10 March 2011
369
R. Linda:
It was karma, or what goes around comes around, or KISMET!
After work Tuesday, I was invited to a dinner for a co-worker who was going on maternity leave. Her name is Angela, and she is married to Anatoly, a rather clever businessman. Since coming to America from Dobryanka in Russia, Anatoly has made a good living in the Real Estate business. He has a knack for property management, and to see him, he be more apt to have Adonis DNA than Charlie Sheen ever could. In my wife's words, "He is a tall, blond man with strikingly good looks." Angela is no slouch herself; she's an auburn-haired lass of Irish American heritage who is tall and leggy, unusual for Irish women, but when she and Anatoly step into a room, well, you know they are a Ken and Barbie couple.
I like Anatoly; he's got a natural sense of humour much like me own, and he's as tall as me, which makes us look like two power forwards on a basketball team. Anyway, I've been out socially with this couple, so we are very friendly. I was sitting next to Anatoly, and we were talking about pregnant women and their mood swings. How it was, we had to constantly be on our toes because we never knew when these swings would occur. They could be confusing if you have a wife who was laughing one moment and then crying the next, and she doesn't know why it is happening to her, and you try your best to be supportive, but . . . well, you aren't always successful.
The restaurant was Russian, a well-established place in Newton, outside Boston. I was being served borscht, a soup I enjoy when I heard laughter at a table behind me. As I finished the soup and was being served an excellent appetiser of Satzivi (a chicken dish in a walnut and cilantro sauce with Russian spices (I am telling you this because you always ask me about the food)), it hit me that the laugh was familiar. It was a big-bodied laugh is the only way to describe it. I turned around, but in the dim light, it was too hard to see and turning full around would have been impolite, so I shrugged and went on with me meal.
I had ordered lamb Shashlik, a delicious marinated lamb on skewers, so here you know the entree too. Anyway, by the time I was starting on the lamb, we had all settled into eating and less talking, which gave yours truly an opportunity to focus me listening behind me. And I heard this voice that was also familiar talking English with a heavy Russian accent when I thought, NO! It cannot be. So shocked was I by who I thought was in the room with me that I tried to turn around to see if it was. But I couldn't do that without disturbing Tonya, who was sitting on the other side and was yipping at me at what was I doing, "Sit and eat. You're such an antsy ant sometimes." And we don't want to disturb the wife when she's feeding.
Then I thought it could be a voice Tonya recognised, so I leaned toward her and asked her if she recognised the laugh and the voice of the man behind us. She said no, she didn't, wasn't familiar at all. But I knew I knew that laugh and voice. I just could not place it, but then I thought, yes, I can place it, but no, it couldn't be, and I wanted to turn around so bad and look, but well, it wasn't polite. By dessert (sweet cheese blintz with Turkish coffee because I know you want to know that too), I thought when I got up to leave, I'd turn in that direction and see who the man was.
Well, I didn't have to because as I was enjoying the strong coffee and listening to the conversation at me table of sixteen, a meaty hand suddenly clamped down on me shoulder and a big booming familiar voice said, "Ah, is you! Petrova caretaker, eh?"
Yes, I looked up into the face of Nadia Demidov's Uncle Boris. I cringed when I heard the name Petrova. Yes, I did. I was thinking Uncle Boris had that damned cat in his jacket pocket. His beloved Petrova, the nemesis of my time in California. I got up and shook his hand, then introduced him to our table. After the introductions and pleasantries, I asked him how the Pee Cat was, hoping she had long passed to cat heaven.
"Oh, Petrova is . . . how you say? Is . . . formulating in the lap of luxury." And he smiled like it was the most wonderful news. I was still struggling with the word "formulating" because I wasn't sure that's what he meant and how a cat formulates anything . . . but ok!
Someone else caught the word and whispered with a laugh, "Fornicating probably," and twitters went around the table. I was hoping Uncle Boris didn't hear it, so I started to talk loudly.
"So . . . she's still with us?" I said with a frozen smile of near disbelief.
"Oh yes, yes. She is here in Boston!" And he made this big grand gesture to encompass all of the room. "She is at hotel, in lap of American bourgeois luxury." He grinned. "They serve her morsels on crystal plate, and she has bed nicer than me!" He laughed.
Oh, that stupid cat, I thought. I also thought, Well, Uncle Boris, if you allow HER to have a better bed than you, I don't know how to commiserate with you on that one. SIGH. I nodded me head in memory of how that cat took me life over with a single-minded purpose to destroy it and get me out of her house. But I was able to get HER out first. I still have horrible dreams about all those Faberge eggs. The one re-occurring dream is seeing that cat on a table full of them, swatting one at a time off the table like she was hitting golf balls, me tied to a chair, helpless to stop her, watching the expensive eggs break in thousands of pieces on that polished floor. Gives me the chills!
"You should come, come with me, visit Petrova, yes?" He invited.
"NO! I mean, I can't right now. Am out with a celebration. New baby coming," I gestured with a smile at Angela.
"OH, your wife?" Boris mistook Angela for Tonya.
"NO!" I said in a panic as Tonya was sitting there.
"Well, thanks a lot, Gabe," Angela laughed at me.
OH MY GOD! This was getting out of hand. I apologised to her and introduced me REAL wife, who was sitting there looking rather pissed at me. I said aside to Anatoly, I'd explain this later. Yeah, I would have to; my behaviour was nervous, stupid, and embarrassing. But that's what mention of that damn cat does to me to this day! She can still make me look the fool, and she doesn't even have to be there. Even worse, the smell of Febreze, well, I just can't use that stuff anymore for the memories.
Uncle Boris wrote out on a card the address and room number and then handed it to me, saying, "You come. See Petrova, I tell her you come."
I wanted to die. The last thing I wanted was to see that cat. How was I to decline Uncle Boris's invitation with any grace? I thought he knew that Petrova and I were sworn enemies, but then the look in his eyes was of mischief. I knew he was setting me up. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! So as unctuously as he handed the card over, I accepted it.
"Yeah, that's the ticket, Petrova," I muttered, thinking of stuffing a cat toy with rat poison. I know, I know, it was just a momentary pleasure. I would never do it, though that cat has come damn near to ending my life, and no one would send me to cat jail for it.
"What ticket? Is card, says hotel, room number, what ticket?" Uncle Boris asked.
"Oh, was just a silly American bourgeois phrase." I lied with a forced laugh.
"You call number," he made like a telephone receiver with his large, meaty hand and pointed to the card. "I make Petrova ready to receive honorary visitor, caretaker Gabe."
'Yee-ah, you do that." And I started to take my chair, but Uncle Boris took it instead and sat his major league fatness down next to Anatoly, and there ensued a conversation in Russian of which I could only catch bits and pieces. By the time we had after-dinner drinks and more coffee, it had been two hours, and there sat Boris holding court, telling stories of when Russia was the USSR and how terrible it was when "end came to Soviet Socialist Republic," big sigh. I thought he'd give us a blow-by-blow of the last days of the Czar, but no, he was a card-carrying member of the communist party and that Yeltsin and Gorbachev, well, they ruined the empire, but this Putin, he could put it all back and probably will and then Uncle Boris will take the Pee Cat and return to St. Petersburg. Yup. I wanted to know where I could sign up to help repair the "empire" so that the cat can leave the country I am currently residing in. I'd feel a whole lot safer with her thousands of miles away. I know you will tell me I am overreacting, but just go back and read those stories of my time in San Francisco as a roommate to that dastardly cat and tell me if I have every reason to be paranoid.
I have no intention of visiting Pee. I will call Uncle Boris and decline, citing me business not giving me the time. Me mother brought me up properly: if you are invited somewhere, you need to RSVP one way or another. I will do that. After all, he did take that cat off my hands and probably saved me life back in the San Francisco days.
I did have another dream or nightmare. That very night, I did. I really need to find a way to stop dreaming. My dreams are all terrible of late, as you know by reading the blog. SIGH. So last night, I dreamt I could hear that Star Wars music, you know, the DUN DUN DE DUN. There was this massive room with these military guys wearing the old communist uniforms with the red stars. They were standing before all these computers with lights flashing and beeping and all that, and as the music swelled, one of them, who was dressed differently like a commander, turned to this raised platform that was all enclosed in glass. As the music swelled, me minds-eye camera started a slow zoom into the control centre. As it got closer and closer, I could see a black paw on a lever, and closer I could hear that Persian cat breathing, you know the kind because their faces are pushed in, so breathing be a little laboured, and then, oh my God, and then, right up there close into the smushed face looking snotty as all hell and arrogant, let's not forget that smug look she has, was the Pee Cat wearing the top part of Darth Vader's helmet. She was slowly releasing the lever, and that's when I screamed like a girl and woke meself and my wife, and the kidlets up!
It took Tonya an hour to calm me down. I was shouting, "No, no, Darth Kitty, NO!" Finally, Tonya got me awake and out of the remembrance of the nightmare. I kept telling her that Petrova was still alive and she was plotting to take over the universe, not just the world, and she was evil, and I just knew her weapons of choice were bombs that looked like Faberge eggs, and on and on I went until they all just left me sitting in the lounge by me lonesome. Yes, they did. All three of them. Even the dogs left, but I got them all back within two seconds when I screamed again. A furry thing had caressed my neck, and I jumped up, thinking the Pee Cat had somehow materialised in me living room. But it wasn't Petrova. It was Mr. Kits. He had been sleeping on the top of the couch where I was sitting. His tail swept me neck as he changed position. It wasn't Petrova at all. No, my own cat was sitting there smiling at me. At the fool, I was jumping around. My heart was pounding, and they all started laughing at me, including Mr. Kits. I went off to my bed in a snit I did. At the time, I couldn't understand how they could be so unsympathetic. But with daylight, I realise what an arse I must have looked.
I won't rest easy until Petrova leaves the east coast. I must call Uncle Boris and find out if this is a visit or they are leaving for Mother Russia. I am hoping it is the latter.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
It was karma, or what goes around comes around, or KISMET!
After work Tuesday, I was invited to a dinner for a co-worker who was going on maternity leave. Her name is Angela, and she is married to Anatoly, a rather clever businessman. Since coming to America from Dobryanka in Russia, Anatoly has made a good living in the Real Estate business. He has a knack for property management, and to see him, he be more apt to have Adonis DNA than Charlie Sheen ever could. In my wife's words, "He is a tall, blond man with strikingly good looks." Angela is no slouch herself; she's an auburn-haired lass of Irish American heritage who is tall and leggy, unusual for Irish women, but when she and Anatoly step into a room, well, you know they are a Ken and Barbie couple.
I like Anatoly; he's got a natural sense of humour much like me own, and he's as tall as me, which makes us look like two power forwards on a basketball team. Anyway, I've been out socially with this couple, so we are very friendly. I was sitting next to Anatoly, and we were talking about pregnant women and their mood swings. How it was, we had to constantly be on our toes because we never knew when these swings would occur. They could be confusing if you have a wife who was laughing one moment and then crying the next, and she doesn't know why it is happening to her, and you try your best to be supportive, but . . . well, you aren't always successful.
The restaurant was Russian, a well-established place in Newton, outside Boston. I was being served borscht, a soup I enjoy when I heard laughter at a table behind me. As I finished the soup and was being served an excellent appetiser of Satzivi (a chicken dish in a walnut and cilantro sauce with Russian spices (I am telling you this because you always ask me about the food)), it hit me that the laugh was familiar. It was a big-bodied laugh is the only way to describe it. I turned around, but in the dim light, it was too hard to see and turning full around would have been impolite, so I shrugged and went on with me meal.
I had ordered lamb Shashlik, a delicious marinated lamb on skewers, so here you know the entree too. Anyway, by the time I was starting on the lamb, we had all settled into eating and less talking, which gave yours truly an opportunity to focus me listening behind me. And I heard this voice that was also familiar talking English with a heavy Russian accent when I thought, NO! It cannot be. So shocked was I by who I thought was in the room with me that I tried to turn around to see if it was. But I couldn't do that without disturbing Tonya, who was sitting on the other side and was yipping at me at what was I doing, "Sit and eat. You're such an antsy ant sometimes." And we don't want to disturb the wife when she's feeding.
Then I thought it could be a voice Tonya recognised, so I leaned toward her and asked her if she recognised the laugh and the voice of the man behind us. She said no, she didn't, wasn't familiar at all. But I knew I knew that laugh and voice. I just could not place it, but then I thought, yes, I can place it, but no, it couldn't be, and I wanted to turn around so bad and look, but well, it wasn't polite. By dessert (sweet cheese blintz with Turkish coffee because I know you want to know that too), I thought when I got up to leave, I'd turn in that direction and see who the man was.
Well, I didn't have to because as I was enjoying the strong coffee and listening to the conversation at me table of sixteen, a meaty hand suddenly clamped down on me shoulder and a big booming familiar voice said, "Ah, is you! Petrova caretaker, eh?"
Yes, I looked up into the face of Nadia Demidov's Uncle Boris. I cringed when I heard the name Petrova. Yes, I did. I was thinking Uncle Boris had that damned cat in his jacket pocket. His beloved Petrova, the nemesis of my time in California. I got up and shook his hand, then introduced him to our table. After the introductions and pleasantries, I asked him how the Pee Cat was, hoping she had long passed to cat heaven.
"Oh, Petrova is . . . how you say? Is . . . formulating in the lap of luxury." And he smiled like it was the most wonderful news. I was still struggling with the word "formulating" because I wasn't sure that's what he meant and how a cat formulates anything . . . but ok!
Someone else caught the word and whispered with a laugh, "Fornicating probably," and twitters went around the table. I was hoping Uncle Boris didn't hear it, so I started to talk loudly.
"So . . . she's still with us?" I said with a frozen smile of near disbelief.
"Oh yes, yes. She is here in Boston!" And he made this big grand gesture to encompass all of the room. "She is at hotel, in lap of American bourgeois luxury." He grinned. "They serve her morsels on crystal plate, and she has bed nicer than me!" He laughed.
Oh, that stupid cat, I thought. I also thought, Well, Uncle Boris, if you allow HER to have a better bed than you, I don't know how to commiserate with you on that one. SIGH. I nodded me head in memory of how that cat took me life over with a single-minded purpose to destroy it and get me out of her house. But I was able to get HER out first. I still have horrible dreams about all those Faberge eggs. The one re-occurring dream is seeing that cat on a table full of them, swatting one at a time off the table like she was hitting golf balls, me tied to a chair, helpless to stop her, watching the expensive eggs break in thousands of pieces on that polished floor. Gives me the chills!
"You should come, come with me, visit Petrova, yes?" He invited.
"NO! I mean, I can't right now. Am out with a celebration. New baby coming," I gestured with a smile at Angela.
"OH, your wife?" Boris mistook Angela for Tonya.
"NO!" I said in a panic as Tonya was sitting there.
"Well, thanks a lot, Gabe," Angela laughed at me.
OH MY GOD! This was getting out of hand. I apologised to her and introduced me REAL wife, who was sitting there looking rather pissed at me. I said aside to Anatoly, I'd explain this later. Yeah, I would have to; my behaviour was nervous, stupid, and embarrassing. But that's what mention of that damn cat does to me to this day! She can still make me look the fool, and she doesn't even have to be there. Even worse, the smell of Febreze, well, I just can't use that stuff anymore for the memories.
Uncle Boris wrote out on a card the address and room number and then handed it to me, saying, "You come. See Petrova, I tell her you come."
I wanted to die. The last thing I wanted was to see that cat. How was I to decline Uncle Boris's invitation with any grace? I thought he knew that Petrova and I were sworn enemies, but then the look in his eyes was of mischief. I knew he was setting me up. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! So as unctuously as he handed the card over, I accepted it.
"Yeah, that's the ticket, Petrova," I muttered, thinking of stuffing a cat toy with rat poison. I know, I know, it was just a momentary pleasure. I would never do it, though that cat has come damn near to ending my life, and no one would send me to cat jail for it.
"What ticket? Is card, says hotel, room number, what ticket?" Uncle Boris asked.
"Oh, was just a silly American bourgeois phrase." I lied with a forced laugh.
"You call number," he made like a telephone receiver with his large, meaty hand and pointed to the card. "I make Petrova ready to receive honorary visitor, caretaker Gabe."
'Yee-ah, you do that." And I started to take my chair, but Uncle Boris took it instead and sat his major league fatness down next to Anatoly, and there ensued a conversation in Russian of which I could only catch bits and pieces. By the time we had after-dinner drinks and more coffee, it had been two hours, and there sat Boris holding court, telling stories of when Russia was the USSR and how terrible it was when "end came to Soviet Socialist Republic," big sigh. I thought he'd give us a blow-by-blow of the last days of the Czar, but no, he was a card-carrying member of the communist party and that Yeltsin and Gorbachev, well, they ruined the empire, but this Putin, he could put it all back and probably will and then Uncle Boris will take the Pee Cat and return to St. Petersburg. Yup. I wanted to know where I could sign up to help repair the "empire" so that the cat can leave the country I am currently residing in. I'd feel a whole lot safer with her thousands of miles away. I know you will tell me I am overreacting, but just go back and read those stories of my time in San Francisco as a roommate to that dastardly cat and tell me if I have every reason to be paranoid.
I have no intention of visiting Pee. I will call Uncle Boris and decline, citing me business not giving me the time. Me mother brought me up properly: if you are invited somewhere, you need to RSVP one way or another. I will do that. After all, he did take that cat off my hands and probably saved me life back in the San Francisco days.
I did have another dream or nightmare. That very night, I did. I really need to find a way to stop dreaming. My dreams are all terrible of late, as you know by reading the blog. SIGH. So last night, I dreamt I could hear that Star Wars music, you know, the DUN DUN DE DUN. There was this massive room with these military guys wearing the old communist uniforms with the red stars. They were standing before all these computers with lights flashing and beeping and all that, and as the music swelled, one of them, who was dressed differently like a commander, turned to this raised platform that was all enclosed in glass. As the music swelled, me minds-eye camera started a slow zoom into the control centre. As it got closer and closer, I could see a black paw on a lever, and closer I could hear that Persian cat breathing, you know the kind because their faces are pushed in, so breathing be a little laboured, and then, oh my God, and then, right up there close into the smushed face looking snotty as all hell and arrogant, let's not forget that smug look she has, was the Pee Cat wearing the top part of Darth Vader's helmet. She was slowly releasing the lever, and that's when I screamed like a girl and woke meself and my wife, and the kidlets up!
It took Tonya an hour to calm me down. I was shouting, "No, no, Darth Kitty, NO!" Finally, Tonya got me awake and out of the remembrance of the nightmare. I kept telling her that Petrova was still alive and she was plotting to take over the universe, not just the world, and she was evil, and I just knew her weapons of choice were bombs that looked like Faberge eggs, and on and on I went until they all just left me sitting in the lounge by me lonesome. Yes, they did. All three of them. Even the dogs left, but I got them all back within two seconds when I screamed again. A furry thing had caressed my neck, and I jumped up, thinking the Pee Cat had somehow materialised in me living room. But it wasn't Petrova. It was Mr. Kits. He had been sleeping on the top of the couch where I was sitting. His tail swept me neck as he changed position. It wasn't Petrova at all. No, my own cat was sitting there smiling at me. At the fool, I was jumping around. My heart was pounding, and they all started laughing at me, including Mr. Kits. I went off to my bed in a snit I did. At the time, I couldn't understand how they could be so unsympathetic. But with daylight, I realise what an arse I must have looked.
I won't rest easy until Petrova leaves the east coast. I must call Uncle Boris and find out if this is a visit or they are leaving for Mother Russia. I am hoping it is the latter.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
