The Russian Mafia is in my Kitchen and Chocolate Ice-Cream is on the White Couch...

We all have secrets.  The kind of secrets that do not escape the front door.  Like the mess we make when no one is around, or the entire meal we burn only to start over again, or realistically, pour a bowl of cereal and call it a night.  The idiosyncrasies and nuances that the first few months of marriage reveal are timeless, classic, memories.  This week Bryan and I learned a bit more about each other.

As Murphy's law would have it, the past two weeks both of our cars have broken down and been in the shop, the refrigerator service light is on, and our dishwasher has been broken for 3 weeks (my life mimicking a country song).

I have been boycotting doing dishes on principal alone.  B, because he was dutifully in charge of handling the maintenance repair for the dishwasher, has drudgingly, yet faithfully been hand-washing the stacks of pots, pans and plates that accrue exponentially.

A couple weeks ago, B called a repair service, and a Russian man came out to the house, late at night, to provide an estimate for repair.  Upon departure, he told B he would have to special order a part, and he would get back to us once it was in.  The company called a week later to set up a follow up appointment.  B waited around for 3 hours one night waiting for the Russian who ended up standing us up.

The following few days B placed multiple calls to this mystery Russian Repair Company.  The reason for the extended delay, we were told, was because the part that was needed for our dishwasher was back-ordered, naturally.  So we waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  Finally, we were told the part was in and our appointment was scheduled for Monday evening from 6pm-9pm!

At about 8:30pm, two disheveled Russians arrived at our door: the man who had come out to provide the estimate and his sidekick/ Russian Mafia understudy.

At this point, we were desperate to have a machine wash our dishes.  They came in and immediately took over the entire kitchen, spralling out and prohibiting my dinner preparations. I was making a Gluten Free pizza crust, which is easier said than done.   I stop preparations and decide this is as good a time as any to go to Fed-Ex to pick up a mystery delivery that we had received two notices on our front door about, but of course were not home to sign for the package, whatever it is.

I come home to sweaty Russian #1 spralled out on the kitchen floor and see the dishwasher is now fully dismantled.  Realizing this is not a good time to continue preparing the dinner, I retreat to the bathroom to color by roots.  B is left standing by in the family room amidst streams of Russian curses and grumbling about "custom" installed dishwashers.  The Russians continue to converse as if we are not home.  The understudy was standing by, arms folded, brow furrowed, as if he was doing something important.  All he really did though was repeat everything his master said.

Finally, I cannot wait any longer and I squeeze in behind the Russian on the floor to remove the pizza from the oven.  The top is burnt and the crust resembles nothing of a pizza dough crust.

The Russians are finally finishing up.  They say, as they check various parts of the machine, "See work Perfect."  He turns on the hose and water sprays everywhere.  The understudy assuredly states "That's Normal, thats normal."

The leader says  "Oh shit what happened here, what happened here." B says, "Wait a minute that didn't happen before."  Russian leader says, "How do I know that didn't happen before?"

He fixes the geyser and returns to his check list, "Oh-key.  Start good.  Oh-key. Stop good.  Oh-key.  Drain good. Oh-key. Check the hoses in the back good.  Oh-key.  Inspect this, good.  Oh-key ever-tin good."

$400 dollars later, they finally leave at 9:13pm, I am finished eating the pizza-nast, and am enjoying my pint of coconut chocolate ice cream on our white couch with a full head of dark brown/black dye.  Bryan tells me to be careful with my hair on the white couch! I tell him I will be good.  I dig deep in the pint for a big spoonful of chocolate therapy and flip, now there is chocolate ice-cream on our white couch.  Bryan just LAUGHS.  He says, I needed that.  I can't help but laugh too, and thank God for Folex, the best stain remover of all time and a staple housecleaning item every housewife needs.


I clean up the spot and return to the couch.  Bryan asks if I have sauce on my lip or if it's a zit.  Of course it's a zit, because the pizza did not even have sauce on it.  Really? I'm about to call the Russian Mafia back to our house.  He laughs, crunches on the hard dough, and says with his mouth full, "I thought it was Sriracha!"

Ah.  Married life.  I finish the pint of ice cream, set it down on the ground along with my water, and B turns and asks...leave some for me? I tell him convincingly there are 3 bites left.  To which he replies, "Do you have pilates this week?" Oh geez.  He knows the minute he said it that it came out wrong.  At this point, I realize I never heard the timer for my hair ding, so I check it, and it is off.  Bryan says it went off 10 minutes ago.  Of course I did not hear it.

Slick.  I go to wash out my hair, and B scoots over on the couch and knocks over my water all over our hardwood floor.  He yells "Why do you leave things here!?"  I just laugh.  It's nights like these when patience is tested and you're at your wits end, that you learn to appreciate each other and chose to enjoy the little things in life.  And remember that living together is a learning process, and that life's pleasures are best enjoyed in the moment.

I don't want to now what the Russian's secrets are, but I am thinking of seeing Easter Promises.  I am in no way discriminating against Russians, I am just telling the story the way it happened.  And on another note, I educated myself a bit about the Mafia markings and statistics from the internet, the obvious truth searching engine.  But in the end, they came, they fixed, and they left.  And I am grateful.

I'm just sayin, B was very quick to do everything they said, just in case. ;)