“I don’t find him particularly attractive.”
I started taking classes in the Russian language a few weeks ago. An unexpected turn because I never anticipated learning Russian. All it made me think about was vodka drinking, big fur hats, crazy sporadic dancing and Meg Ryan just as one might think of cowboys, football, and "Da Britney Sperz" when asked to learn "American". For years I've been telling myself that I will learn French eventually. French I could do. It seemed to fit my personality. I love pastries and shopping and cheese! I'm bitchy and pretentious by nature! But here I am, indulging myself in Russian every week. I'm actually really enjoying it, too. Vodka's not so bad after all.
My first lesson went well. The Russian emigrant instructor begins by explaining "Dis is da lahst ting I wheel tehl you in English."
Oh.
After two hours of immersion the only word I could remember is "Arctic Char" which isn't really a Russian word at all, but instead the fish of the day at the restaurant I went to after class. A cross between salmon and trout, it is indigenous to the fresh waters of Alaska and northern Canada.
I only know that because Bobby Flay grilled it the other day.
Unlike my high school Spanish teacher who taught her pupils through a series of horrific drills, shrieking, and belittling, my class learns Russian through spastic hand gestures and guessing. The only proper English spoken in class is by the students when we're making fun of how stupid we feel.
"Stoleh!" our instructor, whose name I still haven't picked up (but is probably something easy to pronounce like Titaniazov Nikolivinadaevna Zdvsfgvbsonafov) exclaimed. Finally, after two sessions, a word I thought I understood. Stoli. Of course! The good vodka.
"Stoleh!" she said again, and pounded on table. Stoli! She wants one right now please!
"Table?" asks Joe, a lawyer, and the best of the class so far. He even had his secretary make him a binder that said "Russian" in big bold letters and had the lessons neatly arranged inside. "Does it mean table?" he asked cautiously as if he could ever be wrong.
Our instructor points and nods her head yes.
Oh. Man.
Later, she shows us a photo of a seemingly happy authentic Russian family in cartoon form and tells us in Russian to repeat after her, "Gaspada Evenof." (This is phonetical, mind you. It means, basically, from what I gathered, "everyone in the group".)
"Gaspada Evenov," I repeat, but the instructor shakes her head "no" at me and tells me to listen carefully.
"EvenoFF," she emphasizes. Then breaks her own rule and speaks to me in English, "Ez like SmirnoFF?"
Ok, that I get.
The mere mention of Smirnoff made me think back to a friend's impromptu birthday "party" the summer before Senior year. Growing bored, at around 2 AM, five of my friends decided that was the perfect time to buy liquor and have some real "fun". This was only good news for me because I had a camera and I'd be sober. Juveniles with fake IDs that they were, they soon realized liquor sales in Arizona stopped at 1 AM, something I didn't even know. That shows you how cool I am. They were bummed but not discouraged. The hot girl of the group decided to use her hot powers (and her sexy native Australian accent) over the phone to entice a male friend of hers to offer up some of his extra liquor stash that he kept conveniently in the trunk of his car.
He said he'd do it. For sixty bucks.
My friends, eager for anything, coughed it up and I tagged along when they went to meet with the kid in a Sonic Drive-Thru parking lot. The whitest kid you have ever seen rolled his black sedan into the lot with his rap music blaring and parked next to us. He stumbled out already drunk and holding a nearly empty Miller beer. Three of his greasy friends slithered out after him.
"You gothemoney?" he slurred.
The birthday boy pulled out the wad of mixed bills from his pocket and handed it over. The danger of this meeting never occurred to me until now. At the time, as I sat in the back of the SUV, I was so bored I was taking photos of myself, admiring my ability to perfectly frame my giant head from just an arm's length away.
The drunk kid handed a plastic bag over and we left, my friends all the while giggling with adrenaline and the anticipation of getting completely smashed. I was just hoping they'd get so drunk they'd all get naked and I'd have something amazing to post online in the morning.
When we got back to the house, my friends ripped open the plastic bag of bootleg hooch in the hopes of finding a cornucopia of hard liquor to down. Instead, the five of them found four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and half a bottle of rum.
Upset but not dissuaded, the kids downed the liquor greedily and immediately began acting as if they were drunk, which, clearly as evident by the amount of alcohol available to them, they were not. After a round of karaoke and Dance Dance Revolution, they brought the drama out. The girls, in the hopes that acting like they were drunk actually meant they were drunk, began hitting on the one straight boy of the party, but none of them got very far. He seemed more interested in “just having fun”. One girl, the girl who lived in the house we were at, took it hard and began to cry. The massive amount of eye makeup she wore on a daily basis smeared and ran down her cheek as she sobbed that the only reason she actually had this party was so she could get drunk and tell the boy she liked him. I tried to comfort her as she wailed that he hated her.
“He doesn’t hate you!” I assured her, “He likes you just fine.”
She used her hand to wipe her nose and I consider throwing up for half a second, “Yeah,” she snorts, “But he doesn’t like me like me like that.”
Hindsight is 20/20, the kid turned out gay. Don’t feel too bad for her. I hear that since entering college she’s garnered herself a hot boyfriend and started smoking. Well, we all had to find our own way to fight the freshman fifteen.
Quote of the day:
“You’re like the walking E! Channel.”
- Kage to me
My first lesson went well. The Russian emigrant instructor begins by explaining "Dis is da lahst ting I wheel tehl you in English."
Oh.
After two hours of immersion the only word I could remember is "Arctic Char" which isn't really a Russian word at all, but instead the fish of the day at the restaurant I went to after class. A cross between salmon and trout, it is indigenous to the fresh waters of Alaska and northern Canada.
I only know that because Bobby Flay grilled it the other day.
Unlike my high school Spanish teacher who taught her pupils through a series of horrific drills, shrieking, and belittling, my class learns Russian through spastic hand gestures and guessing. The only proper English spoken in class is by the students when we're making fun of how stupid we feel.
"Stoleh!" our instructor, whose name I still haven't picked up (but is probably something easy to pronounce like Titaniazov Nikolivinadaevna Zdvsfgvbsonafov) exclaimed. Finally, after two sessions, a word I thought I understood. Stoli. Of course! The good vodka.
"Stoleh!" she said again, and pounded on table. Stoli! She wants one right now please!
"Table?" asks Joe, a lawyer, and the best of the class so far. He even had his secretary make him a binder that said "Russian" in big bold letters and had the lessons neatly arranged inside. "Does it mean table?" he asked cautiously as if he could ever be wrong.
Our instructor points and nods her head yes.
Oh. Man.
Later, she shows us a photo of a seemingly happy authentic Russian family in cartoon form and tells us in Russian to repeat after her, "Gaspada Evenof." (This is phonetical, mind you. It means, basically, from what I gathered, "everyone in the group".)
"Gaspada Evenov," I repeat, but the instructor shakes her head "no" at me and tells me to listen carefully.
"EvenoFF," she emphasizes. Then breaks her own rule and speaks to me in English, "Ez like SmirnoFF?"
Ok, that I get.
The mere mention of Smirnoff made me think back to a friend's impromptu birthday "party" the summer before Senior year. Growing bored, at around 2 AM, five of my friends decided that was the perfect time to buy liquor and have some real "fun". This was only good news for me because I had a camera and I'd be sober. Juveniles with fake IDs that they were, they soon realized liquor sales in Arizona stopped at 1 AM, something I didn't even know. That shows you how cool I am. They were bummed but not discouraged. The hot girl of the group decided to use her hot powers (and her sexy native Australian accent) over the phone to entice a male friend of hers to offer up some of his extra liquor stash that he kept conveniently in the trunk of his car.
He said he'd do it. For sixty bucks.
My friends, eager for anything, coughed it up and I tagged along when they went to meet with the kid in a Sonic Drive-Thru parking lot. The whitest kid you have ever seen rolled his black sedan into the lot with his rap music blaring and parked next to us. He stumbled out already drunk and holding a nearly empty Miller beer. Three of his greasy friends slithered out after him.
"You gothemoney?" he slurred.
The birthday boy pulled out the wad of mixed bills from his pocket and handed it over. The danger of this meeting never occurred to me until now. At the time, as I sat in the back of the SUV, I was so bored I was taking photos of myself, admiring my ability to perfectly frame my giant head from just an arm's length away.
The drunk kid handed a plastic bag over and we left, my friends all the while giggling with adrenaline and the anticipation of getting completely smashed. I was just hoping they'd get so drunk they'd all get naked and I'd have something amazing to post online in the morning.
When we got back to the house, my friends ripped open the plastic bag of bootleg hooch in the hopes of finding a cornucopia of hard liquor to down. Instead, the five of them found four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and half a bottle of rum.
Upset but not dissuaded, the kids downed the liquor greedily and immediately began acting as if they were drunk, which, clearly as evident by the amount of alcohol available to them, they were not. After a round of karaoke and Dance Dance Revolution, they brought the drama out. The girls, in the hopes that acting like they were drunk actually meant they were drunk, began hitting on the one straight boy of the party, but none of them got very far. He seemed more interested in “just having fun”. One girl, the girl who lived in the house we were at, took it hard and began to cry. The massive amount of eye makeup she wore on a daily basis smeared and ran down her cheek as she sobbed that the only reason she actually had this party was so she could get drunk and tell the boy she liked him. I tried to comfort her as she wailed that he hated her.
“He doesn’t hate you!” I assured her, “He likes you just fine.”
She used her hand to wipe her nose and I consider throwing up for half a second, “Yeah,” she snorts, “But he doesn’t like me like me like that.”
Hindsight is 20/20, the kid turned out gay. Don’t feel too bad for her. I hear that since entering college she’s garnered herself a hot boyfriend and started smoking. Well, we all had to find our own way to fight the freshman fifteen.
Quote of the day:
“You’re like the walking E! Channel.”
- Kage to me