"I thought it'd be funny or semi-amusing, at least."
Everything in my house is covered in a fine dust. There's nothing to do except work and worry and frankly, I'm tired of doing both. I haven't written in ages. I have become boring and dull. At a loss for words even when in the company of people I actually like. I'm tired all. The. Time. The Daily Show has been repeats since July 1 and it's monsoon season in any event, so the power is out every two minutes. When that happens, my family panics. We huddle together in our living room with yartzeit candles and paper fans, eating the contents of our freezer just in case the power doesn't come on in twenty minutes like it normally does. I strip off my jeans and put on a cotton sundress and French braid my hair. I pretend it's 1872. It's the only time I will walk around barefooted. My dog pants so loudly that its embarrassing. Her tongue hangs out of her mouth, nearly touching the dark wood floor. She looks mentally challenged. I reach out to pet her and she moves away before my fingers even touch her. Leave me alone she says with a swish of a long white tail. It's hot as fuck.
The dog days of summer have arrived. That period of the season all the good teen adventure movies take place in. My adventures are less than stellar, unfortunately. My days are packed with vomit, Sesame Street, and Russian verbs chucked together with English nouns and adjectives creating a new language that even I can't decipher.
"Chase spat, say chase, right now. I'm not kiddin' around here. I need my chase to ponder my existence on this Earth, Kost'a. Put the sabaka down. C'mon. Net kicking. Vwe NEVER kick."
The more English Kost'a begins to speak, the less Russian I seem to remember. Pretty soon, I imagine we'll both be speaking Spanish anyway.
I joke that Kost'a will grow up to be a ballroom dancer because I love to stereotype. He's six and already stronger than most men I know. I suppose growing up in a Russian orphanage gives you a couple tickets to the gun show.
Sometimes, Kost'a will forget that he has a family now and that we aren't going to beat the shit out of him. The other day, he smashed me in the leg when I told him not to touch the computer (Nay noda, computor!) until it was done loading. He realized what he did and his green eyes went wide and I inspected my skin, which was quickly turning a bluish hue.
"Sore-ey! Sore-ey!" he shouts and pats my hand, "Sore-ey." He gives me a hug.
"That must not happen again!" I say, firmly, but not in a mean way. He nods his head that he agrees, but in reality, he probably only understood ten percent of that sentence.
When I come home from work I'm exhausted. Going out is no longer a priority on my list of things to do, but showering and getting out all the baby spit-up out of my hair is. The other day, I opened my closet to put on a jumper, took a look in the mirror and noticed a milky off-white, crusty stain down the side. I haven't given any blow jobs lately, so I figured it was spit-up from Kost'a's also adopted brother, Alexi, that I must have missed from a week or so before. Lovely. Never again shall I doubt Monica Lewinsky.
In a way, I can't wait for school to start, if only because it'll mean my clothes'll stay clean longer. I'm sorry, but if it's not dirty, I'm gonna wear it again. And again.
Quote of the day:
"We're cuddling."
- Me to Katie, after she asked me what I was doing at midnight at Borders while I sat by a couple practically having sex next to me on a couch while waiting for the last Harry Potter book.
The dog days of summer have arrived. That period of the season all the good teen adventure movies take place in. My adventures are less than stellar, unfortunately. My days are packed with vomit, Sesame Street, and Russian verbs chucked together with English nouns and adjectives creating a new language that even I can't decipher.
"Chase spat, say chase, right now. I'm not kiddin' around here. I need my chase to ponder my existence on this Earth, Kost'a. Put the sabaka down. C'mon. Net kicking. Vwe NEVER kick."
The more English Kost'a begins to speak, the less Russian I seem to remember. Pretty soon, I imagine we'll both be speaking Spanish anyway.
I joke that Kost'a will grow up to be a ballroom dancer because I love to stereotype. He's six and already stronger than most men I know. I suppose growing up in a Russian orphanage gives you a couple tickets to the gun show.
Sometimes, Kost'a will forget that he has a family now and that we aren't going to beat the shit out of him. The other day, he smashed me in the leg when I told him not to touch the computer (Nay noda, computor!) until it was done loading. He realized what he did and his green eyes went wide and I inspected my skin, which was quickly turning a bluish hue.
"Sore-ey! Sore-ey!" he shouts and pats my hand, "Sore-ey." He gives me a hug.
"That must not happen again!" I say, firmly, but not in a mean way. He nods his head that he agrees, but in reality, he probably only understood ten percent of that sentence.
When I come home from work I'm exhausted. Going out is no longer a priority on my list of things to do, but showering and getting out all the baby spit-up out of my hair is. The other day, I opened my closet to put on a jumper, took a look in the mirror and noticed a milky off-white, crusty stain down the side. I haven't given any blow jobs lately, so I figured it was spit-up from Kost'a's also adopted brother, Alexi, that I must have missed from a week or so before. Lovely. Never again shall I doubt Monica Lewinsky.
In a way, I can't wait for school to start, if only because it'll mean my clothes'll stay clean longer. I'm sorry, but if it's not dirty, I'm gonna wear it again. And again.
Quote of the day:
"We're cuddling."
- Me to Katie, after she asked me what I was doing at midnight at Borders while I sat by a couple practically having sex next to me on a couch while waiting for the last Harry Potter book.