Amerika--Just Like Nikolai Said It Would Be!

This is a phenomenal day.

It was bound to be out of the ordinary--12.12.12, there won't be another one like it for another hundred years. I can already imagine what my life will be like in a hundred years: Brittle. Dusty. (Although maybe science will advance to the point where living to see 125 isn't an act of God? Can you even imagine what fifty years as an elderly person would be like???)

The point is it's an unusual day--positively ripe for something fantastic to happen.

Today I woke up in my normal life. Toasty in my bed, I began the process of forcing my mind to allow unspeakable things to happen to my body. These atrocities include:

1. Walking 20 minutes to the T with icicle non-blow-dried hair in December.

2. Sitting consistently for 8 1/2 hours in a cubicle, feeling my puddle of an ass spill wider over my seat with each passing day. 

3. Denying myself a tasty quesadilla from El Pelon because I gotta start throwing more bones to the three headed beast...Sallie Mae. She hungry for roughly half my paycheck these days. 

I struggled today--everyday--and I don't feel stronger or smarter for it. It's crazy that among my recently graduated sister-thren, my doldrum existence can be considered a success story. I make money every day. I don't live with my mother. I live with a man who I find sexy. I'm not nearly as fat as I should be. Chalk it up to post-feminist blues, but I'm spending more hours lately dreaming about baking meat pies and child-rearing than reaching for more brass rings on the old career ladder. 

Me, glowing with success--not pregnancy

Meanwhile, VRon is out makin' it in Milwaukee, swapping syringes and leaving backpacks on buses. 

Ronny and I are connected by a sacred fellowship. One that has paddled a compact hatchback through icy, Arctic channels. One that has witnessed heartache over mercenaries named Alexei, climbed the social ranks at Red Club, toiled as lowly hotel maids in second-rate Holiday Inns, all in the most abstract and intentional city in the world: St. Petersburg, Russia.

I can't have dreamed the guttural, piercing cry from our past, calling me back to that strange, severe land. I heard it cry out to me, "TEACH US ABOUT CUL DU SACS! WHY DO YOU NOT LET GRANDPARENT RAISE YOUR CHILDREN? WHY CAN I NOT COME TO YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITH VODKA AND A BROKEN HEART?"

Amerika--What a Life!

Nikolai Zlobin, challenge accepted. Ronny and I will race back to Russia immediately and teach your people all about how we folks do it here in America. 

GUTENTAG

Hey Kiddo,

As you probably already heard, LacTose and I decided to take the scenic route through Finland. We made this choice for several reasons:
1. When are we going to be here again with a car?

2. Lauren speaks Finnish.
3. We weren't quite done looking at Northern bullshit.
4. We both recently adopted those crazy philosophies where there is no world outside the mind (Russia has this effect), so why not?

And you know, we were not disappointed. Finland is damn fine, check this out.
But it was business time. We had to construct another raft, and this time we were taking the Greenland route.

Our raft had to be more durable this time. We had to use Maple wood and human bone. Luckily, these are Finland's main exports. Finland right? Not Sweden or Denmark? Got these countries are so damn arbitrary. I SPIT ON YOU, YOU BLAND COUNTRIES. YOU MAY BE BEAUTIFUL BUT YOU GOT NO SOUL.

Sorry, that was Russia talking. Finland actually has a lot of soul. Literally everywhere we went we heard folk music. It got to the point where I was dying for some Jay-Z, or maybe a little Nirvana. Still, some of the music is quite beautiful, especially the Sami Music. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tL3F-YqZeLQ

watch it all the way through. it's very relaxing ><.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~````~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`````~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Follow the wavVvVvVvVvvVe

It's a strange thing, killing a man. It's a stranger thing, rafting from Finland to Greenland to Boston, MA. In fact, that shit's impossible. It took us four hours of dodging sharks (and what can only be described as a Moby Dick-like beast) and shivering in the freezing cold Atlantic. Luckily we bumped into some friendly Seamen.

These kind souls were on there way to deliver goods and produce to Europe. But they generously brought us back to Boston. "Whatever" said one of the men, when we asked him this enormous favor.

So, after a year long hiatus , LT and VD are back in business.

...but we things were not quite as we left them....

Goin' Home, Folks

"Don't call Barry Feinstein"

Don’t tell Veronica, but over Christmas, the concierge at St. Pete’s Holiday Inn Express told me we had received a letter from North Andover, MA.

I was afraid it was a notice of tax evasion for the year 2009, but it wasn’t. It was a notice of family evasion.

Veronica comes from a very sturdy, Catholic family. Her father, as seen above, is the village lawyer. He enjoys raw ethnic meat and a good pipe of tobacco. Her mother, who is not shown above, is a God-fearin’ Irish lass who takes care of the elderly and runs Bible-Mates, Inc. on the side. I dare you to look up Bible-Mates right now!

Veronica’s a middle child, which explains why she would lash out by up and leaving home for a whole year without correspondence. But mostly it’s because Peter, her younger brother, doesn’t respect her passion for dance. All he cares about is winning illegitimate basketball tournaments.

Anyways, it seems the Shaheens were getting worried about young Ronny around the yuletide, since she had been away for Spring Break for nine months. They wrote her this letter.

The Shaheen Family Portrait, September 2009

December 24, 2009

Dearest Veronica Lydia,

Darling child, wherefore have you been? Mother misses you fiercely. She weeps by the fireside presently, burying her face deep into her sumptuous vole furs as she bellows in agony for your loss. Father has taken to complete isolation in his study. All cheer has been wiped from his countenance, no longer does he bound jovially about the house, but paces hither and thither as anxiety consumes him.
Peter and I endeavor in vain to console them, but it won't take. What's worse is the effect your absence has had on poor Kashel. She's so thin and frail from grief. We all knew she loved you best.
Veronica, make way for home this Christmas. Cranberry Lane Estate isn't the same without you. Quit this absurd holiday and restore the joy that once made our home a happy one.
Your sister,
Constance


Luckily, we are well on our way out of Russia. We have just crossed the Finnish border...but there has been a car following us since Svetogorsk...

Hey Guys!

Ever been walking down the street and remember something funny that happened a while ago and then you can't stop smiling? But in present tense?

Here, let me put it in other terms. You smile at a memory. But that smile exists in present tense.

It's kind of like starting a blog in the past tense and then at some point along the way switching into present tense. Get it now?

I knew that analogy would work.

But anyway, as Lthomps told you, we're down on our luck. Down on our god dang luck. and you know what? Fuck that. Just fuck it. Because seriously, we were supposed to be back in the U.S. by now. And I'm going to be totally frank here, I'm pissed the fuck off.

But don't worry, I'm resourceful. I can turn situations around by changing my mood and outlook toward them. For example, my motherfucking astronomy professor made his final as hard as fucking possible. So when he told me, "Merry Christmas" I looked him dead in the eye and said, "I'm Jewish."

Needless to say, he was humiliated. I felt much better (after I slashed his tires).

When I was walking toward Lauren with a big grin on my face I was actually just thinking of how good it felt to slash his tires. But when I saw the look on her face I knew I had to make something up quick. So I invented this story about Tiger Woods agreeing to pay for the rest of our gas money (and fixing some of the Versa's damage) if we have sex with him.

I honestly don't know why she believed that. How would our having sex with him help him with his little problem? Isn't his little problem that he is involved in an embarrassing sex scandal? Wouldn't his having sex with us only exacerbate the problem. I think Lauren's been in Russia for too long.

Although, I recently made an observation wise beyond my years: It's a Sylvia Plath Life. It's a Sylvia Plath world.

Damnnnnn put that shit on mugs and t-shirts why dontcha? eh? C'est la VIE!!!!!!!

So yeah, we fucked him.

What?

Don't look at me like that.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You with all your damn morals. You've always been so perfect, haven't you? You would never fuck Tiger Woods for the money and the 15 minutes of fame. You're too busy working hard and saving up. You always think things through, don't you?

But hey, before you get on your high horse, remember this: I'm not the one who hasn't talked to her sister in 15 years.


Long story short: we now have the money to fix the fuckin car. we're going home. we'll probably start driving back to the U.S next entry. RIGHT?! I think so. I hope so. I really really hope so. I fucking hate Russia. and it's like negative a million degrees here. http://www.wunderground.com/global/stations/26063.html

there believe me now? ok so we're going home soon. thanks @tigerwoods. oops wrong website.

I love whiskey.

My Nips iz Hard Cuz it Cold Out

Five degrees fahrenheit, and ten days until the birth of our Lord.

Basically I'm telling you that it's fucking cold outside, and it's really close to Christmas.

And now, on top of being jobless, V-D and I are homeless thanks to this overzealous feminist housekeeper at the St. Petersburg Holiday Inn Express.

Just when we thought humanity had reached it's lowest.
Nazi Germany.
Rwanda.
9/11.
Chimp eats woman's face.

And now this bullshit.

I'm sitting outside the Red Club, with visions of our extravagant summer nightlife dancing in my head. And Veronica's walking back towards me with a giant grin on her face.

She says she knows someone who is willing to help us with our little problem if we could help him with his....little problem.



Hey, it worked for every other woman in America. It can work for Me and V-Ron.

College Students Should'nt Travel Because They Are Supposed to Be Poor. What Were We Thinking.

Have you ever gone on a week-long trip abroad that turned into four months of debauchery and delusions of grandeur?

Well, let me assure you. It happens. This blog is living PROOF that it happens. I, Lauren Ashley Thompson, do hereby certify the authenticity of this trip and the verisimilitude of each detail we have accounted within Faux Travails. I'm sorry I couldn't provide you with that kind of guarantee before now. But hey, I'm no Bob's Discount Furniture. If you want the guaranteed lowest price on a sectional with built in cup holders and with armrests that fold out of the middle, don't come crying to me. I'm just a world-class traveler, guys, not Barack Obama.



Speaking of, I'm really pissed that there are people out there trading in their clunkers for brand0-new Versas. And are therefore getting those brando-new Versas for $3-4,500 cheaper than I did back in the Summer of '06. I hope to Jesus our lord and savior that when they take their own Trans-Arctic voyage into Eurasia, that their makeshift rafts won't bear the weight of their INFLATED EGOS.

There really is nothing worse than a gloater who gets things for a lot cheaper than they should.

Says one girl to another, "That's a cute purse! Where did you get it?"

"Oh this old thing, I got it at Goodwill for four dollars in Porter Square."

GUNSHOTS RING OUT. BLOOD EVERYWHERE. SCENE.

Momma didn't raise no fool. WHAT I AM SAYING IS THAT MY MOTHER DIDN'T RAISE ME TO BE A FOOL. And you should know that if I catch you with a government-subsidized Nissan Versa, a receipt from Bob's Discount Furniture, AND a Goodwill handbag, you will be swimming with the fishes at the bottom of the Mystic.

I'm really sorry, guys. I'm just really stressed out about money right now. In my carefree youth, I would drive past Ryan Tepperman's house and shout, "POOR!" Because it was the worst insult I could think of to shout from a moving vehicle. How far away those happy times seem.

Me and V-Dubbs have not been winning Russian Roullette as often as we are used to, and all of those Russian studs keep telling us we're beautiful, and that they are just as big as the black guys we're usually into....so we keep buying rounds of Stolichnaya..... and the next thing you know, Alexei from the American Apparel t-shirt table encounter isn't texting me anymore and our laptops are getting all water-damaged and fucked up.

I don't think any of these problems are related. But you know what? When you're poor, all of you're problems seem to melt together as previously described.

It's a dark time. I don't think Veronica and I can even afford the return trip anymore.

Veronica Lydia, if you're reading this, I think we need to start looking for jobs.

If you hear about any part-time work available in the St. Petersburg metro area, please contact us. We are two customer-service oriented females with strong backs and a lust for learning. Wages starting at $1500 rubles a month, Hablemos espanol.

I hope $1500 rubles a month is enough. I didn't check with customs. I also hope it's not too unprofessional to say the word "lust" in a For Hire ad. Or tactless to reveal that we know Spanish...

Confessions of an American Tourist

Our stay in St. Petersburg was coming to an end and Lauren and I were in no mood to go back to the oppressive reality that is the U.S. Privately, I was feeling anxious about the return trip. Especially since a fucking Moses-like character had specifically warned us about it. If only this elderly gentleman really were Moses, then he could part the Atlantic and we could just drive straight home, avoiding Southern roads for the most part. But I guess life just isn't like that. And maybe Lauren and I will learn something about sticking it out when all we want to do is take a damn flight home. Oh well. We never spoke about this to each other, but I suspect she had similar anxieties... because she wrote them to me on a post-it note which she put on the shower wall in the hotel bathroom.

It was about 2 o'clock in the afternoon when Lauren said she wanted to see a silly "rom-com" to brighten her mood. I wasn't sure how much a simple movie would be able to brighten her mood since for years now she's been gambling as a mood enhancer, but I agreed that a movie would be nice. We went by a charming theater down a strange alley. The one movie they were playing was "Confessions of a Shopaholic". "How bad could it be?", Lauren said. "Yeah I mean, I'm sure it's charming and adorable. Lets not be pretentious." I responded. We both decided not to be pretentious right there and then.

So there we were, two unsuspecting American girls, buying tickets to go see a movie about a girl with a weakness for chicness. And we saw that movie. we saw it all the way through.

...but we almost didn't. This movie is particularly atrocious. Yeah, I gotta bring out the fifty-cent words for this one.

First of all, the whole plot of the movie forces the viewer to look through the lens of Capitalism and economy. And once Ryan Tepperman told me that the economy in the U.S. is very bad right now (I did not know this because my family has a pool with a waterfall). So this movie is sending a really backwards message to its audience. Isla Fisher was MUCH more entertaining as a shopaholic than she was as a person finding some kind of absurd version of peace.

But anyway, before I get carried away, I'll just admit that Lauren and I actually did not see the movie all the way through. Sorry guys, I was just too embarrassed to admit my own shortcomings. But in our defense, it had nothing to do with our ability to endure. Lauren and I are enduring creatures, or creatures of great endurance. What went down was a little bit of Russian hospitality a la Cold War Era buuhhhllllllsshhhhittt.

In other words, guess who didn't like the heavy overtones of capitalism in "Confessions of a Shopaholic"? Russia.
And guess who also didn't like the "touchy/feely" confession format of the movie? Russia.
And guess whose red hair caused us problems yet again???.....LAUREN. FUCKING LIABILITY....her red hair is a liability.

The Russian cops came in towards the end of the movie, but just early enough so that we still don't know if she made it to her friend's wedding. (YO HOLLA AT ME IF YOU KNOW IF SHE DID, 978-835-1712). And as we were all grumpily filing out of the theater one of the cops spotted Lauren and thought she was Isla Fisher. He coldly separated us from the group and pushed Lauren and I into a van. He blind-folded us which made me very uncomfortable, however it made Lauren much more comfortable thanks to her lifestyle choices (see: Slob on my Knob). After driving for about 20 minutes he stopped the car and took our blind-folds off. We were in an empty parking garage that had murder written all over it. But just when I was beginning to give up all hope the Russian officer broke down in tears. He explained to us (in broken english) that he was a HUGE Isla Fisher fan and couldn't stand to see her killed, which would surely have been our fate if the other officers had seen Lauren. He told us he would give us until midnight that night to get out of St. Petersburg. We told him we were grateful for his mercy and fled the scene.

The second we knew we were far enough away we both exclaimed, "CHRIST ALMIGHTY! PRAISE HIM!". We made our way to the Versa.


It was time.