Continuing the recount of my recent Serbian adventure...
Language
I pretty much speak Serbian at an infantile level. I can read cyrillic, count, and say basic vocabulary such as "house," "cat," "dog," and "beer."
I speak Italian fluently, and, unluckily for me, Serbian does not have its roots in Latin. There are a fair number of Latin cognates (nouns, mostly), and a surprising number of "Serbified" English words. What is "hemendeks," you ask? Why, that is "ham and eggs." "Bekendeks?" Bacon and eggs, of course. How does one say "parking service?" That would be паркинг сервис, or "parking servis." (Looks so exotic in cyrillic, doesn't it?)
Other hilarious Serbified words:
де ве де плејер, or de ve de plejer....DVD player
компјутер, or kompjuter...computer
це де плејер, or ce de plejer...CD player
хиларијус! (hilarijus)
For a linguaphile like me, Serbia is endlessly entertaining. Just riding in the car and reading signs is fun. My goal is to not read cyrillic like an idiot (you should hear me--the hub patiently listened while I read an entire children's book aloud). Imagine my delight to find that a bunch of symbols spell an English word phonetically.
Having spent a fair amount of time with my Serbian, Belgrader husband and his friends, I thought I might have enough grasp of the language to communicate on a basic level. I just parroted what I heard from him and tried these phrases:
When greeting an elderly neighbor in the hall, I tried out:
Ej bre, dobar dan. U pičku materinu.
When telling one of my new relatives that I would see them later, I said:
Ej bre, vidimose, kurac.
When toasting at dinner, I exclaimed
Ej, bre, živeli, bre, jebiga.
Oops. Apparently I was saying effity good morning, effity nice to meet you and effin' cheers, dude. Just kidding--I didn't really say those things. It's just par for the course in being married to a Belgrader and a Serb that the first Serbian words I learned were all cuss words, and "bre," or "man/dude." Serbs like to cuss. A lot. They have just about as many cuss words as regular words in their language. If you are a wasp, do not ever, ever attempt to cuss with or at a Serb. You will always, always lose.
If you are ever at a loss as to what to say in conversation, you can always try:
Da. Da da. Da da da. Super, jebiga! Pa da!
Did I mention that my husband is terrified that I will speak to the priest at the Serbian church?
But back to the language...and let's talk about vowels, or lack thereof. Did you know that some words in Serbian do not even contain vowels? It's true. Take prst, for example. You might say, "Ha ha! That's not really a word!" Oh yes, yes it is. "Prst" means "finger." If I ever break my finger in Serbia, I am jebiga-ed.
In Italian, the pronunciation is all about vowels and double consonants, with a relaxed mouth. To speak Italian well, pretend you're drunk (or be drunk).
In Serbian, as demonstrated by "prst," which I also happen to be using right now (to type, that is), it is all about the consonants. The hub asked me how Serbian sounds to me. I said it sounds like having a mouth full of rocks that you're trying to spit out. That's how I pronounce "prst." I pretend I'm trying to bean a passerby with imaginary rocks. Also, it helps immensely to yell, or as Serbs like to call it, "not yelling." When our house was full of Serbs after our wedding, our mild-mannered dog was often seen running out of rooms with his ears back because the decibel level had risen 200% in our household.
All kidding aside, Serbian is a very cool language, especially when you throw the cyrillic in. Being an independent person, and a person who loves languages, it kills me to sit and smile like an idiot at everyone, not having a clue what they're saying to me. I especially hate not even being able to buy something at the store out of fear that they'll ask me something (I've yet to purchase something in Belgrade without being asked for more exact change). So I'm hoping to improve my Serbian language skills beyond their current infantile level in advance of our next visit.
Stay tuned for part three of my Excellent Serbian Adventure...
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
A Wasp's Journey to Serbia - part 1
A few days ago, I returned to terra firma after spending a week in Belgrade, Serbia, where my husband was born and raised. For a myriad of reasons, my husband had not been back for eight and a half years, and I had never been there, since his last visit was early in our relationship.
The nutshell version of the visit is this: Serbia is pretty much like western Europe with a spicy twist; a nation of warm, giving and fierce people.
For the extended and more interesting version, read on...
From Rome to Belgrade
This was an entertaining experience. I took an Alitalia flight into Belgrade from Fiumicino. I noticed that there were a lot of people on the flight who had instruments. When I boarded the plane, I found myself in the back of the plane, in the midst of some sort of party involving a large band. These people (Serbs) talked, laughed, sang, and drank massive amounts of beer for the duration of the flight. A few minutes before landing, en lieu of the over-the-top American-style rocket landing sequence, the flight attendant literally ran through the aisle making a motion to lift the tray tables. The party in the back lifted their beers off the trays, put them in the locked position, and resumed drinking and singing.
When we landed, the guy next to me, one of the partiers, said something to me in Serbian. I told him that I didn't speak Serbian. He didn't speak English, but he did speak Italian. So we conversed a little, and he told me that the guy next to us is a huge pop star in Serbia. I asked what his name was, and he said "Sinan Sakic." Okay, I filed that away to ask the hub later. My seat companion said to Sinan Sakic, "Hey, she's American!" Sinan Sakic got up and shook my hand. He said he was really tired because he had given a concert in Naples the night before and hadn't slept.
So when I finally made it to my husband's family's house, I said that I had sat next to some guy who was supposedly a big star there. They asked who, and when I told them they said, "YOU SAT NEXT TO SINAN SAKIC????!!!!!!" Then the hub showed me a video on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34swgQ6X1Jg
Turns out, I did know who Sinan Sakic is, because my husband and his roommate used to think it was hilarious to wake each other up (and me, by default) in the morning by blasting "Ej, odkad sam se rodio."
First Impressions
My views on Serbia, prior to this trip, had been formed mostly through my filtered and limited exposure to Serbs here in America. My husband likes to reminisce, and therefore I thought that time had stopped in Serbia in the late eighties--all the Serbian movies and TV shows we watched were outdated; he went on and on about old Yugos; I was shown photos in which people were outfitted in eighties getup that made me cringe. It wasn't too wildly off, thinking that time may have stopped. I have been in places in southern Italy that were struck by earthquakes in the late 70s and it really did look like a gigantic time capsule, as they had never rebuilt.
I was in for a very pleasant surprise. Time most definitely has not stopped in Belgrade. When I landed, I discovered a vibrant, pulsing city that is both gritty and beautiful. Shiny, new glass high rises and office buildings dot the landscape, right next to Communist-era cement behemoths and ornate gems from the 1800s. Immaculately dressed women and men strutted around in their fashionable finery. The pedestrian zones were clogged with outdoor cafes and restaurants, all filled with people and conversation. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of New York and Paris.
Food
Before I left for Italy this summer, I was following a mostly vegan diet. That went out the window when I got to Italy. And in Serbia? FORGET about it. I do not know how all those women maintain their waif-y appearance. Serbian food is very heavy, and they eat a lot of it. The typical meal usually consists of boiled meat, boiled vegetables, soup, fried stuff, and bread. Oh, and cheese. Note to self: bring All-Bran next time. Rather than being difficult and princess-y, I decided to roll with it and go native. I had abdominal pain and a face full of zits.
That said, there are some really interesting and tasty things to be had in Serbia, especially with the Turkish influence on their culture:
Ajvar (pronounced eye-var): a paste of roasted red peppers and spices. My husband loves to put this on sandwiches. (You can buy ajvar at Trader Joe's if you want to try it--they just call it red pepper spread)
Kajmak: a sour, gamey, earthy butter. Usually served with grilled meats (because what goes better with meat than butter?!)
Ćevapčići/Ћевапчићи: Minced meat formed into small sausages and then grilled. Served with bread, kajmak, ajvar, and Serbian salad, which consists of tomatoes, onion, and cucumber.
Gibanica: a savory pastry dish. Filo dough is stuffed with Balkan feta and egg mixture, or also meat. Very heavy but very tasty.
Kisela štrudla: A yeast bread rolled jelly-roll style and stuffed with various fillings. The versions I had were with cheese (savory) and with poppy-seed paste (sweet).
Punjene paprike: stuffed peppers. The most popular peppers I saw in Belgrade were a very pale green, almost white. My mother in law prepared them stuffed with rice, meat, onion, and spices, and boiled them with broth and tomatoes.
Pastries: The Serbs know how to make REALLY GOOD PASTRIES. I almost put on 10 pounds just looking in the window of the hundreds of Pekara (bakery) in Belgrade. They are experts at making flaky, tender pastries containing a myriad of mouth-watering fillings. I think the key is that they aren't afraid of using lots of fat. In addition to western treats such as pain au chocolate, croissants, and ciabatta, Serbian bakeries offer some of the best cakes and cookies I've ever eaten. At one bakery, we had bite-sized flaky crescents filled with cherries and topped with powdered sugar. At a cousin's house, we had little squares of cake that had been dipped into chocolate syrup and then rolled in coconut. My mother-in-law likes to make vanilice, which are two small shortbread cookies with apricot filling in the middle, topped with vanilla-infused powdered sugar. I could go back to Belgrade right now for the pastries alone. Again, still don't understand how they are a nation of whippet-thin women and men (mostly, anyway).
Coffee: coffee, or kafa, in Serbia is made Turkish-style in a dzezva, which is basically a little pot with a pouring spout on one side and a long handle on the other. Water and sugar are boiled on the stovetop, then a little is poured off into a cup. Very finely ground (espresso grind) coffee is added to the boiling water, and then the water from the cup is added back in. The whole mixture, grounds and all, is then poured into a cup. I drank milk with mine, but I don't know how common that is. I was missing my little Italian Bialetti, and even considered buying one in Belgrade, but I decided to roll with it and drink Turkish coffee for a week. It's not much different than Italian espresso except for the ground at the bottom.
Since there's way too much to tell in just one blog post, I will continue this in segments. Check back later for more adventures in Serbia!
The nutshell version of the visit is this: Serbia is pretty much like western Europe with a spicy twist; a nation of warm, giving and fierce people.
For the extended and more interesting version, read on...
From Rome to Belgrade
This was an entertaining experience. I took an Alitalia flight into Belgrade from Fiumicino. I noticed that there were a lot of people on the flight who had instruments. When I boarded the plane, I found myself in the back of the plane, in the midst of some sort of party involving a large band. These people (Serbs) talked, laughed, sang, and drank massive amounts of beer for the duration of the flight. A few minutes before landing, en lieu of the over-the-top American-style rocket landing sequence, the flight attendant literally ran through the aisle making a motion to lift the tray tables. The party in the back lifted their beers off the trays, put them in the locked position, and resumed drinking and singing.
When we landed, the guy next to me, one of the partiers, said something to me in Serbian. I told him that I didn't speak Serbian. He didn't speak English, but he did speak Italian. So we conversed a little, and he told me that the guy next to us is a huge pop star in Serbia. I asked what his name was, and he said "Sinan Sakic." Okay, I filed that away to ask the hub later. My seat companion said to Sinan Sakic, "Hey, she's American!" Sinan Sakic got up and shook my hand. He said he was really tired because he had given a concert in Naples the night before and hadn't slept.
So when I finally made it to my husband's family's house, I said that I had sat next to some guy who was supposedly a big star there. They asked who, and when I told them they said, "YOU SAT NEXT TO SINAN SAKIC????!!!!!!" Then the hub showed me a video on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34swgQ6X1Jg
Turns out, I did know who Sinan Sakic is, because my husband and his roommate used to think it was hilarious to wake each other up (and me, by default) in the morning by blasting "Ej, odkad sam se rodio."
First Impressions
My views on Serbia, prior to this trip, had been formed mostly through my filtered and limited exposure to Serbs here in America. My husband likes to reminisce, and therefore I thought that time had stopped in Serbia in the late eighties--all the Serbian movies and TV shows we watched were outdated; he went on and on about old Yugos; I was shown photos in which people were outfitted in eighties getup that made me cringe. It wasn't too wildly off, thinking that time may have stopped. I have been in places in southern Italy that were struck by earthquakes in the late 70s and it really did look like a gigantic time capsule, as they had never rebuilt.
I was in for a very pleasant surprise. Time most definitely has not stopped in Belgrade. When I landed, I discovered a vibrant, pulsing city that is both gritty and beautiful. Shiny, new glass high rises and office buildings dot the landscape, right next to Communist-era cement behemoths and ornate gems from the 1800s. Immaculately dressed women and men strutted around in their fashionable finery. The pedestrian zones were clogged with outdoor cafes and restaurants, all filled with people and conversation. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of New York and Paris.
Food
Before I left for Italy this summer, I was following a mostly vegan diet. That went out the window when I got to Italy. And in Serbia? FORGET about it. I do not know how all those women maintain their waif-y appearance. Serbian food is very heavy, and they eat a lot of it. The typical meal usually consists of boiled meat, boiled vegetables, soup, fried stuff, and bread. Oh, and cheese. Note to self: bring All-Bran next time. Rather than being difficult and princess-y, I decided to roll with it and go native. I had abdominal pain and a face full of zits.
That said, there are some really interesting and tasty things to be had in Serbia, especially with the Turkish influence on their culture:
Ajvar (pronounced eye-var): a paste of roasted red peppers and spices. My husband loves to put this on sandwiches. (You can buy ajvar at Trader Joe's if you want to try it--they just call it red pepper spread)
Kajmak: a sour, gamey, earthy butter. Usually served with grilled meats (because what goes better with meat than butter?!)
Ćevapčići/Ћевапчићи: Minced meat formed into small sausages and then grilled. Served with bread, kajmak, ajvar, and Serbian salad, which consists of tomatoes, onion, and cucumber.
Gibanica: a savory pastry dish. Filo dough is stuffed with Balkan feta and egg mixture, or also meat. Very heavy but very tasty.
Kisela štrudla: A yeast bread rolled jelly-roll style and stuffed with various fillings. The versions I had were with cheese (savory) and with poppy-seed paste (sweet).
Punjene paprike: stuffed peppers. The most popular peppers I saw in Belgrade were a very pale green, almost white. My mother in law prepared them stuffed with rice, meat, onion, and spices, and boiled them with broth and tomatoes.
Pastries: The Serbs know how to make REALLY GOOD PASTRIES. I almost put on 10 pounds just looking in the window of the hundreds of Pekara (bakery) in Belgrade. They are experts at making flaky, tender pastries containing a myriad of mouth-watering fillings. I think the key is that they aren't afraid of using lots of fat. In addition to western treats such as pain au chocolate, croissants, and ciabatta, Serbian bakeries offer some of the best cakes and cookies I've ever eaten. At one bakery, we had bite-sized flaky crescents filled with cherries and topped with powdered sugar. At a cousin's house, we had little squares of cake that had been dipped into chocolate syrup and then rolled in coconut. My mother-in-law likes to make vanilice, which are two small shortbread cookies with apricot filling in the middle, topped with vanilla-infused powdered sugar. I could go back to Belgrade right now for the pastries alone. Again, still don't understand how they are a nation of whippet-thin women and men (mostly, anyway).
Coffee: coffee, or kafa, in Serbia is made Turkish-style in a dzezva, which is basically a little pot with a pouring spout on one side and a long handle on the other. Water and sugar are boiled on the stovetop, then a little is poured off into a cup. Very finely ground (espresso grind) coffee is added to the boiling water, and then the water from the cup is added back in. The whole mixture, grounds and all, is then poured into a cup. I drank milk with mine, but I don't know how common that is. I was missing my little Italian Bialetti, and even considered buying one in Belgrade, but I decided to roll with it and drink Turkish coffee for a week. It's not much different than Italian espresso except for the ground at the bottom.
Since there's way too much to tell in just one blog post, I will continue this in segments. Check back later for more adventures in Serbia!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Dave Danner
This morning I woke up jazzed to go to work. As I put on my last bit of makeup, I realized that today was the day my dad died, eight years ago. Of course, this fact has been knocking around in my brain over the last month or so, and had been very present this last week. Yet somehow, I woke up without it being my first thought today. This is the first year that I did not feel extreme sadness on the anniversary. At first, after I realized what day it was, I thought I should shift gears and be somber. But then I wondered what Dad would want. He was a vibrant person--always joking and taking life in. My guess was that he probably would want me to proceed with my day as I had started it: excited to be alive.
Some years ago, a co-worker, whose father had also died when she was young, told me that she didn't think a parent's death was really something that one "gets over." To an extent, I think she is right. After eight years, the feelings are not nearly as raw. But this experience--and especially, I think, if it happens before you're really an adult--changes you. All of your adult firsts are tinged, sometimes slightly, sometimes overwhelmingly, with sweet sorrow.
So, on this eight-year anniversary of his passing, I'm thinking of all the things I would have loved to share with my dad. Of course, this could take up volumes, so I'm just going to share some of the bigger ones.
My husband
I think my dad and Milan would have enjoyed each other tremendously. Milan has many of the qualities I admired in my dad: kindness, a dizzying intellect, a general curiosity about the world and the people in it. They both have/had an affinity for history, politics, public television and radio, old things, and, of course, music. Here you have two men who would quite happily spend a couple of hours with a nice cup of tea and an atlas.
Our house
My dad would be happy to know that our family tradition of working with our hands has successfully been passed on, as evidenced by the rehab job done last winter on the third floor of our 100-year-old house. I think he would love the patina of this place just as much as we do. He probably would have ruminated over replacing the windows like we did, feeling a twinge of sadness while looking at the wavy glass and the carved marks that had been made by another person's own two hands a century ago. And though our postage stamp of a yard doesn't hold a candle to the sprawling acres filled with gardens and orchards of my childhood, I think he would be glad to see the cosmos, lavendar and purple cone flowers that greet our visitors. He would find our neighbors to be kindred spirits, and would be happy that we'd found our own little corner in this city.
The election of Barack Obama
My dad minored in Black History in college, and knew all of Martin Luther King's speeches by heart. During the entire election, I often pondered what Dad would have thought of it all. I'm sure he would have been boo-hooing with all the rest of us during the inauguration. I think during this past year, that was the day I missed him the most.
Italy
I started going to Italy a few years before my dad died, when I was in graduate school. When I came home on a break and told my parents that I was going to spend my summer in ITALY, yes, ITALY, they gleefully quizzed my knowledge of Italian and sang "Buona Sera, Signorina," Louis Prima-style to me. Two years later, I came home from Italy, suddenly and unexpectedly, because Dad was very sick and wasn't expected to live long. My dad was always more of an armchair traveler, but I have a feeling that Italy could have lured him from the comforts of home. I think he would love my friends there, the food, and the essence just as much as I do. It's a place that, despite its flaws, is about living in the moment.
Food
When my dad died, I was still learning how to be an adult. As a graduate student, my repertoire in the kitchen was fairly limited, so I swooned when Mom and Dad visited, and Dad reported that I was becoming a very good cook. Since then, my foodie self has learned from the best: Italians, along with Martha, Julia, and Food Network. I often invite other foodie friends over to dinner, and we eat at the oak table that sat in our dining room when I was growing up. The one that Dad so lovingly refinished, and the one around which our family gathered for Thanksgiving and Christmas each year. Not to brag--oh, what the heck, I'm going to brag. If he thought I was good then, he should see me now. Oh, how I would love to make him a perfectly crusty-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside rosemary boule. Or pasta with homemade sauce. Or chicken with mushrooms and cream.
When my dad died, I wanted to slap people who told me that "it all happens for a reason." I seriously did not want to hear that. I wanted my dad back. I didn't want to face the rest of my life without him. It was all so unfair. I felt like the world around me was some bizarre place that no longer belonged to me. It seemed utterly cruel that the world marched on when something so horrible had happened. Those people ordering lattes and hurrying down the street to their offices--didn't they know my dad had died? How could they be so nonchalant? I actually hated sunny days, because I couldn't bring myself to be happy about it, and felt abnormal for wanting to remain indoors. But slowly, the veil started to lift, and I began to love life again. And those people, who most certainly didn't deserve a slap, for they were just trying to offer some sort of comfort, were correct on some level. My dad's passing taught me how very precious and fleeting life is. When I find myself getting overly worked up about something, usually trivial in nature, I stop and ask myself if it really matters in the grand scheme of things. And, usually, it does not. Health, check. Milan, check. Roof over my head, check. Everything else can be figured out somehow.
Some years ago, a co-worker, whose father had also died when she was young, told me that she didn't think a parent's death was really something that one "gets over." To an extent, I think she is right. After eight years, the feelings are not nearly as raw. But this experience--and especially, I think, if it happens before you're really an adult--changes you. All of your adult firsts are tinged, sometimes slightly, sometimes overwhelmingly, with sweet sorrow.
So, on this eight-year anniversary of his passing, I'm thinking of all the things I would have loved to share with my dad. Of course, this could take up volumes, so I'm just going to share some of the bigger ones.
My husband
I think my dad and Milan would have enjoyed each other tremendously. Milan has many of the qualities I admired in my dad: kindness, a dizzying intellect, a general curiosity about the world and the people in it. They both have/had an affinity for history, politics, public television and radio, old things, and, of course, music. Here you have two men who would quite happily spend a couple of hours with a nice cup of tea and an atlas.
Our house
My dad would be happy to know that our family tradition of working with our hands has successfully been passed on, as evidenced by the rehab job done last winter on the third floor of our 100-year-old house. I think he would love the patina of this place just as much as we do. He probably would have ruminated over replacing the windows like we did, feeling a twinge of sadness while looking at the wavy glass and the carved marks that had been made by another person's own two hands a century ago. And though our postage stamp of a yard doesn't hold a candle to the sprawling acres filled with gardens and orchards of my childhood, I think he would be glad to see the cosmos, lavendar and purple cone flowers that greet our visitors. He would find our neighbors to be kindred spirits, and would be happy that we'd found our own little corner in this city.
The election of Barack Obama
My dad minored in Black History in college, and knew all of Martin Luther King's speeches by heart. During the entire election, I often pondered what Dad would have thought of it all. I'm sure he would have been boo-hooing with all the rest of us during the inauguration. I think during this past year, that was the day I missed him the most.
Italy
I started going to Italy a few years before my dad died, when I was in graduate school. When I came home on a break and told my parents that I was going to spend my summer in ITALY, yes, ITALY, they gleefully quizzed my knowledge of Italian and sang "Buona Sera, Signorina," Louis Prima-style to me. Two years later, I came home from Italy, suddenly and unexpectedly, because Dad was very sick and wasn't expected to live long. My dad was always more of an armchair traveler, but I have a feeling that Italy could have lured him from the comforts of home. I think he would love my friends there, the food, and the essence just as much as I do. It's a place that, despite its flaws, is about living in the moment.
Food
When my dad died, I was still learning how to be an adult. As a graduate student, my repertoire in the kitchen was fairly limited, so I swooned when Mom and Dad visited, and Dad reported that I was becoming a very good cook. Since then, my foodie self has learned from the best: Italians, along with Martha, Julia, and Food Network. I often invite other foodie friends over to dinner, and we eat at the oak table that sat in our dining room when I was growing up. The one that Dad so lovingly refinished, and the one around which our family gathered for Thanksgiving and Christmas each year. Not to brag--oh, what the heck, I'm going to brag. If he thought I was good then, he should see me now. Oh, how I would love to make him a perfectly crusty-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside rosemary boule. Or pasta with homemade sauce. Or chicken with mushrooms and cream.
When my dad died, I wanted to slap people who told me that "it all happens for a reason." I seriously did not want to hear that. I wanted my dad back. I didn't want to face the rest of my life without him. It was all so unfair. I felt like the world around me was some bizarre place that no longer belonged to me. It seemed utterly cruel that the world marched on when something so horrible had happened. Those people ordering lattes and hurrying down the street to their offices--didn't they know my dad had died? How could they be so nonchalant? I actually hated sunny days, because I couldn't bring myself to be happy about it, and felt abnormal for wanting to remain indoors. But slowly, the veil started to lift, and I began to love life again. And those people, who most certainly didn't deserve a slap, for they were just trying to offer some sort of comfort, were correct on some level. My dad's passing taught me how very precious and fleeting life is. When I find myself getting overly worked up about something, usually trivial in nature, I stop and ask myself if it really matters in the grand scheme of things. And, usually, it does not. Health, check. Milan, check. Roof over my head, check. Everything else can be figured out somehow.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Greetings!
I've held off on doing a blog for such a long time...do people actually read these things? Are perfect strangers really interested in hearing about my weekends spent at Trader Joe's and weeding the garden? Are my friends and family? I guess we will see, won't we?
Let me introduce myself--I am 31, married, and live with my husband, our dog (whippet), and the newest member of our family, a stray kitten we found. Their stories are a blog post in themselves.
My husband and I just got married after dating for over six years and living together for four. We've been married for less than one month. My in-laws, who are from Serbia, are staying with us right now. That can also be another blog post.
I am an arts administrator, and I work in Italy for a good part of the year. My husband is also an arts administrator, but that is a relatively new gig for him. Up until about a week ago, he made his living as a violinist and a teacher. We met at the conservatory we both attended.
So I named this blog not only after the Devo song, but also after our whippet. He is very low-key, and his reaction to most events in our household is as though he was hit with a noodle (that is, no reaction). So I try to maintain his approach to life, and when a problem comes along, "you must whippet," or behave as though the problem is no worse than being flogged with a piece of angel hair. Unfortunately, I am not a whippet, and I do get worked up about some things. That's when I use his backup plans--if it gets to be too much, run away and get in bed. And ask someone for lovins. Or eat as much as you possibly can.
Let me introduce myself--I am 31, married, and live with my husband, our dog (whippet), and the newest member of our family, a stray kitten we found. Their stories are a blog post in themselves.
My husband and I just got married after dating for over six years and living together for four. We've been married for less than one month. My in-laws, who are from Serbia, are staying with us right now. That can also be another blog post.
I am an arts administrator, and I work in Italy for a good part of the year. My husband is also an arts administrator, but that is a relatively new gig for him. Up until about a week ago, he made his living as a violinist and a teacher. We met at the conservatory we both attended.
So I named this blog not only after the Devo song, but also after our whippet. He is very low-key, and his reaction to most events in our household is as though he was hit with a noodle (that is, no reaction). So I try to maintain his approach to life, and when a problem comes along, "you must whippet," or behave as though the problem is no worse than being flogged with a piece of angel hair. Unfortunately, I am not a whippet, and I do get worked up about some things. That's when I use his backup plans--if it gets to be too much, run away and get in bed. And ask someone for lovins. Or eat as much as you possibly can.
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