Christian Mingle

I’m filled with equal amount of dread and ridicule when the Christian Mingle add comes on telly. “Find God’s Match for You”. If that’s not taking the Lord’s name in vain, I don’t know what is.


Thankfully, the internet finds, just like me, this to be an endless source of fun:

Satan Mingle

In the name of research I signed up and was only given the options of ‘man seeking woman’ and ‘woman seeking man’. I also had to give height, eye colour, fitness (?!), church, how often I attend church, name of my church my attitude towards children, faith, church and faith again . Finger’s crossed that I get approached by a wholesome episcopalian man who already ‘has children but want more’.

Thank you internet for this one:

I met my boyfriend on Christian Mingle


One of those days…

The most accurate description of how I felt when being woken up by Mike’s alarm at 6.30 only to find that he’s not in his room. In fact he wasn’t even in the flat:

Eat me

Mike, I will assume that you’re trapped in an emergency room somewhere in Nigeria giving birth to a unicorn sideways.

Today is one of those days that could go either way. I could end up being in the most cheerful mood, delighted by my surroundings and the people around me or I could resort to the grumpy Jewish man I know inhabits my soul. The odds were against me when I was rudely awoken by the alarm of the man across the hallway only to be faced with an even more dreaded morning-nemesis: DC Metro. This rustic train experience, where the management is equally startled and perplexed when the morning rush-hour start and attempt to rustle up some trains, is what I imagine the Trans- Siberian Railway was back in 1865. The Metro is a dark, dark place where they do not waste the usage of either lights or signs, and the only thing that hints the existence of a platform is when the doors open. If  you for some silly reason get absorbed in a book or paper, look up a few stops later, the chances of you actully knowing where you are is abysmal: No signs, no announcements (with the crackling of the speakers the driver might as well be speaking Dutch-pirate for all I hear) and dim lighting, you are lost. I have lost count of the times this has happened to me.

Another low to the day was when the 2km upwards escalator at Dupont Circle had stopped. ‘But don’t worry the Metro’ urged, ‘we’re in no hurry to fix this, simply walk up’. Summer has hit DC and it was 27 Degrees as I left the apartment. I stomped up the escalator, cursed at a car that drove when I reached the street as it was my turn to walk and slapped it with my newspaper only to  find that no one was at the office and I couldn’t get in as interns aren’t trusted with office keys. Sigh.

Today is also the day when we will have an intern-meeting, to evaluate and bring the program forward. Now, my brief (albeit wonderful) stay in America has taught me that there is no such thing as a polite evaluation. Here, passive aggression is king of management meetings. I have for example been given the rhetoric of ‘This was your choice Miriam, so if you feel/act/laugh/ build a space rocket they way you do, then that was YOUR choice. WE, the management can’t do anything about your choices’ when being asked to give feedback about an issue that might bear a hint of criticism or concern. Listen, if you don’t want my feedback, don’t ask. They really are lovely at my office, but the weird relationship between the management and the interns works as a rather strong deterrent for cooperation and it will take more than a couple of feedback meetings to solve that issue. So that should be fun.

We have gotten 8 questions to answer, one of them is: ‘ In an ideal situation, what kind of support would you like to give as an intern?’Afternoon Sangrias. That would be an incredible improvement to the internship program in my opinion.

Current emotional and mental state:

Bunny crashing


How I feel when I finish a project two days ahead of deadline

Man and car

The final maintenance-task is done and dusted! Perhaps now, as I have perfected the art of catalogising, organising and uploading, they’ll let me do some actual writing. You know, the stuff that was in my job description when I applied to be a Communications Assistant.


The Landlord

This morning, as I was rushing to see the Marathon Men, a man steps out from the laundry room with an orange box in his hands. I have never seen this person before in my life, but that didn’t stop him. He looked at me and asked: ‘Is Brian awake?’. Is (Brian awake? Who are you?!) He asked again, pointed at the orange box and said: ‘I’m going to bomb your apartment today’. By now I was completely lost. A man from the laundry room that looks like he’s from Philippines is telling me that he’s bombing our apartment at 8.30 am. What a great way to start your day. ‘No, it’s 8.30 am Brian is definitely not up. Nor is Mike. Try again in two hours or so.’

So I had heard about ‘Louise’ the landlady. Turns out that Louise is ‘Luis’ and he’s not from Philippines, but from Chile. He’s not the landlady, nor is he a transexual landlord either. I have now learnt that our landlady’s name is Christina and that Luis is the building supervisor with the ability to bomb apartments. When you  ‘bomb an apartment’ you throw in gas canisters that poisons the air and kills all bugs and rodents.

You learn something new every day in the land of opportunity.

David Brent dancing


Shrimps and Dino-whores

First of all I just want to say a big thank you to ya’ll! Yesterday this nonsense online blabber-board of mine had over 400 views! Say what?! Oh you guys. All I can say is:

Steve Newlin

This past Saturday I had another ‘when in America’-experience when I had two engagements of equally interesting, but different, character: a ‘Shrimp Boil’ and a ‘Dinosaur and Whore’-party. They were quite close to each other time-wise so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone and jump into my ‘Dino-whore’ costume (I fused the words and came up with a brand new costume category), go to the Shrimp boil and then go to the silly-themed fiesta. You know that moment in Bridget Jones when she walks into the Tarts and Vicars party only to find that everyone is in their Sunday Best? That was the exact feeling that I had walking into the Shrimp-boil. It wasn’t that I looked like either a dinosaur or whore, I just looked incredibly out of place. Most people looked at me as if  I had escaped the brothel/ mental institution. So what I had done was cut a pair of tights, stuffed it with Washington Post articles and smeared it in green and blue glitter. I had also covered myself in glitter (as scaly as I could) and had my hair up in an attempt to create some kind of lizard-head. The tail was attached to a reasonably slutty excuse of a dress and I had taken christmas-tree-decoration-pearls (I couldn’t find any string), tied it around the tail and my wrists so that I could ‘waggle’ my tail as I was walking. It took a while for people to warm up to me. The Shrimp-boil was delicious and Kristen a wonderful hostess!


Kristen in action stirring the boil with potatoes, onion, sausages, spice and lemon and of course, shrimp, shrimp and more shrimp. The stewing took place in the back garden and when the boil was done she simply poured it on a newspaper-covered table and everyone just dug in. It was delicious! After having been fed and entertained I took my tail and waggled on to the next party where I felt far more at ease; dinos and hoes were everywhere!IMG_2246

Comparing tails.


Keeping toes warm is a top priority amongst dinos.

The rest of the evening went along the lines of tequila shots, punch, and more liquid strong stuff. There are always those nights when you want to continue partying but you don’t know where, and you will in the end make a profoundly bad decision. Our party of six decided to, for some absurd reason, to go to Secrets- the gay male strip club. What on earth possessed me to go back? So I found myself, once again, staring at bouncing man-bits and ordering drinks that were far too strong and far too expensive.

Next weekend I will be a responsible adult who wakes up on a Sunday morning, goes to museums, buys fruits and vege in the market and whom under no circumstances decides to jump up on the podium next to the naked dancers, bust a few moves and roar: ‘My tail is so much bigger than yours!!!’