CurlyDarling
04-16-2010, 02:25 PM
Recently, my New Zealander Boyfriend angrily forbade me from calling him any more when I am drunk. For him, this is a Big Relationship Issue.
It appears that I tend to the "histrionic" (my word, not his) when I am in that delicate condition. It sounds like an easy enough prohibition to obey, except for one small thing: I'm drunk too often in Moscow.
In fact, every expat I know is drunk too often in Moscow. I've known people who have actually forced themselves to repatriate home because they felt their livers wouldn't continue functioning much longer if they stayed here.
I tend to the histrionic sober too, so after this "Don't ever call me when you're drunk" fight, my friend Ellie had to come over and calm me down.
"He just doesn't understand our lives here," she said, as I downed a gin & tonic at two in the afternoon. "He's visited, but he has no idea what it's really like for us."
I nodded. "Want some gin?"
I asked her.
My mate Frank agreed with Ellie when I saw him later that night. "It's how we cope with Moscow, don't worry about it. Simply don't call him anymore after you've had a few. Use your judgement. More gin?"
As all of us in Russia know, using your judgement is easier said than done.
Far from home and in this crazy city, once you're actually drunk, making stupid phone calls always seems like a good idea. As does posting regrettable rants or comments on Facebook and sending maudlin text messages and/or e-mails.
Obviously, using my judgement had no possible chance of success.
The first thing I tried was taping signs that screamed in red capital letters: "DON'T CALL MIKE" near every communication device. Yeah, well, that didn't work.
The next thing I tried was to hide all my phones and my BlackBerry in some complex place before I went out for the evening. Like, in the oven or in my first aid kit. That clever little scheme failed as well.
At my wits' end, I stopped putting money on my Russkie mobile, grabbed my scissors and, laughing evilly like some deranged psychotic, cut all my land lines.
"That should do it!" I muttered to myself in satisfaction as I surveyed the results of my phone castration before heading out to dinner near Mayakovskaya.
After dinner, some clubbing seemed like a good idea and a group of us met some other friends at We Are Family. Shots were consumed. Introductions were made. Shots were consumed. Italians were flirted with. Shots were consumed. We met some cool Russians. Shots were consumed. We talked about our love lives. Shots were consumed. We danced. Shots were consumed...
I'm a resourceful drunk at 5 in the morning. Most expats are. You have to be to survive in Moscow because things can go terribly awry in the middle of the night here. But I'm actually so resourceful that I am apparently capable of splicing little phone thingies back onto cord thingamajigs while five sheets to the wind.
With my phone lines cobbled back together, it was as easy as 810 65 to make that verboten call. Which I of course immediately proceeded to do.
Waking up the next morning, I was atremble with terror at the prospect of the predictable fight with NZB over the fact that I had called him the night before. I knew I had to think fast.
Obviously, nothing on Earth was going to prevent me from making these drunken phone calls. I'd tried everything I could think of - I was plum out of ideas. It was time to consider options somewhat outside the box.
"I could stop drinking," I suggested aloud to myself.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" came the hysterically amused response.
The Skype video rang. NZB!
Thinking at the speed of light, I answered it. "How dare you?"
I screeched in obvious fury. "How dare you pick up your phone when I'm drunk!"
And that, my friends, is how we do it in Russia.
xxoo,
DD
Deidre Dare
Moscow News
It appears that I tend to the "histrionic" (my word, not his) when I am in that delicate condition. It sounds like an easy enough prohibition to obey, except for one small thing: I'm drunk too often in Moscow.
In fact, every expat I know is drunk too often in Moscow. I've known people who have actually forced themselves to repatriate home because they felt their livers wouldn't continue functioning much longer if they stayed here.
I tend to the histrionic sober too, so after this "Don't ever call me when you're drunk" fight, my friend Ellie had to come over and calm me down.
"He just doesn't understand our lives here," she said, as I downed a gin & tonic at two in the afternoon. "He's visited, but he has no idea what it's really like for us."
I nodded. "Want some gin?"
I asked her.
My mate Frank agreed with Ellie when I saw him later that night. "It's how we cope with Moscow, don't worry about it. Simply don't call him anymore after you've had a few. Use your judgement. More gin?"
As all of us in Russia know, using your judgement is easier said than done.
Far from home and in this crazy city, once you're actually drunk, making stupid phone calls always seems like a good idea. As does posting regrettable rants or comments on Facebook and sending maudlin text messages and/or e-mails.
Obviously, using my judgement had no possible chance of success.
The first thing I tried was taping signs that screamed in red capital letters: "DON'T CALL MIKE" near every communication device. Yeah, well, that didn't work.
The next thing I tried was to hide all my phones and my BlackBerry in some complex place before I went out for the evening. Like, in the oven or in my first aid kit. That clever little scheme failed as well.
At my wits' end, I stopped putting money on my Russkie mobile, grabbed my scissors and, laughing evilly like some deranged psychotic, cut all my land lines.
"That should do it!" I muttered to myself in satisfaction as I surveyed the results of my phone castration before heading out to dinner near Mayakovskaya.
After dinner, some clubbing seemed like a good idea and a group of us met some other friends at We Are Family. Shots were consumed. Introductions were made. Shots were consumed. Italians were flirted with. Shots were consumed. We met some cool Russians. Shots were consumed. We talked about our love lives. Shots were consumed. We danced. Shots were consumed...
I'm a resourceful drunk at 5 in the morning. Most expats are. You have to be to survive in Moscow because things can go terribly awry in the middle of the night here. But I'm actually so resourceful that I am apparently capable of splicing little phone thingies back onto cord thingamajigs while five sheets to the wind.
With my phone lines cobbled back together, it was as easy as 810 65 to make that verboten call. Which I of course immediately proceeded to do.
Waking up the next morning, I was atremble with terror at the prospect of the predictable fight with NZB over the fact that I had called him the night before. I knew I had to think fast.
Obviously, nothing on Earth was going to prevent me from making these drunken phone calls. I'd tried everything I could think of - I was plum out of ideas. It was time to consider options somewhat outside the box.
"I could stop drinking," I suggested aloud to myself.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" came the hysterically amused response.
The Skype video rang. NZB!
Thinking at the speed of light, I answered it. "How dare you?"
I screeched in obvious fury. "How dare you pick up your phone when I'm drunk!"
And that, my friends, is how we do it in Russia.
xxoo,
DD
Deidre Dare
Moscow News