Her: What's your last name again, I forgot?
Me: Durina...
Her: "Oh that makes sense. You know what дура is, right?"
Me: "...как дурак" ["like durak?" Durak is an idiot...see here for great list of possible translations. http://translate.google.com/translate_t?hl=&ie=UTF-8&text=basically%0D%0A&sl=ru&tl=en#ru|en|%D0%B4%D1%83%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BA]
Her: Of course like дурак. That's a good last name for you.
Me: *gasping for air from shock/laughter*
I love her.
Showing posts with label Inna Borisovna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Inna Borisovna. Show all posts
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Babushka-isms
Her: Zhenya, you don't know how to go to sleep! What's wrong with you?
Me: Huh?
Her: This is how you go to bed: you take off your clothes (insert taking off clothes gestures and partially actually taking off clothes...weird), put on pajamas (gesture gesture gesture!), and curl up (gesture) in the blanket, and then you go to sleep.
Me: (sarcastic thoughts: REALLY?! WHAT A NEWFANGLED IDEA!)Yes, I always do that when I go to bed.
Her: No you don't. You do it wrong.
Me: How the heckamonga do I do it wrong?
Her: *walks away without saying anything else*
It's good to be home. I'd like to state: I'm American, not special needs. While it is often difficult for an elderly Russian to distinguish these two things apart from one another, I am sure they are not the same.
Me: Huh?
Her: This is how you go to bed: you take off your clothes (insert taking off clothes gestures and partially actually taking off clothes...weird), put on pajamas (gesture gesture gesture!), and curl up (gesture) in the blanket, and then you go to sleep.
Me: (sarcastic thoughts: REALLY?! WHAT A NEWFANGLED IDEA!)Yes, I always do that when I go to bed.
Her: No you don't. You do it wrong.
Me: How the heckamonga do I do it wrong?
Her: *walks away without saying anything else*
It's good to be home. I'd like to state: I'm American, not special needs. While it is often difficult for an elderly Russian to distinguish these two things apart from one another, I am sure they are not the same.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Lost in Translation
Babushka: "There was a bus crash in Thailand and there were a bunch of our [Russian] tourists on it"
Pause: Thanks to Mumble-Mcmumble pants, I only caught the words "bus in Thailand" and "tourists". This was NOT due to my language inability, but do to my I-don't-have-supersonic-hearing ability. So I do what I normally due. I've gotten tired of the "I don't understand" face, and have now started gauging what people are saying via tone and words I pick up, and adjust my grunts and head nods of acknowledgment accordingly. Therefore, when I heard the "bus of our tourists in Thailand", I assumed it was a humorous story. C'mon....TOURISTS! They get into all sorts of hysterical situations (as this blog amply exhibits). So I respond.
Me: "hah"
Babushka: "WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? A lot of people died, a lot of Russians! What's so funny about those people being hurt or dead?"
Me: meekly and confused "tourists..."
Pause: Awkward silence/look of horror on my babushka's face.
Me: trying to save face finally "Maybe I didn't understand you. One more time, please?"
Diplomacy is clearly my strongest suit.
Pause: Thanks to Mumble-Mcmumble pants, I only caught the words "bus in Thailand" and "tourists". This was NOT due to my language inability, but do to my I-don't-have-supersonic-hearing ability. So I do what I normally due. I've gotten tired of the "I don't understand" face, and have now started gauging what people are saying via tone and words I pick up, and adjust my grunts and head nods of acknowledgment accordingly. Therefore, when I heard the "bus of our tourists in Thailand", I assumed it was a humorous story. C'mon....TOURISTS! They get into all sorts of hysterical situations (as this blog amply exhibits). So I respond.
Me: "hah"
Babushka: "WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? A lot of people died, a lot of Russians! What's so funny about those people being hurt or dead?"
Me: meekly and confused "tourists..."
Pause: Awkward silence/look of horror on my babushka's face.
Me: trying to save face finally "Maybe I didn't understand you. One more time, please?"
Diplomacy is clearly my strongest suit.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Babushka-isms
"Zhenya, don't sing in the kitchen! It is prohibited in our religion for foreigners to sing or hum in the kitchen! Go on the balcony and do it."
Now I know she's just messing with me...crafty crafty woman.
Now I know she's just messing with me...crafty crafty woman.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Babushkas
Dear Inna Borisovna. Please stop yelling at me to show you 'care'. I'm sorry I wear too many clothes in a week (ie a pair of pajamas, 2 pants, and 2 shirts). I'm sorry I'm a slob/not OCD about lining up my shoes perfectly when I take them off. Before I continue my rant, let me stop and say that she is an extremely adorable and kind lady. I like her very much, and she's very caring. It's the Russian way to yell at people when they do things wrong or to say even the smallest things that bug you. I, who try to avoid conflict at all times until the situation is too unbearable and I have to send a text suggesting you go live in Mitchell with all the free toilet paper you want, will never make a good Russian. But I can make an excellent American bride for a rich, handsome, Russian Jew named Mr. Darcyvichovaberg. But honestly, I am very pleased with my home-stay situation, and most of this is overblown/tongue-in-cheek.
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."
This is the face of evil. Wook at dat faceeeeee!
Ah, what a tortured life I lead.
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.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Pocahontas, among others
So clearly ACTR follows my blog EXTREMELY closely. I have a home! Not quite a family, my residency consists of one woman--the (in? hopefully not)famous Inna Borisovna Nikitina. Okay, so I know nothing about her other than she has no pets (NOTHING TO TACKLE?! so sad). But it beats living Gypsy-Chechen style на улицу. No idea how old she is either. Hopefully she is full of gracenosity and hipness and she'll take me to all le cool places in Moscow (of which I hear there are many). Or a бабушка who cooks lotso yummy food for me. Hold the borscht. Honestly, who looked at a beet and said "I bet that'd be delicioso if I made a soup out of it." Oh Russians, what a people.
I have a dream that Inna Borisovna is a concert violinist in the Bolshoi, and she'll teach me the ways of the Russian classical musicians. Witchcraft, probably. But I don't care because it's SHMAMAZING. And she'll be my best friend, and we'll braid each others' hair, and she'll teach me hilarious Russian nuances, and she'll be an expert on Russian-Chechen relations, and everything and everybody will live happily ever after. Dear ACTR (since clearly my warnings are being heeded), make this happen.
To prepare for Russia, I've been increasing my vocabulary by learning Disney songs in Russian. I've already mastered Cinderella (Золушка) and I'm now tackling (TACKLE) Pocahontas. So far I'm a verse and chorus into "Just around the Riverbend". I'm looking to wow Inna with my knowledge of words like "stream" and "riverbend". I hope she likes canoeing.
On another note, it seems many of my "Goodbye, hope breathing goes well in Russia. How 'bout them Chechens eh?" gifts are red themed. Thanks guys, really cute. Luckily, all this red got me ready for MEIN FUHRER GLENN BECK AND SEXY "GRIZZLY MAMA" SARAH'S Restoring Honor rally! Hey Sarah, soon I'll be able to see Russia from my house too. While I'm on the subject of Forrest Gump, I love the part where Jenny (whose birthday is ALSO July 16th, according to her tombstone at the end. Spooky!) and Forrest run across the water and they embrace. Except that image is now ruined forever by the Teabaggers. Though if we replace Forrest Gump with Glenn Beck, and Jenny with Sexy Sarah, that would be a symbol of today's rally. Except they'd be hugging Jesus. It was ridiculous.
So here's why teapartiers annoy me:
Us (a lovely group of reasonable college students having a logical and esoteric conversation): There were definitely more people at the inauguration. This was lame, and not that cool/hilarious.
Teabag Couple: That's before they knew better. (Let me pause this story to say MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. Honestly, what did they think they'd accomplish by engaging with us?)
Us: *Some comment that is SO profound, I can't even recall it. Probably along the lines of 'nuhuh'*
Them: Then you're in the wrong place (FALSE we were a block from Ivory. You're on OUR TURF. Fools).
Us: Actually, we're completely in the right place. DC voted outstandingly solidly for Obama.
Them: *Some comment along the lines of 'nuhuh'*
Hah! We win. The metro was an equally entertaining experience. I don't think my "Communism, WOOT!" Or "I love paying taxes" comments were appreciated. Afterward, we schlepped up to Columbia Heights for COLUMBIA HEIGHTS DAY! Or the DC equivalent of a "state fair". I met Aladdin, the camel, and a shmadorable minipony named "DOHHHHHTACKLECUTELOVE" (at least that's how I addressed him). And then we lunched at Alero. I have finally found delicious Mexican food in DC! While the paintings on the wall (naked David Beckham, Buff Harry Potter, and Hilary Clinton portrayed as God) were a little disconcerting, the food was delicious and the service incredible. I felt that eating Mexican food was the most American thing I could do before leaving. I am content.
I have a dream that Inna Borisovna is a concert violinist in the Bolshoi, and she'll teach me the ways of the Russian classical musicians. Witchcraft, probably. But I don't care because it's SHMAMAZING. And she'll be my best friend, and we'll braid each others' hair, and she'll teach me hilarious Russian nuances, and she'll be an expert on Russian-Chechen relations, and everything and everybody will live happily ever after. Dear ACTR (since clearly my warnings are being heeded), make this happen.
To prepare for Russia, I've been increasing my vocabulary by learning Disney songs in Russian. I've already mastered Cinderella (Золушка) and I'm now tackling (TACKLE) Pocahontas. So far I'm a verse and chorus into "Just around the Riverbend". I'm looking to wow Inna with my knowledge of words like "stream" and "riverbend". I hope she likes canoeing.
On another note, it seems many of my "Goodbye, hope breathing goes well in Russia. How 'bout them Chechens eh?" gifts are red themed. Thanks guys, really cute. Luckily, all this red got me ready for MEIN FUHRER GLENN BECK AND SEXY "GRIZZLY MAMA" SARAH'S Restoring Honor rally! Hey Sarah, soon I'll be able to see Russia from my house too. While I'm on the subject of Forrest Gump, I love the part where Jenny (whose birthday is ALSO July 16th, according to her tombstone at the end. Spooky!) and Forrest run across the water and they embrace. Except that image is now ruined forever by the Teabaggers. Though if we replace Forrest Gump with Glenn Beck, and Jenny with Sexy Sarah, that would be a symbol of today's rally. Except they'd be hugging Jesus. It was ridiculous.
So here's why teapartiers annoy me:
Us (a lovely group of reasonable college students having a logical and esoteric conversation): There were definitely more people at the inauguration. This was lame, and not that cool/hilarious.
Teabag Couple: That's before they knew better. (Let me pause this story to say MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. Honestly, what did they think they'd accomplish by engaging with us?)
Us: *Some comment that is SO profound, I can't even recall it. Probably along the lines of 'nuhuh'*
Them: Then you're in the wrong place (FALSE we were a block from Ivory. You're on OUR TURF. Fools).
Us: Actually, we're completely in the right place. DC voted outstandingly solidly for Obama.
Them: *Some comment along the lines of 'nuhuh'*
Hah! We win. The metro was an equally entertaining experience. I don't think my "Communism, WOOT!" Or "I love paying taxes" comments were appreciated. Afterward, we schlepped up to Columbia Heights for COLUMBIA HEIGHTS DAY! Or the DC equivalent of a "state fair". I met Aladdin, the camel, and a shmadorable minipony named "DOHHHHHTACKLECUTELOVE" (at least that's how I addressed him). And then we lunched at Alero. I have finally found delicious Mexican food in DC! While the paintings on the wall (naked David Beckham, Buff Harry Potter, and Hilary Clinton portrayed as God) were a little disconcerting, the food was delicious and the service incredible. I felt that eating Mexican food was the most American thing I could do before leaving. I am content.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)