Natalia A.

So it’s only a “real” pregnancy when your belly is huge. Right.

I technically live two metro stops away from work right now (hopefully not for long – for reasons I’d rather not get into at the moment), but since the Park Kultury station serving the brown circle line has been closed for renovation until the end of the year (!!!!!!!!!!), I prefer to take the bus these days.

Due to freak car accidents on the Garden Ring road, the bus isn’t always reliable, so I’m always absurdly grateful when it actually comes. I wasn’t feeling so grateful today, though, not after a host of angry older women, or babushkas, got on at the stop immediately after mine. They were all together in a group, and they were all furious with something. In Moscow, that’s not a rare sight.

Here I was, minding my own business, not harming anyone, listening to The Sessions, and otherwise enjoying my morning, when a representative of the Angry Older Women Group accosted me, speaking loud enough to drown out the band:

“Young woman! Why don’t you give up your seat?!”

“Um, I’m 4 months pregnant and my back hurts. I’m sorry, but I’m not giving up my seat.”

“Well! You don’t LOOK very pregnant to me!”

Getting up, I delivered a swift roundhouse kick to her face, proceeding then to…

OK, no, what I actually did I started screaming. I screamed the following, I believe:

“I’m wearing a winter coat! You want me to strip naked? Because I will! I’m so sick of you people! Mind your own business!”

The reason why I screamed this last bit has to do with the fact that I already had a bitchy encounter with a mall security guard recently. He wanted me to push a huge cart loaded with random crap away from the main doors – a cart that wasn’t even mine (he got it in his head that it was mine and then decided I was lying about it. I was hanging around inside the doors, waiting for my husband).

I said:

“It’s not even my cart, I’m not pushing it out of the way even if it was. I’m pregnant and that cart is huge.”

“You’re not noticeably pregnant!”

“Well as it happens, I have a dated note from my ULTRASOUND TECHNICIAN, WANT TO SEE IT?!”

I later told him that he better not complain when someone treats his wife or sister like he treated me. He tried arguing that he hadn’t meant to be rude. Right. At least the representative of the Angry Older Women Cabal just walked away, lips pursed.

The point of all this is – you don’t need to be visibly pregnant to experience physical challenges.

Oh, and people are dicks.

Happy wedding picture/ignoring the world sort of post

happy picture / antonova & zhiryakov — happy happy

I realize I should be writing profound posts about the situation in Egypt, or else writing profound posts about all of the crap random “observers” have said to me since Anna was killed at Domodedovo, or protesting some other form of injustice or stupidity, but I just honestly want to ignore the world for now. La la la la la, can’t hear you, world. I want to be a happy newlywed. I want to enjoy feeling the baby move. I want to harass my father over Skype about losing weight, play “Fallout: New Vegas” and count down the days until spring.

If this isn’t the time to be happy, then I honestly don’t know when that time should be. In spite of all the bullshit and bad weather. If you know me well, you know exactly what I mean. And if you don’t know me well – I think you can guess.

Today marks the lunar new year. The start of another cycle. I marked the end of the year of the tiger by going to see a good man about my problems. We talked back problems and philosophy, and about how so many of the things that appear to stand in our way are actually made out of fog – and how the fog also makes it hard to see. Neither one of us tried to be cool or witty, we just talked as the road hummed outside. I stared at the ceiling as he worked over the muscles in my back, pinpointing the place in my spine that has sustained so much damage over the years. I cried when the pain in my back began to leave a little, as if it was bored and was considering moving on.

Remembering the summer

Right now, it seems that summer is something that happens to other people. Still, I have pictures proving otherwise.

I wait for this year’s summer with the knowledge that when it comes, I’ll be set to become a parent. I guess that this may seem a little odd, all things considered, though it was last summer in particular that convinced me that being a parent is something that I want and can do. It was the Black Sea that showed me these things about myself, and the Crimean mountains, and the steppe. Moscow sealed the deal. It’s interesting how Ukraine and Russia work in my life. Ukraine gives me gifts – Russia forces me to do something with them. (America makes sure I do it well.)

I’m grateful, really. For the past and for the present. I’m grateful for the snow now, and for having the chance to walk across it, to meet people I like. I’m grateful for the afternoon phone-calls, for work, for having the chance to read and re-read Anna Yablonskaya’s plays. I’m even grateful for being sick, because then I have time to lie there and think, being unable to do anything else. And to everyone I’ve known and loved, I’m grateful too.

Life, death and pomegranate therapy

If times are not good, it may be a good time to eat a pomegranate. Not only is that thing rich in iron, when in the process of devouring it, you may begin to understand why it’s symbolic of spring. I don’t believe that there is a “proper” way to eat a pomegranate – just make sure to devote your attention to it as you’re doing it. It’s a messy fruit, which means that it demands your concentration. It has to be you and the pomegranate. It can’t be you, the pomegranate and the internet, for example. It really oughtn’t be you, the pomegranate and your problems. You can cast those aside for the time being, so that you can give the pomegranate your full attention.

It was probably meant to be eaten while naked, but if you’re like me and still trying to get over the flu and are mostly in bed, then you can eat it in your best, worst clothes. The sort of clothes you wear when you’re not even trying. Sometimes, not trying is good.

If you struggle with being good to yourself, like I sometimes do, a pomegranate may be a good place to start. It’s the colour of rubies – but way cheaper and more useful. It’s sweet but not too sweet. It inspires a dedication to gratifying yourself. It stands out against the backdrop of a Russian winter – even one as fluffy and white and crystalline as we’re having this time around in Moscow.

“Nadia, what do you live for?” – Is a question from one of my favourite plays by Anna Yablonskaya. If you ever find yourself even asking yourself that question, try getting your hards on a whole pomegranate. Cut it open slowly and eat it just as slowly, and think – I live for me.

Rest in peace, Anna

Playwright Anna Yablonskaya is among the dead at Moscow’s Domodedovo airport today. We heard it from her family.

This photo of Anna was taken by my husband a few years ago – back when he wasn’t my husband. As you can see, Anna was very beautiful. She left behind her husband – and a little girl.

One of my favourite plays by Anna is called “Семейные сцены” (“Family scenes”) – and it’s one of my favourite plays in general. It’s about a modern Ukrainian family – the husband comes home after serving as a mercenary overseas, and has zero interest in his wife. The wife is sleeping with their son’s teacher. They neighbours all have a lot to say about the situation. It’s a hilarious and heartbreaking play – I first saw it read at the Dakh theater in Kiev, Marat Gatsalov directed the reading. At the reading, I felt as though I had been transported out of my life and temporarily placed into a bullshit-free world. I was too shy to approach Anna then – I got to know her much later. It was my husband, back when he wasn’t my husband but already my lover, who formally introduced us.

I think I’m able to write everything I have written here because I’m in shock.

P.S. About a month ago, Anna wrote the following on her blog: “It seems to me that I have very little time left.” She was right. Maybe she felt something – I’m sure that a person as sensitive as Anna was capable of such a thing.