18-oz. box of Shredded Wheat – $5.31
52 ozs. (not even half a gallon) of milk – $5.65
15 ozs. (just shy of a pound) of butter – $5.41
1 baking potato – $0.84
1 can Progresso Minestrone – $3.43
1 Stouffer’s frozen entree (single serving) – $4.31
1 3.6-oz. cup of Haagen Dazs ice cream (my guilty pleasure) – $1.93

I’m over $25 already, and I only have some odds and ends and a dessert. Okay, and a couple of extra bowls of cereal. But no meat, no veggies, no fruit yet — not even a loaf of bread ($4.97). So what is wrong with this picture?

Nothing, if you’re wealthy. But how many of us are? Come on . . . raise your hand if you’re filthy stinkin’ rich. Nobody? I thought not. Because those one-percenters aren’t reading my blog or surfing on Facebook. They’re snacking on caviar and champagne aboard their yachts on the Mediterranean, when they’re not working 24/7 to earn their next hundred million.

*. *. *

So what’s my point? Um . . .

Wait a minute . . . I know I had a point here somewhere. It was . . . Oh, right! It wasn’t to moan and groan about inflation, or Medicare, or Elon Musk’s most recent $48,000,000,000 (that’s $48 Billion) compensation package from Tesla — although I could find a few choice things to say about that last one.

No, it’s just that the cost of this week’s groceries brought me back a few years . . . actually, a lot of years . . . to when I was 13, and my grandmother came to stay with us while my mother was in the hospital for ten days.

First, Mother wasn’t in danger of dying. In fact, she wasn’t even sick. She was having cataract surgery on one eye, which in those days was a huge deal: both eyes patched so she couldn’t watch TV, read, or see anything at all. And her head was sandbagged so she couldn’t move it. It was horrible. The last thing she needed was to worry about my sister and me, so our Bubbe came down from Rhode Island to D.C. to make sure we didn’t destroy the apartment, or run off with a couple of losers from the neighborhood. And to cook for us, which was the best part. I know I’ve mentioned her cooking before, more than once.

So while Mom lay immobilized in the hospital, we ate like princesses. And while I was at school and my sister at work during the day, our already clean apartment got cleaned again to within an inch of its life, while the neighbors gathered in the hallway to try to determine where the incredible side-by-side odors of cleaning products and stuffed cabbages were coming from.

On her second or third day there, Bubbe found her way, by herself, to the grocery store for provisions, for which our mother had given her money before leaving for the hospital. And when I got home from school that day, she was practically in tears.

“Bubbe, what on earth is the matter?”

“Oh, your mother’s going to be so mad at me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, tell me what you’ve done. It can’t be that bad.”

I figured at the very least she had broken one of my mother’s treasured Hummel figurines.

Taking a deep breath — more of a sob — she finally blurted out: “Well, I went to the store. You know, the one up the street?”

“By yourself? You should have waited for me to go with you!”

“What am I . . . a little girl you should have to walk with me? I can go to a store by myself. Anyway, I bought a chicken for roasting, and a brisket, and some potatoes and carrots and onions, and a few other things . . . “

“Yeah, yeah, fine. But what’s the problem?”

More inhaling/sobbing. Then, finally: “She’s going to kill me. I didn’t know everything was so expensive here. I spent five dollars!”

Oh! My! God! She spent five dollars!

And I did what any loving, respectful granddaughter would have done to make her grandmother feel better: I laughed. Because even in those days (somewhere in the 1950s), five dollars — the cost of a loaf of bread today — was not a lot for groceries.

After Bubbe stopped yelling at me for being so rude and unfeeling, I was able to calm her down by explaining to her what we usually spent on a week’s groceries, and everyone felt better. And we three ate like royalty for several days on that same five dollars.

To keep things in perspective, however, let me explain that my mother and my sister each had office jobs that paid — before taxes — $50 a week. Our rent, as I recall, was something like $75 a month for an ordinary, un-air-conditioned, two-bedroom apartment. And my mother managed to put aside the money to pay for my weekly piano lessons.

It was a very different world then. We didn’t have a car, so we walked or rode the bus everywhere. We didn’t have desktops, laptops, iPads or iPhones, so we read a lot more books and played board games. And we talked to each other . . . face-to-face . . . about everything.

And we didn’t know about cholesterol, or sodium, or ketoacidosis, so when Bubbe told us to “clean our plates because there were children starving in Europe,” we happily complied. I never pointed out to her that my eating every bite of my dinner wasn’t going to help those poor starving children; it would have broken her heart. And I couldn’t do that; I loved her too much.

The ten days passed quickly — though not so much for our poor, sandbagged mother. She did survive it, of course, and by the time she had the cataract removed from the other eye years later, it had become an outpatient procedure and my sister and I were old enough not to need a visit from Bubbe. In any event, she had passed away by then, taking with her the secret of how to feed three people for a full week on five dollars.

*. *. *

So would I give up my air-conditioning, my car, my electronics, and all of today’s other sources of comfort and instant gratification to go back to those simpler days? I know my answer to that question. What’s yours?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/15/24

In my day, it might have been two Roy Rogers for one Gene Autry. But for generations, kids have been swapping trading cards, or Hot Wheels, or a couple of Twinkies for a bag of chips.

In today’s adult world, the hot commodity is people.

This week’s news, even for Putin’s Russia, is so far beyond the pale as to be nearly inconceivable. But they have gone and done it: they have — after detaining him without formal charges for more than a year in Moscow’s notorious Lefortovo Prison — formally charged Wall Street Journal reporter Evan Gershkovich with espionage, accusing him of spying for the CIA. If convicted, he could receive a sentence of up to twenty years in prison. (See my blog post of March 27, 2024, if you’re not familiar with his case.)

Russian prosecutors said the FSB (Federal Security Service) had “established and documented” that Gershkovich was acting on CIA instructions in “collect[ing] secret information” about a Russian tank factory. According to the charges, he had “carried out the illegal actions using painstaking conspiratorial methods.” [Anna Chernova, Christian Edwards and Jennifer Hansler, CNN, June 13, 2024.]

Is this happening now because, during the past 14 months, their investigators have found some new, plausible evidence to support these charges? Nope.

Is it because Gershkovich has actually confessed to some activity that could reasonably be construed as spying? Definitely not.

Or is it because the Russian standard for the acceptable parameters of a journalist’s job is so detached from reality and from worldwide accepted norms as to be unrecognizable? No, it isn’t even that — not in this case.

To put it as simply as possible, Evan Gershkovich, hostage, has now become Vladimir Putin’s No. 1 pawn in a deadly game of political chess. They want a swap. We are amenable to a swap, and in fact have been trying to negotiate a resolution for over a year. But what they want is not a fair trade . . . nor is it a simple one. What they apparently desire in exchange for this innocent journalist is a vicious, admitted killer-for-hire: Vadim Krasikov, a former colonel in Russia’s FSB, successor to the KGB, currently serving a life sentence in Germany following his conviction for assassination of a former Chechen fighter in broad daylight in Berlin in 2019.

To Russia, however, this butcher is a hero. In Putin’s own words, delivered in his now notorious interview with the equally notorious right-wing nut job Tucker Carlson: “Listen, I’ll tell you: sitting in one country, a country that is an ally of the United States, is a man who, for patriotic reasons, eliminated a bandit in one of the European capitals.”

Could you ask for a clearer example of a double standard? He has already succeeded in getting back infamous arms dealer Viktor Bout in exchange for basketball star Brittney Griner, despite refusing to include American Paul Whelan (and possibly Russian dissident Alexei Navalny) in that negotiation. (Those talks fell through when Navalny suddenly and mysteriously died in the Siberian prison camp in which he was serving a 30-year combined sentence.) And now Putin wants another of his ignominious criminals released.

But there is a major problem in this case, and that is that Krasikov is not in America’s jurisdiction; he is in prison in Germany. And yes, Germany is our ally, and a member of NATO. But it is not our puppet, or anyone else’s. We cannot order Chancellor Scholz to install a traffic light on Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse, much less release a convicted murderer in a deal with Russia. It just doesn’t work that way.

And even if we were able to convince Chancellor Scholz that it would be in everyone’s best interests to do so, wouldn’t he be well within his rights to expect a little something in return? Perhaps there’s a German citizen being wrongfully detained in Russia on some spurious charge? Or maybe there is nothing — not a single thing — that Germany wants from Russia at this point in time. Whatever the circumstances, this is a three-way negotiation, not simply a tit-for-tat between Russia and the United States.

It’s complicated.

And in the meantime, Evan Gershkovich sits in Lefortovo Prison, awaiting transfer to an equally dismal facility in Yekaterinburg where he was originally arrested, and where he will look forward to further incarceration and ultimately to a sham trial and an inevitable guilty verdict. And more and more hostages keep piling up in Russia’s archipelago of prisons and penal colonies, while the best we and our allies can do is negotiate within the limits of international law.

Sometimes, life simply isn’t fair.

*. *. *

Postscript: And if you happen to be a fan of irony, or farce imitating reality, or simply a good laugh, I’ve got one for you. Earlier this week, Tatyana Moskalkova, Russia’s Human Rights Commissioner (and if that isn’t an oxymoron, I’ve never heard one), appealed to senior United Nations and other officials “to take action to secure the release of Russian nationals still held by Hamas in the Gaza Strip.” [Reuters, June 11, 2024.]

Writing on the Telegram messaging app, she said she had met in Moscow with relatives of the hostages still being held (of whom there were originally eight, three having already been released): “In one conversation, one of the mothers told me details of the situation of those being held.” Following that meeting, she appealed to the U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights and the head of the International Committee of the Red Cross “for the rapid return home of our compatriots.” [Reuters, id.]

Seriously??!!!

Well, perhaps she’d like to discuss a swap with the head of Hamas in Gaza for some of the hostages being held by her own government; I’m sure there must be an Islamist or two somewhere in Russia. Then she and Putin would find out how it feels to be on the receiving end of someone else’s middle finger.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/14/24

I know what you younger readers are thinking: “How can she possibly remember back that far?” Well, that’s one of the many, many, many strange and unexpected things about getting older. You can’t remember whether your socks are supposed to go on your feet or hang from your ears; but you recall every last detail of every date you had from the time you were thirteen, including what you were wearing. It’s kind of cool, really.

So yes, I can recount practically every hour of that 18th day of March of nineteen-whatever-year A.D. it was. Birthdays were still a big deal then, and more so because my birthday was also my sister Merna’s half-birthday (and vice-versa, obviously). She was five and a half years older, and we had spent most of our lives fighting as only sisters can do. But when it was her birthday or mine, it was dinner together in one of Washington’s finest restaurants. And that year it was my favorite: Costin’s Sirloin Room, in the National Press Building at 14th and F Streets, N.W. The building is still there, but sadly, the restaurant isn’t. It’s too bad, both because the food and service were phenomenal, and because I believe they hung a plaque in my honor on that marble column. I’m not sure, though, as I never did return after that day . . .

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up to earlier in the day. I was working in a small law firm, and had made sure everyone knew it was my birthday so that I would be deluged with “Happy Birthday” greetings as soon as I walked in the door that morning. I didn’t let anyone take me to lunch, though, because I was — as usual in those days — on a strict diet; and knowing I was scheduled for a huge dinner that evening, I had decided a liquids-only fast was in order until then.

But champagne is liquid . . . right? And my boss — a wonderful guy named Frank — had brought a bottle specifically for the occasion. At around 4:30, he declared the working day over, and he and I withdrew to his office, popped the cork of that bottle . . . and finished it off, just the two of us — me on an empty stomach — after which I drove home. (I know, I know, but I was young and stupid . . . not that that’s a legitimate excuse, but we’ve all done things we’d rather not confess to . . . )

So I drove home, fixed dinner for my two little ones, changed into something pretty, left the kids with my mother, and took off to fetch my sister and begin the evening’s festivities. And I felt fine.

Now, about that something pretty. It was a silk “tent” dress, above-the-knee length, and made to be gathered and belted at the waist. And at the time, I was a tiny size six, with kind of an hourglass figure: Dolly Parton on top, Scarlett O’Hara in the middle, and almost — but not quite — Kardashian on the hips, but without the huge dirigible in the rear. So that dress got belted as it was meant to be. In case you’re wondering, the dress plays a starring role later in this drama.

*. *. *

There was an extra person with us at dinner that evening: the boyfriend of a friend of Merna’s who was visiting from the west coast. He was anticipating a really good meal, but not the floor show that went with it . . .

I recall starting the evening with one — just one — whiskey sour, then launching into my favorite Costins meal: fresh-baked crusty rolls with their secret-recipe cheese spread, salad, and a whopping slab of prime rib practically hanging off the edges of the plate. The baked potato, loaded with sour cream of course, was on a separate plate. And when I think of it now, I want to vomit.

These days, I’d be full after a piece of bread and the salad; but back then, I had an appetite like a longshoreman’s, and I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. So that beautiful, juicy, perfectly rare hunk of bovine was not going to waste . . . to my waist, maybe, but not to waste. (Don’t you love the English language?)

*. *. *

After finally putting down our forks and knives and allowing the waiter to remove our plates with the few remaining scraps, we were in the middle of a very pleasant discussion of the dessert menu when I announced to my dinner companions that I was not feeling very well. Merna took one look at me, stood up, took me by the arm, and we headed back to the ladies’ room at the other end of the restaurant. And about halfway there, we came to that big marble column I mentioned earlier . . .

I felt myself going. I reached for the column . . . and missed. As I slid slowly toward the floor, my first and only thought was, “Oh, Merna’s going to be so pissed.” The next thing I knew, one of the wonderful Costin’s waiters was standing behind me, hands in my armpits, trying to pull me up onto my feet. And then I had a second thought: “My dress!” It was short, it was silk, and it was sliding rapidly north. As the waiter pulled me upward, I grabbed the skirt of the dress and pulled down. He pulled up; I pulled down. He pulled up . . . Well, you get the picture. I finally managed to reach a vertical position without having exposed too much of my Kardashian end (I hope), just as the waiter guided me two steps to my left and into a chair . . . at a table across from two men apparently engaged in an intense business discussion.

“Well, hello there.”

No, they didn’t actually say it — in fact, they didn’t say anything. They were dumbstruck. But never one to let a moment pass without some sort of comment, I looked at them, somewhat glassy-eyed, mumbled “I’m not drunk, honestly” . . . as my forehead hit the table and it all went dark once more. Luckily — the only real bit of luck during this entire time — there was no food on my side of the table.

I was told I was only out for a moment. When I sat up — and offered an abject apology to the two men, who still hadn’t uttered a sound — I was able, with Merna’s support, to make it back to the ladies’ room, where I splashed a little cold water on my face and sat for a few minutes. Then — and I still can’t believe I did this — we returned to our table, where I ordered a huge slice of Costin’s famous rum pie and washed down every last crumb with a cup of tea.

And then I drove home.

*. *. *

There was something magical — in an evil sense, not a good one — about that 30th birthday. For whatever reason, it hit me hard, as though the number 30 indicated the end of the best years of my life. For the next four or five years, I told people I was “29 and holding,” until my smart-mouthed daughter — by then aged eight or nine — said to give it up; no one was going to believe me for much longer anyway.

And so it goes. The following decades were somehow easier, and in fact, some of my best years were yet to come. I guess I just adjusted to the idea that I wasn’t Peter Pan. It’s either that, or drive yourself and everyone around you batshit crazy. Sometimes I would still jokingly tell people I was 29 and holding, and you know what? My daughter was right . . . they didn’t believe me.

Since every story needs a moral, I suppose mine is simply this:

Tempus fugit . . . and we are all destined to fugit with it. No sense trying to lie about it.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/13/24

One of the many places in this wide world that I’ve always wanted to see is Australia. Long before “Crocodile Dundee” came along to alter my perception of what a real man should be, there was 1960’s “The Sundowners.” What could be sexier than Robert Mitchum and Deborah Kerr going toe-to-toe in the Outback? And as though that weren’t enough to entice me, there was the young man in my office who went there on vacation in the early ‘80s, came home, sold everything, and went back to Australia to stay. When last heard from, he was deliriously happy.

So yes, I’d love to see it. But to live there? Well, that’s a whole other ball game. It’s not the rigors of living in the Outback, or what we Americans would call the countryside. I’m a city girl, and I would undoubtedly choose life in Sydney, or Brisbane, or the capital city of Canberra. (Bet you thought it was Sydney, didn’t you?) And it’s not because of the climate, or the economy, or the governmental structure — they’re all fine. I wouldn’t even have to learn a new language — just some local idioms. I already know the chorus to “Waltzing Matilda.” So it’s none of those things.

No; quite simply, it’s . . . the wildlife.

Aside from the familiar — and oh, so lovable — kangaroos and koalas, and wombats and wallabies, there is a list as long as my arm of the strangest, most baffling, and often most terrifying land, sea and air denizens. And while I’ve always been an animal lover, I’ve come to realize that that does not include all animals.

Thanks once more to the wonders of Google, I found a list of about 50 that are native to Australia, most of which I’ve never heard of, and a few I can barely pronounce. If I were talented enough, I’d probably write a little poem for each animal in the style of the inimitable Ogden Nash. (Examples of his: “The cow is of the bovine ilk; one end is moo, the other, milk.” And, on the subject of courting: “Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.” How do you compete with that?)

Maybe another day. For now, just allow me to introduce you to some of the most unusual, and mostly really scary, critters from the Southern Hemisphere.

*. *. *

It’s not poetry, but I do have a silly tune running through my brain now, written by Sheb Wooley in 1958 about a mythical creature: “It was a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin’ purple people eater . . .” Let’s try this, to the same tune:

“It is a duck-billed, beaver-tailed, otter-footed marsupial . . .”

I tried to work in “egg-laying mammal” and “semi-aquatic” as well, but they didn’t fit. And this very real creature, by the way, has the additional asset of an uber-cute name: it is called Platypus. You’ve no doubt heard of it, but probably never encountered one unless you live in Australia. And did you know it’s also one of the few species of venomous mammals, having a spur on its hind foot that carries a reportedly very painful venom? So if you do happen to see one, I wouldn’t recommend challenging it to a kick-boxing match.

By the way, I tried really hard to find something — anything — that would even vaguely rhyme with “platypus,” but failed miserably. Where is Ogden Nash when you need him? (Sadly, deceased for some 50-plus years.)

*. *. *

One absolutely adorable little fellow I ran across is the Quokka. He is described as “a small hopping marsupial with an almost human-like smile, earning it the nickname ‘the world’s happiest animal.’ It has a rounded body, greyish-brown fur, small ears and large dark eyes.” Don’t entertain thoughts of ever owning one, however . . . they’re listed as endangered.

*. *. *

And now from the benign to the deadly, since they are the reason I will never set foot on Australian soil (that, and the cost of the plane fare):

The Tasmanian Devil — no, not “Taz” of Looney Tunes fame — earned its name because of “its blood-curdling screams, eerie growls, black color, foul odor, and aggressive behavior. It is the world’s largest carnivorous marsupial and prefers to eat dead animals.” Yeah, okay . . . got it. Stay away from the Devil.

Box Jellyfish. The most venomous animal in the world. Did you hear that? The most venomous animal in the world. Do you want me to repeat it in ALL CAPS?!! Its sting can kill a human in less than two minutes. It lives in the warm waters off the coast of Australia and the Pacific and Indian Oceans, and — I guess this is supposed to be reassuring — “is not aggressive toward humans.” But it lives in warm, shallow waters that are popular with swimmers, so sometimes sh*t happens. Its most recent known victim was a 14-year-old boy who died of its sting in 2022. I can take a hint.

Redback Spider. The second most dangerous spider in the world. It’s the females — the ones with a red stripe on top of their bodies — that you have to watch out for. The male is tiny and harmless, and is often eaten by the female after mating. A bite from a female can be fatal to a human. Frankly, when it comes to spiders, I never get close enough to look for a red stripe or any other marking.

And not to be outdone is the No. 1 deadliest and most aggressive spider in the world: the Funnel Web Spider, whose bite can kill a human in 15 minutes — 15 long, agonizing minutes during which you’re praying for the Deity to just take you already. It looks like any old black spider to me, which makes it doubly dangerous. Its diet consists of crawling insects and small animals. Being a fairly small animal myself, I’m giving this one a wide berth.

Eastern Brown Snakes. I generally like snakes, but I’ll pass on this one. The second most venomous snake in the world, they are responsible for the most snakebite fatalities in Australia. They feed on vertebrates, frogs, lizards, birds, mammals, and eggs. Got that? Vertebrates. Mammals. Doesn’t that include people?

*. *. *

Okay, I’m seeing a definite trend here. Australia is not a destination of choice for the squeamish, or those who prefer to live to a ripe old age. That would include me, so you now know why my dream of someday seeing the land down under will most likely never come true.

But, not to be too morbid, let’s close with a couple of cuties I hadn’t heard of previously.

Black Swan. Well, actually I had heard of this one — in my all-time favorite ballet, Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake.” She was the evil swan, Odile. But the real black swan is “a large water bird with striking black plumage, a long neck, and a red bill. It makes high-pitched musical bugle-like sounds. [It] is omnivorous, feeding on aquatic plants, insects, and small animals.” Black swans can reach a top flying speed of 80 k.p.h., and often fly in a wedge formation. They have an impressive lifespan of up to 40 years. Charmingly, one of several names for a group of black swans is “a ballet.” A ballet of swans. Probably not a coincidence.

And finally . . .

Antechinus. This is a cute little mouse-like marsupial, usually grey, brown, black, or golden-colored. It preys on insects and small animals, and at first seemed rather innocuous . . . until I read that “They have a suicidal oversexed sexual behavior.” You read that correctly: The male literally mates itself to death!

So how have they not screwed themselves into extinction?

I think that’s as good a place as any to end this.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/12/24

We’ve all done it: bought things on impulse that we’ve later wished we could return for a refund, and thought how wealthy we’d be if we had all that wasted money back. Oh, not the good things, or the ones with sentimental value — not the portrait of Lenin wangled from a Russian government official for $50 and smuggled out of Moscow in my suitcase; or the beautiful Bohemian crystal cordial glasses so carefully packed and brought back from that summer in Prague; and definitely not the $1,000 string of Ming pearls I practically stole at the phenomenal sale price of $500, even though I rarely have anywhere appropriate to wear them these days.

No, I’m talking about the “stuff” that accumulates over the years without our even realizing it, until one day we look around and find ourselves nearly buried in “tchotchki” . . . trinkets, knick-knacks, or whatever you choose to call them. Call them crap if you like. They were treasures when you bought them; they’re no more than dust collectors now. And finally you decide it’s time for a clean-out because you’re not actually a hoarder . . . it’s just that an accumulation of years brings with it an accumulation of stuff.

There are all sorts of motivations for purging one’s belongings: a neighborhood yard sale; overcrowded closets; a fund for the victims of an earthquake in some country you’ve never heard of; or simply one of those old-age things where you suddenly realize you’ve amassed a lot of junk over the years and your kids will eventually have to go through it all and have a good laugh at your expense. Of course, you’ll be dead, but still . . . Do you really want to give them the satisfaction?

I thought not.

So I recently began looking around — just looking, mind you, not actually doing anything about it — and I could not believe what I was seeing. I started with the clothes. I had already donated most of my good work clothes — suits, silk blouses, leather purses and high-heeled shoes — when I retired. But then I found I needed clothes to suit my new, casual, hang-around-the-house-and-the-supermarket lifestyle. And I started buying jeans, sweats, tee shirts, quilted vests . . . Note the plurals. It seems I “needed” those cute embroidered/glittery tops for every holiday on the calendar. I needed them so badly, they each got worn once, shoved in the back of the closet, and ignored after I discovered what a pain in the ass they were to launder.

And speaking of laundry, I have this habit — some people think it’s good, others think I’m crazy — of wearing something once and tossing it into the laundry basket, whether it needs washing or not. Even my jeans. So a couple of pair of those aren’t enough for me; after all, I can’t be doing laundry every day. So there are light blue, medium blue, dark blue . . . even black jeans and white jeans. Some with tapered legs, some wider. Some full-length, some ankle-length. Some heavy-duty, others lighter weight for summer. At least a dozen pair of jeans. A girl needs a choice, right?

Of course, you can’t wear jeans every day, so there are other pants as well — corduroy for winter, linen for summer, silky ones for those long-ago nights at the theater and the cruises I used to take, and the all-important sweats for our “fat days.” And so it goes, through the tee shirts (long- and short-sleeved, plus the sleeveless tanks), and the big shirts to wear over the tanks (denim, seersucker, plaid, striped, solids).

Oh, did I mention these are all in two sizes, as my weight tends to fluctuate a little? I could start my own freakin’ boutique! But since that’s not likely to happen, I just need to pull out the ones I haven’t worn in a couple of years and haul them down to the Salvation Army. Yeah, that’s all.

*. *. *

But enough about the clothes. On to the other stuff. What in the name of all that’s holy was I thinking when I bought — one volume a month (at $25 apiece) for nearly four years, back in the ‘60s — a complete set of the Great Books, leather-bound, gold-embossed . . . and never read, with one exception: Dostoevsky’s “The Brothers Karamazov,” which would have given me the same classic story in the paperback version for $10.99. And there they sit, each as virginal as the day they were delivered, looking most impressive in the beautiful, Amish-crafted bookcase I bought for $400 (one of the few purchases I don’t regret). They’re valued at about $1,000. Anybody interested? Make me an offer; I’m listening.

*. *. *

Throws. I love soft, fluffy, cozy throws for snuggling into my oversized reading chair on those cold, snowy winter nights. I kept buying them for a couple of years; they’re everywhere: on the sofa, the chair, the foot of my bed — and even a couple on a closet shelf, still in their original packaging. I live in Georgia, in the southeastern United States, for Heaven’s sake . . . it doesn’t snow here! I keep hoping, and waiting, but it just doesn’t. What is my problem??!!!

And Kokopelli. You know, that adorable little creature of Native American lore, who dances around with his little musical pipe, bringing joy and good fortune in his wake. I love him. I once had about a half dozen of his likenesses. I’m down to one now, and I’m still waiting for that good fortune to fall on me. And the dream catcher — that doesn’t work either. I still have weird, sometimes unpleasant dreams. Maybe you actually have to be Native American for those things to work. My DNA is 99% Russian, 0.6% East African, and 0.4% Norwegian. I’ve been sending my wish list to the wrong charms all these years; but I’m afraid to get rid of them in case doing so would invite bad luck, and the real good luck is simply that I’m still here.

Then there’s the file drawer filled with office supplies from the time I worked from home; the boxes of DVDs from when I had an actual DVD player; and the cookbooks from when I used to cook. Those things are usable and just need to be donated, if I can figure out who might appreciate them.

*. *. *

But then we come to the things of true sentimental value; those are the real problem. I’ve been privileged to have visited no fewer than fifteen countries and about three-fourths of the United States including Alaska. You can’t do that without bringing home souvenirs, and they all have meaning: from the green glass Inukshuk from Canada, to the amber paperweight from Estonia, to the original artwork rubbing from the “other” Georgia (the country). And gifts from others — small things mostly. A little bud vase from Portugal; a Lomonosov porcelain egg from a friend in St. Petersburg when it was still called Leningrad; all the beautiful pictures my daughter has drawn or painted for me from the time she was little.

You can’t just toss things like that; it’s like throwing away the people who gave them to you, and erasing an important part of your past.

So maybe I will just let the two of them — son and daughter — go through it all. Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . they’ll see it, not as a pile of junk to be disposed of, but as the story of their mother’s life. And they’ll know that it was a pretty good one after all.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/11/24

Somehow, it’s just a little hard to imagine:

There’s Vladimir Putin — fresh from a Security Council meeting where he has just given the go-ahead to launch another 500 hypersonic missiles at Ukraine’s most populous cities — then taking his grandchildren to the nearest kiosk for morozhenoye (ice cream), and sitting down with them to relate the classic Russian fairy tale of Snegurochka (the Snow Maiden).

With a mischievous twinkle in his eye (the less-evil one), he asks them what they would like Grandfather Frost to leave under their tree this Christmas . . . knowing full well that he has already requisitioned for each of them from his good friend, Xi Jinping, three of China’s latest and greatest mechanical toys: the rifle-totin’, rootin’-shootin’, AI-designed and operated, Robot Soldier Dog. And stockings full of live ammo, of course.

I know, I know . . . that is not the usual image projected by the Vladimir Putin we all love to hate. But, after nearly 24 years as head of the Russian government during which he rarely (if ever) acknowledged that he even had children, let alone grandchildren, suddenly two adult daughters have not only come out of hiding . . . they have emerged as full-blown, very public, very accomplished and highly-educated professionals who suddenly are all too happy — or at least willing — to pimp for dear old Dad.

Well, maybe “pimp” is a bit harsh. But “campaign” no longer works, since he’s already been reelected for another six-year term. How about “promote”? “support”? “endorse”? “build up”? Whatever you call it, they have come out with a full-speed-ahead public relations spiel that could only have been inspired by the Trump kids.

The only thing Proud Papa Putin has said about these two impressive women in the past is that one works “in science” and the other “in education.” He also has said that he has grandchildren, but not how many, what their names are, or how old they are. He keeps his private life private.

And now here they are, attending and speaking at the annual St. Petersburg International Economic Forum (SPIEF), a summit sometimes referred to as the Russian equivalent of Davos. And as it turns out, his bragging rights — though he has spurned them until now — are greater than one would think. In fact, Vorontsova, age 39, is an endocrinologist and genetics researcher with New Medical Company (NOMEKO), who — according to an investigative report published in January of this year by none other than Aleksei Navalny’s team — earned a startling 944 million rubles ($10.7 million) from 2019 to 2022. She is also a member of the Fundamental Medicine Faculty of Moscow State University. So yes, you could say she “works in” both science and education.

Tikhonova, the younger daughter, has a master’s degree in physics and mathematics; she defended her dissertation on “Mathematical problems of correcting the activity of vestibular mechanoreceptors.” (I don’t even know what to say about that.) She is director of Innopraktika, a $1.7 billion development project to create a science center at Moscow State University. Again, a blend of science and education.

So why the sudden leap into the spotlight . . . and why now? According to Ronald Marks, a former CIA officer with 38 years of service in the U.S. intelligence community, it’s all about Putin’s growing awareness of his own mortality, and his desire to establish a legacy:

“Remember it’s Putin world and we just live in it. That’s an extension of him . . . his desire to recreate the Russian empire, his desire to show himself as the most powerful guy in Russia. Young daughters represent vitality for him.” [Shannon Vavra, Daily Beast, June 7, 2024.]

Perhaps so. Maybe he’s even grooming them for government positions while he’s still in charge. As with everything he does, we just have to wait and see.

But as for those grandchildren, of whom there are supposedly three . . . well, I’ll believe the whole “Pop-Pop” role when I see it. Somehow, I can’t picture him bouncing babies on his knee. Teaching them judo might be a little more his speed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/10/24

On May 12th of this year, I introduced you to Staff Sergeant Gordon Black: a 34-year-old, divorced (or soon to be divorced) father of a six-year-old daughter; recently stationed with the U.S. Army in South Korea; and now . . . one of Vladimir Putin’s HOSTAGES.

To recap briefly, Sgt. Black had met and established a romantic relationship with a beautiful Russian woman named Aleksandra Vashchuk. She was from Vladivostok in far eastern Russia, but had been living in South Korea for several years and was working in a bar where they met. While Sgt. Black was still stationed there, she left South Korea to return home to Vladivostok.

When his tour ended and he was scheduled to return to the U.S., Black had two weeks of liberty, and decided — without clearance — to travel through China to Vladivostok to say one last goodbye to Vashchuk. Upon landing on May 2nd, he was arrested and charged with “secretly stealing property” of a person identified only as “citizen T” (but presumably Vashchuk). He was held in detention until at least July 2, 2024.

And only now has word arrived of Sgt. Black’s status. Having spent just over a month in prison in Vladivostok, he was brought to trial on Thursday, June 6th, on charges of stealing from his former girlfriend, the lovely Ms. Vashchuk. If convicted, he could face up to five years in prison.

While it is still not clear what he is accused of having stolen, or when, or how, it has been reported by Russian state news agency RIA Novosti that Black “has agreed to testify in the trial and will respond to the accusations against him later in the proceedings.” Local police have also indicated that Black is “cooperating with the authorities.” [Associated Press, June 6, 2024.]

After a month in a Russian prison, I’ll just bet he’s cooperating . . .

*. *. *

But what is the story behind the story? A clean-cut American soldier walks into a bar in South Korea and just happens to attract the attention of a lovely young Russian woman, who also just happens — some time later — to decide to return home to Russia shortly before the soldier is scheduled to transfer back to the U.S. Black’s mother and estranged wife believe that he was then “lured” to Vladivostok by Vashchuk, specifically to become another of Putin’s growing collection of American and other Western hostages.

It may sound far-fetched to anyone unfamiliar with Russia’s long history of “honey trap” schemes; but, in fact, it has been going on for decades. One need only look back on the infamous case of Marine Security Guard Clayton Lonetree, who in 1985 was seduced by a Russian woman working as a translator at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, where Lonetree was stationed. In that far more serious case, Lonetree was actually convinced to provide secret material to the woman’s real bosses, the KGB. He was caught by the American authorities, convicted of espionage, and sentenced to 30 years in prison.

Sgt. Black’s case may sound far less significant than Lonetree’s, and in terms of damage done to American intelligence, it is. But it is indicative of the lengths to which the Russian government can and does still go in using our own people against us. Human lives mean nothing to them . . . unless they’re the lives of their own agents living and working around the world. And even then, their only real value to their masters is in the secrets they possess.

*. *. *

So what will become of Gordon Black? That remains to be seen. Odds are that, within the next few days, he will be convicted of theft, given far too harsh a sentence, and locked away in one of the hellholes in Russia’s endless archipelago of penal colonies.

And thus will begin the all-too-familiar process of trying to get him back home. I offer Sgt. Black a sad “welcome” to my growing list of Putin’s HOSTAGES . . . though I fervently wish I had never heard of him, or any of the others on that list.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/9/24

*. *. *

So please — once again — let us not forget the HOSTAGES, still wasting away in various Russian prisons and penal colonies for the simple act of disagreeing with Vladimir Putin’s excessively onerous edicts. It is for them that this regular Sunday posting is written.

To those known . . .

Vladimir Kara-Murza – HOSTAGE
Evan Gershkovich – HOSTAGE
Paul Whelan – HOSTAGE
Ilya Yashin – HOSTAGE
Robert Woodland Romanov – HOSTAGE
Boris Akunin – HOSTAGE
Marc Hilliard Fogel – HOSTAGE
Asya Kazantseva – HOSTAGE
Ilya Barabanov – HOSTAGE
Alsu Kurmasheva – HOSTAGE
Aleksandr Skobov – HOSTAGE
Antonina Favorskaya – HOSTAGE
Oleg Orlov – HOSTAGE
Boris Kagarlitsky – HOSTAGE
Oleg Navalny – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Karelina – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Fadeyeva – HOSTAGE
Lilia Chanysheva – HOSTAGE
Vadim Ostanin – HOSTGE
Sergei Udaltsov – HOSTAGE
Konstantin Gabov – HOSTAGE
Danuta Perednya – HOSTAGE
Olesya Krivtsova – HOSTAGE
Staff Sgt. Gordon Black – HOSTAGE

. . . and those hundreds of others whose names remain unknown to me . . . you are not forgotten, nor have you been abandoned. The fight continues on your behalf.

Brendochka
6/9/24

Have you ever been to Lenin’s Tomb in the Moscow Kremlin? Viewed the eerily preserved body of the man most responsible for the destruction of the lives and the soul of an entire people, yet still displayed and guarded as some sort of demigod in whose waxy presence you may whisper only in the most hushed tones, if at all? (I speak from experience — I was shushed there in 1988.) Have you seen the hallowed tomb where for nearly a century people have stood in a steadily snaking line for hours, just for the privilege of gazing upon his Madame Toussaud-inspired corpse?

In all likelihood, most of you haven’t. So here, for your viewing pleasure, is Russia’s prime sample of the art of embalming.

Now consider this: In a perfect example of Dostoevskian irony, while this murderous monster lies worshipfully enshrined, the body of the man who only four short months ago gave his life trying to save those same people — Alexei Navalny — lies buried in a neighborhood cemetery far from the center of Moscow, where Vladimir Putin fervently hopes he will be forgotten as just another footnote to history.

Recently hailed by millions around the world as the potential savior of the Russian people from the ravages of Putin’s oppression, where is Navalny’s catafalque? Where are the lines of people who initially gathered to honor him on that cold February day? If indeed they are still there, why are we not seeing them in the news?

And where are the people who were to carry his torch in his absence — the very people who worked tirelessly by his side for years, and on whom he depended to carry his words to the public during the endless months of his Siberian confinement? So publicly vocal in their outrage at his obviously orchestrated death, they too are seldom heard from in the news media now.

They are not idle; they are regrouping, planning their next steps, working fervently and tirelessly so that they might carry on as he would have wished, unearthing the latent corruption so firmly embedded in the Russian hierarchy. To do any less would be an unspeakable injustice. So the question becomes: Where is the public outcry from the media?

*. *. *

To his widow, Yulia Navalnaya, to Maria Pevchikh, and to Ivan Zhdanov — all Directors of his Anti-Corruption Foundation (ACF): I know that your hearts and souls are in your continuing work on behalf of the Russian people and against the evils of the Putin regime. But where is ACF’s public face?

Amidst all of the world’s woes — wars in Ukraine and Gaza, threats from China and North Korea, natural disasters, economic and environmental issues — your voices and faces are not being carried by the mass media as Alexei’s once were . . . and as they deserve to be now. And it disturbs me greatly.

For many months while he was shuffled from prison to prison, hidden from public view, I wrote a series of articles titled “Where Is Alexei Navalny?” I hate that I have to write another . . . this time in search of his legacy.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/8/24

So why do I hear a cacophony of voices asking, “Who? The WHAT?? What the hell is an echidna?”

That’s not surprising — I had never heard of it either, until I read a fascinating, though somewhat disgusting, news item about one today. It seems that something happened off the coast of North Queensland, Australia, that had never happened before . . . or, at least, had never been witnessed before. A tiger shark was seen vomiting up a dead one . . . a whole, completely recognizable, though unquestionably dead echidna.

Wanting desperately to barf at the thought of what I had just read, I turned instead to Google to find out what the poor, unfortunate, undigested shark bait had been in life. What I learned was that it is also known as the spiny anteater, of which I actually had heard at some point in my life but knew nothing about. It turns out that it belongs to the family Tachyglossidae (you can file that away for use in your next game of Trivia), lives in Australia and New Guinea, and is most closely related — not to the common anteater, as one might logically expect — but to the platypus, of all things.

Most interestingly, though, it — and its duck-billed cousin — are the only living mammals that lay eggs.

Wait . . . what? A mammal that lays eggs? How can it still be a mammal? And that’s not all. About a month after mating, she deposits her egg into her pouch, where it remains for about ten days before hatching into a baby echidna, known as a “puggle.” Now, that is just too cute for words. It’s also weird. That adorable, long-nosed, quill-covered monotreme (egg-laying mammal) is also a marsupial. She has a freakin’ pouch!

I want one of those! I’m a mammal. I don’t lay eggs, but how convenient would that pouch be for other things: keys, lipstick, cell phone, a few dollars in mad money . . .

Reading on, I learned from Wikipedia of other interesting, though fairly gross, characteristics of this little cutie (whom, by now, I have named Sid, just because it seems to fit), such as her diet of insects gathered by “tearing open soft logs, anthills and the like, and licking off prey with their long, sticky tongues.” There’s more, for all you nature lovers who don’t mind doing your own research, but way too much to include here.

Anyway, by this time I was wondering how Sid had wound up in a shark’s esophagus. That mystery was solved when I also read that she and her relatives are good swimmers. Apparently, she just took a dip in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad move, Sid.

*. *. *

Nicolas Lubitz, one of the researchers from James Cook University who witnessed the unusual upchucking, said that tiger sharks rarely regurgitate their food, though it can happen when they’re stressed. “In this case, I think the echidna must have just felt a bit funny in its throat.”

Yeah . . . I can understand that. All those funny little quills.

But you’ll be relieved to know that the shark, at least, was not harmed by its experience, “and was released back into the water by the team after being fitted with an acoustic tracker.” [Amarachi Orie, CNN Science, June 6, 2024.]

*. *. *

And if that’s not enough for you, you’ll want to learn that the same team had also caught and tagged a different shark that had surprisingly regurgitated . . . not an echidna . . . but half a dugong.

“Half a what??!!!”

Okay, here we go again. For all of us who are not from Down Under, I looked it up. A dugong is an herbivorous marine animal most commonly found in Australia. This particular shark “threw up a big piece of blubber and then a full vertebral column,” according to Mr. Lubitz, who believes they belonged to a dugong calf. I know it’s Mother Nature at work, but I find that sad; they’re rather cute, don’t you agree? (The dugongs, not so much the sharks.)

Now, if you think that echidnas and dugongs are unusual fare, keep in mind some of the other delicacies tiger sharks have been known to devour: “other sharks, fishes, sea turtles and seabirds, as well as . . . garbage including coal, tin cans, clothing . . . bones, license plates, small television screens, and tires.” [CNN Science, id.]

So an occasional dugong must be a real treat for such an indiscriminate glutton. I think I’ll call that shark Henry VIII.

*. *. *

Thus ends our Natural Science lesson for today. And not a moment too soon. [Cue theme from “Jaws”]. I’m never going near the water again.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/7/24

Not much, I’m afraid . . . not since the Russians finished with him.

Roman Gorilyk is a Ukrainian citizen who was working as a checkpoint guard at the Chernobyl nuclear plant in northern Ukraine when he, among others, was taken prisoner by Russian forces in March of 2022 — the early days of Moscow’s war against Ukraine. After more than two years in captivity, Gorilyk was finally released last week in an exchange of prisoners of war: 75 Ukrainians for 75 Russians.

And this one picture says more than any number of words ever could hope to do. It speaks of the starvation, the beatings, and the other forms of torture used by the Russian military in flagrant and arrogant disregard — not only of the Geneva Conventions — but of every law of human decency known to mankind.

And this by the very people who consider themselves worthy of ruling the world. They are Putin’s people, and they continue to prove themselves less than human.

I have nothing more to say.

Brendochka
6/6/24