Woman. Legend. Blog.

Let’s talk Sketchy Russian Gym.

No post today (working on one), so for now just enjoy Terry Gross figuring out how to reference crack cocaine and not offend a public radio audience while interviewing Jay-Z.  She also says bitches and hos.  For realz.

The thing about Philly is that if you get lost, you find stuff like synagogues and churches.  Moseying my way over to my parents’ this weekend to hear all about their trip to Israel and celebrate Mr. B’s 26th.  He’s kind of bummed out about it because his age isn’t a perfect square anymore.

To break up yesterday’s post.

Last week, the day after Mr. B and I danced to Tantsui Rossiya i Plach’ Evropa, a Umenya Samaya, Samaya, Samaya Krasivaya Popa (Russia, Dance and Europe, Cry, but I have the most attractive butt) and drank champagne to celebrate a birthday, we were in a cemetery to mark two years since Dan’s grandma had died, and I thought about something that often comes to mind-women and Judaism, and the thin line between life and death.

Since the concert , I’ve been thinking about where I could meet Russian guys.

I’ve just discovered the extra special photobooth functions on my Mac and my life will never be the same.  So this is what people do with their weekends.

This post reminded me of something I’ve been thinking about for a while.

This weekend, I’m going to DC for the Sanity Rally to see my two favorite Jews: Jon Stewart and Mr. B. Well, technically, Jon Stewart has to get in line behind Gluckel of Hameln, Hannah Szenes and Regina Spektor, but you know how these things go.

This is how you do it, kids. Go to a Russian restaurant, that is.

Remember back when I lived in the capital and everything was happy and shiny and government-subsidized elves polished my shoes every morning? Back in those days (12 days ago), I used to go to all sorts of international enterprises, like the Middle East Intitute, the Hillwood mansion, and all the embassies.  Also I used to live with Mr. B and had somebody to peel my oranges. Those were the days.

Years ago, on a bus in Israel, on the way from Jerusalem to the Golan Heights, a shy Russian Jewish boy named Igor (or maybe Ilya?) saw that I was bored with the music in my Discman (back in the days of CDs) and quietly slipped me one.  “Who is this,” I asked Igor/Ilya?”  “This guy named Timur Shaov.  He’s really good.”  And he was.

Second week of work? Done.  Going to see Timur Shaov, a very talented and funny Russian guitar player and singer, tonight with my parents and Mr. B’s aunt and uncle in Philly? Almost done and I’m very excited. Mr. B coming tonight? Tripple yay.  Here’s one of my favorite pictures from this week’s links, about the shortage of jeans in the Soviet Union in the 70s.