According to Soviet tradition (though perhaps originating elsewhere, historically – probably religiously oriented), children do not get their hair cut until 1 year of age. Similar to orthodox Jewish tradition where it is 3 years, I believe. Thus, and to the chagrin of my wife, I have been insisting that we do not cut his hair. No trimming, no nipping, no plucking, no clipping. Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow (like one of my favorite Eric Clapton songs).

Of course, I’m not Russian or Ukrainian or even close. If anything I think there’s some Polish and German in the heritage. But since we are in Ukraine, and since our baby was born here, I think it is appropriate to honor some of those traditions. My wife thinks I’m crazy. She wants sooooo badly to cut the bangs because they are hanging in his eyes. But my MIL says it is absolutely a tradition to not cut a child’s hair until their first birthday. I kinda like it.

So we’ve turned to hair gel. Just a couple of days ago I was wondering why my boy looked like a 50’s “greaser.” I was told by my wife that she couldn’t take it any longer, and his hair had to get out of his eyes. So… here is a picture I took today of the little dude. Oh, and still no teeth as you can tell. We are thinking about baby dentures unless they come in soon. Are there such things as “toothless babies?”  I don’t think so… but supposedly hyperthyroidism is a potential cause of very early or very late tooth appearance.  But no other signs of this, so… Enough of the medical talk… here’s a pic from today.

Oh, and HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY – if you like in that kinda stuff…

Even though I have a bit of a head cold, I still woke up with this song in my head. Lionel Richie’s All Night Long. I love this song. It just makes me want to dance and sing along. OK, don’t think about me doing it… here are some original visuals (and sound) while you read along. (Click the video below to have it play along while you read).

So, why might I post a video from Lionel Richie, you ask? Because I felt like celebrating today. Even with a bit of trouble sleeping on my own because of a minor bug I picked up while traveling, it was one of the more comfortable nights in the last year.

One day before he turns 10 months old, Mikey was an Angel!

HE SLEPT ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE NIGHT,

(FOR THE FIRST TIME)

* * *

Oh Lord, please allow this to last… please let this be the first of many, many more restful nights for the whole family.

* * *

Also, and I promise to not provide all the details, but he pooped in his potty like a professional this morning. Supposedly he had done this a couple of times before, but this was the first time I had seen it. Honestly, I cannot remember the last time (if ever) I was so happy to see a little pile of human shit – that I stared at and analyzed for at least 15 seconds – trying to figure out why the two lumps were so different. Obviously it’s due to what we feed him at different meals, butt…….   either way, I need to give huge thanks to my mother in law. She sat there with him, holding him up with his legs in the air, positioning his butt over the light blue plastic potty, while making “grunting, pushing, pooping sounds” for about 10 minutes… and lo and behold – he did it.

Anyhow, the sleeping through the night is (seems like) the real MIRACLE today!!!!!

He slept All Night Long… (all night)…

All Night Looooooong!

Now if we can just get him out of the bedroom….  we’re gonna have a party… All Night Looooooooong!  Feel good, feel good…..

Recently my son has been eating real food. We give him blended mixes of all kinds of stuff: meats/vegetables, fruits, etc… (consequently, things have really begun to smell – but that’s for another day).

Unfortunately he doesn’t always want to eat. Well… even when he does, there comes a point where he simply, without warning (generally), decides NO MORE. This is the first indication that The Hand is about to be unleashed.

Because we want him to grow up strong and healthy, we generally force-feed him the rest of his food whenever possible. It has nothing to do with my wife painstakingly slaving in the kitchen to produce this gustatory bambino delicacy. Really – we do NOT use the turkey baster on him more than once a week.

But seriously folks, we don’t like wasting food – and that really fresh stuff just doesn’t seem to last all that long. Moreover he definitely likes the fresh food more than anything that’s been stored – so we try to get him to eat it all when it’s fresh. When he does finish it, it’s a BIG молод`ец! (Well Done!).

Still… we’ve come to notice a consistent pattern. He stops being interested in the food unless you distract him with something else – at which point the innate feeding behavior returns for another bite or two. But then, it’s…

Resistance!

Inevitably he begins to resist. We counter-attack.

This leads to rubbing of the eyes (глаза), and concomitant blocking of the mouth (рот) (pronounced rrot).

At the first sign of weakness, we again try to slip the spoon in – perhaps after a 10 second lull in the fun and games, and while faux posturing as if we wouldn’t dare try to feed him even one more bite – we usually try one more time.

If we are very lucky, we get ONE MORE scoop in.

But then watch out…

The next attempt will be countered by a right cross, that not only takes out the spoon, but leaves the food that was on the spoon strewn about. Now this, in and of itself, wouldn’t be so impressive or hazardous, because the food stops moving – and in this case, the good eats are easy to clean up.

Unfortunately for us, our son (as I imagine most other babies) has become an expert at precisely hitting the spoon (almost while looking the other direction), splashing food all around the table, and still, miraculously, keeping at least 1/2 of the food somewhere on his hand. And Voila… we have…

Hand on the Loose!

This hand is now capable of contaminating: the chair, the face, his clothes, the table, his hair, the cat, your glasses, your clothes, your hair, the walls, the floor (not the ceiling yet, thankfully), your food, his eyes, your face, the couch, numerous toys within reach, seat cushions, windows, mirrors, and everything else you forget to keep at least one foot away. He flails – We counter. He whines – we grab a napkin. He screams – we go back and forth trying to catch… the Hand on the Loose.

I now think he simply likes the battle. He thinks it’s a game. Thinking to himself, “why should I eat that when I can play with it for at least 30 more seconds!”  To add insult to “injury,” more recently I’ve noticed that Mikey has become more calculated in his decision making – often waiting for that moment when Daddy tries to deliver a really big spoonful, so that the precious offspring can really get a full handful of ammunition…

Ahh… the joys of fatherhood. How can you resist that face

So it’s a beautiful day in Kyiv. Well, maybe I can say that because I like the snow. But the trees aren’t very happy. On my short walk into work, around and between the brick an mortar domiciles which represent older Kyiv (as opposed to the new fancy storefronts that line many of the streets downtown), there were 2 trees that fell. The Kyiv Post story is here.

Sure it was windy, and we got about 6-8 inches of heavy snow. But trees falling down? Yes, sure, I know it goes hand in hand with precarious weather… but I never thought the trees right out in front of our building would be falling down. Shows you what I know…

The snow was apparently really heavy (wet). As it piled higher and heavier onto the leafless branches, and in combination with the soggy ground surrounding the unseen part of the tree, gravity and wind took caused havoc. I’ll try to post some pictures later, if I can get them off of my phone.

Of course, this didn’t stop the now 2-day tradition taking place in the small “parklet” (a wanna be park in front of our building). There were 5-6 individuals today (only 3 yesterday) partaking in breakfast. It was difficult to tell if they were eating anything, but the [first] bottle of vodka was about 2/3 empty. Ahhhh…. the holidays.

* * *

That reminds me of another little story that took place a couple of weeks ago. We had a little get-together at our house for my wife’s birthday on a Saturday evening. A boyfriend (who is a driver) of one of my wife’s grade school friends tagged along. I will focus on him, as it was his behavior was most captivating. He strolled in, in his mild-mannered demeanor, and made himself at home – playing with Mikey at every opportunity. It was a welcome reprieve for my wife and I, and Mikey seemed to like him too. Within 5 minutes he (let’s call him Alex) asked “do you have any vodka?” I said “sure,” pulled an ever-so-slightly acquainted bottle out of the freezer, and offered a shot glass in tow. To make a long story short, over the next 3 hours Alex drank 2/3 of a bottle of vodka. NO problem. His girlfriend said “oh, he really likes vodka.”

What?

How can anyone “really like vodka?”

I’m guessing he likes getting pissed as a sailor on leave (every night he’s not driving, and some nights when he is) more than he likes “vodka.” Anyhow, the only scary part was the fact that he was playing with Mikey more and more as the vodka took effect. Granted, the effect was not as dramatic as it would have been for those of use not constantly maintaining upregulated alcohol dehydrogenase levels, but it was still apparent. He was getting drunk. And the more he did so, the more he wanted to play with Mikey, and the less he wanted to talk to adults.

It was one of those bizarre, somewhat socially uncomfortable situations where you want to interrupt and take your child back – but it would be incredibly insulting, potentially damaging to a very long-standing relationship, and potentially unnecessary (as long as Mikey is not being lofted around the room as if he were manning his own private aircraft – which he did, occasionally). Nevertheless, after several glances with the wife, I chose to hold Mikey for a while. Then she did – and then I did again.

The [not so] funny part is that this is normal behavior for lots of Russians. They drink a LOT… and it is totally normal to drink whole bottles. Crazy.

It seems as though I’m beginning to lose my baby-face,

and I’m starting to look more like a big person.

* * *

More like Mom? More like Dad? Hard to tell… but either way, you know I’m cuter than… !

also…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHARLIE!!!

Yep, really! I’m 6 Months old today!

I’m sure you know that my Dad has been real busy with work, school, and me. But I convinced him that everyone deserves to see a few pictures of me spanning my first 6 months of life. Bear in mind, this is not all of my photos. If you are interested, you can see some more at: http://www.mikegeller.com

Nevertheless, I asked for a few photos to be posted here, just to tempt you to go to my site.

Enjoy!

Hello World!

My name is Michael Anthony Geller. I was born on March 18, 2009, which means I’m a Pisces, like my Dad. Though my parents desperately wanted me to turn upside down, I was insisting to sitting like a little Buddha in the cozy little womb I called home… and consequently, my birthday was (sorta) picked for me.

Here I am showing them where to stick the bottle…

My name was chosen because my parents like the way it sounds. But the more I think about it, I think there is some correlation with some of my forefathers. Specifically, my Dad’s grandfather was named Milton – which I think led to the Michael; and My Mom’s father was named Anatoliy – which I’m pretty sure resulted in Anthony. According to Wikipedia, Geller comes from German, Yiddish, and/or Russian. It also means “one who yells,” so my parents are in for a special treat!

Speaking of my parents, here they are again:

Mom

and Dad

On that great day last Wednesday, March 18, we were at a nice private clinic called ISIDA in Kyiv, Ukraine. Yep, I’m a Ukrainian! But wouldn’t you know it, even though I’m proud as hell to be born in The Ukraine, Dad has already insisted that I become an American – and so I’m supposed to get my picture taken sometime in the next week or two, and then I get my first passport from the American Embassy. Nice people over at the U.S. Embassy in Kyiv, I’m told. I guess that means I’m not allowed to be President of the USA, huh? Oh well… those guys are tight-asses anyway.

The birth was fairly easy, and my Dad took a lot of pictures (and some movies). Yes, he was in the room at the time with the camera in hand. It’s sort of embarrassing, but I think he even got a picture of me peeing all over the nurses when I was about 2 minutes “old.” One of the nurses even screamed a bit in surprise. The others giggled. Pretty soon thereafter, the nurses poked and prodded a bit, and noticed I was gaining color quickly. My lungs obviously worked. I tested them out about 10 seconds after leaving the womb.

Here I am, about 2 minutes old. Kinda gross, but kinda beautiful too!!!

Look, my cord is still attached!

I think Dad was amazed to see a live baby come out!!!

They put me on the scale and I weighed in at 3.44kg. Not too shabby since the doctors were saying I was average/small during most of my development. It just goes to show you how accurate those stupid ultrasound thingys are. For you non-math majors out there, that’s about 7lb 9oz. The nurse wasted no time in measuring me too… I was 54cm long and my head was 38cm in diameter. Also, not so bad. Not quite a Kareem Abdul Jabbar or anything, but I think I should be able to hold my own when I’m all grown up. Of course these measurements were taken over a week ago now (by about 12 hours), and I’ve probably put on a good half cm and at least 100-200 g.

I was immediately given to Dad and was taken out of the delivery room, and Mom showed up in the recovery room about 20 minutes later. I was quite comfortable being wrapped up like a little worm. They also left that little bit of “white stuff” on my face for a little while – I guess it has some protective qualities.

Though I didn’t want to leave my folks, the nurses took me away to where the other babies were gathering that evening; something like a “meeting of the minds,” I believe. I overheard my parents conversing the next day about what had happened. Mom needed to sleep, and Dad went home because he wasn’t allowed to stay. That was my first day… and the rest is (proverbial) history!

We spent a few more days in the hospital, learned all about baby care, and enjoyed round-the-clock attention. I’m now at home, and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Whitey the Cat. I understand why they named him that — but I’m sure glad they thought about it more when they named ME!!!!!

Maybe I’m being sensitive, but I think Whitey is a bit jealous already. I hope to be better friends in the future.

That’s all for now. I’ll keep you updated whenever I (or my parents) do something cool 

Cheers, and thanks for reading,

– Michael

It is pure joy to announce the birth of our son, Baby. We have not named him yet, as Russian tradition does not demand such. We have some solid choices, but we will wait to make sure the name fits

The funniest thing about this is that there are, more or less, like only 10 male Russian names to choose from !!!

Anyhow, I wanted to let everyone know that Mom, Dad, and Baby are doing well.

Everyone is happy to be alive and so far, quite healthy. We are ecstatic about being part of a growing new family.

We will be posting more soon, obviously. But TODAY is the first day of our son’s life, and I wanted to post a picture or two. Even as I write this, he’s still not even 12 hours old!!!!

With Much Love, from Kiev,

Scott, Helen, and ???

Baby!

Mom!

and, Dad!!!!

We were on our way to the hospital this morning, and I was sitting in the back seat of my BIL’s car. My MIL was next to me. We were having the usual chit-chat, exacerbated by the anxiety-provoking fact that we were all on our way to drop my wife off at the birthing center (tomorrow is the big day). I could have stayed there all day, but I have “important” stuff to do at the office . Anyhow, I can’t really recall how the conversation came up, but my mother-in-law asked me, straight up: Are you a Spy?

Of course, playing it up, I refused to directly answer the question. For the record, I am not a spy, in any sense of the word. Nevertheless, I got a kick out of being questioned. There’s no escaping that it is/was a reality here: there were/are spies around. These people grew up with the notion of spies trickling through everyday culture. This is in contrast, at least in my naive sense of reality, to my experiences growing up in California. People here are not exactly trusting of the government. KGB/SBU do follow people. I can only imagine what it used to actually be like, 20+ years ago in the USSR days. The government wants/wanted to know who is where, when, and why they were there. Oh yeah… and how they got there, and where they came from is also quite important, not to mention where they are planning on going. And perhaps, what are they doing, who are they meeting, which kinds of food do they like, what books do they read, who do they work for, and how many times do they wear their underwear before washing, etc…

Hmmmm… the more I thought about it, the more I could see (sorta) why she might consider the possibility that her son-in-law was actually an American Spy – in Kiev. I just had to laugh, because I’m so far from a spy that it’s not even funny. So, I chuckled while staring out of the moving car at the new “higher speed railway” that’s being built – and I made a mental note to write about me, being a spy   !

I think the closest I got to a spy (knowingly) was meeting this guy. I knew his son, Sean, in high school (yep, Beverly).

I’ve been around for a while now. I’ve had my share of changes: opportunities, adventures, lifestyle fluctuations, monetary challenges, academic pursuits, travels, residences (in different cities, states, countries), etc…

I’m changing again: and this time it’s the most radical transformation of my life so far — and I thought I’d share it. I feel as if I have begun reinventing myself once again.

1) I reached a milestone last week –> I turned 40. Though I’ve been expecting it for a while now, the transition into my 40’s has brought more age-related considerations than any my previous birthdays. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, I feel as if I’ve truly become a man. It’s probably similar to what Neanderthals experienced at about 14, but that’s another story. I’m no longer willing, nor able, to be shaded by the umbrella of youth. I am 40 years old. Nobody else can or will ever claim me as a dependent. I am to be the dependable one. Although I still follow in the footsteps of leaders, I, too, am expected to lead. I am now 40. FORTY. And for all intents and purposes, I have lived the first half of my life (pretty well, I might add). No, no mid-life crisis just yet – just the realization that 40 years is a significant amount of time to be wandering around this small planet.

2) I have taken on a new job. I won’t bore you with the details (though it’s quite intriguing, to be honest), but suffice it to say that in many ways (though I’m still putting my skills and training to work) I’m changing my professional direction. I guess I could more accurately say that I’m learning more about what it will take for me to really do the things I want to do in life, scientifically. Yes, I will be utilizing my scientific expertise, but I’m hired into an executive management position – more of a desk job, really. Who would’ve thunk it? Certainly not me, not even 3 months ago. But, indeed, it has happened. I’m both excited and nervous, and I’m encouraged by the challenges that lie ahead. I have some good people around me, and a lot is being asked of me: two ingredients that should blend well together, and will hopefully react to provide me with the encouragement and skills necessary for me to develop my capacity to manage and produce results.

3) I have returned to academia. No, not in the research sense… and no, not to simply perpetuate the sometimes delicious lifestyle of the college student. I have entered a specialized master’s program in management, online (most of the time). An MBA if you will, specializing in biotechnology. It’s for sure one of the more academically demanding (and challenging) pursuits I’ve faced; a situation most definitely inflated by the fact that I have avoided business, and the study thereof, for my entire life. Nevertheless, here too, I am excited by new challenges. I have met a really wonderful (small) group of freinds/colleagues/students, and together we are all going to learn about business, and the business of biotechnology and biotechnology’s related fields (pharmaceuticals, health care, etc…).

4) Finally, I’m having a baby this week. Yep, my boy is due any day now.

Man – can I pile it on any thicker? Am I ever going to sleep? Am I going to be able to study? Will I contribute to my own growth, or will I get so worn down that I fail at one of the above (or all of the above)? Do I have it in me? Is this what normal people do? Will there be any time to stop and smell the roses (and lilacs, here in Kiev)?

I’ve got a hundred more questions swirling around in my head right now, but I don’t think I need to spell them out for you. Most of you probably have (had) some of the same thoughts, feelings, experiences at one point or another.

So, I just wanted to lay it out here on Snotty’s Blog, and say –>  PLEASE excuse me if I don’t find too much time to write. I will do my best, as I have really found this to be a fun exercise, and a good way to express myself – without asking for or requiring direct feedback. Just a way to share my thoughts and feelings. I know my wife will be equally busy with the little guy, but she has expressed an interest in contributing to the blog too. So — maybe you will see some posts from Helen in the not too distant future. Maybe even a picture of the baby, if you are lucky!!!

Regards from Kiev,

Snotty

I don’t know what to say, but she just doesn’t stop…

She’s not gaining any weight (above and beyond what is natural for a pregnant woman), but it is starting to make me kind of sick watching my wife eat, and eat, and eat… and eat. Fine, fine… I’m exaggerating, but it’s my blog.

The main thing, now, is that I’ve noticed that she eats more than me. Yes, she has now surpassed my ability and/or desire to consume foodstuffs.

Her appetite has really flourished in the last week or so. She’s about 7 months pregnant. The baby is supposed to be putting on about ~25g a day, for the next six weeks or so. So eating seems like a natural and absolutely healthy aspect of the baby’s growth and a healthy woman’s pregnancy. So it’s needed, and I’m not complaining – but this is truly different from her usual appetite.

But damn…

Morning – black tea with tvarog with jam and walnuts
Post breakfast – a tangerine
Mid-morning snack – a few slices of cheese and a slice of black bread
Pre-lunch – a chocolate chip cookie, half an apple, and some yogurt
Lunch – some veal marinated with garlic and rosemary (1/4 lb)
Post-lunch – a small bowl of freshly prepared Plov (with veal)
Dinner (brother stopped by) – a second bowl of Plov
Dinner – a third bowl of Plov (oh, and just another scoop for good measure)
Post-dinner – half a tangerine and tea
Desert — one of the largest pomegranates I’ve ever seen

One thing’s for sure, the baby is eating well too
(fine, I embellished ever so slightly, but the truth is there in black and white – and I’m just surprised by how much she’s puttin’ down)

Actually, it’s kinda cute… I hope she doesn’t take offense, and I hope mom and baby are happy, healthy, and satisfied.

So, some of you have said that you’d like to hear more about our cat. Well, because I respond to my readers’ requests, here you go.

Whitey (or Беляк), is a fantastic kitty. Some info about our little “Varmint”:

Color: White and grey

Origin: Our Dacha (Summer house)

Age: ~5+ months, born early August, 2008 – Born in Вища Дубечня

Mother: “Yoda” – her second litter of the year. First litter sac’d by the peasants across the road.

Father (sire): Unknown, but presumedly the big grey cat at our Dacha! (see pic below)

I snapped this photo of him a couple of weeks ago – New Year’s Day, 2009!

Markings: Has a “heartlike” grouping of grey spots on his back – very cute. Also, pink ears.

Health: Perfect. We eradicated the ear mites he got at the summer house. And yesterday, he received his booster shot for various infectious diseases. He’s ready to travel, and he even has his own “cat passport!”

Claws: Very Sharp.

Teeth: Also very sharp. (and I think he’s losing his “baby teeth” at the moment).

Memory: Very short (thankfully) – he doesn’t remember the beatings.

Other characteristics: Enjoys sleeping next to the heater, sleeping next to our heads, sleeping next to the portable radiator, sleeping next to me while sitting on the couch, sleeping on the printer, sleeping.

Fine… he also loves playing “hide and seek” and “peek-a-boo”. And he is definitely a “trouble-maker”

He also enjoys playing with his “mouse on a string” toy. He scratches his twine covered post a lot. He tends to have a quiet little whine – which is kinda like a whimper. He almost never howls. Only when the beatings resume (kidding!)

He eats, always, but isn’t the most easy cat to please. It’s hard to tell what he likes – often we provide food and he turns the other way. We mistakenly gave him some roasted chicken the other day. I think we are doomed: he loves chicken. Oh, did I mention that he’s spoiled too?

Meet Whitey, aka. Varmint:

Click here to see his Mum.

We are also practicing for our baby. We hold him, pet him, snuggle with him, sleep with him, etc…

Here he is fulfilling the role of “sleeping baby.” We’re getting ready for the real thing.

And recently he has been cleaning up after us. Thank heavens, because I need it (I hate cleaning up).

Perhaps this movie will explain what I mean a bit better….

Lick it, Whitey!

and here’s another video…. Whitey being a super sleuthey kitty….

The Sleuthey Cat

That’s all for now, gotta get cracking on the day — Wooo-hooo, it’s snowing again!!!!

And thankfully, our Ukrainian government has kept the gas flowing to Kiev. VERY unfortunately, they have (apparently) shut it off on our neighbors to the west (Bulgaria, Hungary, etc…). Actually, I feel quite bad about all of this gas pipeline business. It’s a bunch of BS if you ask me. All political games. Big brother, little brother, East vs. West, power struggles, “show me the money,” etc… Garbage. Total Garbage. People high up in governments almost never feel the pain which is often caused by their direct actions.

But for the time being, I’d like you all to know that we are staying warm and happy.

So I have to confess something. My BIL (brother in law) is a very sweet guy. Considerate and caring, simple and genuine, and he possesses many endearing qualities. However, note that BRAINPOWER is NOT one of his strong-points alluded to in the aforementioned list. Nor is vision, insight, understanding, logic, comprehension, aptitude, intelligence, cleverness, awareness, wisdom, ability, forethought, or knowledge.

My wife told me this story, and I could NOT believe it. Really… I was stupefied. In truth, I could believe it, but I didn’t really want to — and I had to see it for myself before accepting it as reality. To me, it’s something you might see on a reality TV show: real, but surreal.

Now as I tell you about this little Home Improvement episode (it really does remind me a bit of the TV show), I’m sure you will undoubtedly say “I know someone like that.” So it’s not as if this is a uniquely Ukrainian quality (or deficiency). It definitely happens elsewhere on the planet. After all, he had to have acquired the ability to perform such fixit feats from experiences in his past (parenting, childhood, teenage years, work (furniture design), etc…. and YES, he does design furniture, which makes this EVEN HARDER TO BELIEVE.

However, this is a true story, it DID happen to our family, and it DID HAPPEN AT OUR FAMILY SUMMER HOUSE (Dacha). For me, this is like “hitting below the belt,” and strikes a bit too close to home than I’d like to admit. But then again, I’m submitting this family secret to the entire internet-connected world through my weblog.

This being said, I’d like to state, for the record, that Andre is a brother-IN-LAW. And there is no, lest I repeat, NO SHARED BLOOD between us. Alrighty then…

Here’s how the story goes…

The summer house outer door (there are two doors at the entrance) tends to expand and contract with changing seasonal influences. In the fall/winter, it absorbs moisture from the surrounds (air) and, consequently, expands a bit. Sure, sure, the door was never hung quite perfectly anyway (many years ago), so when it expands a bit, the door swells to the point where it begins to bind in the door jamb. Initially just a little snug, it did seem to be getting worse as the Fall progressed. No BIG deal, but it did become more and more difficult to close the door completely – and subsequently, opening it became less easy as time wore on.

So one solution is to fix the hinge(s) so that the door hangs properly! What a concept!! But that would require WAY too much effort. Removing the door, unscrewing the hinges, re-surfacing the jamb and/or chiseling away a bit of wood (if needed), re-attaching the hinges, and re-hanging the door. Whoa — soooooo much effort (not)! Incidentally, this was done without my knowledge or supervision, when I was on holiday back in the USA.

Another solution –> you can see below. Simply shave off the offending edge of the door so that it doesn’t bind in the frame anymore. I think he pulled off about 2-3 mm.

Well, that worked for a little while, but of course the door continued to expand with the onslaught of moisture included in the Ukrainian weather.

So the next idea is the real shocker. Shaving the door, though not elegant or pretty, seems like a logical approach, right? Especially if it’s just a “summer house,” and the cosmetic appearances of most everything out in the Ukrainian countryside is a bit “rough around the edges.”

Anyhow, the door is fabricated from several pieces of wood, needless to say. It appeared that the joints between the peripheral boards were the primary culprits of the expanding problem. So BIL reckoned that putting brackets on the door might prevent further expansion. Plus, if we squeezed the door together before installing the brackets, we may, quite possibly, eliminate the the door’s unshapely inadequacies altogether.

Of course, we didn’t have the proper brackets — which is why I balked at the idea when I was asked to fix the door before my trip to San Diego. But, that didn’s stop BIL.

So from the outside, this is what our door looks like. Pretty standard, I suppose.

From the inside, it looks like this:

So you can already see the finished product: Brackets (8) have been installed on the inner surface of the door in an attempt to hold the door “together,” preventing further expansion.

Now I have to say, it even looks OK. Perhaps it’s not the most attractive solution, but remember, we are at our summer shack, I mean house. It’s still a work in progress, big time, and someday if we need to buy a new door we can do it. But for the time being, perhaps slapping on some brackets (however flimsy they may be — and trust me, they aren’t made of the thickest steel I’ve ever seen.

Nevertheless, from a birdseye view, all is OK. Good job Bro!

Upon closer inspection, below is a close-up photograph of the bracket (top right one).

Note how the door doesn’t even look like it’s coming apart, but what the hell — let’s mount some brackets anyway. We have them, and we have the screws, so why not.

Well, how do I say this ?????….

Above is a screw on the left, and a nail on the right. Right?

Sure, it’s obvious.

And don’t you know…

… you use a screwdriver (above, left) to install screws, and a hammer (above, right) to install (hammer in) nails.

I think this is pretty straightforward, and something we learn in kindergarden (or earlier). Am I right?

Well on this day, the day the brackets were installed, BIL was running a bit short on time. Plus, it was a bit cold, and he couldn’t be bother to find the screwdriver. And, it was tooooo far to walk the 10 meters to look for the drill, and way too difficult to try to find an extension cord.

Soooo, have you guessed it yet?

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

Tick,

Tock,

* * * * * * * * *

That’s it,

Time’s up!

* * * * * * * * *

I SHIT YOU NOT…

Andre HAMMERED IN THE SCREWS TO MOUNT THE BRACKETS

He couldn’t be troubled to extend the energy required to find/use a screwdriver, and he was too lazy to get the right electric tools for installing the brackets properly.

So, I have to say it again, with my eyes closed, hands covering my face in despair, head lowered in front of me…

HE HAMMERED THE SCREWS

I don’t even know what else to say. I am completely dumbfounded, and even though he’s not a blood-brother, I’m ashamed. What in God’s name was he thinking? Does he NOT know that threads on a screw are intended to SLICE their way through the wood — and that is the ONLY way that they would/could function as a screw? Holy-moly.

Am I alone on this one? What is going on? Where am I? What am I doing here? Somebody help!!!!

Get me OUTTA HERE!!!!!   Mommy!

If he would have killed himself while installing the brackets, somehow, he just might have won a 1st place Darwin Award.

So I still haven’t put together all of the images I’d like to show you regarding my trip to the USA. So, for the time being, I thought I’d just catch you up on my life in the last week.

We pretty much go out every day to the market. Do the usual — buy food, pick up any household items on our list, and get the blood circulating a bit.

Christmas was WHITE this year. Yep, it’s been hovering around -5°C, and it snowed a couple of inches (5cm) on Christmas Day (December 25). We can see a chapel out of our window. It is for the hospital immediately behind it — and I suppose that’s where services are performed when someone passes away in the hospital.

I grabbed a bit of snow from the window sill, and made a snowball for Whitey. Yes, it was his first snowball ever. Put it in the tub, and he batted it around for about a minute – and then got bored.

We went for a walk, and I had to snap this picture of the snow sweeper. Basically it is a modified tractor. I guess most snow sweepers are… but this really looks like it was rigged from something that used to be in the potato field somewhere.

On Christmas day, I finally got all the ingredients together for the banana bread I’ve been talking about. I hopped on the net and found what looked like a damn good recipe. Indeed, it turned out great.

The bananas were COMPLETELY BLACK. I thawed them from the freezer for a day, and they were perfect.

Yes, we had to even go out and buy the pans for the bread. We really don’t have very much in the house, but it’s getting there, slowly but surely.

The final product:

We also put up some “Christmas” lights. They are BLUE LED’s. Pretty cool… and kind of expensive… but they have 8 modes, are 21 meters long (the string of 400), and criss-cross around the house. It makes for a nice atmosphere, I think.

Just after Christmas, I busted out all the makings for one of my favorite foods: Burritos. Yep, I brought all the necessities for making good burritos back with me from the USA. Well… I forgot (very unfortunately) the Jalapeno peppers — but everything else I got. Tortillas, refried beans, taco seasoning — all of which cannot be found here.

Here I was about half way through my 3rd burrito

And then today, NEW YEAR’S EVE 2008 (to be 2009), we had the outer door to our apartment fixed! Wooo-hoooo. That’s great news. We have a magnetic door to the building that keeps out the unwanted, most of the time. But in fact, it would be relatively easy to sneak in if you really tried. Then, when you get up to our floor, there is a door that separates the elevator from the 4 apartments on our side of the building. It has been broken since we moved in at the end of October.

Why today? Why would it get fixed on NYE?

I’ll tell you. It’s because of all the days of the year, NYE is the day with the HIGHEST AMOUNT OF HOME BURGLARIES!

No shit!

The neighbors finally ponied up to get the door fixed. Everyone knows that half (or more) of the apartments in the City are vacated on this night. PLUS, everyone is drinking and could care less about what else is going on around them. Thus — this leads to the highest crime rate of the year.

Unbelievably, when we asked the neighbor that was fixing the door, he said: “yeah, it’s because it’s NYE.” Damn… crazy!

Anyway, I’ve got to go eat some dinner and begin my drinking for the night. The family came to our house tonight, so we don’t have to worry about our stuff — but the family’s stuff is subject to a raid. Hopefully the neighbors will keep an eye out for the rest of the family jewels in Troeschina.

So here are pictures of our doors:

The fixed door:

The outer door lock — not that looks matter at all, but damn it looks bad.

And then you get to our door, which has two dead-bolts. Hopefully I don’t have to stand inside the door with my butcher knife in my hand. Actually… I think I’d prefer my 9-iron. That would hurt!!!

OK, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!

We close the door on 2008 –>

… And open all of the doors (actual and metaphorically speaking) to 2009:

Cheers!

Love and Happiness to Everyone in the New Year

* 2009 *

She’s pregnant, and everyone knows it.

Shockingly, people are even offering their seat to my wife on the subway. I never thought anyone here would be so kind. Alas, I was wrong. I’ve seen it several times just in the last couple of days. Nice people…  that obviously know what it’s like to bear children. Even with all the winter clothes on (because it’s -5C), it’s still quite obvious.

It’s big, but it’s beautiful. And there’s no doubt that it’s going to get way bigger in these final few months.

If anyone has any sage advice for a father to be – please leave a comment!

What a day.

Today was one of those days that needs to be documented. Highs, lows, and everything in between.

We start off early, waking up at 7am. A bit earlier than I like, but hey, we had things to accomplish today. The first of which was to make sure my wife was, satisfied. Needless to say, the day started off quite well. I headed to the kitchen at 7:30 to have a cup of tea and a bite of tvarog (baked cheesy stuff) for breakfast.

We packed up our usual Dacha gear, and headed out on our first errand – picking up the Mom’s good (long time) friend Svetlana (Sveta). No worries… we all hop in the car after depositing our belongings into the trunk of the Russian built, silver, 2006 Lada. Bro had lent us his car, and he was bitter about deciding to do it. He left AT 7:30 to make an appointment he scheduled the day before. His girlfriend waited another half hour and hitched a ride with us to the Metro station. So, we departed our beloved apartment on the Left Bank, injected 100 Hrivna ($20) into the petrol tank, and swooshed over the Moskva Bridge into Kiev (right bank, downtown area). We dropped of Luda at Petrovka, and picked up Svetlana with time to spare. After pleasantries and introductions, we drove towards the city Center on our second errand: checking out Sveta’s daugher’s unused apartment in downtown Kiev. Actually, it’s her husband’s apartment.

The daughter and her husband (a big-wig with a cell phone company) had two kids and grew out of the 2BR apartment after 7 years. They moved up the street into a 180 sq. meter apartment (quite large 5BR I’m told). The thing is, Helen and I are needing to get the hell out of “Dodge,” so to speak. If you recall, we’ve lived in Troeschina (practically a slum) with the somewhat dysfunctional (IMHO) family for 18 months… and now that we are expecting a little guy (in March), it’s time to get real. In a nutshell, I love my mother in law, but the cultural divide is more than that — it’s an enormous chasm that would dwarf the Grand Canyon. I need out – especially because we have a little guy on the way, I want to provide my wife with a happy environment in which to prepare for and have a baby in (which is not the situation in our current environment – though I don’t mean to say it’s that bad, really — it’s just not exactly my ‘cup-o-tea’).

So we look at the apartment, and I’m in heaven. Overall, it’s a somewhat spacious 2BR with a nice layout, it’s centrally located (more or less), it’s secure, and it even has a decent Southern view. Sure, it’s not a penthouse suite or anything, but it’s fairly nice by my learned Kiev standards. It would definitely suffice for the next 9 months. Ahhhh…. the freedom…. can’t you just smell it? I can.

As George Michael would say: FREEDOM!…. FREEDOM!…. You’ve gotta give for what you take!  And trust me, we’ve given for the past 18 months; now I think it’s time to take a bit, for sanity and health. There’s even a little spot for my Dnepr (motorcycle) over the winter, where I doubt anyone will mess with her if settled under a nice cover. The apartment even has 2 bathrooms, so when the wife drops a bomb in #1, I can just pop on over to #2!

Moving on – so far so good! All is well, and we leave the apartment. We were heading off to the dacha for some mushroom hunting and relaxation. It had been ~2 years since Sveta had been to our dacha, and since that time we have added onto our little house in the country quite a bit: the kitchen, bathroom, and extra room. Plus we have heaters, a water pump, and real plumbing. O Joy!

We make it to a main junction in the heart of Kiev called Petrovka (where we dropped Luda off earlier) when BLAM… I lose power. I’ve driven enough and experienced enough mechanical failures in “my time” to know that this was serious. “SHIT” I said to myself (and the rest of the car, though only my wife knew the meaning). My wife, seated next to me, said “what? … What is it?”

I said we lost power!

We are bummed.

We coasted from the top of the overpass and stopped just beyond a petrol station. I open the hood, dreary-eyed, knowing that whatever I find there ain’t gonna be pretty. I took a peek under te car and there was no problem. So no big seals/gaskets broke, no oil or coolant spilling, no transmission dragging on the pavement. Initial inspection in the engine compartment = no problem. No loose wires, not broken bits, no grinding parts. Hmmm… I try to start the motor again. It just spins. It felt like no compression… but I knew this was impossible based on what had happened. Sure, perhaps one valve could go, but that would likely sound bad! Upon calling Andre (brother and owner), he suggested to “wiggle the spark plug wires.” Yeah. Uh-ha. Sure. Why I even wasted a nanosecond listening to his ideas, I don’t know. But that’s all I gave it – 1ns.

I immediately dismissed anything he, or anyone else, had to say. I have had numerous experiences with Russian mechanical advice. Often useless, seldom productive, and occasionally destructive. Nope, I’m not listening to them anymore unless they have a thick coat of grease already under their fingernails.  Russian men are ALWAYS willing to give their advice, and they love to tinker. Before you know it, you’ve got 5 guys there ripping apart your vehicle. No way, Jose. Not today. I knew that I knew how to diagnose/fix anything better than anyone else around – yes, even better than the guys at the gas station. What can I say – I’m extremely mechanically inclined. Facts are facts.

I lift the hood and peer to the left side of the in-line, 4-cyl, sideways mounted 2.0-liter, 8-valve, overhead-cammed motor. I see a slight space between the timing belt cover and the motor. I lift its plastic frame back a bit and peer in the crack. Lo and Behold – I see the bare gear emanating from the overhad camshaft. There’s no belt. Again, NO BELT THERE. Excellent – and – SHIT! Excellent that I figured out the problem, and Shit, what the hell are we going to do about it? It’s a Sunday and we are at a gas station. There’s no such thing as Triple-A here.

Wouldn’t you know it – the first frickin’ time I drive my brother’s car in over a month, the over-aged timing belt snaps. Why me? This shit is supposed to happen to the owner, no? He drives it like an idiot every damn day –> WHY did this happen to me? Well, I know: it happened to me because I’m the only one that could rationally diagnose and determine the true cause of the problem without taking it to a repair station and saying “I dunno, it just stopped working.” Also, we are supposed to inherit the car as soon as he buys a new car. So, I was destined to try to troubleshoot something under the hood before taking ownership. Moreover, it happened because it was MUCH better than if it had happened while my wife was using it to go to work, by herself, while crossing the Dnipro River on the Moskva Bridge. That would be extremely dangerous, to say the least.

So, I break out my Leatherman, because that’s the only tool I have with me.

Using mechanically inappropriate techniques (pliers would not be my first tool of choice here), I remove the bolts that kept the timing belt cover on the motor. Indeed, after removal, it was obvious what had happened: the belt snapped where a “tooth” was missing, and just after (or before, depending on which way the motor rotated)a point where 2 other teeth were missing. The belt was obviously old, and had not been replaced since the car) was purchased. Good Job Andre… Good Job. I appreciate that. The timing belt, in case you didn’t know Andre, is supposed to be checked at 50,000 km, and most definitely replaced by 60,000. The odometer says 67,800 km. Again, Thanks Bro!

I show the belt to Mom and Sveta, who were standing behind the car, and they touch their faces with both hands in slight horror. The exclaim “Kashmar” and “Ujas” — basically saying “The Horror” in a shocking sort of way. (Kinda nasty, but it reminds me of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse now). So as I’m telling my wife that we are going nowhere, she befriends a very kind, VERY religious man who was filling up at the petrol station.

Because of his inherent generosity (obviously), he offered to help tow us around Obolon (suburb where we were located). I was skeptical. He looked sorta like George from Seinfeld. Short, glasses, balding, and clearly a similar “way” about him. Of course, George on Seinfeld is kniving in a lot of ways, where this guy was quite pure and innocent. Nevertheless, we were to find out later that: 1) he was Jewish, turned Evangelist?; 2) he was traveling with his mother (who was in unhappily resting in the passenger seat) and whom LOOKED like George’s mother in Seinfeld!!! Holy crap; 3) he was married for 8 years but divorced, and now lives with his Mom (who, again, was in the passenger seat); and 4) He knows Obolon because he used to live there with his wife. This situation is commonplace here in Ukraine. Since everyone inherited their apartments/houses/land, all the kids just live at home and spend their meager wages on booze, cell phones, cars, and fashion. Why should they move out… Mom cooks and cleans for them!!!

So, although it was Sunday, we proceeded in the high hopes of finding an open repair establishment. The overly kind gentleman (we’ll just call him George, though his name was Oleg) opened the hatchback to his 1.6L Lada (very small car), and brandished a sparkling new tow strap – obviously he was looking for an occasion to use it. I took it on faith that everything was going to work out — and I just had to roll with it (pun intended). He hooked it to the tow loop on the front part of my Lada’s frame, and then semi-attached it to the back of his car. When the tension increased in tow, it clearly imparted inappropriate strain upon his fledgeling, wimpy, plastic, bendable bumper. Pathetic, but it worked.

Fine. He drove OK, and I did my best to keep a bit of tension on the bright yellow strap (without power brakes), trying not to slam into him. I turn my hazards on. To keep it a bit shorter than my memory recalls, I’ll leave out the the minutia of the first 3 service stations we visited — they were all were closed, and no parts were to be found either – we need a timing belt and a tensioner. However, one moment was unforgettable and worth describing: on the way to the third place, we made an illegal left turn — RIGHT in front of two cops. Needless to say, they pulled both of us over , not that I had a choice in the matter

I stayed planted in my seat, while George got out of the car and spoke to the Militzia. Of course, he stopped right in the middle of an intersection. Russians do that a lot too… they don’t care what kind of mayhem it causes. People had to keep going around us… blah, blah, blah… and of course, I couldn’t do anything about it: I was, quite literally, powerless. (I suppose I could have pushed both cars, but screw that – I already pushed my car backwards to the original gas station for the more detailed inspection). After about 5 minutes of George sitting IN the cop car, obviously requesting a ticket as opposed to offering the standard 20 Hrivna payoff that the cops always get. Remember that George is as straight-laced as it gets.

He couldn’t possibly participate in an act of corruption? Could he?

OH-NO! Not my little Georgey!

Anyway, after 5 minutes George’s mother gets out of their car and starts blabbering in Russian: translated- “He’s tooo nice. He’s always too nice. We have errands to run, and we’ve been trying to run them for over a day now — and he just keeps helping people.” And on and on. She’s pacing, obviously pissed and frustrated. I guess George truly is hopelessly helpful – in an self-defeating sorta way. I think to myself, ‘this is going downhill, and fast.’

The cop issued the ticket, George, walked quickly back to his car and said to us that everything was normal. No worries. Let’s go. Well, after the 3rd and 4th failed attempts at finding a mechanic, I was sure we were doomed. Moreover, we were driving AWAY from our house, and I was getting bitter.

On our 5th (probably not final if it hadn’t have succeeded) drove by a small, single “grease-monkey” garage entitled “Diagnostics.” George, as he had done at the past 4 stations, takes the lead and speaks with the mechanic at the garage, as he had done at the previous 3 stations. Nobody else was there needing service, so indeed, the mechanic was willing to work. No surprise there. But it was a surprise that he was open on a Sunday, and ready to help us. Even more of a surprise, he seemed to be a nice guy! He said to go down the road and buy the part we needed, and he’ll get started on the car.

Helen went with George and his Mom, and got an earful. George is an evangelist. What the means, exactly, I’m not sure (except what I read on Wikipedia). Anyhow, he passed on some pamphlets outlining his religious thoughts – attempting to persuade my wife into becoming a member of his church. Needless to say, he had no idea that my wife was both a psychologist and an athiest. She had some fun toying with his brain – but that’s for her to tell you about.

I kept an eye on the mechanic (Igor) as he prepared the vehicle for timing belt transplant. I attempted to help whenever I could: I held the light over the engine cavity, I joked in my limited Russian, and a told him how much I appreciated the naked women on the walls. Before too long, though it took a solid 20 minutes, Helen, George, and Mom returned to the shop. All the while Mom and Sveta were gabbing out on the sidewalk… not worrying about a thing (now that we got towed to an open service station).

Helen handed me the belt and tensioner (combined $23), and I placed it under the hood (ready for action) after peering into the box. Another 15 minutes pass, and the mechanic tells me to try to start the motor. OK. Nothing happens. Ooops, he forgot to put on the timing gear. He attaches that after chuckling, and it starts normally! Wooo-hooo! He finished that job, and also fixed the emergency brake, which was obviously non-functional when the car nearly rolled off the rack in the shop.

In the end, Igor overcharged us. Why… because I’m a Yank! That’s why. The bastard. But hey, can you blame him? If I had a [presumably rich] American come into my garage needing some serious repair work, I’d probably try to charge him a bunch too! It was only $40 for an hour of labor… but it should have been half that much. But I didn’t care. He was a nice guy, quite friendly, and good at what he does. Plus, he let me watch everything he did — and I liked that!

I also liked his wallpaper.

Thus, 2-3 hours late, we head off to our dacha. All was going well, until we got to approximately 5 km from our house. We saw the police… again. I’ve seen them on numerous occasions, but I’ve never been stopped while driving. As luck would have it, the officer waved his black and white striped baton at me and my car.

“Shit,” I exclaimed.

My wife, in the passenger seat, said “what?”

I said “he’s pulling us over.”

She said, out loud, “KEEP GOING!”

Ha! Yeah right. I’m gonna just keep driving even though a Russian cop told me to pull over! I didn’t give that another instant of thought, and I quickly pulled over onto the shoulder. The cop meandered over to the car and leaned over. Helen began conversing with him. In a nutshell, he pulled us over because the hood of the car had a large scrape on it. (This happened a month or two ago when a truck backed up onto the front of Andre’s car). Supposedly the police are obligated to pull over any car with damage to the front of the vehicle, in order to insure that a person was not involved in the incident. So, he did. He looked at the registration, and that was fine. Interestingly, the vehicle’s registration is a card (like a license) that is kept in one’s wallet — and you have to remember to transfer this when lending your car to someone. Of course we always remember, and we had the registration. The officer also asked to see Helen’s passport, because her name is on the registration as a licensed operator. That being said, all she has to do is be IN the vehicle, and anyone can drive (like me, her husband).

Following the passport inquiry, he asked for my license. Reluctantly, but without hesitation, I handed him my California driver’s license. He sort of chuckled and said “oh, Americanski?” I said “da.” He said “Kalifornieye,” and I again said “Da.” He followed by saying “ah, Zwartzenegger… Ya znayoo Zwartzenegger” (I know Schwartzenegger).

At that point, I knew he was cool.

He chatted a bit more in Russian, looked at my license again, and returned the documents. We left as soon as he walked beyond the rear bumper — and headed straight for our dacha, as quickly as possible.

So, though there was potential for further drama, we arrived at our dacha in semi-normal fashion. We immediately proceeded to eat a big lunch (we were all starving) – including dessert and tea (of course). Within 5 minutes of finishing lunch, Helen and I were off to do some mushroom hunting. To keep it brief, we got a bunch of mushrooms (2-3 kg). Tonight I made a super-rich cream sauce a-la my brother’s (the chef’s) recommendations, which was poured over some perfectly cooked pasta – al dente. Yummy!

HOT DAMN!

It turned out soooooooo tasty with those wild mushrooms.

Hold on, I skipped a bit.

While mushroom hunting we had a couple of encounters… with snakes. Damn. I saw one and backed up. I turned my head, and I was maybe 1 foot from a second snake. Sure, these were only a couple of feet long — but just the sight of a snake sends shivers up my spine. My hairs stood on end, and I sped off. It took a few minutes for the “willies” to ware off. Ugh… I hate snakes.

Toward the end of the hunt, Helen encountered one. Unfortunately, she STRADDLED the snake without even noticing it!!! She had her eyes set on a mushroom. But when she kneeled down, she heard a “hiss.” Then again, another “hissssssssss.” She didn’t know what the hell it was… and then she saw it — right under her crotch! She screamed, shrieked, jumped, yelled, and hollered all at the same time. It was the scariest sound I’ve ever heard come out of her lungs. After that she was shaking with fright. Her hairs were standing up, and any sensation was just too creepy to deal with. No, it wasn’t poisonous, but that doesn’t take away from the fear instilled by seeing a snake between your legs (other than my snake).

Whew!

So we hunted for the mushrooms for nearly 4 hours, right behind our house in the “local” forest. We are really beginning to learn the local environment, and starting to learn where the “good patches” of mushrooms grow. We returned to home around 6pm, just in time to pack up and head out. We put our stash into the car, I adjusted the headlights (which had been needed since I remember), and headed home.

I expected a bit of traffic, as always, on a Sunday night heading back to Kiev. However, this was horrible. It’s a two lane road (one lane in each direction). But of course, that doesn’t stop the Russians. Ohhhhh Nooooo. A High percentage of Russians think they deserve to do whatever they want. They think that putting on their flashers and driving in the opposing traffic’s lane gives them a “green light” to drive past EVERYONE that is waiting patiently for the traffic to subside.

No shit. It’s ridiculous.

THESE PEOPLE HAVE A SCREW LOOSE!

I WANTED TO STRANGLE THEIR F*CKING NECKS.

At one point, there were 4 cars wide… all heading towards a 2-lane dam crossing, one lane in each direction. Why 4 lanes wide, you ask? Well, my lane and the opposite direction = 2 lanes. But then there were cars PASSING ME ON BOTH SHOULDERS!!!

ARE YOU KIDDING? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Aren’t we all trying to go the same way?

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? DIPLOMATS? DIGNITARIES? PRESIDENTS? HONORARY ASSHOLES? Thankfully it’s only about 5% of the people that think they are privileged — otherwise it would be a total dogpile.

That being said, it took us over an hour to go about 2 miles (probably less). After a helluva day, that was painfu. I had to turn on my iPod when the persistent Russian babbling from the back seat (Mom and Sveta) came paralyzingly close to sending me over the edge.

Needless to say, we eventually made it across the damn, and proceeded to drop of Sveta in Kiev. We headed home, arriving safe and sound.

It was a long day, but the mushrooms made it worth it. Then again, I hate it when I can feel hairs turning from brown to gray on my head — for no good reason.

Hell of a long post today… time for bed.

Peace!

OMG!

I can’t see.

I am not sure what happened.

Actually, I DO remember the last thing I saw… and I’m hoping it won’t leave permanent damage.

****

If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you will know that I’ve been blinded once before: by the sight of my horrified mother in law running naked through the house, like a sprinting cheetah, towards her room.

Yes… I got a clear view of my Mother-in-law’s backside. It was a shocker, to say the least.

****

Well my blog-reading friends… it happened again.

This time though… yep, you guessed it… FULL-FRONTAL.

Holy SCHNIKES.

Why, why, why, Lord… O’ why have you done this to me? Why do you punish me? What did I do to deserve such castigation?

I’m sure you are wondering what happened: I was on a business call for an hour in my room. She probably heard me talking with the door closed and thought, “hey, Snotty’s busy, so I can strut around brazenly without a worry.” Well, after I ended the phone call, I had to take a leak. The bathroom is around the corner from my room, off the hallway leading to the kitchen. I spin out of my door and around the corner… and…

BLAMMO!

I mean…   BLAAAAAAAMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOO!

She was walking into the kitchen from the balcony with her recently gifted thick-n-fluffy American bathrobe WIDE freaking open. I saw so many rolls, so much flesh, too much skin, and gigantic sagging mammaries — I retreated instantaneously, and felt weak, nauseous, disturbed, slightly angry, and creeped-out, all within the first 5 seconds. Thank the Maker (it’s just an expression) –> I don’t think she saw me! Otherwise our subsequent interaction(s) might be… hmmm… awkward.

Since retreating to my room I’ve discovered the only lasting effect — I’m visually paralyzed and emotionally traumatized. What to do? I don’t think my retinas will ever be the same.

Should I tell her, so that she doesn’t do it again?

Or, if she knows I’ve already seen her in her birthday suit, maybe she’ll just be that much more at ease to do it again in the future?

Or, if I just keep it to myself, will my nightmares go away???

Thankfully, my wife (and my mother) is a shrink… I may need some extended therapy after today’s episode.

We live in the city. But in the summer months we spend quite a bit of time at our summer house. It’s about 45 km from our apartment, and serves many purposes, not the least of which is sanity and a sense of grounding with mother Earth.Needless to say, the summer house is a virtual bounty of life. Everything grows, lives, dies, wilts, withers, blows, ages, wears, blossoms, suckles, spreads, and passes. It’s the circle of life, and it is everywhere at our dacha. Of course we (as “man”) are attempting to control our environment as best we can to make life “comfortable,” but when it comes down to it, we are visitors here just like all the other plants and animals. It feels inherently different in the City.

So as you might guess, we have snakes. Yes, some are poisonous, but many are not. I can never remember – do the small yellow dots mean they are deadly, or harmless? Anyhow, we were peacefully eating breakfast a couple of months ago (early June), and I glanced over at the sunlight beaming through the glowing lilys – right onto the belly of a green, slithering, legless, sniffing-tongue, scaly varmant. It didn’t scare me so much as it surprised me. I rubbed my eyes, opened my pupils a bit, and refocused my aging lenses. Nothing changed. It WAS a snake. We hopped up, took a closer look, and deemed the snake to be “harmless.” It was not like it’s highly poisonous counterpart (without the dots, I believe) – the meadow viper??? Not sure. Damn, just the viper attached to the name gives me the willeeees.

Here’s a picture: Sneaky, isn’t he?

So we got some sticks and a fishing net, and tried to corral it so that we could get a better look. Unfortunately, he was sort of deep in the flowerbed, and we couldn’t easily capture it. After about 15 minutes, and playing “catch me if you can” as it slithered between the bases of several bushes, we lost it. Great. Gone. Just what I wanted – to be thinking about the slithering reptile casing our gazebo while my back is turned towards the table, peacefully eating my oatmeal. I bet it’s hungry. I bet it likes human.

Then, another episode -

It was nightfall. The wolves were howling, the wind was blowing, the lightning striking. Not really, that was just for effect. But… The first star was peering through the stratosphere. We were starting our evening fire in our Russian standard outdoor iron oven (sort of a BBQ). We hear a croak. Several times. And then a whine. And then a croak, and a whine. And another.

The cats became equally interested and were moving about. It was emanating from the corner of the serai (our shed), which is connected to our old (but still functional) outside kitchen. It was near the steps, and coming from under the woodpile. Surprise, surprise.

It was dark and we couldn’t see, so we fetched our headlamp and double-A Mag-lite. Carefully inspecting the area we expected to see a toad or two. The chornie-belie (black-white) cat, a demonstrated hunter, had helped focus our inspection. We couldn’t place the sound, as it was definitely unusual for a toad to squalk like that. Anyhow, under the illumination of our flashlights, we lifted a small piece of plywood – and there it was.

Shit. A snake. I lifted it again and took a picture (so that I wouldn’t have to get too close). I’ve never heard a snake make those sounds before = “no way!”
Let’s look at the picture and see if it’s a viper. If not, we can catch it. Looking at the picture, the situation became far clearer. It was a toad… and a snake. But the toad was getting the wrong end of this deal — it was being eaten by the snake. Either the toad was bigger than the snake had anticipated, or the attack had just literally (5 minutes before) taken place and the deal had not quite been consummated yet.

Have a look at the picture: I didn’t want to disturb mother nature, so this is the best picture I got.

I guess that’s what they do around here… but I’d never quite seen it before. The snake was incapacitated by its appetite. We proceeded to go back and look several times, re-lifting the wood, and the animals hadn’t moved an inch. Caught in the throws of death, the frog was muttering its last sounds.

We returned in the morning, and (not surprisingly) no trace was left. But it goes to show that life is all around us.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was another snake I almost forgot to mention. It was INSIDE one of our bags of concrete, INSIDE our fourier, on the way into our main house. Yikes!  What am I doing here???
____________________

I wrote this above post a little while ago, and between writing and physically attaching the pictures/posting the text, I came across a few other snakes during my brief trip back to California! All at my Dad’s house: first, a black racer (basically harmless, cool looking snakes) that was exiting the tomato patch – he was about 4 feet long; second a rattlesnake hanging out in a small culvert used for water drainage – it rattled at us and returned to its shelter; lastly, a rattlesnake relaxing next to the water tank right near the tub used to offer a bit of water relief from the desert heat.

The last example has particular relevance because it is very possibly the SAME snake that BIT my father about 6 weeks ago. Yep, he was walking by the tanks and stepped on the damn thing. If you know my father, you know he’s blind (or, for all intents and purposes, blind – he sees very, very little out of only one eye). Anyhow, rattlesnakes are supposed to rattle before biting, right? In fact, they are supposed to rattle before you even get anywhere close enough to step on them, RIGHT??? But this little bastard bit first and rattled afterward (admittedly, after being stepped on ). Anyway, thanks buddy. Thanks for the warning.

In the end, Dad had something on the order of 13 anti-venom treatments over the course of the next ~36 hours at 2 different hospitals. He is fine, and all is well — just a bit scary if you ask me.

Here’s my tribute picture:  Modified from a blind veteran’s golf tournament held in Iowa each year!

I’ve had more snake adventures, but those are either private, or for another post…

Whoa…

where’d she go? I lost Mom.

Baby, where did Mom go???

Oh… there she is… it was so hard to spot her with her big cat camouflage on.

but seriously, this is one of her favorite outfits. She wears it all over the place. Here’s a pic from last night, in the kitchen.

And trust me… she’s not the only one in Kiev to dawn such patterns.

I routinely see hot chicks (thankfully), grandmothers, kids, moms, peasants, and businesswomen… seriously, it’s quite funny. They love the animal patterns. The BIG CAT patterns. I think they see it as sexy. You know, like Farah Fawcett kinda sexy.

Not only that, but you see this dress everywhere. In the country, in downtown center, at the market, at the open-air markets, restaurants, shops, bus stops, beaches, airplanes, park benches, etc… It really cracks me up when I see what must be a 90 year old lady at the bazaar wearing all leopard. I’ll try to snap a pic next time.

Cheers!

So recently I’ve been saying this to my wife. I don’t think she likes it, but it’s true, and I know it strikes a nerve – so I keep doing it to reiterate my feelings.

I feel like a DOG ON A LEASH.

I’m trying to learn Russian, and I’m getting better. However, I’m often times just led around and told what to do:

go here.

buy that.

watch this.

eat that.

look here.

stay there.

sit here.

stand there.

hold this.

carry that.

we’re going here.

we’re buying that.

let’s go to the store.

let’s go for a walk.

It’s time to…

blah, blah, blah…

Kinda like this: 

__________________________________________________

I also occasionally feel like an American on Parade.

It’s nice and all, to know that the friends we have like me, and want to get to know me. But in reality, I’m starting to realize that I’m not just me. I’m the American [husband]. We occasionally go to some friends’ house for dinner and drinks. It’s fun, and I like them… but I’ve come to realize that they obviously go out of their way to make it nice for THE AMERICAN. I didn’t feel like going last week, but Helen was in the City (Kiev) already, and she stopped by. Of course, we told them that I wasn’t going to attend — so it became a very average and typical Ukrainian meal. Which of course, there’s nothing wrong with — and it’s still very nice for them to be our (often quite generous) hosts for the evening. But in doing so, I now realize that they only go out of their way because the American is coming! Alright… maybe it’s not just because I’m an American, but being an fully red-blooded, California native, American citizen does inherently possess a special sort of status – for better and worse.

Whatever…

I just wanted to air out my feelings a bit. I really hate sticking out so much, and feeling like either a dog on a leash, or an American on parade.  (Maybe I’ll tell you more about my experiences later, but I’ve got to go eat my zavtra. Ofsanaya kasha dla zavtrak sevoydna utrum. Spaciba dla chitat.