Cheating Justified?

I wonder, if after reading this post my husband will wonder: “hmmm, why did she decide to write this?”

I want to challenge the notion of monogamy in general, especially in Georgia.

Let’s say the situation is standard Georgiana—she’s a virgin before she marries and he only has sex with older women he pays for. Or, if he has more money, Ukrainian girls he pays for. Either way, there is no steady sexual experience—you know, with one partner, when you get to learn and explore and discover new layers of decadence. Neither can you sleep around and search for your sexual identity—whatever that means. You finally pair up with a spouse, spend some time getting used to each other, start listening to your body, open up and…discover that you haven’t done this earlier, that you haven’t “experimented in college”, haven’t kissed the same sex person, haven’t had one night stands; you have never been stupid, never been “I can’t believe I slept with him”, “I don’t remember last night”, “did we really…?”

I already know of several instances when the partner opened up wife/husband and then he/she discovered dormant feelings, went ahead and tried “to find oneself”. This is extremely unfair to the partner that pointed out the forbidden fruit to the spouse, even described the delicious crunch of biting into it. Families fall apart, both parties feel treated unfair, chaos descends upon Tbilisi.

Where do I stand? Is it more justified to cheat here than in the countries where you can play around all you want until you consciously agree to commit? Do we really give an informed consent when we marry so early?

Life is about trading. For example, I exchange my time for my salary, my silence for social acceptance, my pain for waxed legs. I exchange my freedom for stability, my inner slut for reassurance that I will always have someone I can rely on, who respects me, who accepts me, who puts me first. On the scale of importance, on the scale of what matters more, playing around is less important than all the warmth I get in my relationship. I shudder from the thought of being without him. If I were alone, would I be happy? Not anymore.

Hence, for me, it is just not worth it. I am not even discussing pain, the burden of lie, the misplaced trust. That is another topic, it is a very serious topic and I am not sure I can put emotional aspect of it in words. I am not even sure how would I react to hubby cheating. I don’t know, cause there is nothing like that in my empirical experience. I can’t even hypothesize. I might get up and leave, I might jump out of the balcony, I might forgive, I don’t know.

The moral is: cheating is impulsive, bringing short-term satisfaction. Marriage, relationship, fulfilling monogamy gives you strength maybe even for a lifetime. It weighs more.

pic: Thai swans

Do we need valentine’s day?

Do you know that St. Valentine actually died on February 14^th? That we have been eating chocolates and exchanging cards to commemorate his hanging?

Do you know how many overprized cards, useless toys and chocolate is bought this day? How many girls are upset cause their boys couldn’t plan anything decent, how many pairs go to the noisy restaurants, where they can’t even hold a decent conversation?

How many stupid romantic comedies are released for this day? How many poor guys have to endure them without vomiting?

So I will sing along with Cher—IS IT WORTH IT?

What did I do for this Valentine’s Day? Hubby and I were in Kiev (in transit from Thailand), saw frozen Dnepr river, drank coffee in the cutest place and he got me beautiful flowers the next day (when we got back home). We held hands and rubbed our noses together. We were disgusting. :-)

When you are caught in a routine, when you prefer to watch Dr. House on a couch instead of clubbing in a sexy outfit, when much of your conversations revolve around your cat, when if he makes dinner you do the dishes and vice versa, you need a shaking up day!

Who cares if it is completely fabricated, if it is commercialized, if some companies get rich by selling us cards and bears?! It gives us the push, the kick in a butt to stand up and do something!

You know what? This collectualistic, ritualistic celebrations are all that we have left from the olden days when our ancestors used to dance around the fire and hoped that the smoke would reach the spirits in the sky. We need days to get us closer, both to each other and to the community. And though some sarcastic, leftist people will make fun of me, I am a part of this world, I am part of humankind, I have no desire to stand aside and live separately from my tribe. Yes, I like to be different, but also, I like the tribal connection. On February 14^th, I like seeing pairs holding hands and to be one myself.

The hubby and I have all kinds of rituals. For example, when he comes home from work, I get our cat and he hugs me and the cat. We also celebrate the day of our 1^st kiss, every month. Some anniversaries even have special names, like the Penguin day. We don’t need a special day to celebrate each other, but having one ensures that at least that day can’t be turned into a mundane we-love-couch. Sometimes I anticipate our kiss day for a week. Cause I know for sure, we won’t ruin it by commonplace practices.

Hence, after all, why shouldn’t we give each other flowers, if we really do like flowers? We don’t need special day to do it, but why can’t we do it on special day too? Sometimes we really do need to have mandatory fun. Otherwise, we won’t have any.

the pic: the postcard pic of hubby and me in thailand, 2 days before the valentine's. expect an exiting update post on that.

The Battle of the Stalingrad

Last Friday I saw a play worth seeing. I recommend it to everyone, including my non-Georgian friends: it is subtitled.

I don't know, what should I call Rezo Gabriadze's piece. I never thought that puppet theatre could accomplish so much. I couldn't imagine puppets as emotional mediums...

Rezo Gabriadze is a very famous Georgian screen-writer, director and production designer. He is a man of big wit, humor, depth and taste. Recently, he designed a cute little tower by the puppet theatre on 26 Shavteli St. Every hour a little angel comes out and strikes a bell. Really, it's very awwwwww.

After seeing the angel, you should check out the play. Each puppet is handcrafted by Gabriadze and is an art piece. The beginning is especially impressive: we saw a faceless soldier digging out his war past from the sand. The first images stayed in our minds because we were not yet used to these artful puppets and every one of them surprised us. For example, a train made out of an iron bucket.

After a while, we got used to the beauty on the stage and we started taking in the story. It is very minimal. I would even say pretty conventional, story about war, disjointed images, longing, missing, death, love...however, puppets give it a new life, new breath, fresh meaining.

What will you see?

You will see series of images and mini-stories. You will see horses falling in low and ants talking with angels. You will see cars in the dark, humming and helmets marshing and marshing. Your eyes will feast on different artful puppets, some heavy, some light.

I admit that I became centimental. It was just another story about the war, love and death, but it still made me sad.

Or, maybe it was not just another story about the war, love and death...

P.S. pic is stolen from this website: http://vvoice.vo.llnwd.net/e12/a-war-on-love.1932885.40.jpg. God help my camera leave the state of coma, please!

Of Work and Other Things

Well, what can I say? This post is pretty late, sorry, real life took over me. From now on, I won't have enough time to write the post one day, edit it on the second day and spend much time on the pictures. And, by the way, my camera broke down, so we'll have series of picturless posts for several weeks. I usually publish pics that I take, but if the camera isn't resurected, I will start stealing them from the net.
So, this is an amorphous post, concerning all the stuff happening around me. No order, no spell check, no common sense.
Worse of times, definetely worse of times. Cause things just happen around me. And I only have 15 minutes to list them.
Well, like the internally dispalced people chased away from their homes. That is just plain ugly. One women even set herself on fire. Massive hysteria.
What else? Oh, the vetarans prostest meeting by the Abkhazia war memorial. Meeting was broken up, shall we say, not gently?
What else? Trying to figure out how to do house chores when I get home at 7. Not that I do that much at work that I am exhausted (well, not yet), but being somewhere, doing something from 9:30 till 6:30 makes you want to spend your free time watching trashy reality TV, not do the dishes.
And what about nails, hair, shaving my legs? What about picking up outfits and ironing clothes?
When are women doing that?Respect to you, working women with nice nails!
You know how I always claim that being a housewive is lame? Well, it is certainly a lot more relaxing.
Let's see...TLG teachers being fired when they thougth they're gone on a vacation...imagine, you leave your things here, go visit your family in the States, you haven't said good-byes, you haven't written down e-mails and phone numbers, you haven't brought souvenier wine...if anyone still wants our wine...and they let you know that you can't come back anymore. This is how American teachers got fired--while being on vacation, without any prior notice. Great! Let's spread the tales of our hospitality across the oceans!
Oh, and my break is over.
Truly, this is an exceptional country!

The Old Carpet

The carpet is made of tiny strings, and all of them splash red, orange, brown multitude of colors. The pomegranate is red, and it bleeds. The lace can be white or it can be black. The lace can hide face, can hide eyes, can reveal feelings. The carpet can be colorful, can hang on the wall, can lie on the ground, can be covered with the pomegranates. And people can remember and people can forget, but some do remember.

Today, the carpet woke up in a dusty room. It was brought out. It was spread. It was covered with many, many pomegranates. The carpet was humble, and it minded the cameras. The carpet was humble, but it held many, many pomegranates.

Six years ago I decided that the more strings I weave, the more colorful carpet I’ll get. So, along with the university, I started taking lessons in Spanish, volunteered for the FLEX activities, continued my creative writing and debates, went to a modeling school and took some photography classes. One day, our photography teacher took us to watch how he was shooting a film. During the breaks, for the first time, he started discussing film and film photography with us. He said, Parajanov is genius, what he does in one shot, he only shows Chiaureli’s face with the white lace and it is the most beautiful shot in the film history.

This week, it was Parajanov's birthday. The day before, I watched “the Color of the Pomegranates”. Next day, I spent almost 30 minutes picking out the perfect pomegranate. I bought three different ones in three different markets. I wore red. I wore black gloves. I was no Chiaureli, but still, I wanted to feel special. I wanted to buy lace and wrap my pomegranate in it, but I spent so much time selecting the fruit that I couldn't. I had to hurry. 6 P.M., Bambis rigi, Parajanov’s monument.

There are people in this world that care about things. No, not me. People that actually do something. Those people want to have Parajanov's street in Tbilisi. They want to have a museum. They asked us to gather by his monument that evening and bring a pomegranate. They provided his pictures. They screened a film. They cared.

And then, TV cameras danced their little dance and the journalists mentioned everyone important. You know, the ministries and such.

The carpet was humble, and it minded the cameras. The carpet was humble, but it held many, many pomegranates. And after it was over, they took away the pomegranates and the carpet was put back in the dusty room. It was just an old rug, nothing fancy.

Rain Man…and Boys and Girls

The only place where you don’t want to see any rain is the rainiest place in whole Georgia. The irony of life has never been so obvious.

Last New Year’s Eve we spent in NY; this January the 31^st, we were conquering new heights, the Georgian Barcelona: Batumi.

We arrived at 7 A.M., --IT WAS RAINING—and were showed a seemingly decent “hotel”. My husband had hypoglycemia, dehydration, acetaldehyde intoxication, and glutamine rebound—more commonly known as a hangover. So he spent most of the day sleeping and rest of the day arguing with a waitress—he craved soup. “No Soup”, she declared. “Beer?” he hoped. “We don’t import beer on holidays (?!?!!?!?!)”, she answered, determined to deny any attempts of money coming into her restaurant. “Tea with lemon”, asked my desperate husband. “We don’t make tea”, was her answer. IT WAS RAINING.

After getting some warmth and alcohol, we went to the free concert, with Bocelli, Cirque Du Soleil and other fun stuff. Or so I was told. Cause I’d be damned, if I saw anything. Sandwiched between somebody’s armpits and chests, I longed to catch a glimpse of the concert. I couldn’t hear a note cause some stupid girls kept screaming behind me “oh I don’t like operas, oh, I think I broke my heels, oh…” I take this opportunity to say: I hate you, screaming girls who come to free concerts without even knowing who Bocelli is! Let the all of your heels be broken from now on! AND DID I MENTION THAT IT STILL KEPT RAINING?

At 11:50 we decide that this is lame and spend the next ten minutes sprinting towards the sea. We don’t make it; instead, we jump into the fountain (at this point we are so wet, we don’t care), pose for a pic with champagne. It was supposed to burst out, joyfully splashing us with bubbles. It absolutely refused to do so, no matter how much we shook it and even banged it against the concrete. Then, we wanted to light the cheap Chinese excuse for fireworks, but instead of exploding, the little balls of fire kinda limped through the air, with the saddest sound. Finally, we went up to the sea and decided to fire a rocket thingy. The lighter broke down. AND, ALL THIS TIME, IT IS STILL RAINING.

We went home. Four of our friends were not with us during this whole getting- into- the- fountain- on- 12 o’clock adventure. We thought that they just stayed to watch the concert. Two of them did. In fact, those two people were the only ones, out of all twelve of us, who saw the concert. However, the other two had an unforgettable experience. When we ran to the fountains, they ran to the “hotel”, only to discover that we locked all the doors. Wet and angry, they tried getting into cafes—but were turned down, due to no reservations. Finally, they were admitted to some smelly restaurant, full of men, no females whatsoever. All the food was already served to men and a waitress, feeling sorry for the two wet girls, brought them whatever she found in the kitchen—two pieces of bread and two pieces of cheese! Battling the drunken men who tried to dance with them and munching on stale bread, they greeted the year 2011. AND OF COURSE IT WAS STILL RAINING.

I won’t bore you, how the lights went off in our hotel, leaving us heatless, how we wore each others relatively dry clothes, shoes and socks, how we had an argument with the “hotel” owner and how many empty bottles we left behind—this post is too long already. When we finally got on the train, the night of the January 1^st, we discovered that a lady at the train station back in Tbilisi sold us the wrong tickets. We were in fact, proud holders of tickets route Tbilisi-Batumi, not the return tickets Batumi-Tbilisi. My name was yelled out several times “ Pasumonok, get off the train now!”, while my husband tried to obtain relevant tickets.

And you know what? When the train started leaving Batumi, THE RAIN STOPPED! Only, now we did not care.

the pics: us trying to open the damn champagne. Us trying to launch the rocket thingy

Queer Theory

Last Friday I attended a discussion on the queer theory, in DRCAA (DRCCA?DDRCA? This name contains way too many letters).

I learned that the queer theory claims that norms, categorization, even the term LGBT are sources of discrimination. “We’re normal too”—is really validating the existence of an accepted norm and a desire to be a part of it, when in reality, there is no “normal sexuality”.

As I sat there, I've noticed was how different it felt to be in the LGBT community in Tbilisi. I sensed something unusual (queer?) in the air, dare I say conspiracy? Secret? Boldness? Thrill?

I remember, back in the States, my friend took me to a birthday party of her “gay husband”. Somehow, being the only girl among three dozens of gay men was more relaxing than being in DRCAA. I don’t mean to say that I was nervous or scared or something ridiculous like that. I was more…emotional? Exited? Unsettled? This shows how the whole social setting affects the way we perceive people, society and ourselves.

I took notes during the lecture, I was going to write more about the theory, but no, if anyone is interested, Internet is full of the relevant info. Personally, I believe that it is fundamentally right, but like any theory that sprang as an opposition to an established order, it falls into extremes. However, I took home something more important then the theory…

Conspiracy? Maybe. Boldness and thrill…admiration and respect. Because have you, my dear reader, ever had to oppose the whole world, when everyone screamed that you are, in your essence, in your core, either sick, perverted or dysfunctional? The last time I’ve experienced such admiration was during the disability awareness project, when I saw people fighting for basic rights, denying pity.

What can say? Do I have a right to say anything? I am white, I am straight, I am well-educated, I am girl ( well, at least I can complain about gender issues J), I went to a private school, I had a very accepting family, I love my husband. No matter what I say or write, no matter my empathy, no matter my indignation, I can never ache the pain of the people assembled at DRCAA that night. Boldness, in the air? You bet!

I am a disgustingly lucky, privileged SOB (Daughter Of B?). Nevertheless, I refuse to live in the country of hate, in the country of injustice, in the country of Pharisees and false prophets!

And if you think that all this hate is bypassing you because you happened to fit in—beware of the day you fall out of favor.

I don’t know what to do, how to help, how to be there for anyone who needs me (does anyone need me?). Everything is way too complicated in Tbilisi. But I refuse to live in this filth, in this hypocrisy, in this "don’t ask, don’t tell, if you tell, we will beat" you environment.

We all deserve better.