Blonde inside and out

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Fall has begun and everything is more or less in order. Sveta got her new passport -- she's now Svetlana Rasmussen. And I visited the Russian proctologist at long last. I was supposed to go in June, but I had more pressing things to attend to, like sleeping and running the cat around the sofa. The clinic was typical with peeling paint and tired-looking people crammed in the hallways. There’s never a reception desk. You wander until you find your department and then ask those crammed about, “who’s next.” It works, but I’ve found that the best way to get to the doc is to play the part of the dumb foreigner. There are always an old woman there who take pity on such unfortunates and will take them under her wing. This time, however, Sveta was with me and there was no need for kindly oldsters. I smelled the proctology wing before we saw the sign on the door. And then we met the proctologist himself. He was sitting at his desk writing, gloves still on. Then he looked up and grinned proudly displaying a mouth full of gold-capped teeth. For Russians of a certain generation, gold cap teeth are a status symbol. My proctologist looked like Jerry Seinfeld’s dad, except of course for those chompers. After finishing with me, he told Sveta “Your husband is blond inside and out.” So I have another line for the CV.
I remember that Jimmy, my doctor brother, used to tell Peter there’s no such thing as proctology and certainly no proctologists. Jimmy expressed himself as someone tired of having to debunk this persistent proctology hokum again and again. Why did the masses insist on believing in the myth of proctology? Well Peter is absolutely right. At least in Russia. There’s even a “Proctology Center” nearby.
As September and the Day of Knowledge approached, Sveta and I had become more and more concerned that we had let our summer slip away and that things weren’t in order. Ill-advised fishing trips and enervating visa battles with International Women had left us with less time and energy than we had anticipated. We decided we had to do something before classes and chaos resumed. So we hung wallpaper in the main room. I had never hung wallpaper, but I could learn. My research included watching a smiling British woman paper a wall on Youtube and even a visit to the “This Old House” website and observe how Dee, who looked like he might teach algebra II, to do a “professional looking” job of it with little trouble.
So we began late-summer remont, as the home improvement is called here. First I scraped the walls. This took more than half a day. In fact it took two and a half. Sveta did a fine job watching and critiquing, especially after I emptied one of the many shkafs (wardrobes) and dumped its contents, mainly her clothes, on the sofa. Next we got the paper. I patiently explained that the British woman on Youtube had only spent two hours on a slightly smaller job and that given our relative inexperience, it might take us, say, five hours to hang the paper. Sveta was skeptical. The last time she did this, she said it took her two days. But, one must remember, that was before the Internet and without the advice of Dee.
I had my reasons doubting Sveta’s more pessimistic assessments. Before we put up the paper Sveta had attempted to whitewash the ceiling by running the vacuum cleaner backwards through a jar of whitewash. Total fiasco. So I continued to trust Dee. After nearly a week of glue, creaky ladders and struggle we put that paper up. Sometime in the second day I ceded all authority to Sveta. I was relieved not to have to do the measuring and cutting. And I was quieter after that, having realized Dee and that British woman had played a mean trick on me.
The paper is called “Elysium” and it looks pretty good. Rosie the cat has not taken to it yet, and just yesterday ripped a good chunk out near the floor. But I’m sure she’ll come around.

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Photos

troubled rest
The old wallpaper left one restless and unable to relax

Remont
Sveta measures wallpaper on the floor instead of on a six-foot long work table as recommended by Dee.

The ladder
the ladder had a tricky third step. For awhile I was the one at the top of the ladder. Then I tore that strip and thew my tools on the ground, defeated, demoralized.

Cat inspects
Rosie inspects our new bookcase

rest
Sleeping surrounded by new wallpaper

Day of Knowledge
This is Sept. 1 at Sveta's school. It's celebrated everywhere. The little guys on the stage are in their fist year. Someone rings the first bell. And then Mary Poppins comes out and dances for a while. It's an interesting ritual. At the end of the year, an 11th grader carries one of the first graders around the school.

American embassy, Jackson
Michael Jackson shrine at the American Embassy in Moscow

Rasmussen
Sveta displays her new passport

Comments

[Meriel Mellor]

Early morning chuckle
I enjoy reading about your exploits and the various oddities of living in a different culture. Thanks!