lived so long without all that. I finally had an explanation to offer my mother for not having married until now! It all seemed to make sense and this woman was showing me the light, my salvation!

Until she calculated a total cost for my beautification, remodeling, slimming, toning,  tanning and indeed tuning! If she hadn’t been so serious and professional until then, I would have been sure it was a joke. In fact, I could see, just outside the window on a billboard, an advertisement for the latest SUV, which had the same price tag and I even considered she may not have calculated anything at all, but noticed the same billboard and read out the price of the SUV. Needless to say, she was dead serious, and almost insulted that I hadn’t jumped up with joy and gratitude at the huge discount and the obvious value for money deal.

After a long debate over which treatment I should do first, which I would never do (in spite of all the disapproving looks she was giving me) and which I ‘absolutely had to do’ in her opinion (those seemed to be the most expensive, by some strange coincidence!), I managed to emerge from the saleswoman’s claws with just about enough money left in my account to allow me to buy some soda bread and rashers on my birthday trip to Ireland in a couple of weeks.

The Treatment

or: ‘Be Careful What You Wish For! (In My Case: Pay For!)’

1. Warm Blanket (also known as Revolting Stinking Slime)

My first treatment session was the next morning. It was deceitfully called ‘Warm Blanket’. You would expect some comfy duvet in which to wrap yourself and continue your interrupted sleep. How awfully wrong would you be!

I was given a bathrobe and a pair of disposable paper G-Strings, and thus clad, I was led to a room with a bed (actually, more like an operation theatre piece of furniture, obviously designed for torturing naive individuals like me) and a guy in a white coat with a broad grin on his face. As soon as my chaperone had pulled the curtains and left me with the grinning fool, the latter put on a serious face and invited me to take off my robe. ‘OK’, I thought to myself! ‘I’ve taken my clothes off in front of worse people! What the heck!’ and hung the bathrobe on a peg. What really worried me most was neither the chrome bed, nor the grinning fool, but the awful smell, which I dared not think which part of his body was coming from. Wrong again! For as soon as I was naked, he turned around and lifted a bowl containing the most repulsive concoction I ever had the misfortune of seeing, smelling and being covered in from head to toe! Yep! You guessed! He picked up a brush and started covering me in that shit! (which turned out to be algae paste!).  I was quite speechless for a couple of minutes. I must confess I took into account the possibility of this being just a bad, absurd dream, then I thought the guy was not actually meant to do that at all, that he was just a pervert who was taking advantage of my obvious ignorance regarding the ‘beauty industry’.

But then he surprised me by politely asking is it was OK for him to touch my bottom with the brush, because he didn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable! I just had to burst out laughing (sprinkling fine droplets of spit all over the glass wall, but thanking heaven I was still young enough to control all my other sphincters, as the guy was kneeling right behind me, with his nose only a couple of inches from my yet un-brushed bottom). When I calmed down enough to talk, I explained that if he didn’t want me to be uncomfortable, he should have abstained from covering me in some stinking shit while staring at my naked body the very day after I had been made aware of its unsuspected imperfections, but if it had to be done, he should have at least been a woman and considerate enough to wear a blindfold while doing it! ‘So’, I continued, ‘you think that I have been extremely comfortable the last 10 minutes, taking my clothes off in front of a complete (male) stranger who then rubs all my body (except my ass, of course!) with a brush, while I try to hold my breath for minutes at a time, for fear I will throw up from the smell? Well, in this case, I assure you that rubbing my bottom with the wonderful hi-tech algae vomit will do nothing, whatsoever, to spoil my comfort! Knock yourself out!’(‘And may you one day fall head first in a pool of algae paste and may the only way to save yourself be swallowing it!’ I added quietly, almost adding an ‘Amen.’)

Needless to say, my outburst drew another 3 or 4 employees who all stuck their heads in through the curtains to see what was going on, to give advice, offer to rub me with the brush instead of the guy and, the most annoying of all, to calmly and politely explain that most people enjoy this procedure so much that they ask to spend more time glazed with the beneficial green ‘gift of nature’ and wrapped in the ‘warm blanket’ than they had actually paid for. They were all extremely puzzled that I did not fall in the category of masochistic freaks who enjoyed that shit!

Yes, eventually they managed to spread the last bit of ‘green gift’ on my ass, to wrap me in cling film and then lift me on the morgue trolley wrapped in an electric duvet which made me feel like a sweating pig in a pool of horse dung for 30 minutes, during which they checked on me every 3-5 minutes, whispering ‘enjoy your relaxation’ every time they existed! They then caught me in time when I slid on the slimy cling film and nearly broke my neck trying to get up from that torture bed. I was led to the shower and encouraged to ‘rub it all off thoroughly’. Just in case I had grown so fond of the ‘green gift’ and its delightful perfume, especially in combination with my sweat, that I was tempted to skip the shower and bolt down the street wearing nothing but their precious slime! Of course, if they had known me at all, they wouldn’t have worried about that, because I had taken my pink bag with me in the morning and it would have clashed terribly with the green!

2. Biostimulation (also known as Death by Electrocution in Small, Perverse Doses)

As soon as I got away from the Stinking Spa (although I swore I would not go anywhere near it again), I started convincing myself that the other ‘procedures’ cannot all be that bad, and that I had paid much too much for this, not to go through with it. So sure enough, there I was again the next day, ready (or so I thought) for my next adventure in the world of beauty. My appointment said Biostimulation, so I (naively, again!) expected a soothing, relaxing experience by which some ‘vital energy’ expert would wave her/his hands over my ‘problematic bits’ and convince all that fat and cellulite to go away and leave me in peace. The truth it, nothing I could have imagined would have prepared me for what happened next.

I was already having nightmarish déjà-vu’s when they handed me the robe and disposable paper G-strings and led me to another tiny room with another chrome bed and (thank God!) this time a woman. I cheerfully took off my robe and was about to relax on the bed, when I saw her approaching with a bunch of cables hanging on her arm.  She methodically stuck a wire to the main sets of muscles along my body and announced I would have to tell her when to stop. ‘Stop what?’ I wanted to ask, but before I could utter the words, my whole body started shaking like mad, electricity contracting my every muscle, making it close to impossible to say anything without sounding like a squeaking castrated mouse. So I took the first opportunity to nod convincingly when she asked if it was enough.

I don’t think she caught my desperate, pleading look as she walked out, wishing me ‘pleasant relaxation’ and announcing she would be back in 45 minutes to help me up. Relaxation? How the hell was I supposed to relax when my whole body was contracting like I was having an epileptic fit, my breasts flopping about like jelly, with extremely hard nipples, starting to hurt from the freezing breeze blown down on me by a merciless air conditioning unit. I will never know how I lasted 45 minutes in there. I probably passed out at some point, because when the blessed end-of-session-beeping woke me up, everything had stopped and the sadistic-devil-turned-angel was handing me my robe and making sure my still twitching legs could carry me back to the changing rooms. All I could do was smile feebly and swear, once again, that I would never set foot in that place, for it was sure to kill me a third time!

3. Cellusculpture (also knows and the Sucking Monster)

Needless to say, I went a third (and a fourth and an umpteenth) time, and will continue to subject myself to humiliation and torture until the paid sessions are over and I will finally be able to wish them all, in my turn, a most pleasant relaxation in the fires of hell, where they will, no doubt, be delighted to listen to their own cellulite and fat sizzling away for eternity.

The third, and most spectacular method of beautification, is, no doubt, the Cellusculpture. For this ‘cutting edge’ technique of ‘combating stubborn cellulite’, I had paid extra, to buy a ‘special suit’ on which the Cellusculpting device would ‘glide’. I was not expecting a three-piece groom’s suit complete with bowtie, but I certainly wasn’t expecting the tiny white plastic bag the receptionist handed over the marble counter, into which you could barely fit a pair of socks and a bra if you wanted to use it as a laundry bag. I took it up to the changing room and assured the ever-present usher/chaperone I would be out in 5 minutes or so. She almost snorted, but caught herself in time to pretend she was coughing. I was about to find out why.

The tiny white bag seemed to contain only a pair of white tights, probably belonging to a 10 to 12 year old girl, judging by their size. I was about to go give them back and take the suit I had paid for, when I unfolded what I had mistook for girls’ tights. To my astonishment and subsequent horror, it was in fact a one piece elastic suit, extremely transparent when stretched (as I found out after 45 minutes of struggling to fit my generously built figure into it), covering everything from wrists to toes, except the neck and head. I started laughing with relief when I noticed that the only way to get into it was through the hole at the neck, which was big enough to fit over my head, with a bit of effort, but obviously not over my thighs, hips, breasts, shoulders. I went out into the hallway, where my chaperone raised her eyebrows disapprovingly, having noticed that I was still wearing my clothes. I explained politely that I was given the wrong suit by mistake, and that was probably just a miniature version, for demonstration purposes only.

She frowned and pointed at the label, which, to my surprise, said ‘size M’. She quickly waved me back inside, assuring me that ‘it stretches’. I spent the next 30 minutes or more huffing and puffing, stretching and bending, rolling and pulling, swearing and sweating, hopping around like an insane bunny, banging into lockers, pirouetting like an oversized and deranged ballerina in a very sick pervert’s sexual fantasy, cursing the day I sat on that bloody toilet reading that bloody magazine, and trying to make as little noise as possible in the process, for fear someone might walk in and call a mental institution to come pick me up, the way I was behaving!  I eventually emerged like a defeated and exhausted version of the Michelin man, only to find out that the worst was yet to come!

The chaperone herself was to take care of me, as it seemed, because she invited me to ‘make myself comfortable’ on yet another chrome bed, and probably took pity and offered me a glass of water. She then picked up this threateningly looking device , pushed some buttons, turned some knobs, and, while I was looking to see where all that deafening noise was coming from, applied that thing to my stomach, in contact with which it seemed to turn into a hungry monster, sucking the life out of me through my navel.

I was taken by surprise and forgot to breathe for half a minute, but soon got used to the oversized fat-sucking vacuum cleaner, the noise, the clinging insane cosmonaut suit, and abandoned my exhausted body in the hands of the fat-sucking-monster tamer and fell asleep as she roller and rolled and rolled the vacuum ‘chamber’ over my tight suit, and she kneaded and kneaded and kneaded away at my collagen fibers, cellulite, fat, skin and other parts of my body which had been plagued with imperfection. 

I dreamt I was being swallowed whole by a tiny household vacuum cleaner, which could not be emptied of dust and other crap collected in its paper bag, unless the bag was completely filled up with garbage. So it chased me around a table (not unlike the chrome beds in the Crappy Spa) and just as it was directing it’s threateningly powerful sucking device towards me, the chaperone-turned-operator gently shook me and informed me I was free. She was confident I would come back the next week, because, she said, these things were addictive. She was right.

Hilarious TV

If anything remotely so funny would indeed be broadcasted on TV, I think I would actually buy myself a TV, pay for cable and take the time to watch it every once in a while. Check this out:

http://happyfish.ro/vrem_alta_romanie/solutii_de_criza_in_televiziune/

However, at the moment, absolutely nothing is worth trading a quiet house and my reading time for. What would I watch?

Well, let’s look at the possibilities:

1. Allegedly clairvoyant ignoramuses on OTV or DDTV – fascinating, really! But I had the privilege of the clairvoyant taxi driver with her own show on TV predicting my future one-to-one, while driving me around in a taxi, and without charging me an extra ‘live clairvoyant fee’! (http://andreeatan.blogspot.com/2009/05/clairvoyant-taxi-driver.html)

2. Basketball, football and handball matches played by obscure teams I haven’t heard about, just because the commentator’s voice turns me on – yes, but I am not interested in football, basketball, handball and all that, and I can hear his voice if I just pick up the phone and call him instead. 

3. Criminal Minds – well… that would certainly be worth owning a TV and turning it on! But the downside is that AXN only runs Criminal Minds on Saturday nights - when I really should be out dancing the night away instead of watching TV - and only one episode at a time!!! So instead I watch 3-4 episodes at a time on www.surfthechannel.com

4. Seeing myself on TV, bellowing into a microphone, too drunk to realize my voice really isn’t that enchanting as it sounds in my head? It could be a possibility… except the damn embarrassing video is already on the Internet (http://andreeatan.blogspot.com/2009/05/whats-up-doc.html)

Well… really, there’s a pro and a con to anything. Bottom line: I continue to be TVless, but I will be on the lookout for funny little videos like the ones on www.happyfish.ro

2009 Eurovision Song Contest Results and Short History of Romanian Participation

I found myself humming Romania’s entry song this morning around 6.30 am. It is now 12.30 pm and I’m still humming it obsessively. I am actually starting to like it. Too bad that people have to like the song upon hearing it for the first time in the contest, in order to award it any significant number of points…

So here’s Elena Gheorghe’s ‘Balkan Girls’:

However, I recommend you search for the actual live performance video, because, although the English accent will be just as bad and some false notes are unmistakable here and there, the erratic body-movements will be visibly reduced and the stage outfits, although nothing special, will certainly not poke you in the eye like the ugly garments and makeup in the video. What were they thinking?!

All in all, Elena deserved to be awarded more points than she was. This may not have been the best song in the contest, but certainly among the 5-7 most ‘catchy’ ones.

Of course the Eurovision Contest has turned political a long time ago, with neighboring countries awarding each-other the highest number of points; of course the Turks in Germany will always vote for Turkey; the Moldavians in Romania will vote for Moldova; the Romanians in Spain and Italy will vote for Romania, and so on. Regardless of how good or bad the performance is.

But let’s take a look at a couple of Romania’s entry songs over the last few years, and compare them to the winners those same years. Could we honestly claim we were better?

Eurovision 2008 – Romania (Beautiful song… for a romantic movie soundtrack!!! Not for the Eurovision contest!!! Romania just doesn’t seem to understand that you have to adapt to the occasion, and insists on sending the likes of Nico, Monica Anghel and Marcel Pavel to make fools of themselves among all the beautiful, crazy, young and original people who get on that stage. See for yourself below)

Eurovision 2007 – Romanian entry song (I loved this song at the time. It deserved to win the national competition. The lyrics, the idea of the song, the rhythm, the funny dance… they’re all perfect. Even the guys are all cute. Too bad none of them can really sing. See below)

Eurovision 2006 – Tornero (This song already gets on my nerves after the zillions of times I’ve heard it broadcasted since 2006. However, it is one of the most suitable entry songs we’ve ever had for this contest. And apart from the awful dancers and Mihai Treistariu’s extremely questionable sense of fashion, it was probably the year when we were proudest of our participation in the Eurovision. See video below)

Eurovision 2005 – Romania’s entry song was ‘Let Me Try’ - probably the closest we came to winning: 3rd place. Luminita’s voice is perfect for the song, the guys banging on barrels in the background are a wonderful addition to the sound, everything is perfect.

Except… Let’s also take a look at the winning songs over the last few years.

2005 (Greece – ‘My Number One’):

2006 (Finland - ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’ – surprising entry, surprising winner, but great song! Hard rock rules!!!!!)

However, the winner should have been Russia in 2006, because I think Dima Bilan’s ‘Never Let You Go’ is one of the greatest songs ever written, let alone heard in the Eurovision contest. Convince yourself by watching the video below (which is much better than the song he actually won the contest with last year!)

2007 (Serbia – ‘Molitva’) I’m not sure what the real reason for this win was, but the song grows on you after the first few baffling seconds…

2008 (Russia – ‘Believe’) – I’m glad Dima Bilan won in the end, but it’s too bad he didn’t win with the song that was really worth it, in 2006 – ‘Never Let You Go’. I’m pretty sure it’s more of Evgeni Plushenko’s involvement in Bilan’s performances that got him to number one in 2008, but whatever the reason… here’s the actual song:

2009 – Norway is the winner this year, with an entertaining and extremely cute song, but a smug Alexander Rybak who almost ruins the whole song with his alternation of talking/shouting/talking/shouting instead of singing (when he does try, poor thing, it all comes out wrong!). The two wannabe fairies in pink dresses aren’t helping at all either! I’ll give him this: he can play that violin while hopping around in bouts of enthusiasm!

According to the official Eurovision Song Contest History website (www.esc-history.com), Romania first entered the contest in 1994. In the last 15 years, it has had 11 songs in the finals, and ranked between 22 and 3 in the stats, as follows:

1994 – Dincolo de Nori – Dan Bittman (21st place out of 25)

1998 – Eu Cred – Malina Olinescu (22nd place out of 25)

2000 – The Moon – Taxi (17th place out of 24)

2002 – Tell Me Why – Monica Anghel & Marcel Pavel (9th/24)

2003 – Don’t Break My Heart – Nicola (10th/26)

2004 – I Admit – Sanda Ladosi (18th/24)

2005 – Let Me Try – Luminita Anghel & Sistem (3rd/24)

2006 – Tornero – Mihai Traistariu (4th/24)

2007 – Liubi, Liubi, I Love You – Todomondo (13th/24)

2008 – Pe-o Margine de Lume – Nico & Vlad Mirita (20th/25)

2009 – The Balkan Girls – Elena Gheorghe (19th/25)

What’s Up Doc?

Background info: 1) I am obsessive compulsive; 2) One of my compulsive obsessions is matching outfits with accessories (earrings, shoes, glasses, watches, bags, hairpins, even lighters and pens for god’s sake!); 3) Although I must be close to the number of glasses Elton John has (but not quite there yet, as mine fit in only one suitcase!), I still feel compelled to renew my colourful collection with yet another shade of this or that colour, which will obviously match this or that outfit even better than any of the other ones.

This having been said, the story goes like this:

Last week I walked into my regular optician’s, to have her take a look at the last pair of glasses I had bought from her (I bought them because I wanted olive-green frames, but since then, everybody had been commenting on my mustard glasses. I could have blamed that on my failing eyesight, but they were rubbing against my right ear rather painfully after a few days, so they had to be bent a bit, whatever their true colour). As soon as the blond shop assistant saw me walking towards the entrance to the shop, she started hopping up and down, pulling the other woman’s sleeve and squeaking: ‘It’s her! It’s her!’ I looked behind and around me, but I was the only one in sight, so I shrugged and asked: ‘I’m me?’

Almost out of breath with excitement, Blondie explained that she had been trying to explain to her boss for weeks which of their clients she had seen on TV, and just couldn’t make her understand it was me. ‘Anyway, you have a lovely voice, Miss’, she concluded. I mumbled some words of thanks to her compliment, but actually thought to myself ‘Oh shit! Not another one!’

At the end of March I went to Opium Studio (a club in the vicinity of the ProTV building - which explains why they were filming there in the first place!). We were quite a big gang, booked 2 tables and made a lot of noise, drank a lot of alcohol and generally had a smashing time, never once caring about what anyone else in there thought about us (or our voices, as it turned out!).

Just after 10 pm, to get the karaoke atmosphere started, the DJ made the huge mistake of randomly giving out two microphones. I grabbed one and didn’t let go of it until after 3 am, when (against my will) my friends dragged me out of the place and the DJ snatched the mic from my clutching talons. I was having a great time (as I later saw myself confessing on TV!!). Of course, the flowing Bacardi and Coke helped relax me and even induced this confidence-boosting illusion that I could actually sing and that everyone in the club was delighted (and certainly honoured) to have the privilege of listening to me bellowing into that microphone for hours on end. Whatever the song, whichever the lyrics, whatever the language, regardless of whether I had ever heard the song before or if some poor clubber had requested it and was trying hard to scream even louder into their microphone, so they could cover me.

I had been mildly aware that a bright light was constantly shining in my face and that someone had been filming the whole evening, but I just supposed the club owners were making a video to post on the club website. Towards morning, this little lady with a microphone of her own (!!!) came up to me and asked if she could interview me for her show on ProTV – What’s Up Doc? It turns out she was doing an episode on how people lose weight while singing, by exercising their face and stomach muscles. So, still clutching the microphone and swinging my Bacardi glass, I explained to her about singing and other important aspects of life. However, she only chose to insert two of my words of wisdom in the broadcasted footage (probably because they had been the only two intelligible phrases I uttered in my respective state of advanced lack of sobriety). See for yourselves: http://www.protv.ro/emisiuni/shows/ce-se-intampla-doctore/video-cantati-cantati-cantati/20682/pagina-1.html

Now, coming back to the Blondie optician, I wonder if it was a new sales technique, to persuade me to buy a bigger pair of sun-glasses, just in case I do become a celebrity and people start recognizing me on the street… It worked! Which reminds me… I have to rush over to collect my new glasses! Ta!

Happy Birthday Darling!

I will not post a photo (not because I want to protect his identity, but because he is so devastatingly gorgeous, sexy and desirable –even at his age! –, that I do fear someone else will snatch him!) but today (actually, yesterday, 13 May, but since I haven’t yet gone to bed, it’s still ‘today’ although it’s technically ‘tomorrow’, got it?!) is (was) my best friend’s birthday.

Due to free radicals, pollution and probably some advanced degree of short-sight – as well as the small impediment of his sexual orientation and preference for men -, I will never have his babies (except ‘by IVF from a test tube’, he said! How generous! Thanks, darling! Thanks for being selfish and keeping all those wonderful genes to yourself and not giving the world the chance to benefit from the product of our combined genes, which would obviously produce nothing but gorgeous prodigies, cute little geniuses who can save humanity, the planet, the Universe – because they will know, a priori, that the answer is 42. And mice.). However, that will not prevent me from loving him eternally (and secretly plotting to get him drunk enough one night and rape him. If that doesn’t work, I have Plan B, where I flatten out my breasts, grow hairs on my legs and pretend to be a 19 year old male virgin).

Anyway, I had been preparing to celebrate his birthday since… his last birthday, really, only to find out today that he had decided to cancel it altogether and pretend it wasn’t happening at all. Like that was going to happen! I quickly ran a search for last minute entertainment inspiration in Bucharest on a Wednesday evening. I luckily found the most appropriate option: a musical. And not just any musical, but an ambitious project of the Bucharest Operetta House: Broadway Bucharest.

Now don’t get me wrong. I said the project was ambitious. Not that its ambition was attained. Yes, for an expat or a tourist in Bucharest, it would be a good alternative to lingering in an Irish pub on a rainy Wednesday evening. And if it weren’t for the lack of dance synchronization, the appalling English accents of the cast, the poor sound quality or the lack of voice of some of the artists (or maybe their microphones had been cut off to spare our ears of the even more terrible effect of their singing… Who knows?), the selection of scenes from famous Broadway shows (Cats, Evita, Phantom of the Opera, Cabaret, West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, etc.) would have been extremely entertaining and well chosen. However, if you managed to ignore the orchestra conductor’s erratic and unnecessarily ample arm movements and focus on the actual stage, the costumes were probably the best part of the show. Except the well chosen and exceedingly beautiful costumes, the main merit of the production is the fact that no translation was attempted and the whole show was in English. Well… Sort of… I’m pretty sure the guy who sang ‘Maria’ from West Side Story sang the word ‘fart’ instead of ‘found’.

As in:

‘I've just kissed a girl named Maria,
And suddenly I fart, 
How wonderful a sound
Can be!’

And I actually thought he was the best-looking guy on the stage tonight, too. But somehow, after this song, I had this picture in my mind of him farting while kissing, and therefore abstained from running down the hallways of the Operetta theatre, hungry for an autograph and – God forbid! – a kiss. I therefore retreated with birthday-boy to the restaurant next door where we continued our never-ending conversation about Life, the Universe and Everything (although we both know – and our prodigy children would too – that the answer to all that is actually 42. And Mice.)

My darling, I hope tonight eased your passage into the 45th year of your life. May it be better than your 44th, may you read many more books than in your 44th year (and may you give them all to me afterwards!), may you finally open your eyes and see me for the incredibly sexy human being I really am (regardless of the fact that I don’t have hairy legs or a penis!) and offer me your babies, may you finally accomplish your dream of moving back to Africa (and maybe take me with you to fan you with a huge leaf on the beach while a cute black boy is lovingly rubbing your aching joints and muscles), may you always remain the wonderful person you are and may you love me forever, as I will you.

Happy birthday my darling!

The Riddle of Love in Jeanette Winterson’s ‘Power Book’

I always carry a book with me, especially when I spend at least one hour on the tube every day. I read at least 20-30 pages on this daily journey. However, this morning, I read and reread pages 78 and 79 of the 2001 Vintage paperback edition of The Power Book throughout my entire journey to work. Just because they capture the essence of our perpetual search for the sublime. Just because she is so right…

I will copy below some of it. None of it needs further comment.

‘… It seems that we cannot know enough about this riddle of our lives. […] Nothing could be more familiar than love. Nothing else eludes us so completely. […] My search for you, your search for me, is a search after something that cannot be found. Only the impossible is worth the effort. What we seek is love itself, revealed now and again in human form, but pushing us beyond our humanity into animal instinct and god-like success. The love we seek overrules human nature. It has a wildness in it and a glory that we want more than life itself. Love never counts the cost, to itself or to others, and nothing is as cruel as love. There is no love that does not pierce the hands and feet. Merely human love does not satisfy us, though we settle for it. […] Love is worth death. Love is worth life. My search for you, your search for me, goes beyond life and death into one long call in the wilderness. I do not know if what I hear is an answer or an echo. Perhaps I will hear nothing. It doesn’t matter. The journey must be made.’

Croatian Chicken Releases Holy Ghost Egg into the World

Remember the Romanian Duck which released the antichrist egg into the world? (read a reminder at: http://andreeatan.blogspot.com/2009/02/romanian-duck-releases-antichrist-egg.html)

Guess what! A Croatian chicken produced its benign counterpart! Obviously, Divinity is at war with the Antichrist, therefore they are using duck/chicken eggs to duel on Earth…

So, the short version is that a Croatian chicken started laying green eggs (as opposed to the black ones which bore the Antichrist, of course!) just before Easter. http://senzatzional.ro/fetitza-s-a-ouat-oua-verzi)

Now the owners, instead of being pleased that they didn’t have to dye eggs for Easter anymore, they are mad at the chicken for being colorblind. They would have preferred red eggs, obviously! Duh! 

Unscrewed Body Parts

I was discussing the usual matters of life, the universe and everything with an old friend a few days ago, and the conversation seemed to have come to the usual ‘that’s life, innit?’ type of conclusion, when she suddenly straightened up and said:

‘You know what really disgusts me about myself? The fact that I arouse men. I wish I could unscrew my ass and breasts and just leave them at home when I go out!’

Instead of an answer - I mean, what could anyone possibly answer to something like that?! - I asked her if she would mind if I posted this amazing statement on my blog.

She said she wouldn’t.

The Clairvoyant Taxi Driver

I happened to have an unexpected day off from work last week, and tried hard to tick off some of the priorities on my personal ‘to do’ list. As a result, I spent nearly half the day in taxis, getting from one to the next of my various urgent activities (which included a long overdue visit to my beautician, an appointment with my GP and the final official darts match of the season, in that order!).

Now, because I generally use taxis quite often, and because the last taxi I jumped in after leaving my GP’s practice was the umpteenth I had been in that day, I thought I might be excused if I didn’t pay any attention at all to the taxi driver, nor feel like chatting about the awful traffic in Bucharest. How very foolish of me! This particular taxi driver wouldn’t even start the engine until I looked her in the eye, but kept staring in the rearview mirror at me, like I had landed in her backseat with more of a bang than Milla Jovovich in Bruce Willis’s taxi in The 5th Element. In the end, I abandoned the search for my keys in my bag, and stared back, raising my eyebrows.

‘You don’t recognize me, do you Doll?!’ she croaked at my image in the mirror.

I raised my eyebrows even further, took a better look at the large body spilling from the driver’s seat, took in the full details of her screamingly loud makeup, screamingly red hair, bulging eyes and puffed up eyes and nose, and informed her I was quite certain we had not met before, or I would have not forgotten her that easily. However, I was glad to notice that she appeared to be a woman, because she would certainly understand that before driving me to the pub for the darts, she had to stop at my house so I could change my shoes and bag (which were brown and really didn’t match my black belt!).

‘Of course we haven’t met, Doll! I meant from TV!!’

I wasn’t in the least puzzled by her appearance on TV, nor was I interested to have yet another pointless conversation with a bored taxi driver, so made no attempt to find out what exactly she was famous for. I was wrong again to presume I would get off that easily. Whether I wanted to or not, I listened to how she had her own show at some obscure TV channel, because she was ‘a sort of clairvoyant', Doll!’. I was already rolling my eyes, preparing to fake some polite, mild interest in her ramblings, when she pinned me with another of her looks in the mirror and asked why I wasn’t married yet. That made me narrow my eyes at her image in the mirror a little bit, and asked why she was presuming that I wasn’t, while brushing some imaginary hairs from my yes, trying to make her notice the ring on my finger (which I almost always wear, to use against unwanted courting knights).

‘You’re not fooling anyone with that ring, Doll! You’re not married.’ (I was half-interested at this point) ‘You are kicking yourself because you let the first two potential husbands go, because you’re not going to find a third to love and worship you like either of those two.’ (I was close to mortified at this point) ‘Listen to me, Doll! This guy you’re going to see tonight… Just don’t play with him. He really cares about you. He may have a complicated situation with his ex-wife and a young child from that marriage, but you don’t often come across guys like him these days. He’s got character, Doll!’ (I think I had passed mortification stage and was now turning blue from holding my breath) ‘If you play your cards right, you’ll marry him next year and have a little boy right away. Your second kid will be a girl, soon after the boy.’

I think that was where she lost me. My brain recovered from the shock and pumped some skepticism into the whole situation. Too much science-fiction. Besides, I have never sought fortune-telling experiences (clairvoyants, tarot, star sign charts, etc.) for 2 main reasons: I very much doubt the divine source of these pieces of information about the future even if they were accurate (as in I don’t believe ‘white magic’ is actually white.. if you get the drift) and also, what surprises would life have to offer if I knew my future in advance? 

There is also the very delicate issue of my refusal to be manipulated by the seeds planted in my head by some random claim from anyone, let alone a clairvoyant taxi driver! I really am afraid that although future is yet a book to be written, my subconscious will be influenced and I will tend to head in the direction pointed by one of these ‘well-intended’ people. After all, the road to hell surely is paved with good intentions.

So, mum, if you do eventually learn how to use a computer and actually come across my blog, don’t get excited and don’t dry-clean (yet again!!!) the suit you’re saving to wear at my wedding (which, by the way, mum dear, has gone out of fashion a few years ago!), because no taxi driver will tell me when I am getting married and having kids, be it a clairvoyant taxi driver, with her own show on TV!!

Death of a Grandmother 1 – Tradition or Ignorance?

The death of my grandmother, 6 days ago, came neither as a surprise, nor as a shock to anyone in the family. We were expecting it and were prepared both emotionally and logistically.

It was the first time I was in charge of organizing a funeral and, as I had expected, the biggest challenge was listening patiently and politely to all the silly people claiming I SHOULD do this and that or that this and that is WHAT IT IS DONE.

Says who? What use will it be to my grandmother or anyone if I break a clay pot in the yard when the coffin is taken out of the house? Or if I hang a white cloth at the door for the next 40 days? Or if I wrap 24 candles in handkerchiefs with a coin folded in at the end? Or if I tie a coin to her left index finger while she’s lying quite dead in the coffin? Or if I put a mirror, comb and money in a purse in the coffin? Or if I drive at the back of row of cars instead of in front of the funeral car to lead the way to the cemetery? (I can give you an answer to that one right now: the funeral car will get lost and granny’s corpse will be lost in the city for at least one hour, delaying the whole funeral and risking the priest’s departure because of the funeral scheduled right afterwards).

As was to be expected from someone already under stress, who hadn’t slept in 3 days, who was wearing the same clothes and hadn’t showered since the day granny died and especially someone who is known to be quite impulsive when pushed, I snapped. It happened when the umpteenth old hag, all dressed up like she was going to the Opera rather than her friend’s funeral, walked into the house on the third day (the day of the funeral) and had the audacity to tell me that something (can’t remember what) had been done wrong.

Well, if you are such an expert, my dear lady, why the fuck weren’t you here on the first day, to help me wash and dress my grandmother’s stiffening corpse minutes after she died, while trying to keep her head from wobbling too much for fear her neck would snap and at the same time wondering why I was worrying about breaking a corpse’s neck anyway? Why weren’t you there when I had to hold my hand over her eyes for what seemed an eternity, because they just refused to stay shut? Why weren’t you here when I was ordering the coffin and when the wrong one came instead and I was afraid it would not fit in the grave? (none of my family have ever reached 6 foot heights, and my deceased grandmother was barely 5 foot!!) And anyway, where the fuck were you for the past year, when my grandmother was in and out of hospitals, when she couldn’t leave her bed anymore, when she wished her death because she felt helpless and abandoned by everyone as well as a burden to her children and grandchildren? Where were you when you were needed?

Oh, sorry! Did I offend you? My sincere apologies. I think that came out wrong. What I meant was: Fuck off home or wherever else you’ve been when your friend actually needed you while she was alive. I don’t need your concern about how I care for her in death. Make sure you make a list of all your ignoramus rules, traditions and superstitions and give it to your children to learn by heart before they have to burry you! And hurry along now! Go make that list, because it won’t be long before they need it and, God forbid, they might not have enough time to study it properly and they’ll use the wrong colour fabric to drape the mirrors with. Won’t that send your soul straight to Hell where you belong?

The fucking ignorance and self-righteousness you have to put up with during the most important or stressful events in your life! What was that saying? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions? Spot on!

Valentine’s Day

A friend was asking me the other day what I was doing and where I was going out this weekend, because her fiancé and her wanted to come along too. This surprised me because the friend in question hardly ever lets herself persuaded to go out, on account of tiredness, long office hours and a multitude of house chores and other worries and activities which occupy her time. And now she was ready to put all that aside and make the effort, even take initiative!! My eyebrows raised half-way into a questioning look, but then it dawned on me: tomorrow is Valentine’s! So that’s why!

Well, having been too involved in work and darts lately, I wasn’t out enough on the streets or in markets/shops, to notice the usual Valentine’s Day preparations (in shop windows and stalls, because what other preparations are there?), and I had completely forgotten. Which was for the best, because for the first time in years I had a peaceful two first weeks of February, without elbowing my way up pavements swarming with spotty teenagers choosing the fluffiest, pinkest and preferably cheapest teddy bears to offer their girlfriends, hoping to ease their way into their bras or knickers even!

Let’s stop for a minute and analyze this ‘Valentine’ concept before we rush head first into the swirl. The claim is that the 14th of February is the international day of love and romance, a day to show the person you love that you love them. Hang on! Something doesn’t quite add up here: if you love that person, aren’t you supposed to show it every day? Why would you do it only on the 14th of February? Or why would you overdo it on the 14th of February? Why not on your partner’s birthday? Or your anniversary as a couple? Or any other freakin’ day of the year, a day you choose, rather than a day the masses have adopted without question?

Because, unfortunately for the retailers, there is no other massive spending opportunity between Christmas and Easter, so one had to be created. Think about the most common discussions about Valentine’s day: ‘what will you buy her?’ ‘what did he get you for Valentine’s?’ ‘where did he take you for dinner?’ Does any Valentine slogan out there advertise or encourage anything else but spending? No. It is all about exploiting gullible consumers. In fact, although it claims to be about love, this artificially created and inflated ‘event’ is about money alone, thus achieving the opposite of what it claims by putting a price tag on feelings.

Love and romance are good, as is showing appreciation and thanking the person who puts up with you when you snore, when you have a go at them because the person you’re really angry with is out of reach, when they still think you are beautiful and sexy when you’ve caught a cold and have a runny nose and look and feel like shit. But doing it on this particular day, whether you are in the mood for romance or not, just because they say you should and because ‘everybody else does it’, is laughable to say the least. I’d rather endorse the Steak and Blowjob Day (http://www.steakandbjday.com/) than this Valentine’s hysteria which turns rational people into a herd of brainless spending robots who crowd every single street corner, pub, club, park, cinema and restaurant, filing in and out of these places in neat files of couples. Where’s the romance and especially the intimacy in all this?

If you do love someone and want to show it, don’t drag them to a place packed with tens, hundreds or thousands of other couples doing the same thing on the exact same day/night. Because your every gesture will lose all charm, all individuality and ‘specialness’ for the mere reason that everyone around you will be doing the exact same things. And don’t buy them cuddly toys that they will throw away the next day or hide under a bed until they think you have forgotten and it is safe to dispose of it. In fact, don’t buy them anything. Don’t take them anywhere. Celebrate your love by being there, by listening, by smiling and being supportive. And do it every day of the year, not just on the 14th of February!

Romanian Duck Releases Antichrist Egg Into the World

This is just too hilarious not to mention!

There is no translation that I know of for the article at http://senzatzional.ro/?p=216 so in a nutshell, it announces that a duck belonging to some peasant in a Black Sea Coast village in Romania has brought the Antichrist into the world in the shape of two and a half black eggs!!!! Yes, that’s right! Two and a half!

The village priest has been brought in to exorcise the abominations and order the Antichrist back to where it came from. The efforts were unsuccessful, as the eggs did not let themselves persuaded to jump back into the duck’s orifice from which they had emerged. It is suspected that the duck had sold its soul to the Devil, of course, and that this extraordinarily apocalyptical event is related to the biometric passports the Romanian government is trying to impose on its innocent citizens, thus cunningly branding them with the number of the Beast.

Shame

The book would have been no remarkable literary achievement in itself, had it not been a truthful and representative depiction of a shocking reality most of us are not even aware of.
If you forgive the author her sometimes clumsy style and focus on the story, you get an insight into the Indian community in the UK and especially the perpetual drama of young girls whose families put cast, pride and the family's 'good name' before their daughters' happiness or even lives.
This is a must read and an eye-opener for all of us, free women, who sometimes forget to count our blessings

de pe Goodreads

Where Do We All Go To When We’re Alone in Our Beds?

Cleaning Lady

She was sick on Monday (her usual day to clean the office), couldn't come, and wanted to come today (Thursday)instead. I told her 'No, just come next Monday as usual. We'll skip a week, no problem, I'll do the essentials myself'. So I hovered yesterday, watered the plants, washed the dishes, emptied the bins, etc.

This morning she turns up on the doorstep and says: ‘Up to you. If you don't want me to stay I'll just go, but I'm here now.’ Ok. So I feel sorry for her, again, stupid me, and let her stay, determined to watch her every move and criticise/train her (she has a history of not really living up to expectations). I figured she needed the money and came to work for it, no point sending her away now.

First thing she does: goes straight to the bathroom, takes the EMPTY bin bag out of the bin and puts a new one in. There was absolutely nothing in the bin! I changed it yesterday!! So I ask her why on earth she'd done that. Answer: 'You told me on my first day I should change all the bin bags every time I am here.’ I think to myself: ‘She is absolutely right! Stupid me! I forgot to add ONLY IF THEY ARE FULL!!!’

Then I see her reach for my Lush face soap (green with a palm tree design, wonderful lemongrass smell, which I bought in the Lush store in Cambridge in 2005, and regard as a very precious piece of England and my traveling back in time device when I need it, and which she had already used to wash the whole bathroom the previous week, therefore reducing it to half it's size in half an hour)!!!!!!! So I ask her in alarm: ‘WHAT DO YOU INTEND TO DO WITH THAT????’ She panics and says 'Oh! just going to wash the soap holder underneath it.’ So I stand in the doorway watching her. She does the following: puts the soap in the sink, runs the hot water on full blast ON THE SOAP and washes the holder. Because I was standing there, she felt the need to scrub the holder thoroughly, the hot water running the whole time. By the time she was done, the water had melted the soap almost completely. I ask her if she can see anything wrong with what she’d just done. She looks at me like I've killed her newborn babies and shrugs and says: 'I don't have my glasses with me. Did I not wash the soap dish properly?' And she runs the hot water again on the soap, which is still in the sink, melting. Now, honestly, what else can I say? She is just dumb, poor thing. Not her fault, I suppose, that she was born without a brain.

Then I ask her what exactly she used to clean the mirror, toilet, sink and whole bathroom last time. Very casually (almost proud of herself) she informs me that she used the face soap and the washing-up liquid. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. I ask her ‘WHY??? When I have bought a very expensive purposefully created product for each of the surfaces?’ She raises her eyebrows. I point at the row of bottles of Cif and Domestos and Duck Anitra WC and so on. She says: ‘Oh, I didn't know what they were for and didn't know what else to use.’

I lift each bottle and show her the very explicit picture on each (the tiles cleaning liquid has a picture of sparkling tiles on it, the bath/sink product has, funnily enough, pictures of sparkling baths and sinks on it, the window and mirrors one has sparkling windows on it, the toilet one has a picture of a sparkling toilet on it!!!). She says ‘Oh, great!’ So I say: 'Glad we got that solved' and wait for her to make a move. She goes pink and finally asks me (30 seconds later!): 'So which one is for the bathtub again?' 
So I hand her the bottle and exit quickly before I snap. I figure it's best for my sanity if I don't know what else she is doing!

Just before she’s due to leave though, I remember that last time she was here she took out the electric perfume releaser from the plug, to plug in the vacuum cleaner. Then she replaced the device in the plug, UPSIDE DOWN. Therefore, all the oily liquid from it dripped onto the carpet before I noticed it a few hours later, by which time it was already completely empty. So I had left it in the plug, the right way up, empty as it was, just to see what she does next.

So today, just as she was leaving, I checked. It was upside down again! So I drag her back from the door, point at the thing and explain it USED to contain liquid until she inserted it in the plug upside-down, hence wasting it and staining the carpet (thankfully, it is black, so you can’t really see the stain). So she innocently asks: ‘So you want me to throw it away if it's empty?’ ‘No, I want you to understand the laws of physics, namely gravity. If you turn a vessel containing liquid upside down, the liquid will tend to get out of that vessel. So, please, I will buy another one, but I don't want it wasted in one go again. It's meant to last 72 days!!’ She looked at me as if I was insane and headed back towards the door. As she was leaving, just like an afterthought, she said to me: ‘You know, I did notice there was a nasty oily patch on the carpet. Don't know what you spilled on it!’

Atonement

 I have read most of Ian McEwan’s work and I find Atonement his most powerful by far. I read it ages ago, but I have recently seen the movie based on it, directed by Joe Wright and featuring actress Kiera Knightley. The movie has been described as ‘poetry on film’ but I find the best feature to be its being true to the novel it is based on.

For those of you who want to see the movie, you can watch it online at: http://www.surfthechannel.com/episode/61497/54557.html However, prepare for the challenge of owning up and atoning for your own buried sins from long ago. This book/movie has the power to once again show you the difference between right and wrong and to compel you to right your wrongs.

Law 298/2008 Starts Monitoring Us Today

In November 2008 the Romanian Parliament passed a law which regulates the ‘retaining of data generated or processed by electronic communications service providers’. This law becomes active today, 20 January 2009.

Law 298/2008 states that all telephone services providers have the obligation to keep records of ALL phone calls and text messages sent through them for a period of 6 months. (Data includes details on the call itself, as well as the identity and location of both caller and receiver). Starting with the 15 March 2009, the same data will be ‘retained’ by all Internet services providers, meaning all e-mails, browsing, search and any other Internet activity will be monitored (date and time of log in and log out, location and identity of user, IP, identity of sender and receiver of e-mails, etc.).

The full text of this law can be found here: http://www.avocatnet.ro/content/articles?id=13906

This law surely has us thinking of Orwell’s ‘1984’ and is yet another step towards a Big Brother society. But we said the same thing about CCTV until we realised crime can be prevented with its aid, or at least criminals brought to justice. The Government will always claim that such information will only be used for the better good and will not be abused in any way. It will also claim that law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear. If you have nothing to hide, why would such a law bother you?

The question is: are we willing to trade our privacy for a potentially safer society? And do we trust our government to use the information to our benefit rather than against us?

Verde Cafe

I have been debating with myself whether to post this or not, but having read a reference to Verde Cafe on a friend’s blog (http://albeenah-xtent.blogspot.com/) and having witnessed the event she is describing, I have decided to publish my opinion on the subject.

We had been looking for a cozy, friendly place to gather for another friend’s birthday, and stumbled across Verde Cafe on the net. From its description, reviews and photos, it seemed the perfect place. As if it had been intended for us all along. We happily made a reservation for 10 and made our way over there one freezing evening.

We were thrilled with the place and ignored the lack of any diet or sugar free non-alcoholic drinks, the fact that the cook was on holiday and the kitchen closed (although we would have appreciated being told BEFORE we got there and chose dishes listed in the menu), the fact that there was no purpose-built ventilation to speak of and when the room got too smoky – in the smoking area – the door would be opened and we’d all freeze to near statues and the fact that our urine turned to icicles and stalagmites before it reached the toilet bowl because the bathroom wasn’t heated in any way and the windows jammed open to let the minus 10 fresh degrees of air cool our naked butts.

Instead, we chose to concentrate on the good bits: friendly staff, extremely comfortable seating, homely feeling, colourful and tasteful design, wonderful location, fun and friendly customers, very decent/low prices, great music, wonderful atmosphere. We chatted the night away and had to be reminded that the place was closing down at midnight. Before we realised, we had been there for 6 hours eating (delivery service), drinking (what they still had from the things listed in the menu), admiring the very funny Mr. Rabbit blown-up photos on the walls and showing each-other a few card tricks.

Everyone was extremely friendly towards us during the 6 hours we spent there, but, as we were leaving, one of the staff (whom we believe to be the owner, although we can’t be sure because she didn’t introduce herself) told our birthday girl – while she was paying the bill – that we had broken a ‘house rule’ by playing cards on a day other than Tuesday. Moreover, she insisted that if we ever returned there, she was hoping we wouldn’t do it again.

Now, to make it all clearer, here are the facts:

- Fact: Verde Cafe is advertising on their website (www.verdecafe.ro) – on the last page of their menu - the fact that it has theme nights and Tuesday in particular are dedicated to card games.

- Fact: Birthday Girl had asked when making the reservation if they (the Cafe and staff) had anything planned for that Friday evening or if they’d be willing to organise some/any activity for us in particular. The answer was ‘no’ to both questions.

- Fact: Birthday Girl was not informed, at any point up to bill paying time, that that card games were forbidden on any other day of the week apart from Tuesday.

- Fact: among other things, Birthday Girl got 2 decks of playing cards as a present on that evening.

- Fact: we did not play any card game as a group, or individually. I showed the rest of the group a card trick – I will atone forever! - and some people in the group tried to figure out how it is done. At no point during this card orgy were we informed that we were breaking a ‘house rule’ or asked to stop threatening the smooth running of the place by shuffling some obviously forbidden items on the table on the wrong day of the week.

Of course that believing we were in an extremely friendly venue, where ‘every party retains the beauty of a relaxed and relaxing chat with friends’ (and that’s a translated quote from the Verde website), we were stunned to hear such an accusation and warning from the Verde woman. Birthday Girl in particular felt insulted and appalled by the way the comment was made, but worst of all, after we had all praised the place and made plans to become regulars, that one comment was enough of a wet blanket to ruin the whole mood of the evening. We left feeling like scolded children and I doubt any of us will rush back there soon. Such a pity! Because I absolutely loved the place and I would warmly recommend it to everyone I know. Just make sure to ask for the book of rules first, just to make sure that your seemingly harmless leisure activities aren’t in fact gross trespassing of a house rule!