Cold and Hot (much like my taps, assembled every which way such that even Katy Perry would be confused.)

Since we last hung out and listened to music together,

I have:

1. had my hot water shut off for the annual pipe-checking (or whatever it is they do for 10 days while the hot water for a whole neighborhood is off). I don't know how everyone else deals with this, but I do not.

2. flubbed an interview.

3. seen the trashiest wedding dress of all time.

I've seen a fair number of wedding dresses here and there, but this one made my jaw drop, so I know you want to hear about it (or at least JPey does). Imagine the reverse mullet as interpreted in ivory lace. If you only saw it from the back, you would think it was inoffensive, if fussy. It had a floor-length full skirt, a vague but functional top part, and a floaty, half-hearted veil. Perfectly normal and appropriate. But the front was -- well, the top was a transparent corset, and the bottom a mini-skirt. Of ivory lace! That sloped down on the sides to a full-length skirt in back! Oh, how I wish I had managed to get a picture.

Now if it is your fondest girlhood dream to look like a prostitute on your wedding day, I can respect that (with minimal snickering) and admire your audacity. But the combination of the two -- one part Victorian bride, one part stripper -- made me wonder if this dress was some sort of compromise (between the bride and her mother, the bride and her sister, the bride and her own twisted, Posh-like sense of fashion) or just a failure of nerve. I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit this, because it's awfully snotty of me, but I thought the best part was that they were taking pictures in front of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. Fitting.

4. been to a fantastic museum, just a hundred yards away from above event, and just when I thought I'd seen everything in the way of art museums here.

This is the part of the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts (Государственный музей Изобразительных Исскуств им. А.С. Пушкина) called the Gallery of American and European Art of the 19th-20th Centuries.

Now before you get all huffy that I'm excited about the American and European art wing in Moscow, just look here.

As in other museums, there's graduated pricing: for foreign students it's 150 r, about three dollars more than the Russian citizen rate (forget about the Russian student rate, which is practically free). So I was scrounging for change and getting increasingly pissed off in the process (I was mainly upset because I didn't have enough money on me, and because the exchange rate has taken a dive over the last week, and because I already take enough flack for being foreign. Okay, that last one's not true, but I object to discriminatory pricing practices.) So I scowled broadly, told the woman that I didn't have "sufficient money," and walked away.

"Devuska," I hear behind me, and I turn to see her motioning to me conspiratorially. She slides across the calculator with "100" typed out. I shell it out (hey, it's a 33% discount), and she gives me a 60 r. citizen's ticket. Where does the extra 40 go? Who knows?

I'm just happy to get into this fantastic little museum. I snuck some photos for you again. That's the main hallway. See the lights?

The first floor was 19th century. The second floor was mostly Impressionists, which I'm not crazy about. I like geometric things.

At the top of the staircase:

That is my kind of Notre Dame, all straight lines and grays and browns (it's even more severe than the picture makes it look). The thing in front is a burned violin encased in plastic. It's called "Burnt out Violin."

But I also got to see Paolo and Francesca, Kandinsky, Picasso, a whole room of Matisse, and then, in the last little alcove, two Chagalls that were breathtaking. I didn't even get irritated with the loud English guys in front of me.

5. attended "Giselle." Perhaps my feelings on this ballet could be surmised from the following summary. Giselle, initially dressed like Dorothy, falls in love with a nobleman who's disguised himself as a peasant. When his true identity - and betrothal to a condescending artistocrat -- is revealed, Giselle dies of a broken heart. But! In the second act, she returns as a ghost to save her very betrayer from death. You see, he's come to mourn her in a graveyard at night, where he almost falls prey to the ghosts of other jilted girls who, dressed as a troop of dead brides, like to take their revenge on men by dancing them to death. Here's a clip.

Did you guess how well I liked it? If this is what Misha and Tanya had tickets for when they were late to the Bolshoi, they didn't miss much. But maybe I'm being unfair -- my Russian friend seemed to think this group in particular was mediocre.

As far as I understood it, the choreography from their performance debuted in 1944 and has not changed since then. Notice the peasant girl ultimately triumphs in the class struggle of the first act. Well, morally.

Check it out:

This was performed in the National Youth Theatre. There was a sign asking spectators to refrain from bringing large purses, drinks, and ice cream into the auditorium. Ice cream, I thought, Really? Is it that much of a problem? But at intermission, everyone was drinking chilled champagne and eating ice cream from Mary Coyle-style bowls, which made a lot of sense since the building was not air conditioned. Poor Giselle.

I have not:

1. had a single pleasant experience in the Russian post office.

Me: I'd like five stamps, please.

[I'm holding out my 50 r. bill because each stamp costs 10 r. It's a straightforward transaction.]

Pochta Lady: How many postcards do you have?

Me: It doesn't matter; I'd like five stamps please.

PL: How many postcards do you have?

[Look. I have one postcard. But you know what, I might buy more in the future! Maybe I have a letter I want to sent -- gasp! -- WITHIN Russia! Maybe I want to send a package somewhere! Maybe I want to send a heavy letter, not just a postcard!]

Me: I have one. But I want five stamps.

PL: But you need two stamps per postcard.

[For the love of God, lady, I know that it doesn't make any sense to you why someone who can't remember the genitive plural of "stamps" (argh, I should have asked for 4) would need an ODD number of them when each postcard requires two stamps, but just SELL THEM TO ME ALREADY.]

Me: I UNDERSTAND. BUT I WANT FIVE STAMPY-THINGIES.

[Just because you're allowed to open and read my mail does not mean you know my postal needs better than I do.]

Pochta lady #2 -- interrupting her own functional transaction to step in -- getting me five stamps out of her drawer: Here.

Me: Here. Hmph.

Incivilities having been concluded, we part ways -- five stamps in my pocket, 50 r. in their coffers, and I'll make sure the next postcard I write, with my extra decyat' stamp, is addressed to them.

2. bought any more presidential merchandise. On that note, I'll leave you with this:

"There are also fewer of those who want to 'lie on the president' than those who want to 'lie on the prime minister.' Pillows with Putin's likeness sell much faster than those bearing the face of Medvedev."