Papa-isms

Concerned that my childbearing days are passing me by, Papa says to me: "Miri-an, you are picky. Ven am i going to a finally push my granmchildrenz from you in ze baby carriage?" I reply, with a smirk -  "Papa, I can arrange that without getting married...  if you like." Papa - "O! Ok! I vait! I vait!" (He has not asked me since.)

After several attempts of papa trying to get me to meet (or rather, randomly set me up with)  Russian men, and much vehement refusal and good stern scolding on my part, my stepmother mentions that she met some man in Miami that was a jeweler, and she has a card for me if I want to call him. Papa is next to us, and turns to her and says, "O! No, leave it her alone!". I look at Papa, grin broadly and pat him on the back "Oh, thank goodness, I have finally taught him to step meddling". Papa nods his head, and says, "O! Yez! I know you iz ze picky. I leave it you alone!"

Driving in the car on Father's Day, my stepmother has a cough and wants a sucking candy. I look in the glove compartment, and then in the center console. There, I find a sample pack of... Levitra. I look at Papa wide-eyed, and point at the box. He looks at me, points to his wife and says... shhhhh!!!!!!! Ok, Papa, you have your ways of satisfying the lady, I am mortified as is, and need to not know anymore. Play on, playa.

Papa and I are arguing, and as usual, I am telling him what to do. He looks me squarely in the eyes and proceeds to tell me, "Miri-an, you are so bossy. Ven you finally get it da husband, I give it him permission to bit you, ev-e-ry single day." Thanks, Pops. Thanks.

Papa visits the single girls

From 2001-2002, I shared an apartment in Brooklyn with two of my very single girlfriends. Three bedrooms, just far enough from each other for some privacy. Non-working fireplace, crown molding, on the second floor of an adorable Brooklyn Brownstone. This was the high era of our single days. Dating, dancing, and well, doing it.

Papa lived in Long Island. On Saturdays, he would take the hour long drive from his home to visit my grandmother, Claudia, in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Sometimes, he would call me on his way and ask if he could stop by. One day, he rolled in mid-afternoon, went right in to the kitchen, and whipped up a meal for my two best friends and I. Papa, is super sweet like that. He loves me, and by extension, he loves my friends and takes care of them too.

One morning, the doorbell rang. It was Papa, unannounced. Luckily (well, maybe not so luckily, hehe) our rooms were slept in solo. My roommates and I looked at each other, and I knew from their expressions, and my thoughts, he could not get that comfortable.

"Papa", I say, "I love when you come visit. However..." and I drawl out slowly and indirectly, but giving him enough indication that there was something a little more adult and serious in my words, "there are threee siiinnngggglllleeee girls living here. All siiinnnngggglllleee."

After a moment, a realization flashes across his face. "O!! I so sorry! O-Ohh! I vill alvays call from nowz on!".

Papa realized, we get some, sometimes.

Ha-nee, just a vonce: Part 2 - The Date

I am reluctant, but Papa convinces me to go on a date with the Russian Barber, blindly. But just a vonce.

Papa gives Sergei my number, he calls, and we arrange that he will pick me up from my mother's home after he is done with work. I had decided that we were going to play it safe and remain close by, in case I needed to make a run for it. The diner was my suggested destination. Not expensive, so I don't feel bad if this goes terribly wrong and he blows a lot of money, or if I insist on chipping in. Close enough to home so that he can bring me back in case I decide to concoct some emergency that needs my immediate attention. However, if all goes well, there are bars and dessert places in the area that we can head to. My safety nets are all in place. Perfect.

Sergei arrives. I get in the car, and he is really excited. Music is blasting from the car stereo, but I don't like it. An artist with an Enrique Iglesias-esque tone set to a Euro-poppy beat is crooning a tune about being hopelessly in love. Sergei feels inclined to reach over, touch my knee, and serenade me with a line. I jerk my knee away, and stiffen up.

"Vat, you don't like it that?" Oh, shit. The accent.

I shake my head, and say, "Well, I just met you, you don't have those liberties".

"Oh, Ok. I like it ven my vomen iz a little bit shy." Your vomen? Oh, shit. This is going to be a trip.

We pull into the parking lot, and easily find a spot close to the entrance. Sergei is insistent on opening the door for me, and comes around the side. I step out, and this is the first time I see him upright. Without heels, I am 5'5". With the boots that I was wearing, I hit a good 5'8", just the height where I could get a clear and direct view of the balding mass he was trying to cover. Let's face it, many men start losing hair, and that's fine. However, most manage to work it, without a D. Trump like comb over.

Sergei is walking next to me, trying to feel for my hand, which I quickly place into my coat pocket. He admires the way that the layers are cut into my hair. Suddenly, he leans his head back and around, so that he could get a good rear-view. Broadly grinning, he announces, "Oh, I like it ven my vomen has a little bit of meat on der bones. Who needs those toofpix from America's Next Top Model. Foo!". Oh, shit. He really just said that? I am dumb-struck and my eyes open in shock wider than they ever have before.

We are seated in a booth. I lean back and sit upright. Sergei cockily positions himself so that his back is to the window, body parallel to the table. His legs are spread out along the seat of the booth. However, all I could focus on were his squat legs, whose feet barely made it to the other end of the seat.

I stare into the menu, trying my best to not let him see the mortification that has spread through every crevice of my face. Sergei says, "Marishka", I pull the menu down and look at him, "Yes?". He purses his lips slightly, waves his hand in a grand gesture,and informs me (yes, informs, not tells me), "You can order vatever you vant!"

Small talk ensues, and we can't seem to find a topic that we agree on. He is appalled that I have very few Russian friends. Even more so when I tell him that I date men of all races. We start to argue about this, and he doesn't care to shift his view - Russians should only date and marry other Russians. He won't listen, and I know my words are falling on deaf ears. The meal arrives, and I eat as fast as I can, because I am overcome with an overwhelming need to run. Out of nowhere, Sergei decided to broach the topic of sex. Having not given him any indication or interest, Sergei proclaims, "Oh, I like it ven my vomen like it from behind!" Oh, shit. Check please, NOW.

He takes me home, I don't speak as I have nothing more to say. We pull up to the house, and Sergei, non discreetly, pops a stick of minty gum in his mouth. I turn to say good-bye, one hand on the door handle ready to escape. Sergei is brazenly going in for the kill, as pursed lips and spearmint laced breath propel towards me. I barely have time to move away as a wet kiss lands firmly on the corner of my mouth. My body twists towards the door, and I say "I have to go, right NOW".

"Vat? No kiss good-bye?".
My head shakes violently I firmly tell him "NO."
"Oh, Ok. I understand. I like it ven my vomen likes to play it a little harder to get." Oh, shit. He has no clue! I rush out of the car, up the driveway, and through the door, not looking back once.

A week later, my phone rings, its Sergei. I take a deep breathe and answer the call.
"Hello, Marisha" I hear hesitation in his voice, the cockiness gone.
"Hi"
"You didn't call it me"
"I know, Sergei. I don't think that this is going to be a good idea."
"Oh, vy?" The confusion in his voice told me that he really did not know vy.
"It just isn't. I don't think we had anything in common. I have to go now. Bye" I hung up without allowing him any time to protest.

Although Papa called me every day for two weeks asking if Sergei and I had spoken, I never told him about that call. He would have tried to push me into a second date, or looked to set me up with another comrade. I told him that it just didn't work out, and that we had nothing in common. No details, no getting upset, as I appreciate how much my Papa loves me and wants me to be alright. I did reassure him that I was not opposed to dating Russian men, but they needed to be like me - grew up in the US, and have diverse interests and friends. He is still tackling that challenge, without any luck.

Having fulfilled my daughterly duty, just a vonce, I prayed that Papa would stop meddling in my love life. However, a few years later, Papa discovered the power of the Russian personal pages.

Papa's Loves

I love my Papa dearly. He is a kind man, protective of my sister and I, smotheringly and unconditionally (although he talks crap about us behind the others back). When we don't return the calls he makes every hour on the hour, he panics and tells us that "sometimes I have it a not so goot feelings". He constantly worries about me, especially my 30 something year old singleness. My father tells me he wants me to get married so he can "push it da yoor babies carriage". Jokingly, and with clear intent to shock, I tell him, "Papa, I can arrange that without getting married." Papa jerks and responds, "O, O-K. I vait! I vait!"

He loves fishing. In his trunk there is always a tackle box, a rod for his use, and another in case he can goad me in to coming with him. As little girls, he patiently taught his daughters how to put the lure on the hook, how to cast a line, and how to scream for help should something bite.

The natural has always been a passion of his. Papa can spend hours in the little garden that he tends on the side of his building, cultivating herbs and cucumbers, and bitching out octogenarian tenants that steal his tomatoes.

He adores animals, and much to my mother's dismay, Papa surprised us by coming home one day with a little black poodle tucked under his arm. Dolly gave us joy for years to come. Unable to resist a stray animal that could potentially be in danger, he brought home a large turtle he found on a road upstate. Turtle (that was its name) roamed the house freely for two years. Papa would leave lettuce and little 20 oz. bottle caps of water for it under the couch and by the radiator, until the "smell" came one day. Poor Turtle.

What Papa loves, absolutely LOVES, are the ladies. Papa... is a Pimp.

Being on wife #3 should have given me enough evidence. However, while fishing one day with him off Montauk Pier, I caught a glimpse of a true player in action. Standing to the side of the pier was a group of three women in their early 40s. Without a moments hesitation, Papa strolled in their direction and gingerly cast his line over their heads. Puffing out his chest, lightly tilting his head and placing his free hand casually on his hip, he cockily states, "O, excuse it me young ladiez". He inches himself closer, and within seconds, had all three blushing and giggling. All I could do was smirk, tilt my head, and shake it back and forth.

Clearly, there was more than bluefish on his agenda.

Ha-nee, just a vonce?- An Intro to Papa Stories

Papa is obsessed. He is obsessed with marrying me off. Every so often I hear "Oy, Mirian" (Papa can't pronounce my name properly in English, as his accent is heavy with the sounds of Mother Russia), "ven am I going to a see my gramchilrens from za you, ah?" Back in his day, if you weren't married by the time you were 20, and then most often divorced and remarried by 25, something was wrong with you.

Before I hit 30, I didn't hear those words very often, as he was being patient. My aunt who is only 10 years older than I am, didn't get married until she was 30, and then produced beautiful cherub-like twin boys. So Papa realized, "Oh-kay, so dis iz da Americanize vay, so, Oh-kay, I vait." However, on October 21, 2007, that all changed. I turned 30, was unattached, with no plans on getting attached anytime soon. Panic set in, and Papachka hurled himself on a mission. Weekly, he had someone for me, and our conversations began to start with"Mirian, I met it a nice boy, he iz a hardvorking, and he is from za (insert here: St.Petersburg, Odessa, Kiev, etc.), and he iz vorking here. Making a goooot money."

A sharp intake of breath, then the routine follow up to that comment commences:
"How long has he been here, Pop?"
" Maybe just a few years. But hiz Engleesh is a OK."
Another sigh...
"I bet he needs papers."
His reply, "Oh Ohh.... I must check."
"Pop, NO. N - O. NO! NYET"
"Ok, okayyy .. I von't push."

One week later: "Mirian, I met it a nice boy..." I cut him off briskly, looked him in the eyes, and then the usual song and dance.

But this time, Papa is ready for battle.
"Marishka, he is good man. He used to have his own hair place in ze Manhattan! (this is a big deal, its Manhattan!). But he had some troubles and he iz a work here in ze area where I live. Haz car, speaks ze Engleesh goot, and he haz da PAPERS!". Papa feels particularly triumphant at this point.
"Papa, a hairdresser?"
"No, no.. iz barber."
"Papa..........................."
"Ha-nee, vat do you have to loose? Just a vonce."

I am defeated, I succumb, as he's right. What do I have to lose? Maybe he will finally leave me alone if I do this.

I agree to go on the date with the Russian Barber. But just a vonce.