The youngest Russian child, Pasha, is looking overwhelmed so I tell her to come sit on my lap. Her disheveled hair is giving my disheveled hair a run for it’s money. We are both in pajamas and look like the princess-zombies of the apocalypse. Since we need someone to push our blue craptastic chariot – that someone being Karina – that leaves the older Russian child, Dimitri,who is a mere six years old, left to push the shopping cart.

This shopping outing was to buy enough groceries to fill my new house, which until this point consisted of martini olives in the fridge, so you can imagine, we had a long way to go. As our zombie-princess-wheelchair-voluptuous Russian-child-labor entourage weaved up and down each isle collecting the essentials of bread, frozen skillets, frozen pizzas, frozen waffles, bananas, coffee and ant killer the cart became heavier and heavier.

Poor Dimitri, who can’t even see over the top of the cart, had to put all of his weight into each turn and kept running into the back of Karina with the cart. I’m sure it had to have hurt like hell, but Karina stayed surprisingly calm, even after the fourth time of having her ankles rammed.

An hour later, our train made it’s way to the longest checkout line in history. Pasha kept climbing on and off of her princess perch. Dimitri kept bringing candy and toys from the check out isles that he “really needed” over to us. Karina and I couldn’t be bothered by his need to have M&M’s and new ear phones because we were too busy looking through an entire issue of Vogue magazine – the line was that long.

I paint this picture for you for two reasons. The first so that you can see how the mighty have fallen. From fancy cocktail parties and free concerts to being wheeled through a Walmart where a man in a stained wifebeater, dirty cut off shorts and a trucker hat was actually judging me. The second being that if you happen to come across my picture on The People of Walmart website, will you please let me know?

That’s one claim to fame I do not want to miss.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

I am sure to some I might seem rather carefree, or possibly like an alcoholic. 

The truth is, lately, underneath it all, I’ve been a bit of a wreck. The only thing that has kept me sane is my support system. The strongest of which is Karina the Russian.

When I made the decision to publicly change my Facebook status to “Single” after my recent break up, I imidately got flooded with the obligatory ”I’m sorry” and “What happened???” remarks. I don’t doubt that those comments were well intentioned, but they were also overwhelming. As soon as Karina saw the direction the comments were headed she immediately changed her status and mine to say that we are “Married”. She then wrote on my wall saying, “We are facebook married!!!! Deal with it!”

Instantly the mood went from pitty to laughter.

When I decided to throw myself a birthday party the same weekend I had a five page essay and finals to prepare for, Karina showed up at my door the morning of and helped me whip my disaster of a place into backyard BBQ party central.

(Pictures are HERE)

When I had school and work both consuming all of my free time and hadn’t packed a single item for my trip to New York, who showed up the night of to make sure I packed enough shoes, an extra pair of pajamas (Cat you can thank her later for that one!) and drive my ass to the airport? Karina, of course.*

When I got back from New York, all busted up and barely able to hobble my sorry ass to the restroom, Karina was there. She came over, helped me unpack all of my luggage*, washed three loads of laundry and spent the night. In the morning she made me breakfast, helped me get in and out of the bathtub without injuring myself, put my laundry away and cleaned my kitchen.

People pay for this shit and I get it for free!

Well, sometimes she does make me spoon her… and I do have to love her Russian children like they are my own… and sometimes she beats me, but only when I deserve it…

Seriously people, I feel super-duper lucky.  

I mean, sure I have a broken foot and the doctors are telling me I will be on crutches for the next six weeks, and, yes, I am planning on moving in two weeks and don’t have a thing packed…

But I’m not stressed (I totally am), because besides my amazing family and friends, I have a Russian wife with an amazingly strong back who are all here to help (hint, hint).

Blogfully yours,

Summer

*I would be a total bitch if I didn’t make mention of a few more people who totally have gone above and beyond to help me, although they did not Facebook marry me so honestly, they may not deserve to be mentioned after all.

- Staci, thank you for helping pack/unpack/take me to the hospital/love me like a sister.

- Susan & Cat, thank you for taking care of me while I was in New York. What the eff would I have done without you guys???

I’m proud to say that as we are growing older together our ability to celebrate has not aged a day.

The first day of the festivities started out by crashing a rooftop BBQ.

The view from the top.

Waiting in line to give Karina her birthday spankings.

We took a lot of ridiculous pictures!

And in the end, Karina was a happy birthday girl.

For the second night of the celebration, Karina requested that we have another night of no plans where we just let the night lead us where it will.

We started on classy foot by going to a fancy-shmancy-food-to-die-for-tapas-bar called Martines.

Look how well behaved we look.

After tiring of using our indoor voices and polishing off an amazing bottle of wine, we headed to our next stop.

AHH SUSHI!

Saki bombs.

Sushi.

Sisterly fight.

And we were off to our next stop.

The Beerhive. Why we are drinking Dirty Martinis at a beer establishment, I am not entirely sure.

Next on the pathless pathway?

Murphy's!

Irish Car Bombs.

Killian’s Irish Red.

Underground (Locally made Jager like shot).

Meeting up with two more friends.

FOOD!

By this point in the night greasy, sobering food was in order. We found a place still open, ordered fried pickles, cheese fries, omelets, grits, the kitchen sink and extra large jars of water.

There really are no “good” pictures from breakfast.. there are however a lot of embarrassing ones (which I will spare my mother from rolling here eyes into the back of her head by not posting).

After gorging ourselves on food, Karina, Staci and I all headed over to ED’s house. Actually, ED was our amazing driver and proper credit is due for his amazing role in taking care of us the entire night AND letting us talk about sparkles… a lot.

When we got to ED’s house we decided we were not yet sleepy so we all put on a pair of his shoes and went for a walk.

Trekking through a field in the dark wearing pajamas and huge shoes = unexplained bruises the next morning.

Also, hysterical laughter which could warrant disturbing the peace.

Again, there are pictures.

Lots and lots of pictures which will never see the light of day.

(Ahem. Girls I am talking to you! If I see the Jane Fonda or M-M-MUR-RAY Go Murray! pictures show up, well, let’s just say I know where you live!)

The next morning three slightly dehydrated women confiscated ED’s bathroom and got showered, dressed and ready for the day in under an hour (I expect the world record book to be calling any minute now) and headed to our final stop, brunch in the mountains.

Karina’s birthday was a drunken whirlwind adventure to be sure and though I wasn’t in town to celebrate the following two nights (Karina’s birthday, on average, lasts five days long), it will go down on record as a another night not to tell the children about.

Happy Birthday Karina! Thank you for all that you do and all that you are. FREAKING LOVE YOU!

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – Karina decided that ED and I needed to kiss at every stop. If you are not a fan of sappiness, don’t scroll down.

Sushi and Saki kiss

Irish Kiss

Breakfast kiss

PPS – a few more pictures can be seen on my Flickr account HERE.

Why? Because it’s baseball.

When I took Karina the Russian to her first baseball game, “why” questions were in abundance. And by first baseball game, I mean, like EVER.

In our typical fashion, the adventure began with the journey. We decided to take the train, A.K.A. TRAX, to avoid having to deal with parking.

I guess we must not have been paying close enough attention to our stop because when we heard the robotic woman’s voice say “Ballpark,” we exited the train.

THREE MILES TOO EARLY!

But of course we didn’t think to wait and get on another train, no, we decide to walk in our heels the rest of the way.

Honestly, I have a new found respect for hookers.

When we finally showed up at the ballpark, sweaty and with bloody feet, we had no problem finding our way to my companies catered suite. After grabbing some much needed beverages we found our seats and settled in to watch the game.

“Why are there so many gray people out there and no white guys?”

“That’s because the gray team is playing defense. They white guys, our team, is up to bat.”

“Why are some of the guys so far out there? Do they not like them?”

“They play a position called outfield, if a ball gets hit far it’s their job to catch the ball.”

“Why isn’t that guy hitting the ball? SWING THE WOOD THING LAZY ASS!”

“You only swing on the good throws, the rest are called ‘balls’ and you don’t try to hit those.”

“Balls. Base-ball. Basket-ball. These men are all about their balls! And why is there a big 420 painted on the fence over there? Is this a stoner game?”

“No, that’s the length of the field. I guess every field is different or something.”

“Hmm… why is that guy dressed in black bent over like that? He looks like he needs to take a dump.”

“That’s an umpire, he helps judge the game.”

“How do you know so much about this confusing-ass game? You don’t even like sports! You are wearing heels for god’s sake!”

That one stumped me for a minute to be honest. I think baseball is forced on us from childhood. I remember in P.E. having to play baseball and being taught all the rules. I wasn’t any good and I didn’t particularly like it, but I developed a level of respect for it.  I remember my parents once taking me to a semi-professional game where I asked my dad a million of questions just like Karina asked me.

Well… maybe not just like she was asking me. I’m pretty sure I never asked my dad if baseball was a game for stoners.

After the game ended, we were able to sweet talk my co-workers brother to driving us to our cars. Thank goodness too, because by this point in the night it was all dark and not hitchhiker friendly, plus there was no way in hell either of us could have walked the come to find out, HALF block to the correct train stop.

Yes, baseball…

It can be so painful.

And confusing.

But only if you are Russian.

Or possibly a stoner.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – you would have died to see the priceless look on Karina’s face when we all stood up to sing “Take me out to the ballpark.”

Interview # 1
Pasha the Russian
Age 3

Me:  Pasha, do you have a boyfriend in your class?

PTR:  Yesss….. Bengellie!

Me:  Is he pretty?

PTR:  NO! He’s awesome.

Me:  OK, so what does Bengellie like?

PTR:  Jelly Beans.

Me:  I see, and what else does he like?

PTR:  Fishes.

Me:  Anything else?

PTR:  Chicken nuggets.

Me:  So what does he look like?

PTR:  A gingerbread man.

Me:  Hmm… so has Mr. Gingerbread Man Bengellie ever given you a… hug?

PTR:  very shy nod of the head with a huge smile

Me:  Well what does he want to be when he grows up?

PTR:  A dog.

Me:  Oh honey, that’s just a given.

Interview #2
Dimitri the Russian
Age 7

Please note: the majority of this interview was done while Dimitri was laying on his back, legs and butt in the air, attempting some sort of little boy contortionist act.

Me:  Dima, do you have a crush on anyone?

DTR:  NO!

Me:  What about in your whole school?

DTR:  NO!

Me:  What about Olivia?

DTR:   NOOOOO!

Me:  What’s wrong with Olivia?

DTR: She has freckles.

Me:  You don’t like freckles?

DTR:  N.O.

Me:  What color of hair do you like?

DTR:  I like… blond… and brown hair.

Me:  So you don’t discriminate? I suppose that’s good. What about Olivia, what does she look like?

DTR:  I don’t re-member! I only re-member when I am at school, NOT when I am home!
***

Moral of the story?

Little girls fall in love waaaay too early and often with the first dog who offers them Jelly Beans. Meanwhile, boys grow up not knowing their heads from their asses.

I kid! I kid!

Mostly.

However, the cuteness of their responses was just something I had to share.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Spring?

Nope.

IT’S CONCERT SEASON! Even better than spring!

To kick off concert season I got a pair of VIP tickets for Karina the Russian and I to see Train perform at an outdoor concert. I spent the morning listening to all their CD’s in preparation.

Karina and I decided to take public transportation down so we wouldn’t have to deal with parking. When TRAX rolled to our stop downtown we unloaded and immediately sensed there was a problem.

There was no music playing.

Which is odd because the train drops you off pretty much right infront of the venue. Still we walked over to check it out.

There were no people.

So we looked at each other, sat down on a bench and pulled out the tickets. I looked over at her confused.

Me: “It says Gallivan Center… on the 22nd… I don’t understand.”

KTR: “That’s because today is the 24th, honey, not the 22nd.”

Notice the lack of people behind us? Yeah, that's a problem.

After laghing non-stop for a good ten minutes at just how freaking blonde we both are, we decided to get a drink and figure out what to do next.

We went to a little bar on Main Street called Murphy’s. After thumbing through the local entertainment magazine to try to find something to do, it became apparent that there was nothing going on.

So we sat at the bar, still laughing at our predicament, then Karina looked up and noticed a bunch of figurines that looked Irish. ”Do you think this is an Irish bar?”

I looked to the left at a menu and sure enough, green clovers… on a menu… at a bar called Murphys. “Yes honey, I am pretty sure we are at an Irish bar.”

You can tell it's an Irish bar by the jukebox in the back playing Shaggy's "It wasn't me"

This is when our brilliant “Plan B” began to take form. We were going to have no plan what-so-ever. Just go from bar to bar. BUT each bar should represent a different country.

We are soooo brilliant after two drinks!

Our next stop was a little place called The Beer Hive. When we got there we decided to add two new components to our journey. 1) order whatever the specialty drink is and 2) talk with an accent. An English accent.

Fancy a beer, love?

We were honestly convinced that The Beer Hive was a German bar because the menu had all German food on it. However, when we asked the waitress if you had to be German to work there she informed us just how wrong we were.

Bloody hell!

Our next stop was a quick one to a place called Speak Easy. After sampling the bar tenders special, A blushing Vagina, we figured it wasn’t culturally diverse enough for us and moved on…

TO JAPAN!!!

Oh Sushi! was the perfect stop as we were in desperate need of some sustinance grub by this point.

After leaving Japan, we had a moment of hesitation as to whether the night should end or continue on. Of course, the answer was to continue on!

Next stop?

America?

Well… we were British after all, so a bar called Cheers to You would be foriegn, right?

We stayed long enough to have their special, a Rootbeer Mind Eraser chased by two large glasses of water, and were on our way to our last stop.

Itally.

Unfortunately we didn’t remember to take a picture while at Kristauffs Martini bar.

Bollocks!

In fact, we didn’t remember to order their specialy drink either. We just ordered water and headed back to where we started.

On a train, giggling the whole way home.

Sometimes the best nights are the nights you don’t plan and who says there is nothing fun to do in Salt Lake City anyway? All you need is an imagination, and a friend willing to experience the journey with you.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Karina was driving in the car with her young son Dima. They were listening to one of their favorite songs, singing along to the radio. As the song ended the DJ came on the air and said, “That was Gives You Hell by The All American Rejects.”

A few moments passed. Then Dima quizzically asked his mother, “Can only Americans be rejects? Are there Russian rejects too?”

Poor Karina.

She laughed so hard tears were running down her face. She had to pull over so she wouldn’t run off the road.

Finally, when she regained composure, she reassured him, “There is no such thing as a Russian reject honey, because Russians are perfect.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

For those of you who are not familiar with piano bars in general, let me paint the scene for you. There are two pianos on a slightly elevated stage with two piano players. Patrons of the bar request songs for the piano players to perform. With each song request you attach a little bit of cash. The higher the dollar amount the more priority your request gets. The piano players play any song – so long as they know it.

In my experience, piano bar crowds are typically the loudest and the most intoxicated.  There is a unique culture to piano bars, a drunken one, but one nonetheless. Shots are passed around and bar tabs are never small. Everyone sings along at the top of their lungs. There are even a certain chants that take place which the artists, I’m sure, never intended to be inserted. Such as Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline Bum Bum Buuuum! Or Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffet. Salt! Salt! Where’s the F**king Salt!

Piano bars are a rowdy good time.

So now imagine you have lived in the United States for less than ten years and your friends drag you to a bar that primarily plays songs from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and everyone but you is smashed and singing along to every song. Then your friends have the drunken audacity to say things like, “I can’t believe you don’t know this song! How can you NOT know this song?”

Poor Karina, at first she was a good sport, until someone (ahem) pushed it too far and said to her, “Come on now, you HAVE to know this song! It’s freaking PIANO MAN by Billy Joel!”

She looked at me and said, “Next time I am going to take you to a bar in Russia and ask you why YOU don’t know all of the songs that everyone is singing along to!”

Point taken.

We’ve never gone to another piano bar together since.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

The other day I was driving in the car with my BFF, Karina the Russian. One of the trendy “top 40’s” radio station decided to play a re-mix of the old classic “Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer“. Now I have heard this song countless times, I am pretty sure we even sang it in Elementary school for a Christmas concert. It has always been just a silly, funny, harmless song. That is, until I saw it through Karina’s eyes.

Karina: “Are you listening to what this song is saying? This song is so messed up! Are they saying what I think they are saying? Listen!”

“and incriminatin’ Claus marks on her back. Oh! Grandma got run over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas eve. You can say there’s no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa we believe.”

Luckily the remixed version of the song, with all it’s electronic drum beats, stopped there and mixed itself on to a different song. I’d hate to think of what Karina would have thought if she heard the rest of the song go on to talk about Grandpa watching football and drinking beer or the dilemma of opening Grandma’s gifts or sending them back. I’m sure that would have made her completely loose faith in Americans forever!

He. Will. Pay.

Summer

*This post was originally posted last year, but it is one of my favorite holiday stories about Karina the Russian so it bares repeating.

I decided on Sunday I would break down and buy light bulbs. Only problem was, they are the long skinny florescent ones. Waaaay more complicated than the regular (cork screw CFL) bulbs I buy for lamps.

So I did what any girl would do. I called for reinforcement from my BFF Karina the Russian.

We decided the “smart” thing to do would be to have the measurements with us, but since neither of us had a pen and paper handy–and by handy I mean in our hands at that very moment–I grabbed my POS phone and snapped this lovely pic.

I don't know why there are lines. I do know that I freaking miss my freaking iPhone!

We left the house in search of the land of orange, also known as Home Depot, where we quickly spotted the isle with light bulbs that look like they belong in a Star Wars movie. We stood there staring blankly at the bulbs until a helpful orange-caped superhero walked up, ready to save us.

Little did he know, we came prepared. I whipped out my phone and, careful not to show him the kissyface photo I sent to ED earlier in the day, showed him exactly what we needed.

He tried really hard not to laugh at us.

Then he asked us if we knew what the length was.

“Length? You mean that wasn’t in the picture?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. Apparently our plan was not so fool proof after all.  “Umm… about this long?”  I say, now holding out my hands to motion what I later found out was two feet and no, not in the picture.

Feeling slightly retarded, we got our receipt and left our minimum wage superhero with a smirk of amusement from the two bimbos trying to buy a light bulb. Karina looked at me and said, “you know, either this would be the greatest phone commercial ever or the greatest blond joke ever.”

I tell her, “I know! Right? How many blonds does it take to buy a light bulb? Only I’m not blond…”

“Now watch, we will get home and it will be the wrong size!”

And, of course…

We get home, stand on our tippie toes, unscrew the old bulbs (what? We are both super tall. We don’t need no stinkin stools!) and replace them with the new ones.

And… they don’t work.

They were the right size, but for some ridiculous reason that has eluded me, my kitchen is still freaking dark!

So how many blonds does it take to change Summer’s light bulbs? You fill in the blank.

Blogfully yours,

Summer