Today was not nearly as much fun because we didn't get to watch any movies. I'm all about watching movies. So instead of paying attention in Politologia, I unravelled the tassels of my scarf that have been scrunched up and nasty for the last year. I'll start paying attention when it starts being interesting. And with the verbal tick that prof's got, you really don't miss much of anything. I feel like a real asshole, but I'm absolutely incapable of making myself care about that class. I really hope I don't have to take it next semester. I don't know how or why it's so boring, but it's so painful. And speaking of painful...
So I'm in the stupid class, which isn't necessarily a bad thing--for the first time ever, I'm in a Russian language class where I actually understand what's going on. This is actually a lie. I understood most of the grammar in third-year, I just couldn't apply it. Anyway. There are four of us in the dumb group. One of the other girls is clicking along about my speed, which is great, but the other two spend most of class sitting there with their mouths half open catching flies. They're so lost. And have horrible, horrible accents. I know none of you (except maybe Alea and Zhenya) speak Russian, but I swear to Christ that if I have to hear "Ya zhi-voo vee ROO-see-u" or "Ya del-AL-a" one more time, I'm going to pop my eardrums. Granted that my Russian's not great, but I can at least read the text and put the accents in the right place. And how do you get out of second-year saying "del-AL-a" anyway? What. The. Fuck.
For the first time ever, things are moving too slow. I never ever thought I'd say that, but it's true. I talked to Margaret about changing classes, and she said that she'd see what she could do. Because it's not really cool that I'm bored. I know the government's paying for most of my tuition, but I'm paying for the rest. And I'm not so down with $6,000 of bored.
I realized recently that this journal thing is getting weird. Not so much the actual writing, but it's the thinking about writing that gets me in trouble. Well, not in trouble, but thinking about what I'm going to say and how I'm going to say it takes up so much of my day, I'm really ashamed. I'm also ashamed to say that I spend a lot of time thinking about how to say my favorite English phrases (like ass-clown and butt-monkey) in Russian. Seriously, the entire ten-fifteen minute walk to the metro this morning was spent like this: "Does ass modify clown? Or does clown modify ass? Can I just moosh two nouns together like that? Does that work in Russian? But what if the clowns like asses? There's some kind of consonant-vowel cluster that indicates that something has an affinity for something else and I can't remember what it is! Why am I so dumb?" I'm the biggest dork ever.
I'm also very puzzled by the kiosks they have here. Kiosks are all over the place, and every single one is like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. I'll come back to this in a minute, and all will become clear, but first, what is a kiosk? It's a small hut type thing with a tiny grouchy lady inside that sells everything EXCEPT what you need. It's really amazing how this works. They also don't really have any windows, and to ask the lady inside for something, you have to crouch down to this tiny window about the size of your palm, located about waist height. The whole dialogue takes place with you in this contorted position, with you looking up at the lady who has some kind of monster stool that she sits on. The dialogue usually goes like this: "Y bas est' ...." (Do you have... insert your noun of choice here). Then you get the answer in a particularly nasty tone: "Y nas niet" (We don't have it), or if you're really lucky, you just get the "Niet." Anyway, kiosks are like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory because even when they're open, they're always closed. There's just that one little window, and I've never seen anybody go in or out. And I've never seen any kind of re-stocking. This leads me to conclude that the kiosks are magical places that always have things, but only things for Russians, and never for Americans. And furthermore, the things that they have for Russians always appear spontaneously. Maybe they have something to do with the grouchy lady. I don't know. This is a great mystery.
Today was also Candice's birthday. Candice is a grad student at UW Seattle in their Slavic languages program. She's pretty cool, even though she's from Texas. She had some typa dinner&drinks thing at a swanky café near the university. I was super cranky by the time I got there and did not have a particularly happy time, although I did eat half of a drunk pear. I'm not sure what a drunk pear is, but it was kinda boozy and tasty. I was cranky when I arrived, first of all, because I took a short nap and woke up totally disoriented and fucked in the head and I had to go out to this party thing. I was tired and wanted to stay home. I was also cranky because I was supposed to go meet up with Lena before I went to Candice's shindig to sign some stuff and give her back some movies that I borrowed, but by the time that I made two metro transfers and went 20 minutes out of my way to meet her, Lena decided that she just wanted to go home and that she didn't want to meet up after all. So I went 40 minutes out of my way for nothing, and I was lugging around all this crap I was going to give her like an idiot. And then the café was expensive, and I couldn't get drunk because I had to get back on the metro, and, and, and, and...
Anyway, I decided that everyone else could go fuck themselves, and I was going to buy some g&t in a can and get smashed by myself at home. And buying the g&t was quite the experience. I went to the 24 hour producti on the way home and had to wait in line with a bunch of gross men. When it was finally my turn, I asked the lady for two big gin and tonics. She looks at me and then asks if I want tonic water and points at it. At which point, I said as politely as I could, "No, I want two big gin and tonics." She raised her eyebrow and pointed at the cans of gin and tonic and asked "How many?" Just give me my booze, you stupid. Fucking. Whore. I know that I have an accent and that it's mildly taboo for a chick to drink hard liquor, let alone buy it for herself, and let alone ask for two, but I don't need your fucking commentary on how I'm going to go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect 200 rubles. Fuck you. Drinking on the street is illegal (even though everybody does it, especially at 9am while walking their dogs) and I was sorely tempted, but I was able to restrain myself until I got home and could have the phone and do long-distance drunk dials to my heart's content. Éva, I'm sorry I harassed you—I was pretty gone by the time I got off the phone with Rob. It ended up being a pretty fun night all alone in the apartment.
So I'm in the stupid class, which isn't necessarily a bad thing--for the first time ever, I'm in a Russian language class where I actually understand what's going on. This is actually a lie. I understood most of the grammar in third-year, I just couldn't apply it. Anyway. There are four of us in the dumb group. One of the other girls is clicking along about my speed, which is great, but the other two spend most of class sitting there with their mouths half open catching flies. They're so lost. And have horrible, horrible accents. I know none of you (except maybe Alea and Zhenya) speak Russian, but I swear to Christ that if I have to hear "Ya zhi-voo vee ROO-see-u" or "Ya del-AL-a" one more time, I'm going to pop my eardrums. Granted that my Russian's not great, but I can at least read the text and put the accents in the right place. And how do you get out of second-year saying "del-AL-a" anyway? What. The. Fuck.
For the first time ever, things are moving too slow. I never ever thought I'd say that, but it's true. I talked to Margaret about changing classes, and she said that she'd see what she could do. Because it's not really cool that I'm bored. I know the government's paying for most of my tuition, but I'm paying for the rest. And I'm not so down with $6,000 of bored.
I realized recently that this journal thing is getting weird. Not so much the actual writing, but it's the thinking about writing that gets me in trouble. Well, not in trouble, but thinking about what I'm going to say and how I'm going to say it takes up so much of my day, I'm really ashamed. I'm also ashamed to say that I spend a lot of time thinking about how to say my favorite English phrases (like ass-clown and butt-monkey) in Russian. Seriously, the entire ten-fifteen minute walk to the metro this morning was spent like this: "Does ass modify clown? Or does clown modify ass? Can I just moosh two nouns together like that? Does that work in Russian? But what if the clowns like asses? There's some kind of consonant-vowel cluster that indicates that something has an affinity for something else and I can't remember what it is! Why am I so dumb?" I'm the biggest dork ever.
I'm also very puzzled by the kiosks they have here. Kiosks are all over the place, and every single one is like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. I'll come back to this in a minute, and all will become clear, but first, what is a kiosk? It's a small hut type thing with a tiny grouchy lady inside that sells everything EXCEPT what you need. It's really amazing how this works. They also don't really have any windows, and to ask the lady inside for something, you have to crouch down to this tiny window about the size of your palm, located about waist height. The whole dialogue takes place with you in this contorted position, with you looking up at the lady who has some kind of monster stool that she sits on. The dialogue usually goes like this: "Y bas est' ...." (Do you have... insert your noun of choice here). Then you get the answer in a particularly nasty tone: "Y nas niet" (We don't have it), or if you're really lucky, you just get the "Niet." Anyway, kiosks are like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory because even when they're open, they're always closed. There's just that one little window, and I've never seen anybody go in or out. And I've never seen any kind of re-stocking. This leads me to conclude that the kiosks are magical places that always have things, but only things for Russians, and never for Americans. And furthermore, the things that they have for Russians always appear spontaneously. Maybe they have something to do with the grouchy lady. I don't know. This is a great mystery.
Today was also Candice's birthday. Candice is a grad student at UW Seattle in their Slavic languages program. She's pretty cool, even though she's from Texas. She had some typa dinner&drinks thing at a swanky café near the university. I was super cranky by the time I got there and did not have a particularly happy time, although I did eat half of a drunk pear. I'm not sure what a drunk pear is, but it was kinda boozy and tasty. I was cranky when I arrived, first of all, because I took a short nap and woke up totally disoriented and fucked in the head and I had to go out to this party thing. I was tired and wanted to stay home. I was also cranky because I was supposed to go meet up with Lena before I went to Candice's shindig to sign some stuff and give her back some movies that I borrowed, but by the time that I made two metro transfers and went 20 minutes out of my way to meet her, Lena decided that she just wanted to go home and that she didn't want to meet up after all. So I went 40 minutes out of my way for nothing, and I was lugging around all this crap I was going to give her like an idiot. And then the café was expensive, and I couldn't get drunk because I had to get back on the metro, and, and, and, and...
Anyway, I decided that everyone else could go fuck themselves, and I was going to buy some g&t in a can and get smashed by myself at home. And buying the g&t was quite the experience. I went to the 24 hour producti on the way home and had to wait in line with a bunch of gross men. When it was finally my turn, I asked the lady for two big gin and tonics. She looks at me and then asks if I want tonic water and points at it. At which point, I said as politely as I could, "No, I want two big gin and tonics." She raised her eyebrow and pointed at the cans of gin and tonic and asked "How many?" Just give me my booze, you stupid. Fucking. Whore. I know that I have an accent and that it's mildly taboo for a chick to drink hard liquor, let alone buy it for herself, and let alone ask for two, but I don't need your fucking commentary on how I'm going to go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect 200 rubles. Fuck you. Drinking on the street is illegal (even though everybody does it, especially at 9am while walking their dogs) and I was sorely tempted, but I was able to restrain myself until I got home and could have the phone and do long-distance drunk dials to my heart's content. Éva, I'm sorry I harassed you—I was pretty gone by the time I got off the phone with Rob. It ended up being a pretty fun night all alone in the apartment.
posted by hillary at 3:08 AM
1 Comments:
Dunno if you've read the fairy tail about the witch Baba-Yaga (I think that's the English translation, anyway) and her magic hut with chicken legs, but these kiosks sound a lot like that...maybe it's Baba-yaga evolved?
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