He never said it, 'twas no hope By all rights I shouldn't cry He only gave me enough rope For the wind to string me by
I can not blame him for this I knew when I was going in I would just be a stolen kiss and an improper fleeting whim I lost my magic as a muse The inspiration was no more I held on but it was no use he still hurt me to the core Now I'm a badly written verse
A notch made on a leather belt
A point for drama in reverse
A road travelled but not felt
We are not very sure on how to celebrate Thanksgiving, since it is not our holiday. But it involves turkey, wine, friends and therefore it is an excuse to break out the kiddie table and fight about politics with the cousins. I have a lot of cousins and a big apartment to fit them all in. And the turkey has already been slaughtered so we might as well roast it and eat it (or at least try). And it is close to the November feasts which we never celebrated anyway but still enjoyed what with the days off and the solemn concerts of yore.
This year’s Thanksgiving started in the morning with my dad who, after trying my mom’s patient for half an hour, suddenly started giving thanks for the big apartment we were in, and the nice weather we were having. He proclaimed he was giving thanks every hour on the hour for something.
The womenfolk including yours truly were hard at work on cooking. I know that Thanksgiving is one of the holidays with a very set menu but my mom took one bite of the yams one year and declared disdain for all foreign food that cannot decide whether to be sweet or salty, spicy or mild and tries to be all. so she cooks what she wants, and I buy the rest. (Yesterday my manager was horrified at the idea that I would buy apple pie, not pumpkin for Thanksgiving. She told me that the only way I could have apple instead of pumpkin was to eat it with an wedge of cheddar cheese. I could see her horrified face as my mom took out the pershesh. Turkey innards are for stuffing purposes only. I learned this when my cousin reduced her New Englander cousin-in-law to tears when she stole the turkey’s heart for her pershesh).
However, I decided to get involved this year and do some shrimps, sauces and other little things here and there that do not require much work ( i hate work) but can still be eaten. In the end, the heaped table did not make sense at all but it smelled wonderful, if i do say so myself (I can because I ate half of it). We had the turkey, the pershesh, the shrimps scampi, the tzaziki sauce, the russian salad (who the russian call french and the french call it good to eat) and the seaweed salad in honor of the new neighborhood. Truly international.
There were kids playing, grownups drinking and singing out loud, other grownups discussing politics, religion, origins, ancients napping in a corner and one baby who watching it all with interest. At one point, my little cousins came to me very excited. “wow they said, “we did not know you drew stuff”. I had forgotten I drew stuff. Once upon a time. Very long ago. I drew stuff. they kept on watching me with newfound respect throughout the evening.
I had a dejavu. I remembered how excited I was when I found my uncle’s notes on how to kiss girls, how to talk to them and make them go home with him. there were several models of love letters and some unsavory descriptions of taking their bras off, but I did not wear a bra then so I did not pay it very much attention. However, I was hooked on the kissing part dreaming night and day about the special one who would say the right words and would position me just so, before he brushed his lips sweetly with mine, slowly blowing on them and mingling our breaths before he would truly attach his lips to mine and whisk me away to eternity. There was something with the tongues too, but the notes emphasized that it could be done only if the girl wanted to, and I did not see the point of it. It wasn’t in the movies.
And tonight, my little vixens found a secret of their old cousin. I felt a bit like a rite of passage was completed. They would remember me later as the cousin who could draw. It beats being remembered as the cousin who could eat and be a scary witch after three glasses of wine. And sing the baritone instead of the soprano.
My dad gave thanks several more times today, once about his beautiful nephew, then the internet connection and then other things. He seemed so proud that he had figured out the meaning of Thanksgiving all by himself and kept asking everyone: “Well, what are you going to give thanks for? What makes you most grateful?”
Well, having him for a father makes me very grateful. And the fact that he is still an innocent wonderful man who is not afraid to figure life out and give thanks for it. And a lot of other mushy-lushy stuff that I do not want to dwell in right now. it does not jive with the figure of the cool older cousin who can draw sexy supermodels.
The visit of the Albanian PM and his entourage in New York was shrouded with mystery, high level security and media. First, I had to decide whether to go at all to meet with our charismatic Preemie. As one man put it “You are against him, so why are you here?” I said to him that I was actually there to meet somebody else a bit lower in the totem pole but still a friend of sorts. I wanted to say that not all of us need to lick behinds to get invited to places like him but I didn’t. Nobody can say I am not a diplomat. However, his question made me ponder a bit.
“True,” I thought “Why am I here?” The man is the source of all eeevil in my family’s eyes. I can even go so far as to say that my grandmother was the only one who understood the Axis of Evil concept but she added Mr. Berisha to it. Over the years, I have found little to dissuade me of this idea, but enough of politics. The truth is I like APEN and their events and I had an errand to run with one of the people there.
APEN always seems to attract young and interesting people who like to dress well and love to get introduced to other people. And have fun. They are sort of a hybrid crowd. Many came in this country when they were little and graduated here and emerged clean, well coiffed and almost human. Some were born here and thankfully only know Albania through Skanderbeg stories and Southern Riviera. And there there is people like me who worked the minute they set foot in this country and will continue until the day they die. (in different stages of evolution)
So, in short, I chose APEN because i always get a free drink or two there. And sooner or later old friends converge with new ones and I meet everybody all over again. Some used to be ugly ducks and they had turned to swans. Some used to be creeps and had doubled up in creepness factor. And the thief from last time was in attendance again, since I lost my camera this time (Every time I go to the Russian Tea Room, something disappears. But hey, free drinks and exquisite dinners I don’t pay for make up for it. So, if you decide to go, savour the food and keep your purse closed and your cell phone in your boobs) New faces not so much.
Before anyone asks, I have absolutely no idea what the PM said. Political speeches give me acute ADD. I did hear comments about internet access in every village. Well, who knows, it might actually be true. However, there were quite a lot of people there and I did get a handshake or two. I also entertained two irreverent teenagers with repetitions of “Where do you live? “New Milford” “Milford?” “No, New Milford” “Hey, she said Milford, get it? Milf- ord. HiHiHi”
I also finished my errand which consisted in bothering several people from the PM’s entourage to locate the person who was bringing me a tea china set from Albania, since US is completely out of the wretched thingies. And there is the answer to the whole creep question.
I was really there to pick up my china set. 
So it came to be that for whatever reason, Mother Theresa’s name is attached to a corner of Lydig Avenue in the Bronx. I think it was all that hard lobbying.
Anyway, most Bronx politicos showed up in all their glory, with smiling faces and long speeches and for whatever reason yelling: “Cheers to Kosova’s Independence!” prompting a yellow-shirted scruffy man to yell back “Long live Gjergj Kastrioti Skanderbeg!: That crazy history and those pesky Albanian borders are very confusing, it is true. It seems that it was the perfect meet and greet opportunity, one of those occasions when you nod to people you know and have seen in every single Albanian show and tell, you shake hands with people you do not know and normally would hide behind the turkish grocery store if you normally saw them on the other side of the street, and you note the absence of previous Albanian Scene staples, murmuring “hmm, strange he/she is missing this, did something happen i do not know about?”. Then you clap and cheer the speeches you heard nothing of since you were trying to nonchalantly take the best pose for the sweeping cameras in front of you, until you suddenly catch from the speaker gems like this one: “We will work, and elevate Mother Tereza’s name to the skies…” Well, excuse me but isn’t Mother Tereza proclaimed a saint already? how much further will her poor name go?
There were some sisters from Mother Tereza’s order too but they only spoke near the end and the microphone was off for half of the speech. but hey, they got their claps and sat down happy.
Then the time came to take off the paper hiding the name, unveil the miracle, the fruit of so many Albanian organizations at work (each circulating the same 6 members in any kind of weather) and yes, the cord came off but the paper stayed on. frantic searches for ladders, the politicians wincing through their smiles, then the saviour of the day, a businessman did it Albanian style. he climbed the pole and took off the paper for all to feast their eyes and feel like Albania has finally arrived. He looked like such a mensch.
And I shook hands and gave out my business cards, posed for pictures with a whole bunch of women, smiled at the politicos and left ready to pass out from the sun.
All in all, a good event.
I went to the store to get my cousin a birthday card for her 40th birthday. wouldn’t you know that everything there treated 40th birthdays as something dirty to be shaken off as soon as possible? i mean here is a successful, beautiful, elegant woman surrounded by husband, children family and well wishing friends, and all I could find in the store said: “don’t worry that it is your fortieth birthday. we’re sorry but it is better than being fifty”
I know that women might experience a degree of sadness at the years that pass and at the body parts that sag. yet, why should we be reminded of that? We are not all cantankerous old biddies which cannot be happy and grateful for the blessings in our life, just because we are a year older. I do not exactly remember when I saw my first gray hair. I do not remember a day when I did not feel fat and saggy. I do remember days when my hair had a life of its own and framed my face in the most perfect way. I do not think any of those things happened on my birthday, the day that I want most to be perfect. What I remember from my birthdays is laughter cake and fun. Yet, cards warn me not to be sad and take solace when I am forty. Boo-hoo to them. I am having fun, i do not want to think about a wrinkly tush.
Some of us actually are proud of that wrinkly tush and enjoy the fact that it brings us more quality compliments than twenty year old booty. Some of us like gray hair at the temples, or the strength and respect that comes with them. Some of us are not afraid to turn forty when the man we love and given children to, is on our side with roses and a childish grin on his face because he will get lucky again tonight with the woman of his dreams. Some of us have a life and celebrate that, instead of mooning over meaningless dates.
So, I look in vain for a fun card that does not involve wrinkles, sadness over age, forced humor, and stupid comments on my body shape. In the end, I resolve to buy her an empty one, and write my own message of love and affection that has derived from our relationship. I am sure her birthday will be a glorious affair.
twiddling my thumbs and waiting for albo election results in my underwear. it is raining and i crave a smoke. i don’t smoke but i crave one. i miss the sexy way one holds the cigarette between one’s fingers and one’s lips, the acrid taste of a smoker’s mouth and the putrefying odor coming from flossing a smoker’s teeth.
results don’t come up yet. i want election results, i want colors of either blue, red or that mixture of color that always turns to grey. politics! whoever saw any good come out of them?
i dunno why i care really. maybe if my mystery man did not turn into a dud, i wouldn’t have craved results that much. tall dark and completely empty up there. i mean not a stitch of brain. cute ducky though. if only he did not open his mouth. one date was enough
so, now i am back to browsing for election results and watching porn. almost the same thing really, except the climax is taking so long. but i imagine the same ugly faces and animal noises will ensue. did i mention it is still raining? f
urthermore, today i learned that quite possibly the last prospect of marriage gave pursuing me up because i was not talkative enough ?!!! strange world we live in when a man does not want to marry a woman because she does not talk enough. and complains of it to his mother.
i might be old-fashioned. yeah, that’s it, the world has gone too forward and i can’t seem to stop it. i even went for hot yoga, the thing where you sweat like a pig for an hour and a half and you have to look at your own belly for half that amount of time. and the rest is spend focusing at yourself in the mirror. like i don’t have enough body issues already. actually, why lie, i loved mu big round belly, white hips and red face. and my hear curled nicely, even as i was trying to spider my way through that seated eagle pose. i mean whoever even imagined a seated eagle?
and who will win these elections? and why is iran having elections at the same time we are? conspiracy i say. conspiracy as tall as my cousin’s sparse beard and as crazy as his other theories. see, i am glad i am out of fashion in a way, because when one is always cool, one starts thinking one is also smart and oneque. and that can be downright nasty.
so anyway, i am going to sleep. i officially will not care until 6 am eastern standard time about who won the elections.
g. night
“woo, marshallah, God bless your tits. you have really good tits, just the way i like them.” the statement in itself, while true, makes for a very uncomfortable compliment. coupled with the fact that it just left the mouth of an 84 yr old woman, and the blush on my neck and cheeks becomes entirely justified.
“cheeks too, very round cheeks” she says and pinches them. I laugh. we are good with cheeks, in familiar ground. we talk about other things, we laugh and we gesture, we interact with the rest of the people in the center. we discuss the program, the number of her children (anywhere from four to eight) and what she expects to get from us. the nice center assistants comes swooping in bearing apple juice.
“wooo, good tits, great tits you have too. i like your tits” my horny hag chimes in again, cackling in her particular cooky way.
“vot she say? ” the aide asks. thankfully she does not understand Albanian.
“tell her. tell her she has round tits” the old lady says and elbows me in the ribs.
“she says you are very beautiful and she likes your face” my pg13 version ensues. the aide beams at the old lady, the old lady beams at the aide and they both feel happy. who says I have no diplomatic skills?
at least i got a compliment.
This guy starts a new job. He is told that there are only three rules for him to survive: Be nice to the boss, Be nice to the customers and Try not to be nice to V, because she’ll jump his bones like she does everybody new. Or at least use a condom.
So he is nice to the boss, nice to the customers and not nice to V. until that fateful day when she catches him alone in the stockroom. He is there for half an hour and he merges with his clothes in disarray and his head in a swoon. There is no doubt V. has had him too.
-Did you at least use a condom? -his well-meaning friend asked.
-Nah – the guy answered, – She looked clean. Besides I doused “lil’ Albo” with vodka afterwards.”
-What???
Yeah, it is apparently a sure fly way for men to douse their “lil’ Albos” with strong vodka, raki or rubbing alcohol after the deed in lieu of using a condom. It is a practice for all the guys after their Friday Night Manhattan Special. One of which, being extra bad, kept his thingie immersed in raki for an hour and ended in the emergency room with a female doctor to whom he refused to tell what was happening. I dread to think what happened to the raki.
Use condoms people!
ermonela is beautiful and simple, with big soulful eyes and a mouth that smiles very often. an expressive girl that sincerely talks about herself, the work that she does, the passion that drives her and the emotions she transmits. it is a bit hard to imagine her for what she truly is, the source of tears in the eyes of audiences all around the world, the object of their adoration, and a prima donna in the true sense of the word. instead, she is an excellent conversationalist who answers my questions with an unusual candor and tries to stay away from cliches.
labi is the boy next door in the brink of manhood. he does have three kids and a wife, and i imagine he is the man of his house, yet, he lounges about in this couch like an eternal young man without a care in the world, who was never told to sit up straight and pay attention. but he is nice and gives me time to write his answers down. he is tall, dark and very very handsome in a rough movie star kind of way. and he sings. it is his job and he does it well, saying the right things at the right moment and crinkling his nose at some of my offbeat questions. but he answers them all and even makes sure i have written all the answers down. interesting.
leonora is a goddess in the black evening dress with a deep decolletage and a cinched waist. after the shoot she changes and comes sits next to me for our little chat. she actually looks different in regular clothes, not out of place in the streets of Manhattan or any other civilized city. i like her because she eats bread without hesitation and without guilt. i like people who eat. she answers my questions with a seriousness i did not expect. then she tells jokes, which surprisingly make me laugh. later on, i put on her songs for the first time in my life and listen. i can’t help but think that once you get past all the chickie-chickie pam-pam, there is a maturity to her voice that it is usually not found in most singers her age. and my sister is a fan. who knew?
these talks all happened today, and the three people above were nice enough to submit to my questioning. my first guinea pigs. i am going to write bits and pieces for TUNG, a kosovar magazine published in Switzerland. yay!
i realize it is not easy to interview people. but i also realize that we Albos are very very good looking, and if nothing else, the readers will be looking at the stunning pics accompanying my pieces and forget to actually read them. silver lining y’all!
I do not know why I like this show so much. I have seen it three times and I still laugh. Maybe because it is very well written. Maybe because to me, it is an excellent example of how to put together your heritage and your profession and create something truly remarkable. Wish there was a trailer in Youtube, because you’d understand what I am talking about.
Normally Albanians either write in Albanian about things totally Albanian who cannot be understood by the unfortunate non-Albanians. Or they succeed in their professions so removed from their heritage, that they cannot reconcile where they came from with what they are. So, there are the ex-pat community writers, marvelling at their own ditties and hailing each-other as the best thing to come along since sliced bread. Or the superintendent movie directors who rip off soap operas, mix them with a little myth and serve them with a side of bad script edited by their 13 year old cousin on the family PC.
On the other hand, there are the removed ones, the successful professionals who only confess their heritage if that helps them in their career, and whose success depends on them being as WASP as possible. They create in a language they are not sure in, and talk about subjects that perplex them, and achieve success, because they are talented and smart in spite of all odds.
There are only a few Albanians who represent the community and successfully bring it to the outside world. Divorce! is one of them. It translates very well in English. It helps nonAlbanians understand how to behave in case they are invited to weddings, and even better, saves explanations to inlaws. It makes Albanians laugh because they can all find pieces of their life mixed in between the jokes. And it makes Albanian-Americans less uncertain about where they come from and how to intertwine their heritage with their present.
Curious fact: several people have remarked on the inaccuracy of the Albanian words in the back of the program. They are dialect and it is fun to compare them to the correctly spelled words and see how they have changed through regions, times and generations.
So go see it if you haven’t and laugh out loud. And maybe think about mixing your own heritage into a work of art like this one. The show is still going on through April 2nd. For more info, please check out www.elzazagreda.com
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