Nye budt klizmoy

Eerily, I've had the opportunity to introduce my readers to the unusual role of the word klizma, or enema, in Russian discourse. I've been both accused of being a klizma, and asked not to be a klizma. The latter is akin to saying, "don't be a jerk," except that it's more specific... like "don't be a pain" or "don't be so OCD."

Loyal readers, then, would have been less shocked than the general public about this monument. While I don't imagine that it would shock any Russian or anyone familiar with Russian language, nor do I think that a raised eyebrow would be out of place (especially since Russians have eyebrow-raising tendencies to begin with). Those being my expectations, mom's reaction surprised me.

A.: Did you get the article about the klizma?
Mom: Yes, I saw that. You know, that's only one type of klizma--they come in all different forms. You don't see as much variety in the U.S.

[Pause]

A.: You don't think the monument is bizarre?
Mom: Maybe.

Perhaps this kind of explains why the following conversation took place in December in Istanbul:

A.: That's odd-- they're selling enemas in street bazaars?

[Puzzled looks from Kate and Ian]

Kate: That's a hot water bottle.
A.: Are you sure?
Kate: I'm not an expert on what enemas look like, but I think that's a hot water bottle.

By the way, I first came upon a photo of the monument in the Express, with the headline, "Please be a turnip."

***

In other news, mom has started her seasonal rub-it-in campaign about how there are no good swimming holes in DC, but I think I've already told you that. Last week, she reacted to news of my not being able to come up for the 4th with, "fine, your loss!" Last night, she reiterated that there was nowhere to swim down here.

Honestly, while I would like to have better access to outdoor activities, including beaches, and I certainly do want to see my friends and family, I have no desire to spend a lot of money to wait around the house while my mother takes hours to get her act together to leave the house. You don't have to look far in the blog-- there's an example or two or three practically every time I'm in Boston-- of mom dilly-dallying and wasting time, and making outings many times more complicated than they need to be. Over the holidays this past year, poor Anya couldn't wait to go outside while my mother found some other thing that needed doing inside the house. The night before leaving for China, mom had apparently packed and unpacked her suitcase until 3am.

This has bothered me since I was a small child-- my parents, being nature lovers, would go out to Maine, New Hampshire or Cape Cod practically every weekend-- and it would be this ordeal because they would bring much too much stuff and spend hours and hours packing and unpacking it. They still do it, but as I've grown older, I've become more efficient and less tolerant of clutter (this will surprise anyone who has been to my house, and particularly anyone I've lived with, but believe me-- I've come a long way). With every visit, or vacation together, I find my mother's inability to get up and go without becoming mired in logistics increasingly aggravating.

Which is not why I'm not going up to Boston for the Fourth; but it is why her strategy of appealing to "all the great hiking and swimming" is just not that appealing.