No Offense

There are expressions that really rub me the wrong way.

For example, "rub me the wrong way". Is it me, or is that sort of pervy? Like the implication that the way that you're rubbing me now is doing absolutely nothing for me, but if you were rubbing me in a better way, whoa, Nellie. Gross, right? And not just because the "whoa, Nellie" reference sort of implies that I have a Catherine the Great fetish for horses. Which I totally don't. No offense.

And actually, "no offense" is another one. When, would you say, is a good time to use it? I have a friend of size who says that it really annoys him when someone will be telling a story and say, "yeah, so this fat guy, no offense, goes to the bakery." I understand why it is annoying to my friend, but I dont understand why someone would feel compelled to say it in the first place.

OMG Im typing this on Husbandrinkas laptop and one of the keys just flew off. Can you guess which one? I wonder if hell notice (he will, that is, not Hades) and if hell blame me. FUME. I did nothing wrong, I was just typing along. You are my witness, ok? Maybe Ill convice him that contractions are a part of the right wing conspiracy or something. If you dont hear from me soon, send help. Hold on, Im going to switch computers.


Anyway. My seven year old son recently started saying "no offense". At first I thought that it was adorable, the way he would say, "No offense, mom, but I am full." It sounded so grown up and polite.

But then last weekend I overheard him explaining to a friend how to use the phrase. He said, "It's when you say something rude, but you don't want the other person's feelings to be hurt."

Huh.

Makes perfect sense.

Except, when exactly does THAT happen?

"God, you're a fucking moron. No offense."

"Hey, have you considered a complete facial reconstruction? No offense."

"Are you wearing a strap-on ass? Because, no offense, but I didn't think it could get that big."

But the fun thing about "no offense" is that everyone is programmed to say "none taken" when they hear it.

"I am going to have you killed. No offense."

"None taken!"

Really? The next time that someone says that to you, why not say, "You know, I am offended. Being killed would really hurt my feelings and is just not ok with me. Now, let me rub you the right way."

Guess What?

Wonderful Meghan from A Mom Two Boys asked me to do a guest post on her blog, which conveniently spared me the humiliation of having to beg her for that chance.

And then I immediately got blog writer's block. It was so bad, that I turned to my husband for wisdom.

And he was all like, "you still have a blog?" and I'm pretty sure that he rolled his eyes.

So, I had to come up with an idea all on my own. Which I don't recommend under normal circumstances. Please check out my post here!

Don't Look So Glum! McCain & Palin are Full of Aplomb!

Ok, I never said that I was a Poet Laureate, so what do you expect?

I am a mom, and as a mom, I know a lot about making rhyme and reason out of nonsense, so I think that qualifies me to write a line of poetry as the title of my post. I'm sorry if it doesn't measure up to your elisit-liberal arts college English major expectations.

Anyway.

I thought that I would consolidate all my political thoughts into this post to get it out of my system. So, it's like two mini-posts for the price of one. Because I'm sensitive to this economic climate. And if I see a blogger who only gives you one post, I will make them famous and you will know their name. Seriously, when McCain says that he will make these people famous? Does he mean "infamous"? Because I'm imagining him on the phone, saying "Can we get Jim on Oprah? That would be fantastic exposure! No. How about Ellen?"

First:

Ten Reasons Why a McCain/Palin Administration is not the end of the world. (OMG, hold on a second while I bandage my wrists. Typing "McCain/Palin Administration" was a bit more than I could take).


1. Guaranteed job security for Jon Stewart. Come on, it was great with Bush, the Daily Show will now be twice the fun!

2. Ditto for Tina Fey.

3. Tritto for mental health professionals who will be seeing us round the clock.

4. Tired of that pregnancy coin toss? Should I abort this baby or not? I mean, we've all been there--on the one hand, a life, but on the other hand, eh. Good news! No more Roe v. Wade to worry about.

5. Think of all the time/resources we will save in meetings with world leaders because John McCain will be able to look them in the eye and instantly assess the situation. (This wouldn't be the right place to express concern about his hallucinating letters in Putin's eyes, right?)

6. Kids clamoring for a trip to Europe after college or an extra sweet treat? Excuse me, but that's not our culture!

7. Err...

8. Hmm...

9. Cindy will give us some money?

10. Come on, who isn't looking forward to following the wedded life of Bristol and Levi? By the way, do you think that Bristol will keep her maiden name?

Second:

Comments That My Kids Made While Watching the Friday Night Debate

The old guy is ugly and his tie is stupid.

Obama has big teeth.

Who is winning?

Are they allowed to lie during this thing?

This is boring.

Is the ugly guy holding a Sharpie? I want a Sharpie too. We have them at school.

Why does someone so old want to be President?

Is George Bush still alive? WHAT? How can the first President still be alive? Oh. You're a buttbrain, yourself.

Look, they're interrupting each other. TIme out!

I need to know more vocabulary words.

We are in the middle of TWO WARS?!

Is it almost over?

When is the election?

At least if the ugly guy wins, Obama will get to be Vice President.

Well, "Mc-c-ain" is hard to pronounce! Ugly guy, ugly guy, ugly guy!

Can we watch "Suite Life on Deck" instead?

Who do you like better, Zach or Cody?

Does this last like forever?

Ooh, a bracelet! Where's the bracelet?

I want to go to sleep.

Don't they want to go to sleep?

Hey, Lurkers!

Look, everyone lurks.

Maybe you're thinking, "I don't want to leave a comment, I just like to read your blog!"

Maybe you're thinking, "I don't want to leave a comment, and I don't even like to read your blog, but I'm a masochist and this is what I do."

Maybe you're thinking "I'd totally leave a comment, but my keyboard isn't working!"

Maybe you're thinking, "I have nothing to say."

All legitimate reasons for not commenting.

I'm not going to hold it against you, I swear. But I did want to share some testimonials from former lurkers. People who were just like you.

Dear Marinka:

Up until last week I was a lurker on your blog. Then one day, I posted a comment and later that day I won the lottery!

Love, LurkNoMore


And this:

Hey, Marinka! Crazy shit--I commented on your blog and guess what? Those ten pounds melted off by the afternoon. Unbelievable. xo Slim

There's more!

Your Royal Highness Marinka:

I never comment on blogs, because I figure, what's the point? But I commented on yours last week and then found true love. He's rich, too! I can't believe it!

Thanks for everything, Mrs. Rich.


Sure, all those could be coincidences. But are they?


Citizen Marinka:

After I left a comment on your blog, I accepted, without blinking, a nomination to be the Vice Presidential nominee.

Yours in Patriotism, Anonymous



So, if you're a lurker, why not leave a comment? You'll make my day and possibly your own, too.

The M Bomb

A few years ago my mother called me with bone chilling news. "Your cousin is getting married," she said, and then, without so much as a you may want to sit down or is there anyone nearby to administer smelling salts should they become necessary, she dropped the M bomb.

"He's marrying a model."

A model in the family.

I live in NYC so I know all about models. I know how they are slender Amazons who are able to make an empty cab materialize as they take a gazelle step towards the curb and barely raise their arm high enough to flick their high ponytails. In NYC rush hour, that is the equivalent of parting the Red Sea.

I tried to remain calm and rational. Perhaps she was a hand model? A former model? I'd even take a plus size model in a moment of desperation. My breathing was starting to normalize.

"What is her name?" I asked, revving up the search engine. My mother wasn't sure, so I spent the time until the wedding invitation arrived in the comforting embrace of Haagen Dasz. Certainly the Good Lord wasn't going to let me grow an Auxiliary Ass if I was going to be cousins-in-law with a real life model?

The invitation arrived and I googled the shit out of her name. The good news is that she wasn't a supermodel whose name I instantly recognized. The bad news is that she was a runway-in-Milan-walking, Donna Karan-ad -campaign-posing, more- gorgeous-than-anyone-I've-ever-seen-in-person, model.

Damn.

As my "friend" John pointed out when I linked him to her photos, "If the floor weren't there, her legs would go on forever." Yes, indeed. Kick me when I'm down. With endless legs.

I know what you're thinking: How can something so unthinkable happen to someone as wonderful as Marinka? Is there no justice in the world? I wish that I had an answer. Or thinner legs.

But I am nothing if not an optimist (we will all be dead soon), so I turned to my power of positive thinking and focused on what I did best. Judgmental stereotyping.

"Listen," I told myself, "models are notoriously dim-witted. And shallow. And probably bitchy. So, I have nothing to worry about. Sure, she appears gorgeous, but would I trade my good natured personality and kind heart just to look like that?" I hope it goes without saying that the answer to that question is a resounding "HELL, YES!" but fortunately I am great with self deception and had no trouble whatsoever fooling myself.

Well, to make a long blog post slightly shorter, she wasn't stupid. She is the opposite of stupid and she is funny and she is, god help us all, kind. She is kind in a way that makes you realize that not many people are.

"A trifecta!" I wept to a friend. "Beauty, brains, kindness and a great sense of humor."

"I think 'trifecta' is three, and she seems to have four," my friend sympathized.

Is it me, or do I need better friends? Hopefully ones with Cover Girl contracts, because we'll be taking a lot of cabs together.

You Think You Know Someone, Part Whatever

Recently Kirsten, who goes by the deceptively endearing moniker Mama Ginger Tree recently commented on this blog that she is starting to feel sorry for Husbandrinka. Fortunately, I believe in the freedom of speech and am accepting of comments that suggest that my Husband is unfortunate to be married to me, imply that I tricked him into said marriage and simultaneously placed a gun to his head and that perhaps I should be murdered in my sleep or maybe forced to watch The View on an endless loop. Does my open-mindedness have no end? Only the autopsy will tell us for sure, of course, but for now Kirsten is DeadToMe. As a matter of fact, I may start calling her Kristen. Or Jennifer.

If there are other readers who feel that Husbandrinka is unduly burdened by our matrimony, or that I am, oh, what's the word? A neurotic blogger, please speak up now.

What? No one else? The rest of us are on my side? Great. Because Husbandrinka and I had a conversation on Monday morning, after I read the news about Goldman Sachs and JP Morgan becoming bank holding companies that was mildly disturbing. Sure, some people may think that the recent economic news is disturbing enough, but please understand that a national crisis is no time to let our guard down against personal miscommunication. And sure, some blog reading traitors might think that I was unfair in leading him on, but those of you who are my very favorites understand the truth. I'm not sure what the truth is, but because my favorite readers and I understand it so well, it's not necessary to insult anyone's intelligence and spell it out. And by the way, your hair looks great today. You should totally let Kristie know where you had it done.

Anyway, this is us, discussing the Financial News.


Me: So, what's this latest financial crisis?

H: Well, blah blah blah, after the Depression, blah, regulation, blah blah, but now, bank, blah, Doom & Gloom.

M: I don't know. I'm going to wait to hear what Sarah Palin has to say before I decide what to think.

H: You kidding? She knows nothing about bank regulation.

M: I'm so tired of your sexism. As fellow mothers, she and I totally relate to each other, and I look to her to guide me in this matter.

H: It's not sexism-

M: Sexism, misogyny, I can't get into your elitist distinctions. All I know is that she is someone that I want to have a beer with. Maybe a six pack.

H: ...

M: And stop implying that because she has an unwed teenage daughter while preaching family values that she is a hypocrite. She will lead us out of this financial crisis, like Moses led the Jews out of Egypt.

H: ...

M: So what if she doesn't have foreign experience? As a mother, she has experience that has been devalued by the patriarchy and John McCain and I are fully committed to eradicating it. After we reinterpret the Constitution, of course.

H: I'm not falling for this, you know.

M: Speaking of the fall from grace, I think it's about time that we addressed America's Garden of Eden problem.

H: I'm not listening.

M: And neither did Adam and Eve. How can Paradise ever be ours if our leaders don't reclaim it?

H: You know you're Jewish, right?

M: Does that mean that I can't wear lipstick?

H: ...

M: I rest my case. By the way, do you think that many people will dress up as Sarah Palin on Halloween?

H: Probably.

M: Do you want to dress up as Sarah Palin?

H: No.

M: Do you think that I should?

H: No.

M: Misogyny again?

H: Yes.

M: Should I blog about this?

H: I don't care.

M: Everyone is on my side, you know.

H: I don't care.

M: On my side and on Sarah Palin's.

H: We're not talking about this.

M: Censorship, eh? Sarah Palin and I do not believe in censorship. I mean, sometimes we're curious about what would happen if we tried to censor someone, or burn a few books, but generally- hey! Why are you pressing the "mute" button on the remote? The TV's not on. Stop pointing that thing at my mouth-

I Don't Think It Would Work

Marinka: I don't think that I could marry someone in prison, could you?

Husbandrinka: Yes.

Marinka: I mean what's the point? He's in prison, so he's useless to me. Although I wouldn't have to pick up his dry cleaning.

Husbandrinka: You've never picked up my dry cleaning, we have it delivered.

Marinka: I know, it's just a stereotypical mind numbing thing that wives do for their husbands.

Husbandrinka: But you don't do it.

Marinka: I'm not talking literally, I'm taking this discussion to a higher sphere.

Husbandrinka: Ok.

Marinka: But on the other hand, he could never pick up the kids from school because he'd be milking this whole 'I'm incarcerated' thing.

Husbandrinka: It is hard to make it to school at 3 if you're behind bars.

Marinka: There's no way that it would work. I would resent him too much.

Husbandrinka: Well, that makes a lot of sense.

Marinka: See, when you said that yes, you would marry someone in prison, I don't think that you thought this through.

Husbandrinka: Yeah? Well, what are the chances that she'd be asking me inane questions while I was trying to read?

Marinka: You are a wise man.

Pass the Mustard

What, this isn't how you set the dinner table every night?

The good news is that my husband and I are not one of those nauseating couples who are always hugging and kissing and telling other people how in love we are. Because everyone hates those people, and they know it, that's why they cling to their beloved so much.

The bad news is that we recently had some words about mustard. That's right, mustard. And no, I'm not using it as a euphemism for anything. And no amount of sunflower staging (see photo) can detract from the fact that my husband and I are mustardinally incompatible.

My husband lived in France for a while and during that time became convinced that French mustard (and apparently that doesn't include Gray Poupon) is the only mustard worth having and everything else is an insult to humanity. His brand of choice is Amore. I can't find a photo of it online, but for some reason, his many French friends who come to stay with us, all come bearing it. I suspect that reason is that he demands it in exchange for letting them stay with us. I actually wouldn't be surprised if they were not really friends, but random Parisiens who responded to his ad on LeCraig's List, which propbably read something like, "Stay in the heart of Greenwich Village for free! Mustard required."

But every once in a while, French friends do not come to visit, I don't know, perhaps they're busy looking at the Mona Lisa, or climbing the Eiffel Tower or eating a baguette. And then we find ourselves mustardless. You may think that there is photographic evidence to the contrary, but that just tells me that you've been skimming this post. Because I repeat: mustard that is not Amore is an insult to humanity, and possibly poison.

I know this, and yet I keep trying. Two weeks I bought the Trader Joe's mustard, seen on your right. My husband took a sniff, and condemned it as "not sharp enough." I know what you're thinking and you're right. I really should have Lorena Bobbit's defense attorney's number on speed dial.

Questions That My Son Asked Me on This Morning's Flight from NC to NYC

"Can I sit next to dad instead?"

"Can I have sprite and apple juice?"

"What happens if the plane crashes? Also, my tooth is loose."

"Want to hear a song that I made up? Why not?"

"Do you think I'll be alive for a century?"

"What time is it?"

"What time is it now?"

"Why are your eyes closed? Are you asleep?"

"If you are asleep, how come you are able to tell me, 'yes, I'm asleep, leave me alone'?"

"Why can't I sit next to dad?"

I interrupt my previously scheduled blog break

to bring this important announcement:

No one flies worse than I do.

No one.

Yesterday morning, we flew from Newark to North Carolina to visit with my inlaws.

The flight was two hours.

As soon as we board the flight, the captain, who looks like he could be my 7 year old's classmate, apologizes for it being so hot on the plane, but he felt that it would give us a good preview of the climate in hell. Or, more accurately, it was hot because the "back engine isn't working, but we don't need it to fly." WHAT? I'm no aerodynamics expert, but have I been wrong all these years in assuming that back engines are not purely ornamental? At the very least, they're "back up", right?

So, then he announces that "Miss Courtney" is our flight attendant and that if we have any requests, we should direct them to her. Yes, my request is that the flight attendant not have a name tht suggests that she's running a whorehouse, please. And a working back engine, if you can swing it.

Then we go through the emergency evacuation speech and I notice that I'm the only one who's paying attention. Which of course makes me feel like I'm responsible for everyone's safety if something should happen. Just their physical salvation, of course, because I'm pretty sure that the guy across the aisle from me, gripping the Bible, will take care of the spiritual part.

And in the middle of "if you need to evacuate the plane" spiel, which always sounds a bit like what if mid-flight you suddenly realize that you forgot to pack your favorite pair of PJs and need to deplane, I get the same thought that I always get on the plane. I tap my husband on the shoulder, "I want to put the life vest on now," I tell him. Because really? All those directions about how to do it are so freaking confusing to me and I generally need practice with most garments, so I can't imagine that in an emergency I'll get it right on the first try. Seriously, all kidding aside, doesn't it make sense to travel in the life vest so that that's one less thing that you have to worry about? And do you know what my soulmate says to me?

Not: "That's an excellent idea, love of my life, thank you for suggesting it."

Not: "Your mind is exactly what this country needs. Goodness knows how many lives you've just saved!"

Not: "How someone can be so gorgeous, kind-hearted, smart and practical is beyond me!"

Not Even: "The chances of a crash are so low,I don't think it's necessary."

This is what he said: "Go ahead, if you want to look ridiculous."

Is it me, or are the divorce papers writing themselves?

Yeah, we'll see who looks ridiculous as the plane is kamikazing towards the Hudson, and I am the only one who can enjoy my whole life flashing before my eyes without the distraction of struggling with the vest.

By the way, how come the life vests come only in orange? Because it sort of clashes with my freckles.

Pre-Weekend

This weekend Husbandrinka, the kids and I are flying to North Carolina, to visit my in-laws. Although I suppose that it is unfortunate for blogging purposes, I get along very well with my in-laws. As long as we do not discuss politics. Or current events. Or religion. Or the weather. So we usually stick to talking about the kids and until recently, Desperate Housewives. But my mother-in-law stopped watching that because she said that it was "too unrealistic." Can you believe it? Unrealistic.

I have limited internet access when I'm at my in-laws', so I won't be blogging. Because when internet access is limited, I like to prioritize (porn). What? (By the way, am I the only one who would totally look at internet porn, if it weren't for the pop ups?Because those things are endless. I've heard.)

So, I thought that I would leave you with a few random thoughts. (And by 'leave you', I mean, just for the weekend. Unless the unthinkable happens and then I hope that all you lurkers who never commented on any of my posts can forgive yourselves for the missed opportunity.)

Anyway, here are my random thoughts:

1. I didn't want to alarm anyone, but my husband has a cold. He's actually had it for a few days. I made an innocent comment, along the lines of "Oh, great, a mancold!" and he said something about not even missing work as a result of a cold. I'm sorry, do people generally miss work because of a cold? I can just imagine calling in with that one: "Yeah, I hab a cod. Sniffles. See you in a beek."

2. My son has banned his father from his room until he is germ-free. I think he afraid of getting a manchild cold. Also, he asked me if germs can talk. Yes, German.

3. I tried being modest, but that apparently lasted twelve seconds. Two days ago Anymommy (do you know her? Her writing is so beautiful that if I didn't adore her so much, I'd be filled with jealous rage) complimented this blog on her blog. When I read it, my tail wagged so much that I temporarily became airborne. And then the next day, she announced that she is going on vacation for like three weeks. I know some people are super suspicious and think that I gave her lots of money to write flattering things about me. That's completely not true. And I welcome a full investigation.

4. When I had my blog redesigned, I wanted to add a "FAQ" page where I would ask frequently asked questions. The only stumbling block to that seems to be that I don't have any frequently asked questions, except "how much did you pay for that fugly platter?" and "How did the word clitoris come up in conversation at work?" So, I'm asking you to post your questions in the comments and I'll create a FAQ page. They can be about anything! I have very big brains, you know. Wait, it's just one, right? I mean, everyone has just one brain. Why did I say "brains"? See! That could qualify as a FAQ! By the way, I stole this idea in part from Mama Ginger Tree, whose blog I adore.

5. While I'm away this weekend, not blogging, I will still access Twitter. It took me about 4 hours to set up my phone last week, so now I can post updates on Twitter by phone. For those of you visiting this blog from Mesopotamia, Twitter is a "microblogging" service that lets you put up posts that are 140 characters or less. Because of the character limit, I thought it would be prudent for us to establish an understanding, a code, if you will, as to how to translate my tweets:

Having a great time= HELP ME.

Having a great time! = WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME?

It is beautiful here! = I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR NOT HELPING ME.

It's so nice to get out of NYC! = WHEN YOU'RE CRAWLING THROUGH THE DESERT THIRSTY AND EXHAUSTED, I WILL RINSE MY HAIR OUT WITH EVIAN IN FRONT OF YOUR DEHYDRATED ASS UNLESS YOU HELP ME RIGHT NOW.

I love North Carolina! = I AM NOW WEARING A MCCAIN TSHIRT AND A CLOSER TO JESUS UPDO.

I miss everyone! = EXCEPT FOR YOU, BECAUSE YOU DID NOT HELP ME.

(ok, this was for entertainment purposes only, of course!)

Entertainment purposes only = AND THE CHECK IS IN THE MAIL.

I think that's all I got. Well, I also figured out the meaning of life, but I'm too tired now to go into it. I'll save that for next week!

Have a great weekend! After you leave me questions, I mean!

Two Questions

1. Can you tell that that's a ceramic platter with ceramic breasts jutting out of it?

2. Do you think that if you bid on and won this item at your kids' school auction, you would take it as a sign that you should drink less at future auctions? Or more, so as to pass out and be unable to lift the paddle and say, "mermaid with breasts! I need that!"

Magazinephobia

We are heading to North Carolina next weekend to visit my in-laws and I am becoming anxious. Not because we are flying on a plane that my husband told me is called a turbo prop (ok, is that just a fancy word for a helicopter? Because I can say my goodbyes now).

I am anxious because my mother-in-law and I are magazine-incompatible. So when I am unable to sleep because North Carolina is so freaking quiet and apparently, I need street traffic to lull me to sleep, I will be forced to flip through the Good Housekeeping and Reader's Digest issues in the living room. Not that there's anything wrong with Good Housekeeping and Reader's Digest, of course, except one of my fears is that I am in a semi-conscious state where I can hear and understand, but not communicate, and my distraught family sits by my bedside day after day, and because the doctors told them that I find familiar voices soothing, they read to me every day from Good Housekeeping and Ladies' Home Journal and on special occasions, Redbook. Maybe I should update my living will. And right next to the place where it states, "if my husband has fallen in love with someone else, I ask that no expense be spared in prolonging my life, regardless of quality, but if he's in deep mourning, put some lipstick on me and pull the plug," pencil in something about "please limit all reading materials to the approved list on Attachment A. And read with feeling, you drones!".

In case I don't get to updating my living will, what with the new season of Desperate Housewives starting soon and all, I thought that it would be a good idea to post my approved magazine list here, for easy reference.

You should probably carry it around with you at all times, in case the unthinkable happens.

US Weekly, but only in nail salons. ( I understand that it may be awkward to get the comatose Marinka to a nail salon, so I apologize in advance for any inconvenience.) US Weekly is important for their "Just like us/Not like us" features, although they don't seem to feature Jen Aniston freebasing pints of Haagen Dasz Chocolate Peanut Butter. I also love the "Who Wears It Best" feature, where the editors stop innocent people on the street, show them photos of different celebrities wearing the same outfit and ask them to decide who the outfit looks better on. Of course another benefit of liking US Weekly is that if you're ever making a list of magazines that you like, there's a chance that someone will confuse US Weekly with the US News & World Report and think that you're super smart and informed.

Oprah Magazine I just realized that even though I subscribe to this magazine, I don't know if it's called O or Oprah and I am so lazy that I can't get up and look or even google. And also that I don't care. I love the articles, blah blah blah, but what I really love is that when I first subscribed, Oprah sent me a letter welcoming me to her family. That's right, we're family now. Although apparently estranged, since I let my subscription lapse.

Real Simple I fell in love with this magazine when I read their guide to phobias. It was in chart form, had the name of the phobia, its manifestations and Real Simple (tm) solutions of how you can combat it. My favorite was pteromechanophobia, which is the fear of flying (not the Erica Jong version), the manifestation was worrying about dying in a fiery crash and the solution was to do "an especially engrossing sodoku puzzle." Thanks, Real Simple! Love, Real Simpleton.


New Yorker The cartoons are great! And the articles are great, too. Although kind of endless. But if you finish an article, you're instantly an expert on the subject that you just read about and are a big hit at cocktail parties. Unless you're at a cocktail party where another guest read the same article and then it becomes one of those awkward "Who Tells It Best" competitions. But since I won't be in a position to attend any parties, it shouldn't be a problem! Win, win!

P.S. Ok, I know what you're thinking--why don't I just buy a magazine at the airport and put us all out of our fucking misery? First of all, I don't appreciate your using such language. And second of all, do you think these blog posts just write themselves? No, I need topics, people! I am about three posts away from posting my belly pics and I am not even pregnant.

Why I am Not the Worst Mom

The Good Enough Mama had a post last week about why she is not the worst mom and she invited her readers to validate their own motherhood on their blogs. And yes, I could have written that sentence even more awkwardly, but I had to stop somewhere.

I am not one to step away from such a challenge. Even if it means that I had to cut down my list of a million reasons to ten.

But I did it. Because not only am I not the worst mom, I am not the worst blog reader.

1. I get my hair done regularly. I will not embarrass my children in front of their friends by having dark roots.

2. I reward good behavior. For example, one night I gave my son $4 to shut the hell up and go to sleep. This is how I combine Dr. Spock, that freak Ferber and capitalism. I should really give seminars in this.

3. I do not shove religion down my children's throats. As a matter of fact, when my daughter (at the time 6 years old) told me that "god" was "a little snail" because her Russian-accented grandfather told her that, I did not panic because I knew that he was talking about "escar-god". Surely, this doesn't mean that I run a godless household.

4. I cut down on my kids' sweets consumption by pre-eating many of their snacks. Better me than them, I say.

5. I know both of my children's names. And their middle names. That's four names total, if you're doing some kind of a freak audit.

6. Thanks to my kids and their womb and stomach stretching attitude in utero, I no longer wear a bikini. Do I wake them up in the middle of the night to yell at them about that? No, I do not.

7. When my kids were little, I never made them wear one of those Mommy drinks because I cry t-shirts.

8. Once when I was about to watch General Hospital and my daughter fell and split her chin open, bleeding all over the place. I took her to the emergency room, even though it was Cliffhanger Friday.

9. We are going to North Carolina next weekend and when my son asked, "do they use Euros there?" I said, "no, they use dollars." Instead of saying "yes, euros," and then posting about it on my blog in a mocking fashion.

10. Regarding number 2, above? Some night (ahem, tonight), I would give my son $5 million. This shows that I am flexible and fully in tune with market conditions.

If My Kids Had a Blog (and Spell Check)

Hi!

Mom/Mommy keeps watching that clip of Sarah Palin and Hillary "She Should Have Been President" Clinton and laughing. But it's a scary laugh, sort of mummbly and weird, so we are taking over the blog for a while.

Poop! Fart! Diarrhea!
Ha!


Yesterday, she went to a salon to get her hair colored, we mean, done. Her hair done. It's this huge production because it takes hours and then we have to hear how funny the guy who does her hair is. And how one year, he dressed up as Barbie for the Halloween parade. This is what it looks like now. She had the lady at the salon photograph the back of her head. And she said that the lady took the camera and said "one, two, three" before clicking, even though Mom/Mommy didn't have to pose or anything. This is what her hair looks like now. You may want to say something, because when she came home yesterday and Dad/Daddy said "Is it different?" and it was a bad thing to say. Very, very bad.



Here is some art, because this blog is based in New York:




First person who can correctly identify where in NYC this sculpture is gets a wedgie!


Today we saw our downstairs neighbor in the elevator and he said, "I can hear you kids playing the piano." And she said, "priceless music, absolutely free!" The neighbor nodded. Why is the neighbor eavesdropping?

Ok. now we're bored. And hungry. This is stupid. And boring.

A Basic Primer on Russia: Lesson One

Since Sarah Palin is qualified to lead the free world because Alaska is spitting (or shooting) distance from Russia, I thought that I would inspire a new generation of world leaders by sharing some thoughts about Russia. Because I was born there, in the 1960s, during the Cold War (brr). And I've lived there for nine years. And apparently, like Paris, Russia is a moveable feast, because the things that I took out of Russia are still with me, lovingly reinforced by my parents and their Russian friends.

So read these Russian basics, and get involved! Your country needs you.

1. Tapochki: This is the foundation of Russian society. It means slippers. When you enter a Russian person's home (and the fact that my family has lived in the United States for over thirty years doesn't make us any less Russian, of course), you are accosted by tapochki. Everyone must wear slippers while indoors. If you wear your outdoor shoes, you are uncivilized and if you walk around barefoot, you are an animal. Stocking feet? An animal in socks. Don't make me go all "lipstick on a pig" on you, ok?

2. Fashionably late: This concept does not exist in Russia, so don't even try it. If the invitation says 7, arrive at 7. A college friend who spent a semester in Moscow was constantly amazed that when she'd show up at 8:30, all the Russians were already there, drunk and the food was mostly gone. She started to catch on after a few months. On this side of the ocean, my parents and I have had the mortification of knocking on someone's door at 7:01, apologies ready for the tardiness, only to have them meet us in hair curlers. Like The Bloggess.

3. Vodka: You must drink vodka. In obscene quantities. While you are drinking vodka, you have to tell everyone that you respect them, in a continuous loop. "I respect you, Sasha". "And I, too, Boris." No one understands why everyone respects everyone else, or why they will shortly confirm that respect with vomit.

4. If your guests want to leave, don't let them. So let's say you arrived at the party, dinner, whatever, at the appointed time. Your feet are tapochkied, you are having a lovely time.

"Well, I better be going," you say, after a few hours.
"Please stay," your hostess pleads.
"Maybe for a minute," you agree.

This conversation will repeat itself many, many times. Begging your guests to stay is as Russian as vodka and caviar, so don't fight it.

It was a rude awakening for our family when we were invited to our first Passover Seder in New York and my father started to make Getting Ready To Leave noises and our hosts shot up, said "Ok, good night!" and practically changed into their pajamas in a nanosecond. My parents were outraged.

"Did you see how they couldn't wait for the us to leave?" My mother complained.
"People are rude," my father agreed. "Americans have no manners."
"Well, you did say 'It's been so nice, but we have to go now'," I tried the Voice of Reason on for size.
"What does that have to do with anything?" My parents were generally perplexed, as though I was speaking in tongues.

Oh yeah, that's another thing. In Russia, tongue is a delicacy. Even kids eat it. Suddenly, the "large quantities of vodka" is starting to make sense.

You Say Tomato

So earlier this week, I had a conversation with my friend, who works in the same office as I do, about how to pronounce "clitoris". You know, whether the accent is on the first syllable or the second and how come no one ever makes the case for the third syllable.

He asked, very logically, why not just avoid all the conflict and go with "clit", which is all fine and good unless you're speaking to your father in law or something and you don't want to be so informal.

Then he directed me to dictionary.com, where I could click on the little megaphone icon and it would give me the correct pronunciation. So I did. Mystery solved. Unfortunately, because the volume on my computer was turned up to intergalactic, the mystery was solved for everyone working on my floor.

Sometimes it's better not to engage your friends at work in conversations about clitori.

This is just further proof about how I suck at small talk.

Riding The Elevator into the Sky

I struggled with today's post because I wanted to say so much about September 11th, and yet, I wanted to observe the silence.

In the end, I'm taking the easy way out, taking the lead (ok, maybe stealing) from MUG. Poems very rarely speak to me, but this one did. And it said "Post me! Post me!"

By Anne Sexton (1975)



As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.


Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something –
some useful door –
somewhere –
up there.

Small Talk, Big Talk

I can't stand all forms of small talk. It makes me insane when people talk about the weather and say things like "nice day!" or "hot enough for you?" or "thank goodness it's Friday!" and "What a week" or any of those phrases that serve as social lubricants for normal people but psychosis-inducing mechanisms for me. I avoid them at all costs. Maybe it's because I spent the first nine years of my life in the Soviet Union, where people spoke to relay information and not to comment on the self-evident, but I've never developed a taste for it. And yet, I'm not really comfortable with silence, either. Tragically, figuring into this is another obstacle--I don't have many interesting things to say.

So, you see the problem--my husband and I spend a lot of time together. We both hate small talk, but unlike him, I hate silence. I solve this problem by asking him every once in a while if he wants to get a divorce. Because, I figure, if he does, I don't want to be surprised. And plus, it's conversation! I don't do it often, and yet he still finds it annoying. You'd think that the charm would start to creep up on him.

Last weekend, our conversation went like this:

Me: Divorce?

Him: What?

Me: Do youwant to get a divorce?

Him: why would I want to get a divorce?

Me:I don't know why you'd want to get a divorce. People just do sometimes. Does everything have to have a reason?

Him: (OR SHOULD IT BE "He"? But then, it's Me and He and that sounds really weird)Yes, when people get a divorce, there usually is a reason.

I:Like what?

He:Like they don't want to be married to each other anymore.

Moi:What are you saying?

Heoi: I'm saying that I don't want to get a divorce.

Yo: Even though-

El: Even though what?

Ya: Well, we can never agree on the A/C because I want it on and freezing and you want it off when you sleep, because the noise bothers you.

On:So?

Marinka:And it's the same thing with the heat in the winter.

Husbandrinka: That's not divorceable.

MotherhoodinNYCblogger:And you told me that my slippers squeak when I walk.

MotherhoodinNYCblogger's husband: Whatever.

We:And you hate Tom Petty and Bon Jovi.

They:I don't hate Bon Jovi, but he's unoriginal and boring.

La Me: HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT? "friends and relations, send salutations". How is that unoriginal?

Le Him: Yeah, not enough for divorce.

Me: Annulment?


For some strange reason, he really likes silence. Something about it being golden.

Twitter, if you please

I am addicted to Twitter, the microblogging service. It’s over there, to your right. It’s like a chat that is limited to 140 characters per turn. It really makes you wish that your evangelical uncle was Twitterfied. And maybe some people that you work with. And most everyone else in the world. Maybe it’s the format, but Twitter seems to attract a lot of sharp witted people, so it's fast, fun and funny. What else is there?

So, I read these people’s Twitters (that’s the point of Twitter, I’m not hacking into their accounts or anything). But every once in a while, someone will Twitter something and I want more. I want them to write a whole post about it.

Maggie, from Okay, Fine, Dammit did this perfectly. First she twitted this:

THERE IS A FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM RIGHT NOW. DAVE NEEDS MY HELP BUT I MUST TWITTER THIS. (Do you think it's Edward??) 09:56 PM September 03, 2008 from txt

And then she wrote a hysterical post about it. And then, as if I could adore her any more, she Twitted post-post (by which I mean après-post): The bats get the last laugh: all my Google ads are pushing funeral services. Nice. 08:28 PM September 04, 2008 from web

That is excellent Twitter etiquette and perfectly satisfies my Twitter/blog balance. Thank you, Maggie.

And yet not everyone has followed Maggie’s lead. Weird.

So, I am listing some tweets from favorite bloggers whose tweets I’ve loved, and who I wish would expand on the tweets and blog about them. It’s really the least that they can do.

ScaryMommy : Why are my boys like sorority girls with their periods? Is it necessary to always poop at the same time? Gross. 05:38 PM August 03, 2008 from web


MommyWants Vodka : A day devoted to encased meats is a good day indeed. 07:30 PM August 31, 2008 from web

Ingrid of Ice Cream is Nice Cream, which may be the best and the most true blog title ever: i'm sure that after 12 hours of writing i am now at the peak of brilliance. people would money for this sh*t. ;) 11:56 PM September 05, 2008 from web

Instamom : Hubs can't remember if he told people to come over at 10:00 or 1:00. It's 10. I'm unshowered in PJs. I might be filing for divorce, too. about 8 hours ago from web

Anymommy Family picture day today. Now I'm going to have a cavity filled without novacaine. You know, for fun. 06:27 PM August 19, 2008 from web

Big Piece of Cake Just found an old post it note on my desk that says "Dazzle." What is that supposed to be? Like a "note to self - be dazzling today?" 09:28 AM August 20, 2008 from web

Don't you want to read posts based on those tweets? And don't you think that once those posts are written, I should get like 80% of the credit? Maybe they should be dedicated to me. Or have my name on the byline. Or the bloggers should just change their URL to something with Marinka in it? Just some ideas that I'm throwing out, here, people.

Oh, and don't worry--I'll have more soon. Twitter at your own risk!

Is My Son a Poet or a Naturalist?

"I want to pee on a tree."

Week In Review

A Look Back

Sunday: Marinka is upstate with her husband, kids, and parents. They decide to go play miniature golf. Kids wage WWIII about which miniature golf course they should go to. Halfway through the Battle of the Unfairness, they realize that they both want to go to the same golf course. After momentarily being stunned by their agreement, the kids immediately regroup, change strategy and both want to go to the other golf course, until they finally settle on each one wanting to go to a different one, so that the Conflict of the Century can proceed as scheduled.

Monday: Labor Day. Marinka and family drive back home, using a new route discovered by Marinka's husband. Husband nearly breaks own arm patting himself on the back for avoiding traffic by taking new alternate route. Marinka accidentally severs own tongue when she bites on it to stop herself from making a marriage ending observation that they also seemed to have avoided NYC, although the tour of the New Jersey bedroom communities has been, indeed, lovely.

Tuesday: Marinka has no memory whatsoever of this day. As a result, an alien abduction cannot be ruled out.

Wednesday: Visiting Day at the kids' school. An annual tradition where parents wrangle their asses into miniature chairs and tell each other how fast the summer flew by.

Thursday: First day of school. Marinka lovingly asks children how the day went. Son says, "I was at school, how do you think it went?" Daughter presents Marinka with a list of items that she requires for academic success.



After an audit, Marinka questions why her daughter needs both mechanical pencils(designated as "metallic pencil") and a pencil sharpener. Daughter relents. Marinka puts pencil sharpener on eBay. A politician is born.

Friday: Marinka gets a feeling that something bad will happen and is feeling jumpy. It is a hurricane, somewhere, and her husband is flying back to NYC over the somewhere hurricane. Also, the Starbucks guy gave Marinka a coffee, rather than a decaf, at 4 pm. Marinka is sure of it. Marinka stays up waiting for her husband, and through the art of magical thinking, keeps the plane in the air. Unfortunately, at about 2 am, when the plane is supposed to land, Marinka falls asleep and is unable to land the plane, so her husband's plane has to circle the airport for a while. Marinka feels guilty but because she is not stupid, she does not tell her husband about it. Marinka must now kill all blog readers so that they don't tell him about it, either.

Saturday: Marinka realizes that she is now referring to herself in the third person, and wonders what this means. Marinka assumes that it is evidence of mental health and radiating beauty. Marinka also remembers that she spent the morning reading Bossy's blog and is now copying her style. Marinka promises to stop doing it soon.

Is Obama a Good Enough Father to Be President?

My husband (aka A Wonderful Man), has been away on a business trip for the past two days. This is a huge pain in my ass, because despite the fact that he travels fairly regularly, our kids feel his absence acutely, every single time. They miss him and they also feel the power balance shift.

They know that I am more tired. They know that I am more impatient. They know that I will bend the rules. They know it's two against one and they proceed with their game plan.

When I see Obama accepting the Democratic nomination and then appearing on the stage with Michelle and their daughters, my sympathy goes straight to Michelle. I can just imagine how they need their father. And how much Michelle needs for their father to be there. I also think of Barack himself, who has stated so, yes, eloquently, that he was shaped more by his father's absence than his presence.

Yes, I thought of this during the Democratic convention, before Sarah Palin's motherhood exploded all over us.

I absolutely wondered whether what Obama was doing was the best for his family. For his daughters and for Michelle. Maybe it's because our kids are the same age (10 and 7), maybe because I've always adored Michelle because she always looks slightly pissed off in photos, like me, I wondered if it would have been like for me. I can hardly stand it when my husband is away for a week, after all.

I thought about it, but ultimately, I didn't care. Because I am electing him to be President, not father of the year.

Fatherhood is his problem, and his family's. Just as motherhood is Sarah Palin's.

The people questioning whether Sarah Palin would take on such a demanding job if she really cared about her children's welfare confuse me. Because really? Who gives a shit? Since when do we judge presidential and vice presidential candidates based on what kind of parents they are? There is just no way that it is not a double standard.

Let her campaign. Let her answer questions. Let her debate. But please ask whether her children are so much more important that Barack Obama's. Because each set of children will potentially be feeling the hardship of having a world leader for a parent. And yet she is the only one getting flack for it.

Woman Stuff

And I don't mean Sarah Palin. Although, seriously? I so would have hated her in high school. And yes, I'm sexist and everything, blah blah blah, but was anyone else sort of expecting her to rip off her glasses and shake out her hair and straddle Giuliani? Please. Like she's going to straddle him with her glasses on. Ok, so I just threw the straddling stuff in there to be inflammatory, but what are you supposed to do once you rip off your glasses and shake out your hair? Because I totally could see that.

But anyway.

This morning I woke up with the most horrendous cramps and I remembered that once during my annual physical, I told my ob/gyn that I had bad menstrual cramps and he said "What do you take for it?" and I said "Tylenol" and he said "That doesn't really help, you should take ____". Except instead of "____", he said the name of the medicine that I should take, but apparently that's the part where I had a mini-stroke and blanked out entirely and focused instead on the cross section representation of a pregnant woman in his office. And how I've been pregnant twice and at no time did a doctor ever take the model down and show me anything on it. And if they don't do it while you're pregnant, I can't imagine them ever doing, so what the hell is it there for? Apparently, it does double duty as a paperweight. Nice. Like pregnant women don't feel heavy enough without having their model used in this debasing manner.

So, I was thinking this morning how it may be nice for me to find out what medicine my doctor really recommends for menstrual cramps before, you know, I hit menopause, and how I should really call him or send him an email or something.

I mean, I've sent him emails before. I even came across one recently, from eight years ago, when I was eight months pregnant. It went something like this:

Hi!I think I'm labor! Thanks! Marinka Pregnantinka


and he wrote back:

Do not email when you are in labor, call the office.

And I've certainly called him before. Like the time that I was on Weight Watchers and despite shaving my legs and getting a hair cut, the weight just wasn't coming off and I called to see how much weight I would lose if my uterus were removed. I mean, it was part of a general conversation about "how remember that time that I emailed you about being in labor? Crazy stuff, huh, by the way if someone gets their uterus removed, well, mostly women, I guess, ha ha. So, if it happens, how much weight would she lose? This woman, I mean? What? A few ounces? That's it? Well, what if her uterus was like made of steel? Well, they say 'ovaries of steel', how much of a stretch is a uterus of steel? Whatever, I was just curious, about science and stuff. Like Einstein. Ok, yes, Merry Christmas to you, too, doctor! Thanks!"

Fewer Words Than Usual Wednesday

Here are some end of summer photos that I threw together, I mean, that I've been saving for a special occasion to share with you. The special occasion, apparently is that I am waiting for Sarah Palin to speak.



This is my beautiful daughter on summer vacation. I would post a photo of my handsome son, but he always appears as a blur on photos because he is in constant motion. You'll just have to trust me.




This building is on Governor's Island--Morale, Welfare, Recreation. Seriously, doesn't it make you want to book a room there?




And what about this sign? First of all, is this the new math that everyone's talking about? Second of all, my kids saw this and said something like "aww, if you take a rat and add a furry tail, you get a squirrel!!" (well, I added the 'aww' and the exclamation points for effect, because honestly, my children are not that excited by squirrels.) And I thought, "great. Rip the tail off the squirrel, and you got a rat. Probably rabid." I can't help it, I'm an optimist. My sunny disposition is both a blessing and a curse.





One day, we stopped at Denny's for breakfast. I haven't been to Denny's in about thirteen years. I remember the occasion because I love menus that have pictures and Denny's had one with a "Moon Over My Hammies" breakfast delicacy and that's not something that you just forget.

Anyway, we were at Denny's and they brought some crayons for the kids, which was nice, except every single crayon was orange. Just like NYC's terror alert level.

Sarah Palin: My sister in Creationism Studies.

I am sick and tired of people criticizing Sarah Palin for saying that creationism should be taught in school. As science. Together with evolution.

Because if I were a teacher (and you can bet I drop to my knees on a daily basis, thanking the Good Lord that I am not), I would be pushing creationism so hard, separation of church and state be damned to the seventh circle of hell. Amen.

Why? Because I don't know what the hell evolution is all about. I realized this last year, when my son asked me where people came from.

Let me take you back:

Son: Mommy, where do people come from?

Marinka: Well, son, when a man and a woman love each other very much-

Son: That's disgusting. But I mean, the first person. Where did he come from?

Marinka: I have no idea. I'm not that old, ha ha.

Son: ::blink::

Marinka: Well, there are several theories.

Son: What are theories?

Marinka: Ideas. Theories are ideas.

Son: Like when I had the theory that I could have two costumes for Halloween and you said "no, that's stupid and expensive?"

Marinka: Sort of...

Son: So, people? Where did the first guy come from?

Marinka: Well, one theory said that he came from apes. Or gorillas.

Son: Like at the zoo?

Marinka: Sort of. But he didn't just come from an ape, or a gorilla. It's more like they had a relative in common.

Son: Like Uncle Joey is the relative that daddy and I have in common?

Marinka: Ok.

Son: So, did this relative turn the ape into a person?

Marinka: Let me tell you about another theory.

Son: ::blink, blink::

Marinka: The other theory is that God created man in his own image and also a woman.

Son: What is "God"?

Marinka: You know, that guy who created everyone. He's sort of in charge.

Son: Someone is in charge? Is he like your boss?

Marinka: Not really, because we don't really believe in him.

Son: What does that mean?

Marinka: I don't know. Want to watch "Pokemon"?

Son: Yes!



And if you ask me, the whole Creationism angle just lays a good foundation for the rest of their academic studies.

For example, there are the potential problems that I foresee and my Sarah-approved explanations:

Daughter: Mommy, geometry is so hard, and doesn't make sense.

Marinka: The Lord works in mysterious ways.


Son: I don't get photosynthesis. How does it work?

Marinka: It's a miracle.


See? Useful and practical!

Sure, I am risking eternal damnation, but I am sure that any parent faced with kids' homework will agree that it's a small price to pay!

A Wonderful Man

Yesterday morning,I overheard the following conversation between my mother and my 10 year old daughter.

My daughter: Do you remember the first time that you ever met my daddy?

My mother: Of course I do! Your mother came to me and said, 'I met a wonderful man, mama! Would you like to meet a wonderful man, too?'


There are two things that strike me about this conversation.

First, my mother's not a native English speaker, so sometimes articles trip her up. Actually, articles are sometimes challenging for the me, as well, but since I had formal education, it is less the challenging for me than for my a mother.

Anyway, because of the articles, the retold conversation between her and me sounds a bit like Fiddler on the Roof meets a match.com commercial. You may think that that's just a Jdate commercial, but since I've never seen one of those, I'm going with my original scenario.

And second is that if I recall correctly, the actual conversation that led to her meeting my future husbanbd went something like this.

Marinka (late 20s, clock ticking): I'm going out tonight.

Mama (clutching "Is Your Daughter a Lesbian? 10 easy ways to know For Sure" quiz): Going out again? Have a great time. All my friends' daughters are getting married and having babies, but have fun. More the vodka for you?

Marinka: GOD! You're driving me crazy! There's more to life than marriage! I am an independent woman! Like Gloria Steinem! I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle!

Mama: What with a bicycle? You don't even know how to ride a bicycle. If you did, you could exercise. And what is this fish nonsense? Everything is about food with you. Eat less, exercise more, you'll meet someone nice.

Marinka: I don't need a man! I can take care of myself! By the way, can you lend me $20?

Mama: $20? For a cocaine?

Marinka: Yeah, like you can get cocaine for $20.

Mama: Oh, so now you know the price of cocaine. Heroin, too, I suppose. This is God punishing me for my sins. There is no other reason that someone like you would be unmarried. And not even seeing anyone. Just hanging out with your whore drug-addicted friends. Don't think that I don't know what the they do.

Marinka: You know nothing about life! Julie is not a whore, she is a dancer.

Mama: A naked dancer. And people give her money.

Marinka: It's less debasing than working at McDonalds for like minimum wage.

Mama: The food again. It's like an addiction with you.

Marinka: I'm just saying-

Mama: You need a man. You'll go crazy otherwise with all these fish and lesbians.

Marinka: I am not a lesbian!

Mama: Just go, I'll be fine.

Marinka: OH MY GOD! I am seeing someone, ok? We have been dating for a while.

Mama: Stop this nonsense. Who is he, the Kentucky Fried Chicken Colonel?

Marinka: No, he's like a real man. With a job.

Mama: Stop your the hallucinations.

Marinka: YOU ARE GOING TO MEET HIM NEXT WEEKEND!

Mama: Ok, if you want to bring him by.

Maybe she's saving the real story for when my daughter is 11?