Friday, May 23, 2008

Weekdays Of Russian Wife. What's More Expensive - Cactus Or A Diamond?

Yesterday I had girlfriends. All the day they chattered in my ears any trivialities and boasted of expensive trinkets that husbands gave. Great! I have almost no such trinkets, and nothing to boast of. Just sometimes it seems to me - I need not. Gifts from my faithful husband are much more expensive. Anyway, for me. Take at least the last Women's Day. Exact a week before the eighth of March, he was silent, hiding in the bedroom and assiduously studied some Talmuds, which brought from his Mom. Talmuds were culinary books.

On the eve, on seventh, he came from work. The eyes were cunning. I was drove out the kitchen and announced that he will be baking a cake. The eyes were still cunning within one hour. Then the puff of smoke was belching from the kitchen. We had to extinguish the fire, to wash all of soot and discard to the dustbin the coals that were intended to be a cake.

All this time the newly cook was groaning, swearing and shouting that we have wrong cooker. He said he had "cut into it, as expected, at full power, but she set on fire a cake". Called names the cooker as it should be done and recovered from the effects of the experiment with the cake, he did not get quiet. While I laundered curtains, he took a minced meat from the fridge and conceived an idea to do cutlets, arrogantly believing that cutlets - are no cake, and do not require special skills. I knew not what he crammed in minced, but some terrible mixture was received, which he threw into the pot with boiling water. Mixture crawled away turning into gurgling slop.

The slop creeped out of pot and flew on the plate. After unsuccessful attempts to thrust it back, he came to me for help, mopping from his face the sweat with towel, by which he caught the slop. The slop was sent where the cake had waited for it. The cook was settled to the bathroom, the towel - in the washing machine.

On my question: "Why did you boil cutlets instead of frying?" he growled out, that once his mother did so. I had not become an object. The mom's credibility is perfect. The truth, I do not remember that she had cooked something whenever. She kept the cooking books for the interior. I cooked cutlets myself, fed him and pushed to sleep…

On Eighth in the morning he went for flowers. Instead of traditional roses he brought some terrible ridiculous cactus and said that I am unusual, and therefore deserve exotic gifts. The cactus was huge, barbed and clumsy. I hardly pushed it in the corner between the wall and TV. On my mutter "all husbands are normal, but mine is nothing but artist", he stated that "you are way out on the creative souls and cactuses". I said that the soul, it certainly, but about cactus… the roses would be better because above-mentioned cactus will now be standing, dusting and require greater attention.

He took offence, dressed himself, and declared that goes to the studio to do painting a masterpiece. Came back in the evening. With him three more. As picture painters should be, they looked pictorial - messed up, dirty in the paint and drunken coo-coo. They brought piles of roses and some mat, which they called the canvas. Roses were scattered throughout the home, mat laid on the couch. At the rug an orange stain with brown spots on the edges and blue blot in the middle was discovered.

When I had wondered: "What is this?!" they had stamped with feet, yearned and stated that this is the avant-garde, generally masterpiece and in a hundred years I will have the honor to make it sure. I replied that a hundred years - it will be then, but today is eighth of March, and then, finally, it's time to the table. The offer was extremely liked by all, despite the fact that they had already previous feast, in my opinion, enough completely.

At the table, between another "to women" they argued about art, demanded for cutlets and herring and all the time ascertained which of them respects more another one. As a result, they got tired of excessive respect and hit the sack. Who was on roses, who under cactus.

A friend had called and boasted that her husband gave her a ring with ruby. I sighed, put the receiver, went to the bedroom and sheltered on the couch, covered by newly-fledged masterpiece. Who cares a ring! But I have a cactus and a masterpiece! And she does not and will not have!..

Since then, I like cactuses. A masterpiece... Remain very few before recognition its genius. There are some hundred years.