March 18

A friend's post on Facebook made me feel I don't post enough pics of my fluffies, and I need to remedy that, stat.

Feb 27

Thoroughly Modern Millie is sucking my will to live. So here's a giant cat box enclosure in development.

Jan 30

My head hurts from a combination of lots of work and these damn atmospheric pressure changes. So here's your pretty for the day.

Jan 14. Cozy.

Imprisoned in Siberia

So there is a zoo here.  I've been to it, once, about 20 years ago.  I have only horrible memories of that visit, animals in filth behind bars, smelly, lonely, cold.  For some reason I thought that things might have changed in 20 years.  Not so much.  They only got worse...

These two statues are really the best part about the zoo, and even the lions seem to be apprehensive about what lies ahead.

It's rather impossible to photograph through bars and steel cages.

I think the bears had it the worst - tiny cages in the sun, no respite from the heat save for a stream of water, shot at the poor animals by some zoo workers

He is only 4.  He doesn't have a name, like the tigers in the Bronx.  He is alone in a cage.  He is simply beautiful.  Last year, the zoo called for a drive of 800,000 roubles to buy him a bride.  Obviously, the drive was in vain.  Mind you, the zoo is a municipal institution.

The lynx did not want to be bothered.

Sunday Saffron V

Sunday Saffron IV

Sunday Saffron III

Sunday Saffron II

Sunday Saffron I

Wed Joke 2

Found on the Internets (once again, a true story) from a veterinarian telling workplace stories:

— У нас котик странно себя ведёт. (Достают трупик котика.) Он лежит на одном месте и к еде не подходит — уже три или четыре дня.
— У вас котик умер.
— Как умер?! Он не мог умереть! Он ещё молодой! Ему только семнадцать лет!
— Для кота это очень приличный возраст.
— Ну и что? Я вот слышал, что некоторые доживают до 30 лет! Сделайте ему укол! Ну сделайте ему хоть что-нибудь! Может быть, его ещё можно оживить!

- Our kitty is behaving very strangely (removing cat body from a carrier) He's been lying in one place and not eating, maybe 3 or 4 days already.

- Your cat is dead.

- What do you mean he is dead?? He could not have died! He is very young! He is only seventeen years old!

- Well, that's a very advanced age for a cat.

- So what? I've heard there are cats who live to be 30! Give him a shot! Give him something! Maybe he can be brought back to life!

Feline Angst

LK and I are owned by two bossy felines, one of which is a terror to both humans and cats, and the other usually is a very peaceful individual. I've been privy to some weird canine behaviors lately, and while the stories are amusing, I don't generally think of our cats as especially destructive. I mean, look at him, isn't he a perfect portrait of calm?


His name is Miles, by the way, and this is how he looks when he is very tired:



And this is what he does when he does not like being left alone for 18 hours (or so):


If you look closely, the napkins are not just strewn all over the floor, but they are also eaten in the corners - almost every single one is chewed up. While Miles is an expert at eating paper - just in the last two days, he took bites out of a bill for car repair, a Postal Office receipt, and an Inaugural edition of the Boston Globe - we try to keep as much paper out of his reach as possible.

Therefore it did not occur to me to hide a *closed* plastic container of napkins on a kitchen counter. Every day I thank heavens he is not a larger feline...

The universal moving day is fast approaching...

I was thinking about cats a lot today, what with the eternal mayhem going on at home (one cat keeps trying to emotionally destabilize the other, and us, her humans, in the process of doing so) and THIS is what I saw while walking home:

That's right, the logo for Yamato moving company is a vaguely Siamese mama cat carrying her kitten in her mouth. How freaking appropriate. I can only hope the movers promise to be as gentle with your crap as the cat carrying its baby.

"Relaxation Audio Music That Will Help You Connect Faster With The Universe While Doing The Shamanic Ritual"

I already got this out of my system today while talking with LK, and then I got pissed off again.

I like my job. It’s the first job I’ve had since grad school where I am appreciated, and I can actually use my expertise without other people questioning it. I’ve been working in my field for 13 years. I have a Master of Fine Arts terminal degree that proves that I can build and paint and budget and supervise and move and shake and destroy theatrical scenery like nobody’s business. I can build machinery and upholster furniture. I can teach students and program light-boards. I can lift 60 lbs on a regular basis (which happens to be in my job description, and sucks, btw.) I can even mop floors for dancers, move pianos, and change lamps in work lights!!!! (yeah, three guesses as to what I did at work today…) But according to the 2007 Boston State Payroll tables, as published by the Boston Herald (does anyone read that piece of crap anyway?), I make quite a bit less than an Administrative Assistant at the Mayor’s Office. Now, I understand that working for the City and the State is lucrative. And it probably takes a lot of acumen to keep up with the Mayor’s appointments (that’s why he has 3 Admins.) And any idiot could move a piano. But a fucking secretary makes more money than I do after 5 years teaching at university level?

A lot of people who have “real jobs” – i.e. not in the arts or education – always make the assumption that we work in theatre “for the love of it.” Yeah, we might love it. We might also all be masochists, because 70-hour work weeks, never seeing your loved ones, doing menial labour, never seeing the sun, and zero public recognition are only SOMETIMES worth it. And call me crazy, but love alone does not pay rent or school loans. Especially not in Boston.

To alleviate some of this rage, I spent a long time hanging out with Miles – here he is in all his glory:

Of course, what makes me especially peeved about money and fairness of compensation is the fact that I have recently started a process of becoming a legal resident alien. Within this process, processing priority is given to people with higher degrees of education. Since the USCIS works with the speed of a melting glacier, the higher degree you claim, the better your chances are. Unless you can’t use your degree because your employer can’t afford to pay you the rates the Department of Labour thinks are commensurate with that MFA, thereby rendering it useless. Did y’all follow that? Good.

And now, for something completely different, and inspired by TMB. I was looking for an e-mail that mistakenly got dumped into my SPAM folder, and my eye caught this gem:

Ani, you using shaman's rituals in your life yet?

Intrigued, I opened the message, hoping to learn secrets like never before – after all, it’s not every day that one receives offers of spiritual guidance through SPAM. My mother would be so proud! As would LK’s mom, too. This is what I found:

Hey Ani -

I just got off the phone with Robert (umm, who the fuck is Robert? Am I supposed to know him? - Ani) and he was telling me about his new book about getting what (and who) you want with the power of Shamanism

Yes, I said Shamanism.

http://dyvufyfu.licgru.info/csha/WqPBET9oiYfTqptt

The helpful, spiritual sort of thing that can put you back in peace and harmony with the universe and make your
wises and desires come to life...(I am not sure I want my wises to come to life, but ok…)

http://dyvufyfu.licgru.info/csha/WqPBET9oiYfTqptt

Anyway, he told me about the amount of copies he was selling on a daily basis (So what makes Robert an expert on shamans?) and (after my jaw absolutely dropped) I was convinced we are in the middle of a 'spiritual revolution'

http://dyvufyfu.licgru.info/csha/WqPBET9oiYfTqptt

He doesn’t know how long he can offer this book, so I wanted to make sure you had your chance to read it
before it’s gone, Ani. I am SURE you will love it :-) (OMG, the smiley face did it! I MUST buy this book!)

http://dyvufyfu.licgru.info/csha/WqPBET9oiYfTqptt

Blessed Be
With the Powers of Shamansim,

Bob Andrews
Currently near Ciaro, Egypt (Is that a new settlement? Oh, that’s right, you can’t spell!)

Of course, I was curious, and clicked on the hyperlinks. This is where they all lead:

Exclusive Information For The Next 365 248 Visitors... (I clicked a couple of times, and the counter never changed…)

"You're About To Discover Secrets That Most People Will Never Know About MAGICK..."

Inside you'll uncover how to...

Have a magnetic charisma to make all people love you (even the ones that hate you right now)
Get as much money as you want for your personal needs. (You won't have to save money again).
Become one of the most beautiful people in your community. (Dieting, exercising or even liposuction won't produce such powerful results!)
Conquer fear and feel unstoppable energy to do anything you want to do. (You will never feel drowsy or depressed again.)
Win friends and influence people. (Your popularity levels will skyrocket)
And this literally only the skim on the surface... After you'll discover the 100 Shamanic rituals that are the most powerful form of Magick ever created, your heart will triple its beat rate! But more on that in a few seconds...

And then you had to sign your life away, yada yada yada, visa card, $37.00 for a discount from $399.00! whatevs. Oh, and you get "Relaxation Audio Music That Will Help You Connect Faster With The Universe While Doing The Shamanic Ritual" Now, I have nothing against shamans, although I seriously doubt they have allowed some douchebag write abour 100 rituals. Also, they need to be specific about the shamans themselves – Native American? Aleut? Yakut? Chukcha? Mongol? ‘Cos they all believe in different spirits and procedures, and the spirits might get pissed at us for using them for our own gain. And MAGICK? Really, Bob Andrews, really? I think I will buy a $2 volume of Dale Carnegie, since you seem to be using his copy.

And this is the last time I read SPAM. Well, for now, anyway.

DEATH V

On May 9, 2003, I got a horrible phone call. My only uncle, my mom’s brother Valera, had passed away. There were three circumstances that made this waaaaaay more painful than any of the previous deaths. The first was the fact that he was 45. The second was that he died in his mother’s arms from acute alcohol poisoning that basically stopped his heart. The third was that there was no way I could fly there for the funeral, not in time, not that summer, all because my employer did not file my visa renewal in time. I was stuck in Boston with my grief, and a complete inability to do something about it. Moreover, I was so fucking angry at my uncle. Angry for being selfish, for going out drinking with his friends before the holiday (V-E Day, a huge holiday in Russia), for knowing what alcohol can do to him (the man was a fucking doctor, ok? A radiologist!), for not calling the ambulance fast enough. Angry for the ambulance for dilly-dallying, for making him get dressed before they tried to take him away, for treating him just like another alcoholic, instead of a man with a medical degree who self-diagnosed. Angry for the broken-down social systems in Russia that turn a talented doctor into a depressive alcoholic because his salary is not enough to live on apart from his mother, because every day he doled out 4^th Stage lung cancer diagnoses to teenage girls and working men in a dark office with ancient equipment and complete inability to help his patients, because life is just too fucking depressing and needs to be escaped. So he did. In a major way.

In Russia we bury our dead in their physical bodies. Cremation is against the tenets of the Orthodox Church. It is believed that when the day of Judgment comes, the dead will walk among the living, and they need their bodies for that. The soul also is believed to not leave the body until the 9^th day after the passing, so you kinda need the body for that as well. On the 9^th day it is good to go to the cemetery and talk to the decedent, giving them a shot of vodka covered in a slice of black bread. This usually gets drunk and eaten by the bums who hang out at cemeteries after you leave. On the 40^th day, the soul leaves this world, having corrected all its earthly sins and mistakes. It is also necessary to go the cemetery then. So this very natural system for grieving is built in, a gradual way to let go of your loved one, a way of communication that is both consoling and reassuring. My grandmother went to the cemetery every week that year, rain or snow. It helped her to not lose her mind completely. Helped my mom too. They buried Valera next to his father. Most cemetery plots have little tables and benches installed, if you wish. It’s oddly comforting to visit their graves with my mom and grandmother, and have a meal with them, telling them about the events of last week/month/year. I just wish I could do it more often, because not being able to tell the dead you love them is a terrible burden.

However, I can tell Jasmine I love her almost all the time. In June 2005 my pretty blue-eyed Tonkinese seal-point princess Jasmine, aged 11, was lying on the cool tile in front of the fireplace, and panting like a fish out of the water. She was diagnosed with a malignant lymphoma in August 2004. One day I was scratching her throat, and felt a lump. In a few days it was the size of a golf ball. My original idiotic vet put her on antibiotics, which only spurred the cancer. Once in oncology, they excised the growth and put her on chemo. The chemo made her so sick, she stopped eating and sleeping. By Christmas she was in complete remission, but literally starving to death. LK and I spoonfed her every four hours. I was exhausted and scared. I’ve had her longer than any other cat ever. She was my friend and my baby. She had the most intense blue eyes, and the most annoying, endearing meow. She did this thing, where when you were sad (and I’ve been sad a lot!) she would lie on the pillow next to your head and pet your face with her paw. She would literally stroke your cheek or forehead, as if to say “it will be ok, you can stop crying now” which of course made me cry even more sometimes. When LK came to my apartment for the first time years ago, Jasmine sat on her chest, stared in her eyes, and said “you are ok, you can stay.” So when at Christmas we knew she was suffering so much we had to put her down, we still couldn’t do it. It would’ve been akin to euthanizing a fucking person.

On the morning of January 6, 2004 (which happens to be Orthodox Christmas) Jasmine walked up to her food bowl and ate solid food. She continued to eat and gain strength and generally behave normally all through the spring, testing in remission, until we found another lump on her throat in May. By early June she couldn’t breathe. The look in her eyes as she laid on that cool tile said “I’ve done all I can, please help me now.” LK cradled her while our friend drove to the hospital. We kissed her, and held her paws while she was given her injection. When she was still, she was the smallest, most precious lump of fur I have ever seen. She was warm and supple as her life was no longer there. They took her away, and I got on the plane to Russia the next day, leaving LK to receive the cremains. We still haven’t decided where to scatter her. It’s as if while she is still here, in a pretty red box, she is with us. The Russians have a point. You need physical reminders of the dead, because once you stop thinking about the dead, they stop existing.

DEATH III

Sometime in 1986 - Baba Dunya – my maternal Great-grandmother. She’s been bedridden for many years, had strokes and was paralyzed on one side. I disliked visiting her, disliked the smell of medication, the constant gloom in her room, inability to carry on a civil conversation. I think everyone was a bit relived when she passed, it made my grandmother’s apartment less cramped. There was always a wedding photograph of Baba Dunya and Ded Mitya above her bed, where they were twenty and painfully beautiful. I want to remember them that way. When they took her outside for the drive to the cemetery, my grandmother was beside herself with grief, screaming and throwing herself at the coffin. I got to watch her do that twice more later in life. I don’t know if watching her did something to me, but I’ve never cried at a funeral. We all grieve in different ways, and mine does not involve public tears.

Two other things I learned from this death – the traditional Russian dish of kutya (sticky rice or wheat pudding with raisins and honey) you taste at funerals to pay respect for the dead tastes like shit; and kissing goodbye to a dead body that is not embalmed and has been displayed around the apartment for two days is gross. I can’t eat rice pudding in any incarnation anymore.

Winter 1987 – my cat Phil’ka – this is rather silly. Probs in winter of 1985 my dad brought home a tiny squealing ball of Siamese goodness. We previously had this magnificent Siamese cat Nestor, who was a rescue from the ruins of a demolished apartment building nearby, but somebody stole Nestor after about 2 years, and I was distressed. So when a colleague of dad’s had kittens, he brought a little guy home. He fit in the palm of my dad’s hand. My dad is crazy about cats, btw. So we named this one Philimon, for some other emperor, as the Siamese are so freaking majestic. Unlike Nestor, who was a smart angel, Philimon turned out to be a dumb brat who scratched everyone, and marked. Because he was so little when we got him, he was handfed, and he insisted on being handfed when he got older. My grandmother would cut up fish into tiny bite-sized pieces, and Phil’ka would sit on her lap and eat one piece at a time from her hand. He refused to eat anything else, or in any other way. And since nobody fixed kitties at that time, Phil’ka got in the habit of going outside to court some ladies. Until he never came home. Until some time after his disappearance I went outside to play in the snowbanks in the yard, and found his little body. Frozen, in the snow, cut clean in half on midsection by a snowshovel. I’d like to believe he was already dead by the time he got dismembered, but I will never know for sure. I got hysterical and made my dad go out, collect the cat into a garbage bag, and dispose of him.

August 7, 1987 – Anatoly Papanov and August 16, 1987 - Andrei Mironov – two very famous Russian actors, who were in multiple iconic comedies together. We tend to idolize the dead, so it’s even harder when people who are already idolized pass away suddenly with a heart attack on stage at age 41. It was a very cold summer, and Papanov’s last film “Cold Summer of 1953” had just come out, so ever since I associate cold summer weather with loss. It was also the last quiet summer before my hormones turned me into a short-tempered raging bitch until 1992 or so.

August 15, 1990 - Viktor Tsoy – this was a hard one. I was really into rock by then, and Kino was king. I would buy records when I could, they have become plentiful and affordable. Kino was music for young people sang by young people in Russian – together with Nautilus Pompilius they were very much Gen X (before there WAS Gen X). Sure, there were other Russian rock bands then, but they were all closer to my parents in age. Kino was OUR generation. Plus Tsoy was exotic and hot. They criticized the politics, but also sang of young love and angst. And that August Viktor Tsoy went on a fishing trip in Latvia, possibly fell asleep in his car, and collided head-on with a bus. I wasn’t a hard-core fan who would travel to his grave or anything, but for me this was the equivalent of John Lennon dying.

May 1991 – Yanka Dyagileva – what is it with musicians taking their own lives? She was a local rock chick from Novosibirsk, a rarity in Russia – most famous musicians then were from Leningrad. She recorded ten or so albums of acoustic angst-y rock, similar to early Ani DiFranco, very unusual and cool – women were absent on that scene until Zemfira came along, really. Then fell/jumped into a river after a long bout with depression. It’s extremely disheartening to learn to love a musician only to have them die right away.

Sometime in 1992 - Car Accident in high school. A guy from my grade whom I knew since we were 5 and his younger sister (who used to bully me relentlessly) were riding with three others from a wedding. I did not know the driver. Russian car from the 80s, seatbelts not mandatory. Wrapped around a telephone pole. Guy’s sister went through the windshield from the middle of the back seat. Driver and shotgun-riding passenger joined her. Instant death, broken necks. My classmate and his friend got lucky, the seats saved them. Later in the summer, my classmate crashed his motorcycle. Imagine being their single mother – two children dead in once summer.

1994 - Kurt Cobain – not even going to blog about this. Everyone should remember where they were.

In the fall of 1996 I entered the semester of my college career of which I have very little recollection. This was because JW (my roommate at the time) and I would get stoned on Wednesday night, stay stoned for the next four days, add some alcohol to the mix on Fri and Sat, sleep most of Sunday, and repeat the cycle the following week. Part of it was because we could. Part was self-medication. We had this joke between us, that if the phone rings at 8 am on the weekend, it’s because somebody is dead. I think the first person to die was her high-school friends’ mom, who she was very close with. Or maybe it was the friends’ gay dad. Or maybe both. Things were a bit fuzzy. Then it was my friend K’s mom. Then it was JWs grandmother. Then it was my American sister M’s dad. Then it was JWs girlfriend’s grandma, I think. Sometime around this lk’s grandmother died too. Big mess, in other words. Granted, most of these people were older. But we weren’t even 21 yet. That’s a lot of fucking funerals. We HAD to joke about it, because we thought we’d go crazy otherwise. However, the one funeral in my life that I would give anything to have gone to wasn’t meant to be that way.