18 posts tagged “the russian”

On that note, I know my Vietnam trip was 4 months ago and I really should have stopped talking about it by now, but... I haven't travelled since then. I feeling like it's now about time to take another trip (somewhere easier on my nerves this time), but I can't use my savings for a trip now that I have to save for a future house and whatnot. Which is why I've just spent a week lounging around at home to clear my leave.

In fact I don't even know if the Russian and I will be going on a honeymoon this year. Maybe a tiny one, to like, Thailand, IF we can afford it. Unless we don't manage to find a house at all by the time we get married, then... who knows. Chile, Alaska, Russia or Portugal? I would just die to go to one of these places this year. If not, well, hopefully our marriage will last long enough for us to visit these places together. That would be a mighty long time, though. I'm not sure if we really can last...

Ok yeah that's not funny, but that's because you weren't at our marriage course. The instructor that we disliked the most asked each person in the room, "How long do you think your marriage will last?"

Well, he asked everyone except the Russian, because the Russian was fast asleep.

Even after the first TEN people said, "Err... forever? I hope?" or "Until one of us dies" or something to that extent, the guy still went on asking each person to answer his fucked up stupid question. So I had to answer his fucked up stupid question about how long I felt my marriage would last to the catatonic man next to me. (I said "Until death, if everything goes as planned.")

When the Russian woke up, I told him about it. He said, "Really? Why didn't you wake me up?"

Anyway we then joked about what a good answer would be.

"How long do you think your marriage will last?"
"I don't know... probably not very long. I'm not in this for the long-term."

"Stop it! Stop IT! NOOOOO!!!"
"I want to smell! I want to smell your flesh! I want to smell your flesh!!"
"YOU FUCKING FREAK OF NATURE!"
Pause.
"You know, that pretty much epitomises our relationship. You vaguely threaten physical harm and I distrust you when you say you're not going to physically harm me."

"I'm ok with him as a human being. I'm not ok with him as... a person who talks."

Me: How do you braise chicken?
TR: What she just did.
Me: (Glares.)
TR: What?! I can't think of a clearer way of explaining what braising is.
Me: You know, on cooking shows, the chefs explain what they're doing verbally, they don't just cook and expect the audience to know what's going on.
TR: Yeah, but they're usually talking about their lives! "When I was in Bulgaria, my mother and father... Ok, now add some sugar. So you know, when I was raped..."

So much for never writing again.

It's occurred to me that the last time I felt blissfully happy, without a care in the world, was on the second day of our Halong Bay jaunt. It was morning, we'd just woken up, I opened the door of our tiny room on the boat and the first thing I saw was Xai's smiling face, and the second thing I saw was that there was a giant cliff right in front of me, and we were sailing by it.

And Xai said "I was just about to knock on your door!"

And it hit me again, I am on a boat and I just woke up to a sea breeze and a giant cliff passing by and my friend Xai whom I haven't seen in a year. It was kind of magical.

That was two days before my grandmother was hospitalised, three days before the Russian almost died (such a simple shorthand, that is, "almost died", which I'm really overusing to the point of meaninglessness) and about a month before I started going mad.

We're both slightly depressed, two people who are supposed to be pre-nuptially, annoyingly happy. Well I suppose it's as auspicious a sign as any that I'd rather be miserable with him than anyone else.

Start time: 10:27 p.m.

Monty the Mouse woke up one morning and realised he'd turned into a robot, quite all of a suddenly.

"Well this is... Kafkaesque," he squeaked, for he was a rather well-read mouse.

Except it wasn't so much a squeak anymore as a tinny, electronic rasp that came out from his new metal voice box.

Finding that his joints still mostly functioned, he hopped out of bed to look at himself in the mirror. He saw: a small boxy head on top of a big boxy body and rectangular arms and legs poking out of the boxy body where arms and legs usually poke out from.

So surprised was he to realise that he was standing on only two legs that he squealed and fell on his back.

Except it wasn't so much a squeal as a thunderous metallic squawk. It was so loud it had awoken his brother Mitch in the next room.

Mitch came shuffling in, yawning and rubbing his eyes while saying in a complaining voice, "What the fuck, dude?"

"Ummm could you help me up please?" Monty said. Had his voice not been so... robotic, his brother would have been able to hear his frustration and desperation. For of course, Monty could not roll over anymore. Not on this boxy body. And he had not learnt how to use his hands and elbows to push himself up into a sitting position. He had no concept of sitting up.

Mitch's eyes widened and he exclaimed, "What the fuck, dude?!"

"Help! Me! UP!" Monty yelled.

Mitch was too surprised to do anything but obey the talking machine man in front of him. He nudged Monty's body over with his nose. Robot Monty was heavy. Monty pushed and pushed and sweat broke out all over his always-smelly body. Once or twice he managed to get Monty's boxy back about 45 degrees up from the floor but always he lacked the strength for that final push.

Throughout his exertions Monty the Robot cheered him on, "Come on! Come on! Just a little more!"

And fiinally, finally, Mitch managed to roll Monty over.

Onto his robot stomach.

"Err.. now what, dude?"

Monty realised the problem. And he knew what it meant.

He sighed and said, "I guess now I wait to die by the melody of a mournful violin."

"Right," said Mitch, "Maybe I should call mum and dad."

Monty's parents were naturally shocked at their son's transformation. They could scarcely believe that it really was their son. They only decided to believe him when he said he was Monty because he now had scary looking pointy hands made of metal that looked deadly.

Upon his request, they all three together turned him back over onto his back. It was more comfortable that way, he said.

"What are we to do?!" Monty's mum squealed, a proper squeal.

"Well," Monty's dad said as he cleared his throat nervously, "I don't know."

Monty, despite being rather well-read, was useless. All he did was quote sad, lamenting passages from Keats and Woolf in his new robotic voice.

Eventually the family tired of staring at Monty helplessly, and tired of listening to one more electronic delivery from the great works of Thomas Hardy. They left the room and scavenged for food.

Of course the news of Monty's transformation spread far and wide into the mouse community. Many came to visit and gawp at the spectacle that was Robot Monty. And because nobody else knew enough to tell him to sit up, Monty stayed there all his life. Lying on his back, quoting Shakespeare for the visitors by day and having someone read to him at night.

Monty eventually died at age 93, giving way to rust and disrepair. There was no mournful violin playing but he died a happy mouse.

End time: 11:05 p.m.

As you read this, keep in mind that I have just developed carpal tunnel syndrome. Think of the pain I am going through as I bring you this, the long-awaited finale to The Midget Chronicles.

At the end of Part 2, the midget had asked me to watch Die Hard 4, an hour before the film was supposed to start. Instead of casually mentioning the fact that I had a boyfriend like I was supposed to, I panicked and told him simply that I couldn't make it.

He replied, "Haha ok den ü"

And honestly, I thought that was the end.

But no. The next morning, before I'd even left the house for work, I got another invitation!

"Wd u like 2 watch Harry Potter on fri nite at 9 pm? I got free tix"

This time around, I didn't reply immediately. I took a deep breath, waited an hour and then replied: "Sorry I can't. I've promised my boyfriend that I'll watch it with him."

He replied with a stoic "Haha dat's ok ü"

Needless to say, that was the last invitation I received from him.

That night, I finally told The Russian about it all, and I asked him: honestly, I don't think this guy is interested in me. I think he just asked me to watch the movies with him cos maybe all his other friends bailed on him or something. But as a guy, what do you think?

He said: Are you out of your fucking mind?!!

And then he taught me about the world as seen through the eyes of the short man.

Well basically the lesson was this: As long as a girl is short, kind of cute and friendly, a short guy will nurse hope that she will fuck him.

(Of course my own boyfriend was too smart to ever land himself in the kind of situation that the midget had dug himself into. He had made sure that I asked him out first, the wily bastard.)

"So he only likes me because I'm short and friendly," I said, in cynical awareness.

"And hot! You are hot!" he snapped.

"No I am not, objectively speaking," I reasoned, "I wear a headscarf. I'm obviously Muslim. As far as he knows, I could be a religious fundamentalist. And no non-Muslim in his right mind would be interested in dating a visibly-practising Muslim girl, unless like you, he was already friends with her, knew her very well and was in love with her."

Don't you think?

"Look at your own case," I continued, buoyed by my own flash of enlightenment, "When you first started going out with me, your colleagues - even your Muslim colleagues - were telling you to be wary of the restrictions you'd have to respect when you went out with me. Nobody in their right mind would think it fun to date a Muslim girl when they hardly even know her."

And thinking this then made me realise what I'd pointed out to you in my earlier installments: that I had been asking all the questions, and he knew next to nothing about me.

Which meant what? He liked me because I showed interest in his photography and travels? He liked me because I was short and friendly! He was so desperate of being "left on the shelf" that he would date a headscarf-wearing Muslim girl he barely knew just because she'd exchanged some SMSes with him.

And well, that's basically it.

A week later he sent me another message, asking me if I'd gone to see his photo exhibition. I said no, and he said, "u still hav 2 days left. On sat im picking e fotos up frm e gallery."

I never did go, obviously.

TR: I have a talent.
Y: Trolling!
TR: I have a talent for turning something beautiful into something evil.
Y: Yeah, trolling!
TR: Stop using that word. Only I can use it.
Y: Why?
TR: Because it comes from the Internet. Everything that comes from the Internet belongs to me. Like Google.
Y: Huh?
TR: Yes. You can take everything that comes from chicken. I own everything that comes from the Internet. Fair, right? Chickens came long before the Internet. 

Dinner with the Russian turned out to be so much fun. There was a moment at Watson's when I accidentally spilled some water on his pants, and while patting him dry grabbed his ass, so that he yelped and almost fell backwards into an old man walking behind us, who then glared in disapproval.

And the next day, Saturday, I spent a wonderful whole day with him. The day was 07/07/07, the day of Live Earth. At about 9 pm we tuned in to watch the concerts and got a shitload of Sydney's crappy line-up. Of course I hadn't bothered to look at the full list of artists performing at the 7 concerts, so I didn't even know who I was watching out for. So we waited and waited and just kept getting disappointed, which meant we ended up entertaining each other instead.

"Why don't they show something else? Something I can sing along to? Why do they keep showing Wolfmother?!" I whined.
"You should know by now," the Russian scolded me, "It is ALWAYS Wolfmother!"

It was lovely. Watching TV with the Russian is one of my favourite things in the world.  All thoughts of boredom and the midget were driven from my head.

When I reached home, though, I got a surprise SMS from him, the midget: How was ur day?
I replied, "It was nice. I spent a lot of time sleeping and now I'm watching Live Earth."
He said, "I juz came bk from my fren's wedding. I ate so much. Burp :O"

OMGWTFLOL. It was like a light switched on in my head. He was so banal. How had I managed not to notice how uncreative and uninventive his messages were? And what the fuck is up with the spelling?

I felt really stupid for letting a 2-month trip in Iran blind me towards a person's utter lack of personality. But on the other hand, I was also glad that it had happened. I'd had a small crush on a guy I didn't have, only to realise that what I did have was infinitely more exciting. If I hadn't been so intrigued by the midget, and hadn't carried on the conversations with him, I wouldn't have been able to notice the contrast between him and the Russian.

It was something like this:
1. Obviously the Russian is something special, which is why I fell in love with him in the first place.
2. Then this other guy comes along, and he seems to have some interesting qualities too, being talented and kind of cute.
3. But then, look -- gaping flaws! Bad SMS spelling, utterly vapid conversationalist, insecure about his height to the point of lying about it! All things that negate him from being anything special.
4. On the other hand, the Russian is talented, cute, visibly taller than me, not ashamed of his height and in fact writes about being short in the national news, sends me quirky and funny messages everyday (eg. "If you can find Generation Terrorist by the Manic Street Preachers, you can have my babies" and "Your honesty wafts across even the cold medium of telecommunications!") and is 99 times out of 100 a very engaging conversationalist who is willing to argue with me about the value of art.
5. Which means that I might get bored sometimes, and new guys might seem interesting in comparison, but the truth is, the Russian is always better.

So anyway I didn't reply, and I didn't hear from him again. Until the following Monday.

He sent me an SMS: How r u? Im on leave frm work for the nxt 2 wks!
Me: That's nice. I wish I could take a holiday too but I'm stuck in the office.
Him: Take leave!
Me: Can't, we're understaffed and I just took leave a few weeks ago.
Him: Work hard!

Are you not rolling your eyes? I began asking my friends for tips on how to get him off my back. I complained about how boring he was. I said, I've been spoilt by my boyfriend. Look at this message he sent me: "Hoof! The earth shakes. A hundred cows are stampeding in terror! They fear the sun's heat.. and the great happy cat in the meadow."

They said, Yasmine, anyone is boring compared to your boyfriend. Your standards are superhuman!

But then I showed them the message that the midget had sent me on Saturday night: "I juz came bk from my fren's wedding. I ate so much. Burp :O" And they said, EEEWWW!!! Ok I understand. Society will not look badly upon you for this. Next time he messages you, just mention your boyfriend.

And then, at 6 pm that same day:

Him: I noe this is kinda late but wd u like 2 watch Die Hard 4 at Cineleisure at 7 pm?
Me, totally panicking: I finish work at 7.30, sorry!

Who the hell asks someone out after meeting them once and then having sporadic SMS conversations over the next two days?

In Part 3: The Russian enlightens me, once again. 

The Russian: Are you afraid of robots?
His mother: No. What kind of robots? I don't know what kind of robots you are talking about.
The Russian: All kinds of robots.
His mother: Like robot arms?
The Russian: Ok, are you scared of robot arms?
His mother: No.
The Russian: What do robot arms do?
His mother: I don't know how they know what to do, it's all programmed. I'm not the engineer, I don't know.
The Russian: No, what do they do?
His mother: They... pick and place.
The Russian: Oh is that a phrase, pick and place?
His mother: Yeah, they pick and place.
The Russian: So do you have to talk to it to make it pick and place?
His mother: No, it's all automated.
The Russian: Do you talk to robot arms?
His mother: No.
The Russian: Why not?
His mother: I don't know their language.
The Russian: Do they ever get lonely?
His mother: I don't know.
The Russian: What exactly is a robot arm?
His mother: Like a crane lor.
The Russian: Which do you consider superior, cranes or storks?
His mother: I don't know, I'm not an engineering expert, don't ask me.