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She may be a bit plain, but damn can she boil a cabbage!

Loath as I am to fall into the blogging trap of moaning and complaining about everything, I am so tired today that I can barely think.  I made the mistake of sleeping in and taking a nap yesterday and it blew my sleep schedule right out of the water like the last red peg at the end of my aircraft carrier.  I think I might have cobbled together a solid fifteen minutes of REM before I rolled out of bed this morning.

The day passed in a blur.  At some point I think that I helped teach… something… to… some kids…  I can’t really place it right now, but I have the Collected Poems of Kim Jong Il in my backpack now, and I don’t know where it came from.

I don’t remember my drive home at all.  When I pulled into the driveway, I noticed that car was covered in mud and the remains of some animal were still twitching on the front grill, but that thing could have climbed on my car and exploded while the Corolla was parked at school for all I know.  Some animals just do that sort of thing.  Animals like the Eastern Explosive Marmot (Marmota Powpowica), for example.

My key didn’t work, so I jimmied open my back window and clambered into the living room.  I could have sworn that it was on the other side of the house yesterday, but my wife and I have been moving the furniture around a bit, so that may just be my imagination.  And I don’t remember putting cabbage soup on to boil before I left for work, but it’s very possible that I did, since nothing smells better than coming home to house that reeks of farts.

Some woman that I assume was my wife came at me as soon as I had picked myself up off the kitchen floor and shut the jimmied window.  She kept yelling at me about something, but in my state of extreme sleep deprivation it was just a lot of noise that sounded like:

“Кто вы? Выйдите моей дома!”

“Don’t get your babushka in a knot,” I snapped at her, wondering why she was wearing a babushka and why she was brandishing a rolling pin like a weapon.  “I just need to go have a shower.  I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Выйдите, вы идиот!” she yelled at me as I slowly climbed the stairs.

(That’s my wife for you; always yelling in Cyrillic.)

I think I fell asleep in the shower, because I woke up on the floor tangled in the shower curtain and covered in soapsuds.  I got up, towelled off the scum, saluted the picture of Stalin that I don’t remember installing over the toilet, and went downstairs to have a nice relaxing dinner of boiled cabbage.

I won’t lie to you: conversation with my wife that night was tense.  She kept saying, “Остановите съесть мою капусту, ишака,” and I kept telling her that she needed to learn how to communicate better, since all I heard was “blaski, blaski, blaski.”  I finally got fed up and stormed downstairs to go write on the computer.

I don’t like to complain about my wife, but it’s like I don’t even know her anymore.

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