When Ur Husband is Smarter than U

when your husband is smarter than you...you either turn into a jealous bitch or support him and his team and become their groupie. Or you can just be irrelevant bu that sucks. Let me explain. We're playing quiz game team called "what when where". We actually have a wonderful team. Additionally to our team, hubby is on another team that plays this game on TV.
 So now we have two celebrities in my house-hubby and Gaia the cat. Hubby-cause he is on Tv, Gaia--cause she is cool.
 After endless assembling in my house to practice answering questions, eating potato chips and scaring the hell out of Gaia with their arguing, the TV team got on screen for the first time. The dress code for the TV game is formal evening wear and guys looked ridiculous in tuxes. I rented a black lace dress and for the first time ever used red lipstick. Turned out-you can draw fuller lips with red lipstick, and lie that your mouth looks prettier than in real life!
 The almost lost (the score was 3:5 and the game is over after 6 points), but finally, correctly answered three questions, making it 4:5 , then 5:5 and finally winning with the score of 6:5! Damn it, it was painful to watch!

 So, all those evening of cleaning up crumbs from my carpet after their practices paid off! They won and last Wednesday, we all gathered to watch the show air and made fun of their faces.
 We have another practice today, not with the celebrity TV people, but our real team, cause tomorrow is tournament of Georgia, and we should end up in top 5 teams, damn it, no matter how many kilos of potato chips it takes!
 When your husband is smarter than you, you stuff him with carbs and hope he gets fat.
 the pic: hubby celebrating his win after the show

Sairme Getaway

Summer time and the living is easy, or so we want to think, and I forced my husband to work less last Saturday (to make him quit working is impossible; damn you cell phones with internet).  After finding out that Lake Lopota resort in Kakheti costs more than staying in the center of Istambul, I called reasonably-priced Sairme resort and booked a room with a balcony—it’s always nice to have a balcony.

Under rampant sounds of Gogol Bordello, we made a detour to Kutaisi, to visit my favorite road-side restoraunt, Khutorok. It is owned and operated by local Ukrainians. Everything I’ve tasted there is delicious and cheap. Salads cost up to 5 Lari and the most expensive meat entrée is around 10-15 lari. If you are order lunch for two, it will cost probably 15 Lari for both appetizers and entrees.  “Khutorok” is the king of my favorite restoraunts – hole in the wall places that look cheap, but serve  tasty food made form natural ingredients…the sour cream they brought us, itwas so dense, twe stuck a spoon in the middle and it did not fall...yum.

We left Kutaisi full and happy and went back to Bagdadi, where we saw poet Mayakovski’s house, and hubby even read his poem on the deck.  Mayakovski was cool. Once, he was talking to his readers and stated : “I feel Russian among Russian people and Georgian among Georgian people”, someone from the audience yelled: “and among stupid people?”, to which he replied “and among the stupid people, I find myself for the first time”.

Back on the road, which suddenly got so pretty. Trees were trying to hold branches and extended over the road, reaching towards each other, this one river criss-crossed bridges beneath us, every turn seemed curvier than the one before, our stomachs were desprate, our eyes—content; The lords of the road, brown and Dzen cows, chillaxed in the middle of the way, calmly looking at cars honking at them, probably thinking: “only fools hurry, why are these people in cars upsetting the perfect peace of the universe?” and refusing to move; someone spread white sheets to dry between the pines in the forest, like some commercial of Tide Alpine Freshness... Once we got to Sairme, I made it my priority to breathe deep and breathe a lot, cause the air smelled like trees. It just did. 

Doorman opened doors for us and brought our backpacks upstairs and I tipped him 2 Lari, feeling very uncomfortable and proud at the same time--I did something I’ve only seen in movies. The room was O.K., remodeled soviet hotel, with two beds apart  ( I broke one of them trying to put two beds together and we had to fix it and sleep separately). We walked in the park, we sat on the benches, hubby drank healthy mineral water, we went to the spa, hubby had  massage, then we dipped ourselves in the tub of mineral water, then we ate the most boring, dietary dinner provided by the hotel (it is actually a sanatorium, meaning  people stay there to improve their health so we were fed carrots and oatmeal), then we kissed in the forest like we were still teenagers that can’t find a place to make out, since they do not have room of their own, and we remembered how we met and got all sentimental.  Cue to hurried exit to our hotel (because, now we had a room of our own), and afterwards hubby lounging himself on the balcony (see, balconies are cool!), and smoking a cigar, ruining the effect of tree air and healthy dinner. 

We left the next morning and headed to this city full of smoke and of cars and of work and of all things boring and usual and un-Sairmean.

P.S. pic: forest in sairme

Tests

(Next passage was written two weeks ago) As I was administering SAT tests today, looking at the poor kids sweating through the hours of math and chemistry, I thought how long has it been since I've taken a test, read research or article, wrote an academic paper. Recently, I wrote an article for Identity mag (which no one read) and due to no time and the fact that I haven't written a paper in, let's see, 5 years, I failed to produce good work. Do you sometimes feel like college gives you some info and then you loose it, bit by bit, as you walk through your career? On the other hand, when you are in academic environment, you are forced to think, write, consider and reconsider. I almost want to take an SAT test, I almost want to take any test, to get good scores, to feel successful again, like I felt in school, in college, to feel that I am doing good,that I am doing really good, that I am not just a stupid assistant in a stupid project, that I am not replaceable. Damn, I need to take an online course or something! (next passage was written one week ago) after a week of this rant, the foreign coordinators of my project visited Tbilisi. I informed them that I was going to leave as soon as the current project is over. The next day they have requested a private talk with me. They offered me to be a partner to my manager, in salary and in position, for the next project. I was very flattered and uterly surprised (honestly, I thought they would offer me small raise and ask me to stay where I am ) and I requested for some time to think and explore the market. Thus, in nearest future I might stop being an assistant and I will have my own assistant :-) On the other hand, I don't want to stay here, political stuff, civil service, rules, stupid ways of doing things and making decisions, overall policy. I want to start afresh with new people, prove new points, show my long-lost sides,motivation, creativity. Also, if I stay in project administration now, most likely, I would not be able to change career, do something practical (once upon a time my M.A. diploma proclaimed that I was a neurpsychologist). I will be stuck managing projects and will have no real profession. But I don't know. I might get sold. After all, I was offered more than double of my current pay. I have time till October. New and exiting, or same old, only further on the career ladder? Just when I have decided that I am tired of it all, I have to rethink everything. I guess this is the test I have been asking. And I guess I passed the pre-test--I got the promotion offer. (Nest passage is being written now) Looks like I am whining and then bragging. Really, I am just lost. Oh, and I have to take care of this blog. No pics for two weeks, irregular length of posts, my other blog not updated...gotta get back to writing!

Trip to Karabakh: Stuck in Reverse

Last Month, I saw a film “Trip to Karabakh: the Last Return”. It is the last (thank you, god!) part of a trilogy of the Karabakh films. The first one, based on a good book by Aka Morchiladze, was fine. It reflected the mood of the 90’s. The second one was rumored to be crap, never saw it, and the third one was supposed to be funny. And it was, but for all the wrong reasons. I was told that it describers inadequacy of a “dzveli bichi”, who has spent last 15 years in prison and consequently is out of touch with modern new and refined Georgia.. I thought it would be funny how he would try to use his old street skills and get puzzled responses, his ignorance ofhow facebook, cell phones, his amazement at our wonderful life with good roads, running water, constant electricity and the joy and merriment of democratic Georgia. Instead, I go this: The guy comes out of the prison (product placement in his hand) and gets into altercation with the police. Not aware that disrespecting police is unhealthy now, he swears at the officers. Back to prison for a year. Out again(product placement). Painstakingly long shots of him discovering his house in dust (views of renovated old Tbilisi). Boring shots of him visiting parents’ grave. Boring shots of him visiting his dead friend’s girl and showing her the cross he is supposed to give to her son—cause he wants to be his godfather. The mother (sex worker in the 1st film) is a translator now. She is totally psyched to see that an ex-convict, who was involved in drugs and guns and all that shit of the 90s is here for her son. She even underlines how her son needs a father figure. Several product placements along the road. Prison guy visits dead friend’s son who—oh the new mysterious time-- studies in a school where smoking is now prohibited. Dead friend’s son is in a principle’s room cause he broke something, the guy tries to rescue his godson-to-be, promises to repair what is broken, only to find that this godson-to-be broke into a computer program and now principal is happy that the boy has illegally helped school get the program that otherwise would cost more than the school’s budget (!). It is a joke on breaking, get it? No? The prison guy thought that the boy has actually broken something and could not get all the computer talk! got it?! A joke! Oh, all this time, the student and principal are staring into a comp display that has translate.ge on it. This hacker is a genius! He figured out how to access a free online Georgian-English dictionary. Shots of some other product placement for no reason. Prison guy visits old friend, who is still in the drug- dealing business. Together, they visit the dead friend’s grave. Also, godfather-to –be brings the dead friends’ son to his drug dealer friend. Where the hell is the boy’s mother and why is she OK that her son hangs out with ex-convict and a drug dealer?! BUT , they are friends of her son’s dead father, so it totally makes sense that they took the boys upbringing into their manly hands. Drug dealer leaves to Karabakh to deal some more drugs and gives our protagonist bunch of money. Cause this is what friends do. Prison guy uses them to make some more money in a –product placement—bookmaker. Then he watches TV with his godson-to-be (this two hang out together all the time now), where he is tricked into believing that two goals took place instead of one, via the miracle of rewinding TV (product placement). At the same time, there is a parallel plotline of the godson loving the girl who loves him back, but is a daughter of politician/dead friend’s killer. Prospective godfather and politician oppose the love story. Also, non-English speaking, crappy-looking, acting-like-it-is-still-nineties dude (our prison guy) hooks up with a TLG teacher and after seeing him twice, she of course gets drunk and they have sex (implied). The only funny moment of the film when misguided by the directions that Radisson is nice glass building, the prison guys tries to pay for the hotel room in a newly-built police station. Get it, police stations are glassy and shiny and new-looking!!! Horny teenagers elope with the help of the prison guy, who sends them—you will never guess—to Karabakh, to his drug-dealing friend, because that is such a safe place to go for the newlyweds!!! Next morning, the killer politician forces prison guy to drive toward Karabakh, in order to get his daughter back (I mean wouldn’t you be mad if your daughter ran off with the son of a guy you killed and was helped by his ex-convict friend to escape to a war zone to the drug dealer friend?!). In a climactic moment, prison guy, who is driving with killer politician pointing gun at him, steers the car into abyss, thus sacrificing himself in the name of love of the horny teenagers. The film ends with said teenagers looking at the graves of never-to-be-godfather guy and killer politician/father-of-the-bride, who are buried side by side (!) and then walk away, hugging. Thus, love has conquered all, enemies are friends (dead though). This film felt so 1. Boring 2. Dated 3. Boring 4. Ridiculous 5. Offensive that I got surprised, I thought we were over this kind of bullshit. here we are claiming that prisoners, thieves and drug dealers are no longer protagonists in our country, only to betaken 20 years back by this characters. oh, and the gender relations. Just precious. Let the drug dealers raise my kid, as long as he are male. and, don’t we all know that American teachers come here to fuck Georgian men? Talk about going back in time…

Gay Not-Parade

Something important happened today. Today is an international day against homophobia. NGO Identity organizes a march on Rustaveli st. Around 40 people gather by Philarmonia by 1 P.M. and we start walking promptly. Crowd of journalists literally document every step we make. Obviously, not everybody wants to be close-captioned like that, risking to appear in tomorrow’s Asaval-Dasavali under statement like “pervert faggots trying to destroy our motherland”. But, if you came here, you have to be ready for public exposure—after all, you are making a statement! All the bebias comment on what a pity it is that such nice young people are gay, some males swear, some people grab their phones to get this weird procession on camera. It is quite an event! I can already see tomorrow's news: "The First Ever Gay Pride Parade!" Only, this is no parade. Just a peaceful walk. Picture this: leading the procession, a herd of people with mics and cameras, trying to walk backwards and still maintain balance, in order to capture colorful crowd of flags and posters approaching them; the marchers, trying to ignore swearing, and not to step on occasional cameraman who is right in their face, surrounded by curious bystanders and innocent pedestrians who are trying to figure out how to get out of this mess. Three police cars are parked by philarmonia in case of altercations. Enough to cause a sensation. but wait… All the sudden, out of nowhere, a priest emerges. Are they patrolling the streets just in case something “indecent” takes place? He starts arguing with the walking crowd, which is O.K., but then, a dozen of bearded young men apparate out of thin air; these men start proving their point to anyone they can corner, rather violently. Rainbow flags keep moving, cameras greedily suck the tension, there is some arguing, some stupidity, “Look, he yelled at me, he is aggressive, look! How can you call yourself a liberal after this?!”- asserts one of the bearded death eaters, after some marcher can't stand all the swearing and answers back. The pure-breeds with beards form a chain (by brotherly holding hands)and declare that they won’t let us pass and carry out such degrading activities, and though the moment is pretty serious, all I can hear is “wizard, thou shall not pass!” Several people call the police, who all the sudden do not know where Rustaveli is and require long and detailed description. The marchers, stuck in traffic, are now experiencing a whole cascade of negative emotions bestowed upon them by bystanders who probably wanted to yell before, but felt that walking and yelling at the same time takes too much effort.Now they are feasting. Vegetable-sellers transform themselves into harpies, vomiting profanities. A woman with half-eaten ice-cream exercises screams worthy of a rock concert. The marchers are trapped. In front of them—-bearded defenders of nation’s purity. Behind them and amongst them--men with cameras and girls with mics. Around them--women screeching “sazizgrebo, sazizgrebo”. I--frantically trying to answer work calls and explaining that I am out for my lunch break. and then… and then I had to leave. and I do not know how it all ends. I don’t know if the marchers were beaten, ridiculed or if they kept on marching. I don’t know if the bearded men disapparated, or tore apart the posters. no news on any news channel yet. 3 P.M., May 17th.I am sitting here and writing. This is history in making. ...Please, God, let it be peaceful. Please, God, don’t let them hurt my friends. To be continued... Pic1: the chain of bearded men, journalists and the activists pic2: Poster" Love Is Love"

Cigarette Tirade

Hey!!! This week, please visit my other blog. http://pik.tv/en/blogs/barabadze/36175-the-cigarette-tirade here is the beginning: “People discriminate against me, even my professors, the very liberal ones, the ones who claim that men should give birth in order to achieve gender equality, even they discriminate against me”—claimed my friend. I guess I am guilty of the same discrimination. My friend is a smoker and I can’t support her. Going out in Georgia always means coming back stinking like an ashtray. I have never smoked and I can’t understand appeal of it. Smoking has many reasons, nicotine addiction just being one of them, smoking is a social act. People smoke when they are trying to relax (by getting a stimulant in their system), to decrease anxiety (again, by stimulant. Sometimes our psychology fights our physiology), to wake up, when they drink, when they want to look cool, as a rite of passage, to loose weight…"

Zemfira

Hey everyone, you probably thought that I was dead, and I almost was. First, I had to organize 250 people conference, and believe me, organizing things in Georgia is a Herculean challenge, and then, I got a flu and went into what felt like a high-fever coma, though I was actually breathing, forcing myself to drink fluids and shedding pounds. Now my skinny face looks like one huge nose. But between these two events—the conference marathon and virus attack—I went to Zemfira’s concert (she’s a bad-ass Russian rock singer) and it rocked. I’ve seen her concert 8 years ago, in Achara music hall. This time, more songs, more energy. Hubby was doing some promo work at the concert, so I got to wander around pre-event empty building and I felt privileged. My friend arrived as soon as they opened doors to mere mortals and we rushed to occupy the front row. We squeezed right by die-hard Zemfria fans; they were the people who knew what song is what number on what album produced in what year… One girl travelled all the way from Odessa, Ukraine and she was determined to get Zemfira’s signature by stalking her at the Marriott, after the concert. We chatted with the fans for 2 and a half hours and then Zemfira took the stage. It is such a cool feeling, when you are standing so close, when you can see singer’s face, touch her hands…I thought, I am so lucky that among all the performers I will never see cause they are far away (oh, Benedict Cumberbatch, will I ever…), I happened to like the one who is right here, in front of me. The fans pleasantly surprised me. When some mean girl tried to push me away (she claimed she was a journalist and kept yelling: “I have a badge, look I have a badge”), fans enveloped her, protected my right to be squeezed against the railing and shoved her away. They tried to minimize pushing, they tried not to hurt each other, I personally let a girl behind me take my place for one song that she really loved, so that she could record it on her phone. One of the girls had a small airplane (Zemfira has a song called “airplanes”). Zemfira touched our hands several times, took the flowers from others, but never saw the airplane. So the whole row started pointing at that girl and Zemfira finally noticed and took it! We were so happy! We yelled Zemfira’s name after she left the stage and she came back to us three times! Three times she left and three times she came back!!!Then, after she left exhausted, we understood that she was dead tired and we were too ashamed to call her the fourth time. So instead, we yelled “spasibo” for quite a while! Spasibo Zemfira, for putting so much of the raw energy into the show, for coming back to us, for taking our letters and our airplanes, spasibo, fans who shared luminescent paint with us, so that we all could paint Z’s on our hands, spasibo, girls who came 3 hours before the show, spasibo, unknown Ukrainian friend, I will never see again, but you have inspired me to do great things and finally, spasibo, my friend, the one who calls herself an infected dreammate, for sharing many things with me. Oh, and by the way, spasibo hubby, for writing Zemfira on a piece of paper and giving it to me as a present for Valentine’s Day. We both attended the concert 8 years ago, but alas, we did not know each other then…yet. p.s. our hands with Z and Zemfira so close to us. Sorry, phone pics don't turn out good.