Pontificum Scriblerus

Can't think of a goshdarn thing to write about... Except this, which I've been thinking about literally every single night because it's so funny. So, Munchkin, like, HATES getting dressed and undressed. I mean, you would think I was torturing him, the way he wails when I am putting on his little onesies, or whatnot, each morning. The same thing happens every night when I put on his footie pajamas. And the absolute pitiful show he puts on when I try to decorate his head with any kind of head-dress? Securing the velcro under his chin is just absolutely contraindicated! Let me tell you, it's not just some softie protests; the kid sobs with tears, turns red in the face and everything. Booohoohoohoo... And I ask myself: why do babies hate getting dressed? Then I remember. Very vaguely. But definitely present somewhere in the recesses of my memory. Someone dressing me. And the absolute horrible feeling of having a shirt upside down on your head with the buttons pressi...

So, we did go to Paris. And it was not good. I was irritable and couldn't sleep much, and was somehow scared and made uncomfortable by all the people and grandeur of Paris, to the point where its charm was lost on me completely. I felt at the same time fat, unfashionable, tired, cold and sweaty. I even remember saying, "Why is this the most romantic city in the world again?" Hubby's parents came up to join us. They planned to hang out with us for a few days, but couldn't stay too long, because his grandfather was still in the hospital or in a rehab, status post total hip replacement after his fall and fracture. Unfortunately, on the second night, during a really nice dinner at some place that had no signs in English, and no staff that spoke it (a good prognostic indicator), my mother in law got a phone call. She said into the phone, "He died?" Just like that, out of nowhere... She seemed emotionless at the time. What do you really say to a pers...

2006 was a rough year in a way. In lots of ways. In March and April of that year, I was the second year resident in the MICU, complete with overnight calls, followed by the very dreaded EP/CHF service, which, although didn't have overnight call, was even worse, what with the incredibly long hours, endless rounds, and patients who were so sick, and whose organ systems were so at war with each other, no one knew exactly what to do with them (help one organ, kill the other, type of dilemma) while they waited for a heart transplant. Around the second week of my MICU rotation, my grandmother got sick. I was on the T around 2 pm on my way home after a sleepless night, dreaming about a hot shower, a soapy scrub, and then crawling inbetween crisp sheets, and passing out until dinner time. My grandmother called me onthe cell phone, and said she had a stomach ache. I was so fatigued, I felt nervous I would have to turn around and go back to her house, but she said she didn't want th...

We have moved. We all remember how well I deal with change? Well. On the day of the move, I arrived to the new apartment early, and was immediately hit by a brick of panic. The new place has wall to wall carpeting, you see. And I have a serious aversion thereto. I think, nay, I KNOW, I was traumatized as a child. My fear of wall to wall carpeting goes way back to the days of early immigration. When we first got here, after staying with our "sponsors" for a few weeks, we needed to find our own place. A fun aside story is how we got our first place. Rent control was still a thing , and there was a rent control apartment owned by a Russian lady of the "first wave," ie, having arrived in the late 70s and acclimated and "Americanized," by her own declaration. The rent was set at $300, unless the apartment was furnished, in which case the rent was $600. So this philanthropist and helper to her brethren immigrants rented the apartment to us as furnished w...

When I was little, we used to go away for the summer to this little town in Latvia, called Kraslava . It was located on the banks of the river Daugav, outside the larger city of Daugavpils. I have no idea who picked it and how, but I remember that it was a year when we had no summer plans, and it was June 7th, and we were still in the city, which was unacceptable for any family of class. Next thing I know, my grandmother, her sister and I were aboard a very civilized sleeper train on our way to the Baltics. My other experience with trains was a few years prior, when I traveled on a train with no water while overflowing with food poisoning, so this was quite a nice change. The Baltic republics, during Soviet times, were the closest thing we could get to going "abroad," ie outside the USSR. We stayed at the town hotel the first couple of nights, and ate at their restaurant, ate romantic and sophisticated things such as "beefsteak," and "schnitzel," and...

During that one summer, when I was six, and we were vacationing in Western Ukraine on the Azov (the one when I got really sick with tushenka), something happened that I think set the tone for basically the rest of my life. Of course, when I tell this story, sobbing, wringing my hands, and asking, "Why!! Why!!" my mother groans and rolls her eyes, calls me alternately Sigmund or Freud, and starts reminding me of all the times that I witnessed grandpa tearing wings off flies and how that's made me a sexual deviant. "Yes," she says, "It's all about your mother. That's why you're such a fuck up, DOCTOR." (Of course, I'd never met Grandpa, he died 10 years before I was born, I've yet to see a true definition of sexual deviancy, and for those who are slow to respond to sarcasm, that last statement implies that because I am a doctor, I am not at all a fuck up, therefore, the mother is not to be blamed.) But the story is such. As I said...

Immigration was, of course, a lightening bolt, a doorstop, a derailment for me, as a developing human, and for my parents, as humans cruising along. I can't believe I haven't written more about it. I should be capitalizing on it; I should be producing personal statement after personal statement about how I've overcome the odds as a self-made daughter of poor immigrants. (That's tongue in cheek, because I'm anything but self-made) But aside from the fact that I've always felt that's cheating, I just don't think I could find words, phrases and structure to write about it in a cohesive way that wouldn't be boring and cheesy. Plus, what aspect immigration do you pick to write about? What about it? It was fun? It was tough? It was stressful? It was hungry? Maybe just some notes? 1) Bribing To the soviet Russian, nothing ever happens on its own. You know that old saying, if you want something done, do it yourself? I'd change it to "if you want som...

When we were in immigration, that surreal and wonderful 4 month hiatus from either real life, be it Russian or American, we ended in Vienna during the week between Christmas and New Year. It was an absolutely magical week. Vienna, to us, freshly released from the cinder block world of communism, was in and of itself magical. We arrived, we got dropped off at the pension in the middle of the night, we fell asleep - still soviet. We woke up - free! We looked out the window to see "Kindermoden" children's fashions and "Mondo" supermarket. We went outside without hats or boots because it was 15 degrees Celsius in middle of December, and the streets were squeaky clean. We purchased baking yeast because we thought it was butter, and we bought a pastry to share between three people: it was the best thing we'd ever tried... Everything glittered. It was Christmas season, and the city was decorated, but not only that, there was also crystal everywhere. S...

Just the other day, we were remembering how I got food poisoning as a child while on vacation in Ukraine on the Azov sea. What happened was this. In communist Russia, food was a commodity not always readily available, especially in remote towns, and especially things like sugar, ketchup, tea - these things were usually bought in large bulk quantities when available, which wasn't often. So, if a reasonable family was going on vacation, what they would do is make a parcel of supplies and send them ahead to the place of destination. Vacations used to last anywhere from 1 month to 2 or 3, and what you'd do is, usually, unless traveling with a guided tour ( putevka ), you'd get to a town, and take gander around the neighborhoods, ask around, and see who's renting rooms, find the most acceptable one and rent it for the month. Townspeople knew other townspeople who rented, so if they had nothing available, they could direct you; sometimes, you'd come across the most amu...

When I was little, on occasion, my mom would bring me with her to work, usually during summers when her duties were mostly administrative, and I was out of school/kindergarden. One such day, I was with her at work watching as she was trying to sell a dress. Why would she sell a dress at a technical high school? Well, communist Russian stores didn't usually honor a return policy, so if you bought something you didn't like, or that didn't fit, you usually tried to hand it off to someone else for the same price or less. Or more - depending on your business sense, I guess, even though technically in those times business sense was illegal. Not technically, actually, but quite literally: "speculation" was a serious offense. ANYWAY. She was trying to unhand a dress to a co-worker. It was a purple crepe affair with a knee length pleated skirt, long poofy sleeves with buttoned cuffs, a belt that tied and some sort of polka dot design. It was on a hanger, hanging on a ...

In 1994 or so my mom got a new job, and we needed to purchase a second car so she could drive to work. My dad apportioned $2000, and consulted the local WantAds (what we used to use before Craig's list and Ebay), and shortly after we acquired a 1986 Toyota Celica GTS. It came from a guy who was just as meticulous (read: anal) as my dad: he had all the oil changes charted in a notepad that was kept in the glovebox. My dad was in love at first sight. Anyway, I appropriated the car when we moved to the deep suburbs, and my father, in the throes of some sort of mini midlife crisis bought himself a 1987 Toyota Supra (a sportier, faster version of the Celica). And here is where my girl and I started a beautiful friendship. In the first 3 months, I rear-ended a girl from work and had to fix the nose of the car (dad made me pay 1/2 of the deductible in an effort to educated me about the real world). Then, while parking at the doctor's office, I AustinPowered myself into a spot right up...

I have no idea why I thought about this, what insane freeflow association released this from the corner of my mind, but I was just remembering getting my braces. I was a sophomore in high school, and it must have been early fall because I remember wearing a magenta colored sweater, and a pair of jeans that were starting to be too tight for my developing butt. The orthodontist was in Brookline, so I took the T, got the braces, and took the T/bus back. On the bus I was looking in the window at my reflection, and at my newly blackened metalic grill. I got off the bus, and instead of walking home, I walked to my friend's house. When she opened the door, I showed her the braces, and started crying. Then I went home. I think we just stood by the door, I didn't even go into the house. It was the day Audrey Hepburn died, I also remember that. Her picture was everywhere.

I'm sorry.

Once in a while, I meet an innocent ignoramus who'll ask me with a straight face: "do they celebrate Thanksgiving in Russia?" I usually reply, "Well, it's a holiday celebrating the Pilgrims arriving in America, so, no." Russians celebrate Thanksgiving here, though. I'd say that for most, it's the one big holiday with which all have developed a connection, even the skeptical ones, like my parents. It's actually become my absolute favorite holiday, even better than New Year and my birthday (past a certain age, birthday just... lose their festivity). Our first Thanksgiving here was... It needs backdrop. Back in Russia, we lived in what would here be a 1 bedroom apartment: mom, dad, myself, grandma, and grandma's sister. My mom postulates that she never felt like the three of us were ever an independent family unit until we left Russia, and she's probably right. We arrived to Boston in April 1990 as part of the late 80s early 90s wave of immi...

Halloween is one of those holidays that has a triple age distribution as far as enjoying the holiday goes. The little kids get the first peak, up until the age of what, 12? Trick or treating, candy, all that. Then, college kids get the second peak, girls dress up slutty, and everyone gets drunk. The third peak comes when you've got little kids of your own, and Halloween becomes a family affair. I was driving today and was surprised to see trick or treaters all over the street - even in my dumpy neighborhood!! I wish I was a little kid who'd dress up.... Or knew someone who had little kids who dress up... Or lived near some kids that dress up... Or had some kids that dress up.... Or got dressed up myself... Instead, I went home and thought of Halloweens of yore. The irony of this picture is, at the time it was taken, I happened to be working at a state institution, running the prison ward. Therefore, my costume is quite true to life - well, except the short shorts and high heele...

One day, my dad, who was a teacher in a school, took me to work with him. I was very little, significantly younger than a first grader, which would make me 3 or 4? He had a few classes to teach, and in the meantime, he took me down to first grade to be watched. He handed me over to a girl, whose name I don't remember, and said, "Please play with Sasha for a little while." The girl looked dubious but she took me by the hand and started taking me around her classmates. To each one she'd say: "Would you like to play with Sasha?" I got eyed up and down, and most people declined. I wasn't paying attention, just looking around: I had never been to a school. Finally, I tuned in to what she was actually saying: "Would you like to play with this nice little boy Sasha?" The customer she was trying to pawn me off on said, "I don't play with boys." "Wait, wait!" I said, "I'm a girl!" She took a second look, also lookin...

As previously mentioned, the first day of school in Russia was September 1st, and the last day was May 31st. The 3 months between those dates were off, and I mean, truly off: no silliness like summer jobs, or summer school, or summer internship to ruin the unabashed pure freedom of summer. We were from a big city, and summer in a big city was an amazing time because as if by magic, after May 31st, the city would get hot, fragrantly scented by poplar trees, dusty with the fuzz off their branches, and, eventually, empty out. Being there felt really strange, like being left behind in a vacant building... I'd say that kids from good families never spent the summer in the city. They would go away to the black sea, or dacha , or, in the worst case scenario, pioneer camp (like scout camp). [I never went to pioneer camp!] I'd even say that because there were 3 whole months, more than 1 vacation trip would be undertaken. I went to the Black Sea, on a tour of Ukraine, and to a small lake...

I worked at an ice-cream shop when I was in high school. The place was owned by a family, and at that point, had been around for 30 years. All the high school girls at some point worked at this place. When you start there, the first thing you learn, of course, is how to properly scoop ice cream and make a sundae that will stand up on its own and look pretty. The trick is, the bottom scoop has to be bigger than the others, and when you put it in the cup, you have to flatten it down. The scoops on top should decrease in size as you go up. Usually, three scoops to a sundae. "Ice cream is like glue," the owner told me. "It'll stick." Ever learn something, get into the habit of doing it, and then do it even though you don't have to, and when you realize what you're doing, you kind of chuckle, and raise a little mental toast to yourself? I still go to that place now and again; sometimes they recognize me, sometimes they don't. I should tell them th...

The day started out just like any other: wake up begrudgingly, make coffee, read the news, hop in the car, peel out of the garage and onward about 15 miles over the speed limit... Minus that last part: I got stuck behind a solid convoy of yellow school buses. Then, it dawned on me, that it was the first day of school in my town. So, since it was "illegal to pass while lights are flashing," I ended up having some time to think - mostly about school and first day at school. In Russia, the first day of school is always on September 1st (the last day is always May 31st), and it is a huge celebration, especially for the first graders, who are commemorating their first day of school ever. The day even has a slogan: " Perviy raz v perviy klass ." (First day, first grade). We wore uniforms in those days, which were just awful: a dark brown wool dress, and black wool apron over it. Everyone had 2 of them, you'd wear it for a week or two, then wash it, wear the other one ...

We've already discussed how I was a curious little kid - I mean, if I were a cat, I'd be dead before I hit age 10 - so, appropriately, when I was about 3 or 4 years old, I quizzed my mom on the origin of the species, with the proverbial, "Mom, where do babies come from?" I even remember that we were walking to catch a bus. Mom was (and is) a creative soul. She said, "Babies happen when a man and a woman love each other." Nice save, mom. Not exactly a lie, depending on how you define "love," yet, avoids revealing gory details of baby making. Satisfactory answer - one I spread about the sandbox. "My mom says..." When I was about 6, perhaps showing my future interests in all things physiological, I inquired as to exactly HOW babies come? As in, where do they actually come FROM? Out of WHERE? I think at this point we were at a beach? Maybe changing room? She said, "Mommies carry around the babies in their tummy, and then, when it's t...