Milimeters, cuts, Russian

I’m allowing myself to use this Victorious Day off as an actual day off meaning I didn’t get out of bed until 1. I ate a luxurious breakfast of fruit, coffee, half slices of bread with cream cheese, peanut butter, and nutella. Tamara is out of town for a couple days, and this is the first time I’ve had this apartment to myself since I’ve moved here. In the night that I had alone I succeeded in hosting a get together of all my closest in-town friends for an evening of debauchery, narcotics, and English lessons. Then at the chime of 12, all of my friends turned into little mice and scattered away, crawling out from under the doors, into the night to be caught by stray cats. Basically, I walked around disrobed, sat online for a long time, and slept, a lot. Only a few more weeks, and I’ll be living this high life all the time when I will be residing in my very own apartment.

When I was in high school I was Editor of the school newspaper and then demoted within a couple months because the teacher who had recently been placed as the advisor of the paper preferred some other kid to me for the position. He became the editor, and really fucked up a lot and did a whole lotta nothing. So much so, that he got a D for the class. But out of pride, or embarrassment, the teacher didn’t give me the position back. As a sort of sorry, or way of making amends, in addition to the easy A grade I got, she nominated me for a $1000 journalism scholarship that I was awarded at graduation. The last few months of senior year, as I remember, I came into school, when I did go to school, in sweat pants (my unfashionable public resentment and indifference to my appearance as viewed by others used to drive Alex crazy) and often I would sleep in the office of the math teacher on a bean bag chair that I had gifted to him and myself. Also, in the last few months, I diligently worked on the Senior Issue of the newspaper that I was finally allowed to be the editor of. I remember evenings sitting in front of the computer cropping photos, fitting text, and coming up with brilliant taglines for photos such as “Like the “Pink Ladies” of Grease, the Duce boys celebrates the joy of being a crew” on a photo of our class’ most douchiest guys in youthful embrace, holding up two fingers for peace, victory, and the symbol for their self-proclaimed group title. I remember when the issue was finally finishing up, how I spent hours after school scrutinizing each page, insuring absolutely no mistakes before the issue was to be sent out to print. I recall the last night before print when I stood hunched over checking each printed copy as the custodians asked me for the last time how much longer I would be.

I knew I wasn’t going into Journalism as I started college, for Papa had only two requirements for the subject I chose to study at University; psychology was not allowed, nor was journalism. It wasn’t a passion of mine enough to fight Papa’s orders, so at the end of school, I felt a light sentiment and relief that I would never, ever again have to slave over copy corrections, photo quality, or format measurements on the program Adobe Pagemaker. Then I went to University and forgot about that part of my life all-together. Then I graduated University, joined a federal international volunteer organization, got sent to Moldova, integrated pretty successfully into the community I was placed in, and started working with the youth. I told the youth that in my time here, they needed to use me for anything, projects, ideas they may have. The youth answered that they wanted a newspaper. And so it is.

This past month of no updates is due in part to my days and nights working with these kids on putting out the first number. The kids have a hard time organizing, and of course, we were doing everything pretty last minute, which lead to nights of me sitting at the computer at the Sport School fixing their formats, checking copy, etc. Tuesday we went to Chisinau to get the typography in order. Wednesday the newspaper finally came out of the closet. The kids and I are/were very proud of the newspaper, but of course we were met with nothing but criticism, and mostly from the grown-ups, teachers, directors of schools. The older generation still has the remnants of Soviet upbringing, where mocking, demeaning, and discouraging children from trying something out of the ordinary or new (like a youth-run newspaper) is commonplace. Instead of supporting and applauding the kids on working on something healthy, educating, these adults scold them for wasting time and point out every single mistake made (and there were several.) Whatever, we shall overcome. The kids are already planning number 2. They are ‘maletsi.’

By the time I’ve finished writing this, three days have passed. In this time, the weather has shot up into the 70’s, I’ve been to Chisinau twice including right now, I had dinner with the American ambassador, and I have been haphazardly staying up far too late with my friends. I am also counting down to my own apartment, but even before then, counting down for Jackie to get here. Finally, updated. Now back to it.