I don't have any Moscow-related wonders/horrors/chuckles to share lately as I have been sort under self-imposed house-arrest with my cold. It, that is, the cold, is coming along nicely, given that it swept in without warning on Saturday night during dinner out at a Posh Moscow Restaurant, effectively ruining any notions I had about a little Saturday Night Romance With The Spouse.
He was due, too, since Date Night was his idea.
Aside: Romance has become increasingly difficult these days, what with the light sleeping habits of The Skittle-One, her sudden awareness that her parents are (HORRORS!) sexually active, and her heartfelt wish that they refrain from doing so ever again until she has moved out. "I promise to do so as quickly as I can," she added. Talk about a block. Suggestions? Our apartment is very small.
But I digress.
Date Night was The Spouse's idea because we quarreled earlier in the week. Well, if you want my side of the story, he was Crank Monster and snapped my head off one night because he said I did not announce that I was going to bed and left him, alone and sad, in the living room.
In his defense, that was, indeed, the series of events.
Except, as I may have mentioned, we live in an apartment the size of a refrigerator box.
He could see my feet on the bed from where he sat, abandoned, on the living room sofa.
I had wandered off to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, and then became distracted with toenail clipping and whisker removal and eyebrow tweezing and moisturizing and then remembered that I was right at the exciting part in my book and it was getting close to 11 o'clock and if I wanted to see the conflict resolve that night I'd better hurry up and get to it before it got too late.
So I was lying in bed reading my book when he came in and told me off.
The next day he declared we deserved a little time away from kids so we could work on our strengths, which really is being the best of friends and talking non-stop. In spite of the odd economic climate, he has had a couple of all-nighters recently, and he's just not 18 anymore. He has been exhausted, and this is never a good thing.
Once I arranged for the babysitter, he actually made a dinner reservation!
It's not like the man can't pick up the phone on his own, but he is usually so concerned about consensus that we have to discuss everything.
Sometimes a girl just wants to go on a date. That's already arranged. Because her fella already knows what she likes.
I had told him that a few weeks ago, and he remembered, and just did it. Which was so nice.
So I got to have breast of duck with foie gras, ginger puree, endive, plum wine, savoy cabbage, and oyster mushrooms. Oh, and a martini (actually TWO). And it was gooooood.
Except that on the way to the restaurant my throat began to hurt like hell. In the middle of the night I could no longer swallow, it hurt so much, and I repaired to the living room sofa where I dozed and watched a very old episode of Jon and Kate Plus Eight (where they still, apparently, liked each other).
Sunday I slept all day.
Seriously. After my short stint on the sofa, I crawled back to bed and slept until noon. Around 2:00 we went out for lunch. And then I went back to bed.
By now (Thursday), the cold has progressed to the point where I am blowing what is left of my brains out through my nose. Which is all chapped and peeling. Always a good, good look, isn't it? Peeling nostril?
Oh, and I've been coughing.
In my sleep.
In spite of my best efforts to dose myself with vodka/cough supressant/NyQuil.
The Spouse told me so.
"I have?" I was crushed. I would so hate to have to sleep next to me.
"Yeah. But you're sick," he said, not unkindly. "And the coughing lets me know you're not dead."
Awww. He's said this before, and he's quite sincere. I guess that's as positive a spin as anyone can put on it.
"The coughing," he went on. "And the snoring. Oh, and the farting."
For better or worse, eh?
I do have this gadget, which is a life-saver. Yeah, it's gross, I know. But I swear it helps. With the coughing and snoring. Not sure about the farting.
But enough about bodily functions, you say. What else is happening Chez Beet?
Well, I am loving the Kindle. Yeah, I saw a less-than-flattering review in The New Yorker. But as an expat, it's a wonderful thing. I believe that it has encouraged me to read more, partially because it is so light and easy to carry around with me. (Back in my days of car-ownership, I always, on the advice of Stephen King, carried books with me for those little moments during the day when I could get in a page or two. Commuting by foot and by Metro has made me loathe to carry more than I absolutely have to.) Since the first of the month I have already plowed through three Daniel Silva thrillers (A Death in Vienna, The Confessor, and The Defector), Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, and Heather Armstrong's It Sucked and Then I Cried. Last night I started the new Dan Brown book.
None of these cost me more than $10, and none of them had to be schlepped back to Moscow in a suitcase. I have 38 other titles already loaded on it, and even though I am not in the US, I can buy and download books through my computer.
Oh, and I tested my Kindle in the sun: mine doesn't fade.
Possibly one advantage to living in Moscow?
Waiting... - *In October on Manezh Square, outside of the Kremlin* It's the final countdown until the Olympics... Here's a link to an article that was in the "Russia ...
3 years ago