secret 30 - the local news

when i was a little girl, not a whole lot older than this, t.v. was a relatively new thing for everyone to have in their home. and we had a t.v. and i suppose it got a couple of channels. the local CBS affiliate for sure and probably a PBS station. i can even recall the rabbit ears perched on top of the t.v., lengthened with a bit of tinfoil because that must have helped the reception some.

someone must have discussed the local news and the national news within earshot of me. walter kronkite was the national news man and he seemed a bit stern and serious. i remember les and gina something (funny how only their first names come to me), a husband-wife team, were the local news people.

well, apparently, the whole concept of local and national got a little fuzzy for me because in my head, local meant that les and gina (who i was apparently on a first name basis with, undoubtedly due to them being local) could see me right there in our living room. so, if i had been upstairs taking a bath and all of my clothes were downstairs in the laundry basket by the washing machine, i had to sneak, wrapped up in a towel, behind my dad's gold chair if les and gina were on, because i wouldn't want them to see me all dripping wet and just wearing a towel.

lest you think i'm completely mad, i didn't think everyone on t.v. could see me, just the local news people. and maybe captain 11, who was also the weather man. and a bit creepy in retrospect.

* * *

and that's it, my last secret. it's been a long month, but i made it. and i hope you've enjoyed this little bit of insight into my madness. and if you want to do 30 secrets too, please let me know, i'd love to read yours. but again, pace yourself, even if you make a list beforehand, it's hard work and you'll find you don't always feel like writing about one of the secrets you've scribbled on your list. but it is actually worth it. i feel a sense of accomplishment. hmm, now which one was a lie...

secret 29 - the giggle loop

we were watching the BBC series coupling the other night. i can see those episodes over and over again and never ever tire of them--it's just so witty, well-written and well-acted. and like seinfeld, they have a lot of phrases that enter our vocabulary around here.

the other day, the madman jeff introduced the concept of the giggle loop. be warned, to know of the giggle loop is to become part of the giggle loop. what it is is the notion that during a very somber moment, where the last thing you should do is giggle, you will strongly desire to giggle. the desire will grow and you will burst out laughing at a totally inappropriate moment.

but best to let jeff explain:



and it reminded me of my very first encounter with the giggle loop. i must have been five or six and i was with my mom at her aunt jessie's funeral. i have a very clear picture of the vestibule outside of the church, the brownish 70s carpeting on the floor, the casket there with aunt jessie in it, looking quite still and unreal. i was probably too little to entirely understand and although i knew aunt jessie, i was also too little to really know what being dead meant. so i spied a water fountain, just a few feet away from the body, down the hallway, and began telling mom i was thirsty.

i just wanted to go over to the warm hum of the water fountain, step up on the step stool and taste the cold water. so mom took me over there and held me up, because i couldn't reach, even with the stool. we turned on the water and i bent to drink. but like many of those water fountains in the 70s, the water came on weakly at first and then suddenly spurted out full force. it sprayed me in the face and i cried out in surprise.

mom tried to shush me and preserve some decorum, but she had entered the giggle loop. she said she began to think of how aunt jessie would have loved that comic scene. and later said she half-expected her to sit up in her coffin and clap her hands with delight. and she and grandma stifled their laughs there in that hallway before going on into the chapel. i think they managed to hold the giggle loop in check until in the car on the way home, when i recall them laughing about the moment 'til they cried.

have you ever had a giggle loop?

secret 28 - my first and only visit to bulgaria

looking for adventure one weekend in the balkans, several of us decided to head to sofia, bulgaria on a bus. we went armed only with an overnight bag, ATM cards and a dog-eared copy of let's go eastern europe. we arrived at the bus station and found our way to the center of town.

it was the late 90s and it was quite evident that the fall of the berlin wall had not been kind to bulgaria. we secured a room at the misleadingly-named grand hotel (why are those hotels always far from grand--it's true in oslo too). the hotel, still being quite soviet in procedure, took our passports. i was used to that and wasn't alarmed (not until later). we stashed our backpacks and headed out to see the sights.

the streets were curiously quiet and there was a feeling of waiting or even more, of hiding in the shadows. there were few cars and buildings seemed dilapidated and uninhabited, tho' they weren't abandoned. we walked around an art museum and in every room were the ubiquitous little old ladies who sit on a chair in the corner of a museum room in any former socialist country, ready to catch you making a suspicious move towards any of the objects. we were a little shocked to see one of them openly reading a blatantly graphic porn magazine. that seemed to underline how different things were in that place.

there was an art exhibition in a corner of an enormous concrete performing arts center, clearly built in its day (which could have been 50 years before or 5, thanks to that fast-aging concrete unique to such places) according to leftover stalinist plans. the place was crumbling and there was no one around, so we actually wandered around the whole building, taking in the stage and even peeking backstage, being struck quite silent ourselves by the post-apocalyptic quality the place had. we felt all day that we were the last ones wandering a city that had been abandoned, any people we saw were at a distance and hurrying along furtively, ducking into doors and alleys, or so it felt.

near the main square, we at last stumbled upon a little street market and bought an old camera--in fact, it's the one that started our collection. (it's the folding camera in the center of the picture above.) there was also an old mausoleum which no longer showed any sign of who had once been in it and which was all draped with cheesy banners for a big one hundred and one dalmations event. i wish i'd taken pictures, but somehow i didn't. the old hammer and sickles which had adorned the sides were chipped away at and it, like everything else in the capital, had an air of abandonment about it. we photographed the little lobster we were carrying around with us everywhere on one of the chipped away soviet symbols.

after struggling to find a place to eat lunch because places seemed so hidden away and the streets were so empty, we armed ourselves with let's go and headed out in search of, of all things, a tex-mex place that was mentioned there. it said the food was pretty decent tex-mex for bulgaria and that they had live music most evenings. we thought that sounded good.

to find it, we had to go down a dark alley and into a little courtyard in between buildings. unsure of the way, but trusting implicitly those snooty harvard brats who wrote those guides, we kept going, tho' there were no signs. we entered a doorway and went down some steps and there at last was a little sign, the sounds of people clinking glasses and chatting away over the music, and the unmistakeable smells of mexican food. we had found it.

we got a table and enjoyed quite a lovely dinner. after dinner, we moved into the bar, actually passing through old west-style swinging saloon doors, where the music was playing and ordered a margarita. the owner was a friendly young mobster man who came over and chatted with us in surprisingly good english. we told him we'd found him thanks to let's go and he smiled.

finally, around midnight, in good humor, but not even close to drunk after two margaritas over the course of the evening, we headed back through the dark, empty streets to the hotel. we took a shortcut through a dark park, laughing and joking our way, to keep any spookiness at bay and we walked up the stairs at the back of the mausoleum we had seen earlier in the day. our hotel was just across the square beyond it.

as we walked up the steps, laughing about some joke or other, suddenly we were surrounded by four uniformed policemen, accusing us of disrespecting the great monument to the great leader (whose name had been rubbed off the front and replaced by the one hundred and one dalmatians banner). i don't think i immediately appreciated what was happening. they asked us in bulgarian, what we were doing there and demanded to see our ID. of course, our passports were at the nearby hotel. not speaking bulgarian and having but rudimentary macedonian (which some argue is a dialect of bulgarian), i tried to explain this and turned, indicating the hotel. they thought i was trying to get away (which i wasn't) and one of them grabbed at the small purse (coach, of course) that i had cross-ways across my body.

completely operating on instinct and not thinking at all, i pulled the purse back, and then they grabbed me and suddenly i was fighting with several bulgarian policemen while they held back my companions. on pure adrenalin, i fought back, even biting one them--i'm sure he has a perfect scar of my teeth on his hand to this day.  but then i saw a giant clump of my hair lying on the ground. seeing that made me stop.

things cooled down, one of the policemen took the angriest one aside and talked to him. the other two remained there beside me, still trying to communicate. my russian kicked in (why hadn't i tried that before?) and we managed to get through to each other. they claimed to be calling a patrol car to come and get us and take us to the station, but their radios never crackled and and it was only then that i saw their guns in their holsters and began to shake, realizing the enormity of what was happening and fearing what could happen.

my companions were with UN forces in neighboring macedonia and finally, the policemen realized that after we repeatedly pointed it out on their ID cards. but more importantly, they also realized that we had no cash on us (the angriest one seemed angriest about that). we'd used a local ATM and had only a little bit of local currency on us and about 10 deutsch marks. that wasn't enough (and i'd been way too slow to realize that was what they'd actually wanted from the beginning).

because i spoke russian, they didn't believe me that i was american, but they did finally realize the gravity of the UN identification they'd been presented. so the one i had bit (he actually turned out to be the nicest one, so i'm a little sad it was him), told me that they were going to call off the squad car they'd ordered and let us go because i could speak russian and therefore he and i could talk--giving me a conspiratorial wink and a nudge--and oh, also that UN could be "big problem."

and so we walked away back to the hotel. me shaking more and more as we got closer. i remember that i got up to the room, sank against the wall and uttered an inhuman wail that still makes me shiver, just thinking about it. we left on the first bus out the next morning.  it was all a dozen years ago, but i can tell you i can tell you that i won't be going back to bulgaria ever again anytime soon.

afterwards, i was far more haunted by what could have happened than by what actually did. four armed men. visions of a bulgarian prison. questions as to whether they even really were policemen. their radios had never crackled, so i doubted they had actually ever called any squad car. who were they? what did they really want? just money from some foreigners? the whole city was so muted and depressed and sort of holding its breath that it lent to all sorts ideas crossing my mind on sleepless nights afterwards.

my hair, of course, grew back in time and it even came in much curlier. it's still a lot curlier from that spot to this day. i also had a black eye, but when i looked at the picture of that, it still bothered me so much that i couldn't include it in this post. time does heal things, but there are some things that you never really completely get over.

secret 27 - remember her?

...i think her name was monica something. and she went on to design purses. poor girl. and to be honest, who wouldn't have done what she did given the chance. cigars or no.

and if one were given the chance, say because one was at the same university where said most powerful man on earth happened to be giving the commencement address and one happened to be part of the backstage team. and well, backstage, there was a window. and because in person, he is seriously charismatic....

you be the judge....

secret 26 - me and lenin

ok, i admit it. the first time i went to russia, one of the things i wanted to see was lenin's tomb on red square in moscow. it's a masterpiece of constructivist-modernist architecture and i found the notion of actually seeing lenin (or whatever was left of him) deliciously creepy. and it lived up to every expectation i had and then some.

photo found here.

i queued outside with a bunch of ancient, bent little old russian ladies in dark coats, colorful scarves and fur hats. it was a cold day, with wisps of snow whirling around and a bitterly cold wind blowing across red square. it was 1994 and they weren't sure at that point if they were going to keep it open, but i lucked out and found it was open that particular day.

it was a somber thing to proceed through. you walk in on the left and get the chance to walk slowly all the way around him (or at least you did then). there were guards to keep you moving--a bit like with the british crown jewels, you're not allowed to stop and as i recall, no photos were allowed (if i took some, they are, like so many of my secrets, home in my parents' basement). there was a hush and it felt very solemn and reverent. many of the elderly ladies who shuffled through ahead of me (thank goodness for them, because they walked slowly and enabled me to walk slowly) became very emotional, dabbing tears and choking back sobs.

leaving politics aside completely, it felt like something special, although lenin himself is so preserved and maintained over the years that he looked quite waxy and unreal, and it did cross my mind that there wasn't much of the real him left. but i think that what made it a special experience was sharing it with these elderly women who may have been small children way back when, women who had seen the entirety of the soviet union (and survived). and the architecture of the tomb creates a special experience as well, it's dark and imposing and cavernous and somber. and well, totally fitting as a mausoleum. they really got the architecture right. and seeing it the dim, wintry daylight of a mid-winter day added to the atmosphere.

it made such an impact on me, that when i returned to russia in the summer of 1997, i went back. the line was shorter then and it was summer, so the mood was lighter, but there were still many ancient little ladies coming to pay their respect. i don't think it had the same impact the second time, but i do recall exiting and going right back in line again, to have a second look. i wasn't sure i'd ever get the chance again. and i haven't, so perhaps i was right.

but there is something really special about lenin's tomb.

secret 25 - psst, over here

psst. over here. i've got a juicy rumor for you. did you hear that...

nope, i'll stop there. because the truth about me and rumors is that i have an uncanny ability to make rumors be true. i've even tried it with ones i made up all by myself. and every single time, they end up true. so it's pretty dangerous with me and rumors.

in my previous two jobs especially, all of the rumors i was involved in turned out to be true. people began to realize it and they had a kind of awe. if you're known to be the possessor of good information, it turns out that people often come and give you good information. which then nicely feeds your reputation and enables you to continue.

people would come to me with tales of problem colleagues and we'd discuss their transfer to outer mongolia. or west africa. and before you knew it, they'd be packing their bags. and it wasn't that i worked in HR and could actually arrange for these transfers. i think it was more of a sixth sense or an ability to see a situation and make an accurate mental assessment.

thankfully, i'm not actually using that ability much these days. and i have to tell you, it's really nice for a change. i try to use my magic wand only for good these days.

secret 24 - devaluation

it's no secret that a few years ago i had a fulbright scholarship to study in the balkans. i've written about that several times here on the blog, mostly because it's where i met husband and if i hadn't gotten it, i don't know how we would ever have met (shudders and blood runs cold thinking of that one).

but here's the kicker. getting a fulbright totally devalued the fulbright in my eyes. because i figured if even i could get one, it must be easy. the mystique was totally gone. it must be that they hand them out like candy. (frankly i feel a little bit that way about Blog of Note now that i got it too, tho' i'm not as ready to say that out loud, so please just whisper it to yourself.)

secret 23 - husband is a domestic goddess

i actually had a different secret all ready to go for today, but then husband just expertly threaded a needle for the child. with a 6-strand embroidery thread. a task i momentarily thought him incapable of. because even after more than a decade, i sometimes forget how domesticated husband really is. he can thread a needle, load the dishwasher, cook a wonderful meal, paint the walls and ceilings (even especially the fiddly bits where the line has to be really straight), measure and hang pictures so they're perfectly straight, arrange the liquor cabinet artistically, hang wallpaper, comfort a sick child, doctor a wound, and carry a stuffed tiger all over dublin.  these and many other things that are normally done by the woman of the house.

now, lest you think he's rather effeminate for a viking, i can assure you that he does all the manly man stuff too...lifting heavy objects, building no less than six buildings/sheds in our garden, roofing, mowing the lawn, digging, transporting one part of the yard to another part of the yard, gutting and then entirely rebuilding our kitchen (this took a rather inordinately long time due to about 600 other projects going on simultaneously), lifting and removing an ungodly heavy old radiator, building and then tending the green house, ordering bugs online for the greenhouse (then releasing them there, because i certainly wasn't touching them, i hardly wanted to open the mailbox), killing spiders, salting slugs, opening difficult to open jars and bottles of wine, digging a hole under the stairs big enough to bury a body in (huh, what?)...

oh, and he really is a viking. or at least goes sailing in a viking ship on a regular basis. he's in the red shirt and the rockin' gap hat kinda in the middle.

he does tho', have worryingly girly taste in alcoholic beverages. every time we ordered the guiness and the bulmers cider at our local pub in dublin (we went there three nights in a row, that makes it our local, right?), they handed him the guiness and me the cider and it shoulda been the other way around.

but best of all is husband's sense of humor, best expressed here, in the selection of axes he left out for us when i arrived home with the blog campers.

in short, husband is a keeper. and is pretty much the reason that polly and seaside girl decided at blog camp that they wanted to start a new i need a danish man blog. girls, when are we going to get that up and running?

secret 22 - i'm a bad, bad mom

so, a few years ago, when sabin was still going to her børnehave (kindergarten or pre-school as we'd call it in the states), i was in mumbai, trying on gorgeous sparkling loungewear. just moments after this shot was taken, my phone rang. it was the børnehave, calling to say that sabin hadn't been picked up and well, they'd really like to close, so could i please come and get her. oh the horror!! i was three (and a half) time zones away and may as well have been on the moon, rather than the couple of blocks away i'd have been if i'd been home.  thankfully, while i was on the phone with them, our neighbor girl, who picked sabin up regularly and was a kind of nanny, showed up. she'd been scheduled to pick sabin up that day and had been delayed leaving her real job, so she was running late. so my panic subsided.

but it did cross my mind that maybe i should be there for sabin a little bit more on a daily basis, so that she wasn't the last kid picked up every day from school. it took almost two years for that to sink in and become a reality. but you'll be glad to know that i'm a much slightly better mom today. these days i only occasionally put her on a trans-atlantic flight by herself, make her sit in monkey class, force her to stay in dumpy eastern european youth hostels with no room service or leave her all alone as the only member of our family in the country (just for a few hours).

oh, and after all those gorgeous things i tried on, i didn't end up buying a single thing.

p.s. picture is from december 2005, so hopefully i look nothing like this anymore...hair is quite a lot longer in any case.

secret 21 - the secrets are exhausting

these secrets...i've gotta tell you. they're exhausting. i cruised along quite nicely until about 16-17 and then all of the things i had scribbled down in my little blog notebook began to seem a little picked through. the gems are taken, the ones that remain (save maybe two) are a bit tame and perhaps even, dare i say it, lame (lamer than that one about never having found the right shampoo, you ask? yes, lamer than that).

oh, i've got oodles of secrets that aren't lame, but many of them have to remain secrets. to protect the innocent. and even more importantly, the guilty. and to keep this blog from getting one of those adult content warnings you have to click to enter (we only just squeaked past that one yesterday). i wish i had something really juicy left, like having posed for playboy's "girls of pan-am" or something like that, but that wasn't me, it was my cousin and as we also learned i never really went for that dream of being a stewardess. oh, not to disappoint, there actually are a couple of rather juicy stories left (not playboy juicy, but juicy nonetheless).

since this whole exhausting month was inspired by spudballoo, who must have been even more exhausted than i am since she dressed up in costumes for all of her secrets, i'm going to tell you that like her, there is one lie among my posts. maybe it's already there. maybe it's not. but once we get to 30, there will be 29 truths and one lie. and i might, just to torture spud, who quite possibly deserves torture for this little venture, never reveal which one was the lie. (just trying to ensure that it's not me she chops up to take home from blog camp, she'll have to leave me alive if she ever wants to find out.)

and if, after this, you still want to do your own 30 secrets, my advice is, pace yourself. it's exhausting.