Gospodina Americanka

Other than immersion in up-to-date media (which wasn't even that lacking in high-speed Moldova) I have proven myself to be a highly qualified personal assistant to my family.

I wake up with the twins, help make lunches and give fashion advice, condemn mini skirts and spagetti straps. They leave and I make a bunch of coffee, watch Joe and Mika interrupt each other, wait for dad to wake up. We chat, he leaves. I gather the laundry and start it. Make everyone's beds. Pick up shoes and straighten photo frames. I make some food and think – wouldn't it be nice to have a spot of pink wine?

Then I slap my own face for realizing I am a spinster AND a housewife at the same time.

I read Atlas Shrugged, newspaper and apply to jobs. I set up dates for myself to ambush the offices I just applied to. I pick out clothes that make me look sharper than I am (always Greta and Elise's clothes in some combination).

Before coming back to the house to feed and walk the dog, I stop for an espresso and read some poetry – this stems the tide of brainlessness and I imagine I am in London or on a balcony in Florence. I channel Elizabeth Barrett Browning who was fortunate enough to be rich, happily married and full of TB, thus proscribed a life of leisure in, yes, Florence.

Victorians had all the luck.

When I get home I literally put on a striped apron with salmon halterneck and waist line, and make dinner. The family usually gets home in stages and dinner is rarely hot for all four of them. Twins dissappear to find grants and scholarships to extremely good universities, and my parents and I watch rigorous amounts of sci-fi and drink the hoped for wine. Dad and I talk some more and we all go to sleep around midnight.

As cycles go, it's not bad. I'd make a first rate gospodina.

No further thoughts...

Media in Murka

Being out of Fringe, the Xfiles substitute that stimulates your brain just enough to catch out the scientific fallacies, I have reverted in time and brilliance to Sex and the City. This new show makes me want to smoke cigarettes, wear weird clothes, and hurt people.

I'm reading Atlas Shrugged. Dad bought a copy for every family member. It's a weird combination of showing what Ayn Rand preaches and what she preaches against. It makes me want to build railroads, own fancy clothes, and hurt people.

Thankfully, my old cd collection did not get lost or destroyed while I was in Europe so I don't have to listen to contemporary pop and the djs who choose its order. If I did, I have learned it makes me want to dance in smoky bars with strangers, wear boots, and hurt people.

The news channels bark at me, except the hateful, yet calm people of Morning Joe on MSNBC. The serenely and with great deliberation promote Starbucks coffee and bash every politician and politico under the sun. They even make fun of phony feminists who whine. The show endorses my addiction to coffee, makes me want to wear my one Jackie O dresses, and hurt people.

If you see a pattern forming, you are smarter than the American media octopus.

Thus far media in America has not been kind to my psyche.

I will get right on writing up the last two months spit spot in order to force something in the world media-related makes misanthropically happy and informative sense out of all the crap.

Irresponsible Leadership

The last week has seen our flock of ducks migrate from their customary sleeping place. Usually they sleep in a white huddle out in the open yard. The open part is the basin of the yard, where the water collects—ducks being water creatures seem the natural rulers of this muddy oasis. Their flock is small, especially in comparison to the mammoth 70 strong cacophony of geese, but they hold what seems to be the genuine inheritance of the ultimate waterfowl.

Even in this cushy seat of supremacy, ducks are skittish things. Billy, when he was here, found they are terrified of light at night. You shine a flash light, or strong mobile phone’s ray out in their midst and they spring as one to half wing and flee. Thus it is easier to herd ducks at night than in day, when they show something near independent thought and cause the flock to zig zag all over the time-wasting place.

They are not overly defensive though, as those honking horrors. Ducks know when they’re bested and waddle off. They make a few indignant cries, but all in all are humble creatures I’m sure Christians would be proud of if the time were taken to compare them to tastier yard birds—like the ever popular chicken. Proud f***ers, those chickens; they probably fill the fields of hell with their strutting ways.

So some real power shifts must have happened recently in the back yard. Imagine my surprise when I open the door after dinner to make my night run to the loo and nearly squish half a dozen plump little guys. With a shooing method learned from Bunica, they scatter in all directions—some even as far as their prior home 20 metres away. It is a seriously bad place for a flock to sleep—in the lane between house and outhouse. Especially in watermelon season when everyone eats about a quarter a melon a piece for desert—those things are mostly water, hence the name. The best way, if I may be allowed to digress, to win a watermelon eating contest is to take giant bites and squish the meat right up to the back of your teeth, lips apart to let all that pink juice out. The juice will fill your belly with sugary goodness in half the time a bowl of rice will.

Messy, but effective.

The opposite of sleeping in the middle of traffic. The ducks flee quacking, wake the geese who crank up their UFO descending sound, and then the cock gets at it—he, it seems, has not been displaced. He sits on his same door-side perch as ever. If it’s particularly bad, the dog will join in, and the 6 inch Alpha next door will respond and suddenly my nightly trip to relieve myself results in a minor panic and the seeds of hatred for lowly things stirs.

Most sad of this is the normally guiltless ducks—I cannot hate them, they are pitiful at worst and barely ever troublesome. Who has kicked them out? The turkeys are roosting up with the chickens, as usual, the geese over behind the cows. There are more of everyone than there was last year (except pigs, they were a serious economic bust) but no one is in the old Duck Place.

I can only conclude one of these robust young things, 5 months old and bursting with puberty has seized the ducky reigns. Is it really a conscious decision on his part to move the sleeping place? Did the popularity of the old wood pile (Chicken Cock King and the trendy brace of lounging turkey teens) lure them across the border land of septic tank?

I tick off the leaders I’ve encountered hereabouts and conclude that despite ducks being commonly thought non-sentient, they may have a tendency seeping up through the rich black soil to make seriously irresponsible decisions.

Yoda Never Met Moldovan Businessmen

When I first start writing my grant I did not take many things into account.

Number 1: as railed against frequently, Claudia's personal sheistiness.

Number 2: my partners may not have gotten exact prices on the things they were in charge of pricing.

Number 3: that prices fluctuate THAT MUCH

Number 4: the furniture literally had to be built, it did not come in Ikea-like packets as advertised.

Number 5: not pre talking to the cabinet maker at length about the project and who his REAL liasons were (ie. Don't listen to Claudia)

Number 6: that assembly on site was not included in the bargained price

Number 7: that constructors would not tell me about vacations to Ukraine

Number 8: that so much paperwork went into writing a receipt

Number 9: that no amount of fact checking and repeating of one's self would make no difference

Number 10: It takes 2 months to write a receipt.

Seriously, half of these things are extremely time heavy, and time is one of several things I am dangerously short of in the first week of August.

I took the latest possible (official) COS date for various reasons, but the most ready and quantifiable one was this freaking grant. I thought, surely, we would get it all done in June, and then all of July we'd settle into the new room, and in August I'd just pack my shit and leave.

No such logical luck at all. Despite running over it and handing out schedules.

Sympathy from other volunteers consists of “that's why I didn't do a grant,” and “wow, I'm glad I didn't do a grant,” and “yea, my grant was rough too.”

Sympathy from Carolina, my grant manager at PC says “give them pressure.”

It's hard to give the #1 receipt writer pressure when he has adieosed to Kiev. He said he'd be back tonight though... Pressure tomorrow? Well, let's just hope he comes home.

The dictionaries were so nice and done in less than 20 minutes. According to my religious prophet, Yoda, size matters not, thus it should be just as easy to write a receipt for a classroom full of furniture as it is for a stack of dictionaries.

Movies 2011

While I talk a big talk about relevant and applicable things (politics, economics, non-art related master degrees) we all know at my heart I am dotty for movies, and things I try to do that don't include them will run at 50% effort.

And now I'll be stateside for the Oscar rush of goodness. At $9 a movie, I anticipate to spend a maximum of $117 between Sept 1 and Jan 1 on movies.

In release date order:

The Whistleblower

Dream House

The Skin I Live In

Anonymous

In Time

Sleeping Beauty

My Week with Marilyn

Carnage

The Artist

Coriolanus

Sherlock Holmes

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

In the Land of Blood and Honey

Ok. I can cut that in half. Must Sees are Whistleblower, Carnage, Sherlock Holmes and Girl.

The last movie I saw in America was Star Trek.

The only one I've seen in a theatre since is, remarkably fucking lucky, Inception. I just happened to have stitches in my back and there was a free showing of an English language movie in Chisinau, and that movie just happened, 8 months after it's release, to be the only one I'd regret not having seen on a screen big as the visual package offered.

phew

General remarks:

3 of the list are directed by women (the last being Miss Jolie's debut direction) which is a surprisingly large number.

The bookends are both set in Bosnia, and Coriolanus was filmed there. I'm glad I'm getting all my visiting in before it explodes in popularity.

Because of ticket price, I will not buying twizzlers or coke.

Moldovan concession stands sell beer for movies. I drank a tasty Baltika 6 while watching Inception. I also paid $20 for a two litre tub of caramel corn. I refuse to pay for these things in America.

Lindsay Toler's Nalgene Bottle

I know I am COSing in two weeks, and that a third of the PCVs are also leaving in a month and a half this summer, and that this happens every summer, and that throughout the year half a dozen people will drop out for reasons of their own, but to lose Lindsay Toler is not just a shock, but also a damn shame and possibly the death sentence for Hai Davai.

From the last:

Hai Davai is the effort we make in PC Moldova to sate creative urges and voice things we all have interest in. That is: Responsible reporting off set by Onion-esque humor and augmented by sex/gossip columns and plenty of Moldovan photography. For the last year, Toler has been the managing editor since she is one of the two pro journalists. The other pro was the founding and head editor. With Josh the founder COSing this summer, Toler was set to take over... Now who will run the boat away from the shoals of mediocrity and ice bergs of death?

Toler is, as can be surmised by this appointment, is a highly motivated individual who truly has her shit together. Also, she is blonde and has a great sense of humor—seeing like in like I think it's safe to say we were destined to be pals.

She was also destined to grit out the two years—so much so that she was one of the other people with me selected to give the Mental Health session to the trainees: ie. Had the mental and emotional capacity to withstand the pressures of PCV life—on a quantifiable and professionally judged level. It is unprecedented that she should someone to fold and leave the commitment early.

We thought the same about Bethany, and later, Casey. Bethany, to date, has not given sufficient reason for ETing that I know of. Casey coined the term “Pulling a Bethany” and only told 4 of us he was leaving. This was a little more than Bethany did (telling no one but staff--we found out she and her husband jetted in a email newsletter sent out by our Country Director Jeffery. So, we have to assume she didn't want us to know she was going, was a bit ashamed, or didn't like us... or something). Casey's reasons have panned out for the best. He got a responsible, high paying job with a contracting company competing for grants from USAID. This job even brought him out to Chisinau prospecting for two weeks. His objective to help recently family achieved.

Toler did not pull a Bethany even that much. She left the decision secret until 4 days prior then told everyone. Many tasty dates were arranged. She gave good reasoning: pancreas failure. A need to change sites half way through service because of new dietary needs; even with more well stocked village shops, she has to eat on a strict schedule with stricter needs than Kelsie's...it's a bit ludicrous.

Those tasty dates were, thus, encumbered.... no dairy etc. Pills were taken, pain was suffered, and Toler made it rain in the form of Nacho/Salsa manna from heaven.

Those were the nights. Days were spent unencumbering two year's worth of clothes, shoes, food, packing materials and accessories into the communal PCV pool of discarded goods. With the exception of a “cumpunga” incident of alien forces snatching Toler's goods without right, this was a joyfully rabid binge of third world fashion shows. Cowboy boots, Roma boots, elf boots, gold Toms, ballet slippers... the shoes were almost nothing compared to the glory of sun dresses, scarves, long underwear and snarky t-shirts. Rumor that Toler (delightful fashionista of the most surprising sort) had off-loaded her wardrobe spread like Ebola and enmaddened the minds of girls throughout Chisinau just as disastrously.

Little remained of Toler after that. A few choruses of “Landslide,” a few critiques of documentaries, three Beyonce video dance-alongs, and she was off on a plane back to the mystical land of socialite Dallas, Texas.

I woke up the next morning with nothing to do but hitch hike to Telenesti to play Dungeons and Dragons. I walked around the office listless. I updated some dragon stuff on Facebook, played with the air conditioner, gave a pee sample to medical—had a disturbing number of white blood cells, was proscribed Ciprol, stuck my head in rooms and, of course, checked the Loot Me pile of PCV discards. There, on a little shelf, still half full of water, was Toler's purple Nalgene. The bottle went with her everywhere, helping solidify the stereotype of Americans never leaving without water. It has a cute yellow owl sticker over the Nalgene logo.

I did not cry, though that would have been the moment for it. Instead I took the bottle. At the DnD rally I showed it. Lindsay Wing's response: “It seems to be my life goal to become Lindsay Toler, so you should leave that with me when you go.” I went to pour the water out and refresh the contents. Andy's response: “Nooooo! That is the last we HAVE of her!”

It's a 32 ounce bottle, and matches my Gir lanyard. I don't want to let it go.

Allergies

The kitten, who has been sleeping with me every night I am home, curled up on my left hand last night. I sleep in the recovery position, so this meant kitten slept directly in front of my face last night. I woke up, and she was still exactly there.

I have to look this up, but I think kitten fur is less allergenic than cat fur. It’s finer and softer. Then, when puberty hits, they get the thick dander mess that will shed and grow in its annual stages. When Kitten sleeps with me, I wake up with no more or less congestion in my facial orifices than usual. When Tweak sleeps with me, it’s a different story. The first thing I do is swallow Claritin with some leftover coffee or tea.

This stash of Claritin was given me by Iuliana, the PC doctor, last time I went to her. I’d started running (if you’ve been following) and promptly started having major breathing issues. I ran in the mornings, when it was still cool and there were no babas and children out to stop my stride. It was April, and May and the flowers were gorgeous and the pollen count was so high (had there been anyone to count it) you could see it floating through the air.

The only thing I am allergic to is an obscure medication I took for pneumonia when I was 12. Never noticeably to grass, or flowers, or trees, or fruits, or nuts, or milk. Dust maybe, sneezes follow. Boyfriends have often been allergic to things. Animals, all my boyfriends… in fact… huh.

They were all American, and Americans, I recently heard, have more allergies than any other country. Is this for real reasons? Or are American mothers getting paranoid for personal problem reasons?

America has a ton more doctors per kid than most of the world, so instance of finding allergen is higher.

Americans eat a wider variety of foods than most of the world, so instance of encountering allergens is higher.

Awareness is up, their being detrimental is down. They are easy to treat and work great as a thing to complain about at backyard whatever gatherings. Cleaniness is up, and kids rolling in mud is down. . . hm, connection?

Despite my rolling in mud as a kid though, I’m allergic to things in Moldova that I would never be allergic to in America. Cats, pollen, people. Here opens the wives tales about eating bee pollen to acclimate yourself to your new surroundings. It’s intuitive and makes sense like using plaque to clean your cuts does not, which is particularly awesome because the first I only ever heard from hippies in the states, and the second from all women in my village here. Neither has scientific weight, but both make excellent conversation nuggets at backyard whatevers. And that’s what really matters, isn’t it? Good thing my kitten is interesting.