To the People Monitoring My Doings in Russia...

Please turn on the heat in Prospekt Veteranov, specifically, in my apartment. It is really, really fucking cold. I'm not even going to try to sugar coat this. I'm sure that after all of the time we've (however passively on my part) known each other, you're not shocked by my use of profanity. So ещё раз, turn on my god damn heat! Look, if this continues, I'm going to be sick, dead, and fat. Fat because my babushka is under the impression that the only way to prevent me from succumbing to the cold is by feeding me mass amounts of food. If I don't eat at least five dozen blini, a particularly fierce метель (blizzard, not the tasty one) is sure to blow me away to Siberia where someone else will have to resume your duties. Why end what we have going here? I'm sure you could call one of the Sashas you know and get this whole thing sorted out before the end of Kelsey. If not, I'm afraid that I'll have to send Tatyana Petrovna to go all babushka on you with the stick she uses to bang on the wall when the neighbors get loud. It's your call but she is a spry, fierce thing, especially when government hooliganism is involved. So if I get some heat within, say, the next five minutes, we'll be all squared up.

  Спасибо большое!

I Spoke Russian Before I Came to Russia

Today, I learned a sobering and unexpected fact; I don't speak Russian. Yes, it's true. To all of the people who have at some point (thought) that they heard me speaking decent Russian, you were probably high on something at the time. No, as of today, I don't speak Russian. Of course, the second the world made this clear to me was the second that every single Russian in the Russian Federation decided to stop me on the street. Perhaps it was the hopeless, dead-eyed look on my face that assured everyone of my long term residence in Petersburg. The surly muttering and aimless, half-assed hand waving on my part only brought the point home. Why is it that the day that my Russian-skills leave me is also the day that I become a good Russian? This is a cruel joke, Russia.

 I really need a vacation...

Confusing Item of the Moment: The Return of Jafar

As I was perusing Буквоед (think Russian Borders) the other day, I came across this:

                                                      "The greatest film ever...now in Russian!"

  For those of you who don't read cyrillic or aren't cultured enough to recognize the masterpiece in front of you, let me present The Return of Jafar--по русский! This is the stuff that dreams are made of. My first question is simply, who decided that this film needed to be dubbed into Russian? He or she (it wasn't me, I swear) is an absolute...you know what, I can't even. I'm so excited that this is in Russian. I see myself becoming the proud owner of this gem.

I Am Living In Parallel Universe

I think the universe decided to test me today. I was in the grocery store and chanced upon the liquor aisle. Booze is so cheap here. Really really cheap. I found a beautiful little bottle of Smirnoff for 130 rubles. That's like, four dollars. And if I split it with my good friend Natalie, it would have been a half bottle of Smirnoff for only two dollars. Somehow I didn't buy it. I actually haven't had any alcohol what-so-ever since coming to Russia, despite the fact that it's totally cheap, abundant, and legal. Maybe it's the last clause that takes away the fun of it. I think I prefer going to the seedy basement liquor store near Thurston, handing them my Borders discount card, and then stuffing my purchase into my coat in the most conspicuous way possible before sneaking it into my dorm room freezer. Either that or I'm growing up. Are my bacchant, deviant ways really behind me? Gods of Russia preserve me.

As I Lay in Bed Dying...

It is day four of my quarantine. I've read all of my English language books, my simcard is out of money, my internet connection sucks, and I've used up all of my megavideo minutes for the next hour. It is a dark time indeed...Gods of Russia preserve me.
 Ok, for serious, I'm actually feeling way better. I've been stuck inside of the apartment since Sunday with a really bad cold and or the flu and am now about 85-90% recovered thanks to mass amounts of cold medicine, intense napping, and all sorts of natural "babushka" remedies. All of this time in bed has given me lots of time to think about the past couple weeks here in the good old former Soviet Union. It is a cold and strange place devoid of sunlight and chocolate croissants at a reasonable price. I think it's time for a list of grievances. Before some people (ты знаешь кто) accuse me of having poor adaptive skills, let me remind you that it was your country that tried to strike me dead in the first place. The next time you come to the US and get sick, you have my leave to spit on the Washington Monument and call us fat capitalist pigs for stealing your health. So now to the list.

1) The Sun: Seriously. Where the hell is the sun here? You know that there's a serious lack of sunlight when everytime the smallest, weakest ray of light wheezes its way out from behind the cloud cover, people get more excited than a Greek philosopher at a NAMBLA meeting.

                                        A picture taken the last time the sun was seen in Russia.

2) Smiling: Or rather, the determined lack there of. One of my professors told me that people here keep a smile in their hearts, instead of on their faces. This might have been touching, save for the fact that Russia is not a Disney movie. What does smiling get you in Russia? Raped (and or killed or mugged). According to ACTR. Then again, a lot of things will get you raped/killed/mugged here, according to them. Sometimes I feel like breaking out into song and prancing down the street, just to see what would happen. Someone would probably scowl disapprovingly and then a metro worker/fast food worker would apparate to yell at me. They are the worst offenders. Buckingham palace should replace the Beefeaters with a couple frumpy Nevskii Prospekt metro ticket booth wenches. No one would dare make silly faces at them.

            Your average metro worker when you give her anything other than exact change for your ticket.

3) Change: Why is making change the end of the world here? Refer to the above picture. That's anyone, anytime you try to give them something that isn't exact change. Oh, I see you have a crisp, new 500 ruble note. You might as well use it to wipe yourself (because guess what, there's no such thing as toilet paper here either) because no one's touching that sucker. Spending it somewhere other than McDonalds or Dom Knigi? You out of luck, friend. Oh, you insist on using it? Here. I'll make "change" with some gum and cheap trinkets I pulled out of my...purse. Really Russia?

4) Public Toilets: God. Damn. It. Toilets here are the nastiest thing ever. They are truly the work of Satan himself. My advice is never have to pee in Russia. Ever. Just don't. You're better off just shaming yourself in public than venturing into a public restroom (if you can even find one). Think of the dirtiest, most vom inducing gas station toilet you've ever been forced to use. Don't ever complain about it. You could live like a king there, compared to the average restroom over here. Oh, and you'll probably have to pay to use it. So about that 500 note...yeah...you're better off going in the woods and using that.

  The dorm room toilet that leads to the abyss. Maybe this isn't the best example of the horrors I described.

So there you have it. These are my complaints for the time being. I could think of more but four seems like a good number. And I'm lazy. Since my the horror of my moaning and complaining probably ruined your day, I present you with a picture of my host dog, Cheburashka in a pink rain coat. Sho keewweeetttt.

Confusing Item of the Moment: Melon Cage

                    I think I briefly mentioned the so called "melon cage" in my first entry.

Here you have it.

                 It's just as I said...a cage...filled with melons. That is all.

It is truly a mystery for the ages.

Ode to the Terrifying Poodle Face

Davai poznakomimsya with the terrifying poodle face that hangs beside my bed. What is there to say that this picture already doesn't? Should we start with the dead eyes that stare into the abyss? Or that fine, silken mustachio? I wonder who decided that the mustache was a necessary component. Like, this stuffed poodle face isn't already disconcerting enough--let's add some facial hair to really creep everyone the fuck out. Also note the protruding tongue. Whoever crafted this creature was a sick individual.
    I can best liken the TPF (terrifying poodle face) to a pagan idol of old. In Soviet times, small children and/or delicious blinchiks were probably sacrificed to him so as to ensure a successful mushroom hunt (Russians are like hobbits. That should be a blog post all of its own.). I'm not sure of its intentions regarding me. I live in terror, wondering what lurks behind those shark-like, plastic eyes. If it wasn't for the fact that I recently had holy water thrown on me (people seem to like blessing me), I would fear for my life.

  (Maybe I should just throw a scarf over the abomination and be done with it?)