If Ira Had a Playground, It Would Look Like This

Manhattan's Anthropologie store. So cool. Please send me some freebies!

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All the beauty of Multiple Choice and none of the anxiety of exams

Having a good day? Watch the video below -- it's incredibly great!




Day not going too well? Put your headphones on and click on the little triangle below.

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Honey, any idea where my black socks are?!

Could they be in the front drawer?

Found them!

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Our Neo-Futurist Theater Experience in New York

I promised myself not to create any agendas for our trip to New York. After all, we had decided to be spontaneous and carefree. We didn’t want to be encumbered by plans that had to be realized, boxes that had to be checked off, and meals that had to be digested. From past experiences, I have learned that “winging it” is the best way to travel. That way, you avoid disappointments and welcome pleasant surprises. Well, it’s all good in theory, but the anal retentive part of me did not want to give up so easily. It kept yelling, “But what about theater?! At least plan a theater performance!” And so I did.

I checked out every play that was being performed the weekend of our getaway. And, by “checked out,” I mean – eliminated everything that fell into the “musical” category. This needed to be done partly because E. likes musicals almost as much as I like climbing onto partially built tree houses. (What panic attack?!) This process left me with few options, one of which was a performance by New York Neo-Futurists at the Kraine Theater called ‘Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind’. After I read the title and the description (30 plays in 60 minutes. You decide the order.), I was intrigued, to say the least. So, I printed the performance details and hid the paper in my purse.

As we were driving to NY, I casually introduced the possibility of seeing the show. To sell the idea, I mentioned that it was hailed as kooky and weird and funny and eccentric. I may have brought up the fact that The New York Times described it as “An ideal entertainment for an audience with eclectic taste.” My pitch had enough non-conformism and rebellion in it for E. to agree to an outing.

The plan (!) was to get to the area ahead of time, so that we could find a place to eat before going to the show. Of course, as soon as we got there, we discovered that dinner was not meant to be. A line began forming at the theater’s steps, and someone had to stand in it. I tried buying tickets, but was told that Neo-Futurists have their own payment method. A sweet young man gave me two little rubber lizards, told me to get in line and use the lizards as my guarantee for a spot in the audience. The lizards were not as good as the coins (we got there too late to receive the latter), but better than empty hands.

Apparently, the show was more popular than either one of us had realized. So, I got some bagels at a nearby shop and found a place in line, excitedly anticipating the bread and circus. As I stood there chewing (E. was too lazy cool to stand; he ate his food on the steps), I thought to myself that now would be the perfect opportunity to recreate the famous (?) toilet-paper scene from Moscow on the Hudson. Hey, this is New York City. A woman can do whatever she wants!

Everyone kept walking by and staring at the line of people. Finally, a young couple came up to me and asked what we were waiting for. I looked at them incredulously and said in a meaningful whisper, “I heard they were selling toilet paper”. They gawked at me, then at each other and remained dumbfounded. I decided to end their misery and said, “We’re just waiting to see a theater performance”. The couple sighed and asked if they could buy tickets inside. Their friend was one of the performers, and they decided to surprise him, but were not familiar with the theater’s modus operandi.

So, I felt it was only fair that I explain to them how things work, now that I have completely confused them. I took the lizards out of my pocket and told them that they needed to get themselves these plastic animals at the door and get back in line. Then, when the theater people will start letting everyone in, they’ll have priority to enter, but not as much priority as the people in line who have coins. To get the coins, you had to get there even earlier.

They just kept staring at me. Then, as if he were watching an annoying commercial, the man decided to change the channel. He asked, “How much are the tickets?” I launched into another explanation. I said that no one knows the price, which will be determined at the entrance. Every one of us will have to roll the dice. We will have to add $10 to whatever number the dice lands on, and that will be the price of admission.

By now, the woman had already placed me in a mental institution, and attempted to bypass me by tapping the shoulder of the man in front of all of us. Trying to avoid looking my way, she asked the man if he had any lizards or knew how much the tickets were. As luck would have it, it was the guy’s first time at the Kraine Theater as well. He said, “Lizards?! I don’t have any lizards!” and raised his eyebrows. The woman finally realized that she needed to go to the source to get any straight answers. She said guiltily, “No offence, but I don’t trust you … after the toilet-paper comment,” and marched off to the ticket window. Her companion shrugged his shoulders and meekly followed her. I laughed.

When we finally walked into the theater (E. rolled one, and I rolled three, so we kind of robbed the place), we were greeted by an enthusiastic “And what’s your name?!” from an actor sitting on the steps. He had stickers and a Sharpie. I started to spell my name only to notice that he wrote, “Leather” on my name tag (I was wearing a leather jacket – what did you think?!), which I was supposed to stick on my chest. In addition, he gave us long pieces of plain paper with some duck tape on top in the middle. He said we were to stick the papers onto our shoulders after we took our jackets off. I noticed that E.’s name tag said, “Secret Style” and had another good laugh.

The third sheet of paper we received was a list of plays to be performed. It included: “List of things the rat took from me” (written on wrapped cheese slices and tossed into audience after being read), “Kindly Consider Fucking Yourself, Anne Geddes” (self-explanatory, involved flower crowns), “Would you still love me if I was a Supercomputer?” (she would). My favorite mini play was one titled, “The Complete and Condensed Stage Directions of Eugene O’Neil Vol. 1: Long Day’s Journey into Night, Act Two Scene 1.” It was truly hysterical, considering the fact that all dialogue was eliminated and only the stage directions were read aloud while the actors followed them. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard.

The performance was periodically interrupted by Pac-Man music. As soon as it would play, one of the actors would put on a Pac-Man suit and pretend to “eat” as many papers that were attached to our shoulders as he could. He did that by walking on top of the chairs and ripping quickly. We cheered him on wildly.

Other memorable moments included male nudity, a visit from an actress’ dog, a reenactment of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ video, a marriage proposal and some free advice. The actors managed to get through 29 out of 30 plays (the audience chose the order by yelling out the numbers every time they said, “Curtain”), so I guess I will never know what #4 was (“Untitled play with phones and tiny wigs”). At the end, an audience member rolled the dice on the stage to determine how many new plays the actors will write for their upcoming show to replace some old ones (the “menu” changes every weekend). After the final curtain, we were asked to hang out with the actors and eat some pizza that was ordered in the beginning of the show (we chose the toppings). Oh, and we got free stickers. I think we’re going to come back McSoon!

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E.T. Finds His Mother

Have you ever looked at something only to think to yourself, where have I seen this before? Well, you're not alone. Totally Looks Like is a site devoted to finding such comparisons. If you have time to kill, it's fun to browse. Paradoxically, it's also a great way to get fifteen free minutes. How, you may ask. Well, here's what you do:

Ingredients:

- 1 child

- 1 computer

- 1 mouse

Process:
Place the child in front of the computer. Explain how to scroll and click. Go cook. Or pick your nose for all I care. Whatever rocks your boat.

"E.T. finally found his mother!!!" -- Andrew

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In honor of Fashion Week: New York style

It wouldn’t be a truly original statement or an astute observation if I said that New York City is loud, unflinchingly blunt and unapologetic. But I’m going to say it anyway. Because… it is what it is, as one of my friends likes to say. The clothes scream, EIGHTIES. Neon-colored high-top sneakers, glossy tights, acid-wash “boyfriend” jeans, loose T-shirts tied at the hip, leather booties. After rolling my eyes upon seeing modern-day Cindy Laupers, I somehow ended up buying a leather biker jacket. Yes, hypocritical, I admit. But, I had no choice. Let me explain.
Maybe the decade’s vibe was in the air, maybe it was in the water – who am I to stipulate? But, the end result is – I am now a proud owner of a piece of clothing one wouldn’t normally associate with me. So, there – I’m hip. Well, not exactly. I should give you the complete picture. Through circumstances I’m not willing to discuss here, I became a recipient of a $45 gift card to H&M. After walking around the store for twenty-five minutes or so, I realized that I hated every single thing in there. In fact, I didn’t even want the clothes for free. And that’s saying a lot – those of you who know me will concur. I ended up offering the gift card to E. who cares about clothes almost as much as I care about BMW M3 (or is it M6?).

After reluctantly trying on some pants, E. was discouraged by the store’s tendency to go against the grain and actually offer clothing in sizes smaller than the industry standard. Not very conducive to ego-boosts, if you ask me. Maybe H&M caters to models? That would explain why so many of the chain’s stores are scattered around Manhattan; everyone looks emaciated. Walking around the island for two days, I felt like Gulliver in a city inhabited by Lilliputians, so I just kept shoving more croissants and Chinese baked goods (they’re really tasty and cheap!) down my throat. It didn’t help with the weight issue, but it did fill the void. But, you’ll read about the culinary adventures in the next installment. Back to fashion.

Since E. rejected my generous offer, I decided to make it my mission to find a piece of clothing that would reflect the fashion of the times. The catch was – it had to be trendy yet classy, so that it would not go out of style a couple of months from now, when Flashdance outfits will finally seem passé. So, I settled on a timeless biker jacket. It’s black, it’s leather, it has metal zippers and makes me look like someone I’d be afraid of in a dark alley. As soon as I put it on, I liked how it made me feel. Who’s a nerd now?!

It is true, though, that clothes change your behavior. When I was wearing the jacket, I acted like a nonchalant and easygoing person. The fruit sellers in Chinatown even attempted to rip me off. The wife kept throwing more and more grapes into my bag while it was on the scale, and the husband “forgot” to give me all of my change. But, it might have been not because they thought I wouldn’t care about such details – maybe I just had the word STUPID written on my forehead? After all, the next day was much warmer, and a different husband-and-wife team tried ripping me off (sans jacket) in a Brighton Beach bakery. I guess they thought I wouldn’t notice that they charged me seven dollars more than my purchase. Little did they know… But I digress.

What were we talking about? Oh, New York and fashion. Yes, New Yorkers – for the most part – really do look put-together. Their style is quite different from that of Rhode Islanders. Here, people just dress nicely. What the label says is not as important as how the clothes look. The outfits can come from Old Navy or from the Gap – as long as they appear neat and proper, we’re all set. New York style reflects a great divide of high and low. There does not seem to be a middle. On one end of the spectrum, there are the punks. These are the rockers, the alterna-chicks, the hipsters, the envelope pushers, and the envelope rippers. On the other end, there are glamour queens, designer divas, model citizens, and sweet-n-low daddies. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention very well, but I didn’t see too many Banana Republicans or Young Navys.

I did witness a jewelry street merchant who caught on to the so-called great divide, and was using his discovery to peddle his craft. We sat right next to him in a Greenwich Village outdoor restaurant, so we were able to observe his sly maneuvers during the time it took to drink two beers. If the lady was “mature” and classy, he’d offer the bracelets for twenty dollars, a 50% discount in honor of Fashion Week. Then, he’d emphasize that she’d be getting two for the price of one, and that they’re made out of silver. If the lady was younger, he would say that he was giving her a student discount of $5, and that the bracelets are really durable because they’re made out of silver-coated steel. If a number of ladies approached his table, he’d create special “group” discount and help them choose the bracelet that really suited their individual auras. Of course, the end result would always be the same – every woman would pay $20 for two bracelets. But, the beauty of the deal was – none of them knew that. They all felt like they were getting some kind of special treatment. Instead, they were the victims of a marketing ploy. The guy was a genius.

Watching him work got me thinking. What if all the homeless-chic-looking gals dress that way because they believe that the style makes them unique?! That would be such a shame. Just imagine – all these Urban Outfitters-wearing ladies actually look around and realize that everyone else is also dressed like a sweaty hobo! And then, they all look in the mirror and gasp at the horror that they could have been dressing like the rich girl next door for the past five years – the one who has a boyfriend! And what if that “rich” neighbor did the same? What if she looked around one day and noticed that she no longer has to eat Ramen noodles because she can now find similar-looking pieces at less expensive clothing stores? Would she then be brave enough to venture into an Ann Taylor store? (Be nice, I could have said Talbots) Who knows, maybe? Maybe she would even be bold enough to buy a biker jacket at an H&M store. We’ll never know.

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The Russian Voice

I just finished watching a three-part documentary on Vladimir Vysotsky, the Russian god bard. The video was grainy and kept skipping. The interviewers asked inane questions (“How old are you?”!) The entire movie was akin to a complicated puzzle put together by a two-year-old; yes, the editing was that unfortunate. … But, there were: The unmistakable Voice, the singing, the lyrics. There were answers to the questions that were worth answering, scenes from plays, stories about the songs’ origins. As usual, Vysotsky was awe-inspiring. But, judge for yourselves. Here’s a little clip from the movie; the song is called Save Our Souls.

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Take the road, I tell ya

Roadsworth (Peter Gibson) is a Canadian street artist experimenting at night with the urban landscape. He's been arrested for his work (53 counts of mischief), but received a lenient sentence due to public support. I think he's a genius. Or at least a witty prankster who can draw. One or the other. Does it really matter what I think? (That was rhetorical, you didn't have to answer!)

Check out his gallery -- you might just take the path less travelled by.

Two paths diverged on the street...

(with apologies to Robert Frost)

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Flashback

This makes me soooo happy. Especially this one. When I see it, I'm seven. I'm wearing red man-made-leather squeeky shoes and running around the yard. The huge tree is ready for autumn, as am I. My shoes' new smell paints the crisp air. I erase it by picking up chestnuts and bringing them up to my nose; they give off a damp raw scent. I take them out of their cracked shells and roll them in my palms. Their smoothness is reassuring. I don't know why, but they make me happy.

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What makes a woman beautiful?

So, a friend suggested that I blog about this article that attempts to pinpoint the origin of sudden Russian female pulchritude (the author’s expression, not mine). I’m still not sure what her conclusion is, but I think that there is too much focus on beauty and not enough on talent. Applebaum goes on to point out that there are plenty Eastern European doctors and chess players that deserve as much attention as the beautiful amazons escorting older gentlemen.

Um… we already knew that. But, where DID all those gorgeous Russians come from? One of her hypotheses is that they were always there, but were overshadowed by their dowdy garb and lack of makeup. She writes, “This doesn't mean there weren't any beautiful women, of course, just that they didn't have the clothes or cosmetics to enhance their looks, and, far more important, they couldn't use their faces to launch international careers. Instead of gracing London drawing rooms, they stayed in Minsk, Omsk, or Alma Ata. Instead of couture, they wore cheap polyester.”

Applebaum, eat some more apples, I say. Yes, a woman could be transformed with the right lipstick shade, eyeliner application and a smudge of rouge. Yes, she could look ten pounds thinner in the right dress, three inches taller in the right shoes, and two heads more statuesque next to the right man. But… What about the way she carries herself? Her gestures, facial and verbal expressions and posture? What about grace, mystery, that certain “je ne sais quoi?” Is it possible that more eastern European women possess those qualities than American ones? I don’t know. I do know that when gorgeous Russian women attempt to glamorize themselves the way they perceive American women do, something scary happens. At least in my eyes.

Below are two videos of Russian women. The first depicts the phenomenon described above. The second shows a Woman who is beautiful despite the lack of makeup, pretty clothes and … well, you get the point.




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About love

This 81-year-old Russian man painted happy scenes from folk tales for his paralyzed wife who was having a tough time coming to grips with her situation. He noticed that she was becoming withdrawn and indifferent, remembered he was not bad at painting in his youth, and surprised her. She sees the cheerful art on the garage through her windows and smiles. He said, "The most important thing is that my wife no longer cries."

More HERE.

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Ya'll look so small from up here!

Some people think grass defending a PhD gives you the best high. I beg to differ.

This site is kind of addicting. So many options, so little time...

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Go on, draw something

http://www.andyslife.org/ ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves

August

This is something that is completely puzzling to me. I'm trying to figure it out. When I read in Russian, I'm much more affected than when I read in English. The conundrum becomes more complicated by the fact that it is easier for me to communicate in English. I was so bewildered by this phenomenon that I decided to test myself. I found one of my favorite poems in both languages. It's a short one by Frederico Garcia Lorca called August. Here it is in English:


The opposing of peach and sugar

and the sun inside the afternoon

like the stone in the fruit.


The ear of corn keeps

its laughter intact, yellow and firm.

August. The little boys eat

brown bread and delicious moon.


This does nothing to me. However, when I read the Russian translation, I find myself returning to the poem again and again. It is just so much more beautiful than the one above. So, I'm wondering -- is it more powerful just because the translation is better? (The original poem is obviously in Spanish.) By the looks of the English version, it appears that the Russian translator took many more liberties with the poem, which became quite musical. The English piece is more literal and dry. Or, maybe I'm full of crap and simply enjoy the Russian poem more because I'm Russian in my soul? I have no idea.


Август


Персики и цукаты,

и в медовой росе покос.

Входит солнце в янтарь заката,

словно косточка в абрикос.


И смеется тайком початок

смехом желтым, как летний зной.


Снова август. И детям сладок

смуглый хлеб со спелой луной.

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RIP, Sergei Mikhalkov

The Russian children's poet and author of the Russian hymn has passed away at the age of 97. We grew up with his poems (and even recited some in the evenings, when there was nothing else to do).

When I was little, we didn't have a VCR, so my dad used to show slides to me in the evenings. A big white sheet would be mounted on the wall opposite my bed, and a projector would be set up. Then, I would listen as he read the story text on every slide.

Here are some slides of a famous Mikhalkov poem about the Russian Superman, Uncle Stepa:

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O. My. God. I'm a 1950s Housewife!!!

In case you have trouble reading the text above, here it is again:

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.
During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
Be happy to see him.
Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Don't greet him with complaints and problems.
Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.
Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
A good wife always knows her place.

Source

P.S. Yes, it's a joke. But in every joke, there's a grain of truth. Does anyone have a pretty ribbon I could borrow?! ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves

Forgot to apply sunblock ... again

This post is for those who saw Burnt by the Sun. Some of you may know this is my favorite movie of all time.



Fifteen years later, Mikhalkov decided to release Burnt by the Sun 2. The Russian blogosphere ripped apart the trailer below. I don't want to make any rash statements -- I want to see the whole sequel first. But I do have one question -- Mitya is alive?! Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining -- after all, Menshikov is (insert an adjective here for someone who makes you swoon), but he ended up in a warm bloody bath at the end of part one. What gives? ... I wonder if he's healthy enough to reprise his can-can on the piano?

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Obama as a hedgehog

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One hot ReTail

The economy is on the fritz (thanks, JD). I've been practicing the art of folding in case I will need to apply to the Gap soon. You can too -- who knows what the future may bring, right? Fo' shizzle -- you won't want to miss this video. I promise, it'll be worth your time. I know I'll need it -- I doubt I will get a writing or an editing position after this post. Whatev.

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Regression (progress?)

You might have heard of the demotivator phenomenon. Demotivators are just like motivational posters ("tomorrow is the first day in the rest of your life") only upside-down ("trying is the first step toward failure"). Well, you get the idea.

Russians have recently discovered demotivators, and they have been popping up on every blog (the sayings, not the russkies). Today, I saw one that I must share with you. Roughly translated, it says, "As years go on, we stop feeling joyful about the mundane." At the risk of sounding corny, cheesy, etcetera, I will say that I wish to be like that child in the picture -- relishing the beauty of the falling leaves and living in the moment.

So, I'm going to do something new here. I'm going to turn a demotivator back into a motivator. That's right, people. If I had Photoshop, the picture you are looking at now would say, "As years go by, we realize that life's joy is the mundane -- you just have to recognize it as such."

I'm off to kiss my sleeping kids.

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A rant -- plain and simple

So, I just got a call from a telemarketer who was peddling Florida vacations. After I told him I was not interested in his pitch and would like him to remove my name and phone number from their lists, he tried a new approach on me. He asked, "So, you don't like vacations?"

Instead of explaining to the chap that my name is on the Do Not Call registry and that I do, in fact, enjoy vacations very much -- more than I enjoy presumptuous gentlemen callers who won't take no for an answer, I decided that it would be easier just to say, "That's right. I don't enjoy vacations". He had no reply to that and thanked me for my time.

I took my cue from a man I know who once told a telemarketer selling curtains that he has no windows. Hey, if you are going to make assumptions about me, I'm going to treat you accordingly. So, next time you call my house, keep in mind that the fact that I have a mailbox does not mean that I want to receive your magazine. And just because I enjoy vanilla ice cream and plain kefir, I don't have simple tastes -- maybe these foods just remind me of the simpler times of my childhood, the era before berry flavors and phone commercials. Or, maybe, anything else just tastes too sugary to me. I guess you'll never know.

Catch you later. I'm going to go drink some sugarless tea now.

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Wordless Wednesday

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A Russian alternative to bingo (or how to keep the health costs down)

Who's got spirit? Russian elderly, of course. An orchestra entertains them every evening in Moscow's Alexandrov Garden. (I'm the one in the striped leggins.)

More here.

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Neo, is it you?!

"I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air..."

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Topless, Part II

things i learned at the beach today:

- don't use spray sun block on a windy day. your husband will end up looking a bit like a lobster.

- speaking about lobsters... don't put little crabs that your kids find into poland spring bottles because when you'll attempt to drink the water inside, you'll get a little surprise, and it won't be ice...

- don't park on the side of the road when the beach parking lot is full -- you will get a ticket.

- don't put your camera into a bag that has some sand in it -- it will break.

- don't buy your kids ice cream and decide to walk and eat -- they will fall. and scrape stuff. and cry a little.

- don't let these les faux-pas ruin your otherwise lovely day. perfection is boring, remember?

P.S. Does anyone know how to get sand out of the camera?!

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Mood Boosters

We just went on a long after-the-rain walk. My son presented me with a flower, my daughter picked us some delicious plums off a tree, and my husband pointed out pretty things on the way (clouds that look like sand dunes, anyone?).

So, in accordance with my good mood, HERE are some pics to make you smile. Enjoy.

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I need a job

Hey, Newsweek, there are grammatical mistakes in your article. Would you like to hire me? It looks like you need an editor. Don't believe me?

Take a look at this error-riddled sentence:

"Each of these woman has their own spin on familiar American cooking, yet none of them manage to bring something new (say, the entirety of French cuisine) to their viewers."

Find more mistakes in the piece HERE. ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves

Topless

Living the dream, baby! Or the benefits of being unemployed. :)

Well, I'm off to the beach, but you can browse some more cute animal drawings here.

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The Worlds Are Colliding!

Isn't Facebook great? You get to find out which "friend" loves eighties music, which one just bought some fresh peaches at a farmer's market and which one needs to be "defriended" immediately (vampire porn?!).

The trouble arrives when your worlds intersect. I'm convinced that Seinfeld writers were well ahead of their time when they wrote The Pool Guy episode. George knew that he must keep work, relationships and play apart. It might be the only insight the poor fatty had on the show, but what an insight it was. Haven't seen the episode? Here's a quick taste. Kramer is explaining George's hesitation to let his girlfriend hang out with the gang:

KRAMER: Jerry, don't you see? This world here, this is George's sanctuary. If Susan comes into contact with this world, his worlds collide. You know what happens then? Ka shha shha shha pkooo!

But, what am I doing? Kramer is just a messenger. George phrases it much more eloquently:



I truly wish this girl was into Seinfeld (the show, not the whiny unfunny man):

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