Ask Me

Do you ever take those online quizzes? The type that tells you: what-kind-of-fairy-princess-hair-color-do-you-really-want? I don’t know why I bother to take them, they always want to publish the results on your Facebook page before giving you the final results, and I never let them. So why do I take the quiz, how will my life be changed if I know the hair color I really want if I were to suddenly become a fairy princess. I think I’m secretly hoping the answer will be “Surprise! You’re already a Fairy Princess! Why are you taking this quiz, silly?”

Today I took the How Stressed Out Are You test. I didn’t bother finishing, the answer choices already put me into a panic attack. Why validate the obvious? 90-100% is the most likely range.

I want to make my own quizzes, of stuff we really need to know. Which Chocolate is Most Compatible With Your Lifestyle. Ever feel confused when facing the candy aisle? Worry no more, this quiz will tell you whether you want 60% dark chocolate covered raisins or sea-salt infused chocolate with caramel. Drool. How Many Pairs of Black Shoes Do You Need? Notice I didn’t say “really need”, because we’re not at Armageddon yet, we all need black shoes, the “really” is already implied. I need to know this, what’s my balanced limit? What Kind of Fairy Princess Castle Should You Live In? I’m not a monster, of course I still want to discover my fairy princess life.

And these quizzes are infinitely more helpful than the old 1.0 version of online help games, the lists. List 25 Things About Yourself That Other People Don’t Know. If other people don’t know, it’s because I don’t want them to, so obviously I’m going to lie, and in the end, I learn nothing, and neither do you. Although I do miss the email versions, I used to change font color by subtle shades to see if anyone noticed the graduating colors. None of my friends confessed to seeing it, unless they were just being polite about noticing the madness of it all.

Until I can figure out how the whole quiz industry works, it’s back to using the canned versions. Where Should You Spend Your Lottery Winnings After You Win. Finally, one I can use!

News of the Day

When a person receives shocking news, time seems to stop for a few brief seconds.  In retrospect, we remember specifics about that exact moment.  Where we were, what we were wearing, sights, sounds, smells.  It all evokes the memories and emotions of what we were feeling.  For me, June 09, 8:50 a.m., wearing a black dress from the Gap, an Old Navy white linen shirt, and burping up the taste of my morning vitamin, was my moment of catharsis.   It’s the instant I read a note from my friend, “I started watching the Kim Kardashian show, and I like it.”

What does one say when receiving this kind of news?  I’m sorry?  Congratulations?  Seek help?  Questions race through your brain.  How did this happen?  How did I miss the signs? Was I not supportive enough as a friend?  Self doubt is always the first to creep in.  It takes time to process the news. You reflect on how this affects your life, your world view.  You question your own choices.  Maybe I am being too rigid, maybe staged “reality” shows are just the way things are.  The future of all entertainment.

Would it be so bad?  I would watch the Minions run around hours on end. I’m sure they have interesting personal lives off-screen.  Or Lego Batman. OR THE MINIONS WITH LEGO BATMAN.  Breathe, remember to breathe.

Aren’t cooking shows reality?  I like watching those. Although obviously, magical elves don’t come clean my kitchen after I’ve cooked a 7-course meal.  Nor would I look rail thin after eating it.  I’m sure these shows also come with some enlightenment benefits.  Like how to take a selfie, what shoes to wear when trying to avoid paparazzi, tips on wrestling an alligator.  This can all be useful information for negotiating the challenges of daily life.

I sigh and smile.  My friend has found enjoyment in lip gloss and mindless banter.  Not a whole lot different from watching the nightly news.

I Live in the Land of Confusion

This post isn’t about what you might think.  Yes, Armenia is a confusing place at times. But what I’m referring to is the land inside my head.  As I might have mentioned, learning a new language, ANY language is a struggle for me.  As soon as I learn one new word, another one falls out of my head.  I took French in school, and literally remember nothing but the words for french-fry and the bathroom. And poop.  Oddly enough, when I started learning Armenian, sometimes forgotten French words would pop up instead.  It took me forever to remember “het” instead of “avec” (with).

But now that I live in a foreign country, understanding what people are saying has gone beyond earning an academic A.  Hahahaha, I never got an A, sorry Mr. Teacher What’s-your-face, I don’t think I came even close to an A  (Oh, and I don’t remember names.  Ever).  But, I digress.  Sometimes, thinking I know more than I do has gotten me into trouble.  Case in point.  The adventures with my driver.

Valod is an old-world Armenian.  Lived in Poland during communist times, plays the accordion, and by profession, well, I have no idea what he does/did.  He is the source of most of my major conspiracy theory gossip, and all the weather.  We’ve found a commonality in discussing the woes of his car.  My father was a mechanic, so even when Valod uses Russian, I can usually figure out what are his latest engine problems.  The first time he drove me was in 2007, and my Armenian skills were even more horrible.  I had a low level of gorilla-survival Armenian that allowed me to navigate through grocery stores, and get myself home in a taxi.  He was trying to be friendly, so we had limited conversations which included a lot of pointing, and my standard response of “hah”.  One morning we had just turned on to the Etchmiadzin highway (for those of you who have never visited Armenia, don’t get excited, it’s just a glorified expressway), and as we were driving out of the city, he pointed up towards the giant TV tower that looms over the city and told me he worked up there.

Before moving to Armenia, my experience with taxis and drivers was almost none.  The occasional taxi in Vegas was about it.  So using Armenia as my model, I just assumed that all taxis all over the world wanted to know where I was from, who I knew in LA, where I worked, how long I was staying, what did I like the best, if I was married, if I had children, if I liked living here, what was my favorite fruit……drivers in Armenia are chatty and should have their own reality show.  And Valod was no different, even with the language barrier, he just had to try and converse everyday.  But I digress again.

So, he worked up at the TV tower.  Ok, that was nice, but my friend Odette, who he worked with before, had told me that he was currently unemployed.  How nice, he got a new job and he was sharing happy news with me.  A few days later, Odette asked me how everything was going.  “Great!”, I told her, “he’s very nice and a super cautious driver.  And did you know he was working up at the TV Tower?”.   Confusion ensued.

“What?  He got a job?  And he didn’t tell us?  We’ve been so worried, this is wonderful news.  Maybe he didn’t tell us because it was a new job, and he wants to wait until he’s settled in.  What is he doing, what is the job?”  Of course, all questions I couldn’t answer since it took him four or five tries to get me to understand what he was talking about in the first place.  When he pointed at the tower and started talking, I told him, “Yes, I know it’s the TV tower, it’s very nice.”  But this was day 3 of our drives together, and he had already caught on that my standard response of “hah” meant nothing, so he persisted until he was satisfied that I really understood.  What a mistake for us all.

Odette continued, “well I won’t say anything, he’ll tell us when he’s ready.  Maybe he wants to be on the job for a while before saying anything.  But I’m still so surprised.  My housekeeper is close with Valod’s wife, it’s strange, I would think she would have mentioned it”.  We ended the conversation and I happily went on my way.

What I will now describe is the best re-creation that I can piece together of the events of the next 12 hours.  Odette spoke with her housekeeper, and they both came to the same conclusion that Valod didn’t want people to know yet, and was waiting until he worked there for a reasonable amount of time before saying anything.  They agreed to not say anything.  But this is Armenia, and that didn’t really last for long.  The housekeeper was the first to break, who called Valod’s wife Suzy and asked about the new job.  “What new job, what are you talking about?”  Next was Odette, who went to the source and called Valod,

Odette:  “Congratulations, but why didn’t tell us you had a new job?”
Valod:  “What new job, what are you talking about?”
Odette:  “Your job at the TV Tower?”
Valod:  “You’re the second person to say that!  Suzy was asked the same thing.  Where in the world did you hear this?!?”
Odette:  “Paula told me”
Valod:  Loooooooong pause…..
Valod:  “Nooo, I didn’t say ashkhadum (work), I said abrum em, abrum em, I live by the TV Tower, not I work up there”

Odette:  ring, ring…ring, ring, “Paula jan?  Ok listen, remember that you told me Valod was working at the TV tower?  Well, here’s what Valod really said….”.

Now in hindsight, if I had just stopped to think for a moment, who would actually work at a TV tower other than guard?  Probably nobody.  But even today, when people speak to me in Armenian, and speak quickly, I panic.  Cotton fills my head, all rational thought processes shut down, and I just panic, usually able to pick out 1 out of 4 words that seem intelligible.  Valod, as well as various friends, still like to tell the story of my giant mix-up and the ensuing I Love Lucy fall-out.  Maybe someday I’ll speak well enough to ask him what his real profession is.  Until then, we smile every time we notice the tower, and I keep pretending to understand.  And study.

Online Dating Take II

After telling a friend the story about the “no communication” online dating site, he told me to try another site he had heard about.

This one was free, city-based (as in Yerevan only), didn’t have the endless pages of fluffy profile information, (seriously, who would have a favorite car color) and even though it was a Russian site, it had an option for English, and messages were exchanged like an open chat.

Since the last adventure was so entertaining, I decided to try actual communication with the members of the kingdom.  I went to the site, and signed up.  It was easy and in a matter of minutes, I had a profile online, waiting for a photo approval.

Within an hour, even without a photo, I had an onslaught of people looking at my profile.  Hmmmm.

While online dating may be a norm in the west, I just didn’t see how it would fit with Armenia’s culture of dating. Here people mainly rely on connections.  Somebody knows somebody who knows somebody.  And even if one somebody likes another somebody; other somebodies have to investigate.  A vetting process that would put most political consultants to shame.

But somebodies didn’t seem to be a part of this equation, and within a few hours I had reached the 300+ people viewing my profile, with over 100 messages.  Ok, maybe we’re more progressive than I thought.

But language was an obstacle.  Some of them were writing in Russian, most in transliterated Armenian, and a trickle in Armenian with Armenian letters.  Since my Armenian language skills are so weak, I struggle with the transliteration, so I needed to figure out exactly how I was going to communicate.

I asked my friend about a few words I kept seeing repeated, and figured from the simplicity of the messages, that I could probably handle it.  This was online, how much trouble could I possibly get in?

Before I continue, let me preface all this by saying that I have always held the theory that the internet gives people unusual boldness.  You can wink, nod, applaud, even kiss comments made by other people.

Would you walk up to a person in public that you had just met, wink at them, clap in their face, blow them a kiss, and just sashay away? I think not.  Not without getting punched at least.

I had listed on my profile that I spoke limited Armenian, hoping this would pare down the list of contacts.  It didn’t work, and there were so many messages, that I was overwhelmed.  Do I have to respond?  Is it rude if I don’t?

The only way forward was to slash and burn.  Too old, too young, too scary, or too shifty looking, and you were dumped right away.  Fake photos were out all together. WHY would you put a picture of Hugo Chavez as your profile photo. And not even a good one, it was like posting Elvis during the bloated years.

Stupid user names were also deleted.  Blue Blue.  Really?  If they didn’t pass the test, they were moved into the handy “ignore” file which banished them forever.

But it was still an onslaught, so I decided to ignore it all and sleep.

By morning the situation was out of control, I had over 200 new messages.  There seemed to be a recurring/standard opening line.  “Hello, can we get to know each other?”  Very polite, and a few stated, “Only looking to hang-out”.

Ok, that’s nice, only to hang out, that seemed harmless. They all sounded the same, so I picked the kindest looking one who was online and answered.

Andranik:  bari luis. shpvenk?  (good morning, hang out/get acquainted?)
Me:  Ok, bari luis.  anglaren?  (ok, good morning, english?)
Andranik:  i don’t know
Me:  absos  (too bad)
Andranik:  Sex?
Me:  WHAT?!? Voch!  (no)
Anranik:  ba inch?  (but why?)
Me:  Lurj es?  Voch  (are you serious?  no)
Andarnik:  lurj em, sex em uzum.   (I’m serious, I want sex)
Me:  Bye
Andranik:  CHHASKACA?!  (I don’t understand)
Andranik:  BYE ES?!?  (you are saying bye?)

Well, that didn’t go well at all.  What the hell went wrong?! I tried again.  I’ll skip the bad Armenian and just go straight to the translation:

Grigor:  Hello, let’s get to know each other, I’m just looking to hang out.
Me:  Hi, I’m just looking to hang out too.
Grigor:  Great, give me your number.
Me:  Why?  I don’t even know you.
Grigor:  ??
Me:  ??
Grigor:  Sex?
Me:  WHAT?!?!?
Grigor:  Send me your number, and we’ll meet.
Me:  WHAT?!?!
Grigor:  WHAT?!?!
Me:  Bye.
Grigor:  WHAT?!?!

The next several conversations went the same way.

Well, not exactly the same, I argued with some of them and told one guy he was the reason the world was failing.  He responded “the whole world is my fault?!”.

I logged out, closed my computer and put it in the back of the closet.

Wow. Something had gone terribly wrong.  I called my friend and repeated the conversations.  After a little investigation into local jargon, the mystery was solved.

“Shpvel” in the dictionary means to communicate/interact or in slang to “hangout”.

However, “shpvel” for purposes of this website means to have sex.  I only want to hang out vs. I only want to have sex are vastly different.  Hence the plethora of “WHAT?!?!”.

Google Translate had failed me.

I collected hysterical conversations for the blog world, and deleted my photo.  That stopped most of the communications.

I don’t want to paint them all the same, I did have a few normal discussions, got the name of a good movie (Silver Linings Playbook), and a recommendation on a place to buy cool stationary supplies (Pen Box, I completely forgot about that place).

I learned some words that are not suitable to be put on a blog, or repeated aloud; and found out that the Armenian male while sometimes appearing hesitant in public, has been liberated by the anonymity of the internet.

My theory has withstood the test.

The account is still open, and one persistent contact keeps writing; who has some of the funniest comments I’ve read. I’ve promised not to use his name, but I’ve interviewed him and have to tell his story some day.

He seemed as lost as I was, which gave me hope for mankind. But no hope for internet dating in Armenia.

It’s All in the Name

A while back, I got tired of the plethora of invitations from LinkedIn and decided to look into it.  Yes, they wore me down.  Actually, the tipping point was when I got an invite from my 75+ year old Aunt.  That was a WTF moment.  I went to the website and signed up.  No questions asked.  Just filled in the profile page and hit send. And then there was another page.  And another.  And another.  Droning on ad nauseam about my skill-sets.

I don’t know what my skill sets are, um I can type pretty fast after I’ve had a manicure.  But no box to check-off for that.  Smart-ass is listed nowhere, and I’ve written to them about that glaring omission.  I decided that honesty was best for this venture, so in the background summary I wrote:

I joined LinkedIn with the primary purpose of getting the solicitation emails to stop, and to see what my friends actually do for a living. Or what they claim to be doing. And I’m annoyed that under the Expertise section, there is no option for skilled at one-liners.

I figured this was the quickest way to kill the whole thing; with the least amount of pain for me.  I put in the minimum amount of information so I could finally get to the good stuff.  Finding out whatever the hell this was all about.  I finished the profile and waited.


No games, no chat, no photos other than member profile thumbnails; just a scrolling news reel with business stuff.  People’s promotions, random financial articles, the occasional cartoon…  That was it, that’s what all the fuss was about?  I thought maybe I wasn’t using it correctly, so I pressed on.

Did I want to add connections?  Sure, why not?  It started bringing forth names.  The LinkedIn Gods were working overtime, the list was endless.  Who should I pick? Who would be pissed off the least by getting emails from me?  The irony of which, was that I joined in the first place to make the emails stop.  But why shouldn’t they all suffer with me.  So, on a Friday night, I started clicking “add” while watching Futbol, eating sausages and drinking beer in a local pub.

I stopped checking the “add” box, only because my finger got tired and I got bored.  Satisfied that I had added what seemed like a healthy amount, I watched the game, and then walked with my friends to enjoy the revelry of a rare Armenia team win. Blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The next morning, my inbox was exploding with announcements.  Having no desire to read any of them, I logged into my account.  In less than 24 hours, I had over 300 connections. I was terrified.  What had I done?!?  I was now part of the collective?!?!  What was I missing?  No shopping, no free samples, no links to cute kittens or puppies doing tricks on YouTube; what the hell?!?  I had unleashed the beast.

I decided to change my approach.  Maybe I just needed to add more people. I saw profiles with 500+.  Maybe I had to earn the “+” for the real secrets to be revealed. I went to the suggestions page, and the first name that popped up was Arsen.  Now, the phenom of an overabundance of Armenians with “A” first names has always been a pet peeve.  Could prospective parents NOT get past the “A” section in baby names.  Arman, Arsen, Artur, Artak…. It’s “a”nnoying.  A new evil plan formulated in my head as I clicked on the first hapless Arsen.  I would hunt down and add every Arsen I could.  It was Saturday, I had already consumed too much coffee, and there was nobody to stop me.  I kept adding Arsens until I got tired and went on Facebook to play CandyCrush.  Of course after I noticed there were over 2,000 Arsens. The next day the results were the same; more connections, no answers, and no closer to solving the mystery.  I relegated the LinkedIn emails to the spam folder.

Today, I’ve abandoned all hope of finding out the secrets of LinkedIn, have come to terms with not being able to stop the emails, and my profile has an unhealthy imbalance of Arsens.  I had always hoped that one of them would get suspicious, discover the disparity, and alert the cartel. But to date, there have been no  upheavals in my connection list; and to my knowledge, no bounty on my head.  My only wish is that I had thought of this when I first set up the account, and I have toyed with the idea of deleting it and starting over again.  All Arsens,  All the Time.  Dare to dream.


When I was thinking about a name for the blog, third rail popped into my head.  I don’t really know why, it just appeared, floating in my brain like one of those cartoon light bulbs that goes off when someone gets an idea.  I put together the symbolism later.

I thought of the name and the cover photo at the same time.   The Yerevan Metro is one of my favorite city secrets.  Although why, is a mystery.  It’s not really that great, goes to severely limited stops mainly in Kentron, and doesn’t make much of a dent in the city traffic problems.

But I ride it whenever I get the chance.  Years ago, it used to freak people out.  Since I don’t exactly blend in with the local population, I would see looks of amusement, terror, curiosity, anytime I stepped on the train.  “Oh My God, why did this foreign woman wander down here?!?  What is happening?!?!?!?!”

I also like torturing the token sellers.  Soviet ladies, stuck in little booths hours on end, stacking and re-stacking coins and metro tokens.  My lines are always the same, usually shouted with much enthusiasm:  Mi hat! (one).  This is followed by a perky Shnorhakalutyun! (thanks).   They eye me suspiciously as I flounce off,  token in hand.  I got one to smile back one time, but it might have been gas.  These ladies are hard core, it’s hard to tell.

So the perfect picture formulated in my mind.  Some of the metro stops are above ground, and I pictured a long shot down the track, rails in the foreground, trees and a few warehouses  in the background, it would be perfect.

“Mi hat”  “Shnorhakalutyun”  On with the show.

Taking photos in the metro stations is strictly forbidden.  I’ve never gotten caught, but have heard stories from other people on being approached and admonished by security.  Something to do with national security.  Because every soviet built metro station  throughout Eastern Europe isn’t exactly the same.  Anyway, I devised a clever plan.  I would get off at the Nzhdeh station, cross to the other side and sit on a bench to wait for a returning train. Then, when I saw it was time for the train to approach, I would get up, quickly take the photo, then glide onto the train as the doors opened.  I always wanted to be Jamie Bondyan.

As I sat waiting on the bench, I slid my camera out, checked the settings and waiting.  At the perfectly timed moment, I stood up, walked out to the track, raised the camera, and froze.

Armenia doesn’t have a third rail.

My first reaction was not exactly stealth.  Bahahahahahaha.

I pointed the camera down the track (sans rails) snapped a picture, and walked onto the train. HOW is this possible?  I thought all subways had a third rail.  Hence the urban slang term, the references in movies, use in political commentary, depictions in CARTOONS!?!?

Immediately discounting that this was a legitimate design choice, I started formulating the conspiracies.  “Aber, we charge for 3, put in 2, nobody knows difference.  Then we go to vacation Krasnoyarsk,  girls are hot.”

I sighed.  There was no conspiracy, this was just a giant metaphor for our independent little country.  We have no third rail, no dangerous source of raw power, and we get by without it.  I rode to the end of the line, winked at the grumpy woman in the booth eyeing the camera in my hand, and took the long escalator ride to the top.

Which is probably powered by hamsters running on tread-wheels.

2nd Should Have Been 1st

People have always told me that I should write.  When I first moved to Armenia, I used to write short stories – brief snippets of what life was like and how I was adjusting.  It all went along fine until one day; someone came up and introduced themselves to me.  We had never met, but he had read all my stories.  He had gotten them by email, from a friend, of a friend, of a friend.  My humor isn’t always reverent, and I started worrying that people who didn’t know me wouldn’t understand that I wasn’t bashing my homeland, but actually enjoying the experience of the newness, no matter how scary/annoying/hilarious.  I stopped writing.

Fast forward 13 years, and there are more repats living here, more people writing about their experiences, more ways to share daily life i.e. Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, etc., and more transparency about life here in general.  The veil has been lifted, it’s not just my voice talking about crazy taxi rides.  I had been toying with the idea of writing a blog for months, ok at least a year, but every time I sat down to write, it didn’t seem all that interesting as before.  Fine, full disclosure, that’s a lie, I just got lazy.  I didn’t want to take the time to figure out how the hell a blog works.  And I didn’t.  I signed up, and put up my first post, before handling any of the basics.  So now I need to back-track a bit, and at least disclose all the * information.

* My grammar sucks.  After 12 years of living in Armenia, and adapting my English into some sort of morphed lingo that can easily be understood by non-native English speakers, (including a weird accent), I’ve lost the simple rules of grammar.  I took a stab at learning basic Armenian a while back, and it was then that I realized I had no idea how I was able to speak English.  Ever since I have been harboring a plot to kill whoever invented the term “past present perfect participle.”  I will find him someday.

* I’ve developed ADD later in life and have problems staying on topic. I like to write like I think, so if you get lost while reading, it’s not my fault, I probably should be medicated.

* I lie.  ADD wasn’t later in life, I’ve probably always had it, but it seems trendier now, so I’ll fess up.  Plus exaggerating/taking liberties with the truth is an Armenian thing.  It’s in my blood.

* Sometimes I curse.  My Dad is a retired mechanic, and although he kept the language clean while home, I like to think that I inherited my creative cursing skills from him by osmosis.  Or my Aunt Barbara, my Dad says she used to swear like a sailor.

* I have a curiosity about how life should work, that doesn’t always match up with reality.  But then, if I didn’t, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Those are all the disclaimers I can think of for now, but this is no guarantee, more will probably pop up later.  So, here I am, this is the post I should have started with, but didn’t.  You’re welcome.

Who Said This Was a Good Idea?

Dating is not something I wanted to get into.  After 15 years, all the methods have changed, and it seemed like the rules of civility were the first to go.  Meeting for coffee is a date.  Seriously?  I have to get myself over to a date, nobody is picking me up?  Barbaric.

Since I don’t live in my own country anymore, the dating culture is even more unfamiliar.

Start with the language barrier, add the antique patriarchal system, the outlook on a women’s role in the word, the views of what a divorcee is “really” looking for, plus my general hostility towards the male species at this point of my life, and you have a recipe for tons of fun.

Since social media is now my life, I decided to jump in with my friend the Internet. The world of online dating.

My first attempt steered me in the wrong direction.  An online dating site, with pages of questions upon sign-up, and a crappy website.  I signed myself up, posted my photo, and waited.

It seemed harmless, men started looking at my profile, I looked back.  Then one sent me a message.  Eewww, I didn’t want to talk to him, but I’m American, and a polite idiot, so I tried to respond.

This is when I discovered how the site actually worked.  Signing up and creating a profile is free.  Looking at other profiles is free.  Sending someone a “wink” is free.  Communicating with each other?  Starts at $20 a month.  Shocking reality #1.

So, no autopsy, no foul, I figured most of the people on the site would never pay, as neither would I, which meant nobody could ever really contact me.  When you look at someone’s profile, it notifies them.

Big deal, they would never find me, I was in the safe zone! Why not see what this was all about? I started cruising through the site.

At first, I didn’t pay attention to the profiles.  There was more than enough entertainment in the photos.  One guy not looking at the camera, wife-beater t-shirt, belly hanging out over his pants – on full display, a cigarette half hanging out of his mouth, and he was looking down at his phone.

This is it?  That was the best he could do?  He actually got up, got dressed looked in the mirror and told himself, yes, I look hot today; I’ll have someone take my photo.

I was distracted for a while.  Endless horrible photos, with the occasional professional photo scanned out of a picture frame.  Most in need of good fashion advice.  But then one of the introductions caught my eye.

“I am looking for girl for sexual relationships
I am a boy, and wanna having good sexual relationships with girls. I like girls and I am ready to make love minimum twice per everyday.
Looking For: What can i say?”

Wow, what a sacrificing guy, he’s pledging a minimum.  Then another:

“I need woumen who can help me get viza in USA and tell cost .ralation after.  I would prefer bussineslaik relationchip for 1 or 2 years. I,m sorri for my englich. Butifull from all angls”

Well, might as well lay all the cards out on the table.  I’m sure he’ll be inundated with responses.  P.S.  its called Google Translate, my friend.

“I’d like to meat a woman of 36-42 years old, sexual and handsome for friendly and sexual relationship. She must be emancipated,clever and without any psycological complexes.”

Jackpot, I realized that I had reached nirvana; the kings of the idiot world were trying to communicate.


Ok, I’ll admit, I really wanted to talk to this guy.  He was either socially stifled or a comic genius.

The photos coupled with the profiles and the introductions were an insane mix of lunacy and stalker. I went from entertained, to toying with the idea of opening a business to help the male population clean themselves up.

“beautiful smart tall nise sexi no jeil time”

I’m not entirely sure if this was a description of himself, or what he was looking for in a woman.  As my friend said, “are you kidding?” How can I be all this, but have served no “jeil time”?! I guess ex-convicts would not be all that popular, on either side of the fence.

As entertaining as this was, I got tired of cyber-flicking their profiles; they were just making it too easy.  I abandoned the site all together, as the temptation to hunt them down and give fashion advice and re-write their profiles was overwhelming, and I had no way of contacting them.

However, if any of them happens to read this blog, here is some advice for your profile photo:

  • Posing with a woman is out. Yes, this does include your Mom. (Insert eye-roll here)
  • Texting is not new nor an impressive skill to highlight.
  • Holding weapons towards the camera makes us uncomfortable.

I leave you with these words of wisdom from tgr2014: “man looking for honest relation chip.”

Yes my friend, an honest relation chip is what we all strive for.

The adventure continues……