It’s gonna be a long summer. I have lovely neighbors to my left, to my right, across the street….and then I have my neighbors behind me. They are Russian. They are probably lovely people. I wouldn’t know since we have exchanged a total 12 words since they moved in 3 years ago. (read with thick Russian accent, please)
Leonid: What is dogs name?
Me: His name is Jerry.
Leonid: What kind name is Jerry?
Me: I don’t know, we just started calling him that and it stuck.
Leonid: People across street named dogs Charlie and Harry. Names for people, not for dog.
Two weeks later Leonid has a dog.
Me: Hi, What did you name your dog?
Leonid: Philip
Me: Philip? That’s more a people name than Jerry.
Leonid: Yes it is. You got problem?
So friends with the Russians, not so much.
They also love to party. They have a great pool (jealous), they have a cabana and humongous barbeque, (jealous, jealous) and they fight constantly. (not so jealous anymore) The also found probably the only radio station broadcasting Russian music 24 hours a day. No Mariah, Jay-Z or even Manilow. They have Yulia Savicheva, Igor Blaska and Adam Lambert (don’t ask) You haven’t lived until you have heard Lambert’s “Whataya Want From Me?” in Ukrainian. From 9pm on Friday nite they sing, dance, swim, eat and party until Sunday nite at 10pm. (jealous again)
On most Saturday mornings they like to use their power washer for like three hours at a time. I have no idea how dirty a deck can get from one week to the next, but every Saturday morning, in the vicinity of 9am, like clockwork the whirr of the power washer graces my every pore. The constant and loud drone of the motor is bad enough, but when it momentarily stops (perhaps he has to switch hands) lulling me into a false sense of tranquility only to have it start back up again, I want to peel my ears off the side of my head. My electric bill is astronomical since my A/C has to be on so I can close the door, at least until I have had my morning coffee.
By noon the deck is presumably clean and the festivities begin. Now I don’t begrudge them a day of fun in the sun, and I certainly don’t resent their all night swim fests….but I want to at least be in on the fun. With the language so indecipherable I can’t tell if they are laughing or fighting. I can’t tell if they are talking in a drunken slur or singing. And I can’t tell if they're enjoying the evening breeze or making fun of my dog’s name. It is worse than sitting across from the Vietnamese girl that does my nails…she speaks little English and all the smiling and head nodding in the world isn’t gonna help me understand what she always finds so damn funny while she is buffing and filing. Maybe she’s making fun of my dog’s name!
Sunday was Fathers Day. Their yard was full of…well, fathers. Leonid, his father Yuri, and if I am not mistaken, Mrs Leonid’s father Ivan a butcher from Brighton Beach. Whether he is a chop, chop which-cut-of-beef-do-you-want butcher or chop, chop who- told-you-to-screw-with-the-Russian-mafia butcher I have no clue….but either way I hope they don’t piss him off while he is in a Speedo on a deck that over looks my pool-less yard. When we left for the restaurant that we were taking my husband and son-in-laws for dinner, the Russians were barbequing something that looked like lamb. A whole lamb. Ya know, Mary had a little one. It was attached to a home made rotisserie and being tended to by the son, Semen (no comment), the daughter Anna which is short for Anastasya or as they call her, Nasty….(again no comment). It smelled hideous. When we came back from the restaurant where thankfully no one had lamb, the meat was off the grill and presumably being eaten or sacrificed. I wondered if they slaughtered the poor thing yesterday with the pressure washer. As I watered the plants on my own un-washed deck, Mrs. Leonid (and I am sure they have a last name I just don’t know and probably couldn’t pronounce anyway) was coming out of the house with a huge tray of what had to be over 10,000 cookies. With jealousy setting in, I reminded myself that we had just finished our own dessert….a $24.00 Carvel ice cream log that I bought in place of the ‘sorry all sold out’ Fudgie the Whale cake I promised my husband, a stale Entenmann’s crumb cake and watermelon.
I finished watering, poured a cup of coffee, grabbed my book and sat down to enjoy the cooled off evening air. The all-Russian radio station grew momentarily and eerily silent until they all began to sing what sounded like the Russian anthem, which had no words until the 2000 Olympics when the Ukrainian athletes complained they had nothing (like their American counterparts) to pretend to be singing on the medal podium. (just a little fact you might want to throw around at your next dinner party) I took my coffee, my book, Jerry my stinky dog and went inside to the air conditioning and my American husband who hates lamb and thankfully does not wear a Speedo.
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