I've been trying to be the perfect host-daughter, I really have. I've been making my bed (SHOCKING!), staying relatively tidy, and trying to remember all the house rules. But even after all my hard work, I still get the gentle "Is this how ALL Americans leave their shoes?". Russian babushkas have perfected the art of nagging. Let's list, by room, all the things I do wrong.
Bedroom: I use way too many clothes. See 2 paragraphs ago. I put my computer on the desk. Where the heckamonga am I supposed to put it? I use too much lighting. Judging from the batcave which is my room (even more than in Munson or the basement this summer. it's THAT bad), Russians love blindness. I had one overhead light and the lamp on my desk on in order to do my homework. Dearest darlingest mummsie, you've taught me well, SEE! I wanted to make sure not to promote cataracts and wrinkles and blindness and all the other things you told me doing work in the dark would do. But of course, Inna shuffles over, points to the ceiling light and chuckles--"Zhenichka! You left the light on! Is that what they do in America. Haha (while it was an adorable grandmotherly chuckle, I'm sure she was thinking in a maniacal evil-villain laugh)." They're tricksy like that. So there I was, left to squint painfully at the glaringly white paper, illuminated by a small soviet light bulb.
Bathroom: I have been very good about all my bathroom rules. Mind you, the bathroom is different from the toilet room. Because Russia is simple like that. Showering is a strict regiment, that I do wrong each time. Apparently I am a poor showerer. I ALWAYS wipe down the tub until it is as dry as the Sahara, as told, yet of course it's never dry enough--"Oh Zhenichka, what do they do in America? They must have mold everywhere (again, insert grandmotherly chuckle/evil genius)!" Then there's always some article of clothing/rag/rug that I have to hang out on the balcony to dry. I should live on the balcony. I'd get yelled at less frequently. The washing machine is a sacred shrine that I, the silly clumsy American, am not allowed to touch. Also, I am always responsible for when the door is left open and the cat climbs in the tub and poops. But I'll save a special section for that monster-devil. I think she likes to have someone around to blame all the problems on (sound familiar? MARY!?). Between me and the cat, all she has to do is sit around and fix all of our dumb messes in her perfect apartment.
Toilet: I've already chronicled my love (hate) of Russian plumbing. Mostly I just get yelled at for the entire Soviet plumbing system, and how sometimes the water doesn't stop running. It's not my fault she forgot to tell me that I need to 1) sing it a lullaby, 2) bring it flowers, and 3) sacrifice my first-born to the omnipotent Toilet Gods (I must show my respect for their great powers via capitalization) to make the friggin toilet not explode (eew). Also, the toilet is the food trashcan, in not a gross way. RUSSIANS DON'T BELIEVE IN TRASHCANS. Tis odd. I get yelled at when I don't put my uneaten microscopic molecule of food in the toilet.
Kitchen: There is only rule to follow in the kitchen: You will eat everything in front of you, and then beg me for more until you burst like a pubescent boy's pimple (yay imagery!), or I will yell. I know this is to show her love and affection for me, but honestly I cannot physically eat that much. Also I can't bring myself to tell her that, while I like oatmeal, I don't like hers. She makes it with cheese and butter, and it's too much fo' me. Russians LOVE their oil and butter and cheese. They seriously can't get enough dairy: mayonnaise (put a stop to that before it started. I don't do mayo), yogurt (oh god. so much yogurt), cheese, cheese, milk, cheese, some cottage-cream-cheese-russian concoction called tvorik (doused with sugar of course?), and cheese. It's a fat kid's best dream/worst nightmare. I'll be surprised if I avoid a coronary this year. But her food is pretty derrrrrrricious.
The Cat: Stipan (Styopa, or Styopichka) is a demon creature. It looks at you wiff it's cwute widdle eyes and says "herro! I'm just a little lemur-kitty here to cuddle". But then he strikes. Not only does he scratch on my door and the furniture all night (about which I get in trouble), he also leave cute widdle kitty-crap presents in the tub for us to find in the morning. How considerate. Today he broke a vase. While these are obnoxious and all, it wasn't until HE ATTACKED MY FACE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT that I realized how serious my situation had become. He, the devil incarnate, decided that my cheeks were going to be his new playground at 4 am. I have 2 theories. He 1) was trying to slit my throat with his widdle clawclaws or 2) He was trying to suffocate me. He attempts #2 quite often when I'm doing homework/on the computer/trying to relax. "Hmmmmm," he thinks, rubbing his paws together sinisterly, "her chest/face looks like the perfect place for me to rest my poor aching butt. It's had such a hard day, being slept on and all."
Ah, what a tortured life I lead.
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