My Shipsky Comes In

Welcome to the conclusion of my Russian Mail Order Bride story, comrades.

The boat that you see above, BTW, is the ACTUAL one that my mother arrived into Ellis Island on when she was less than one year old. Bolshevik, you say?! I ship you not. Okay, back to the story.

I left off with who the email was from. The body of which (... is in my other laptop, miles away, and is therefore currently unavailable for your viewing pleasure) contained 2-pictures of sexily clad women who apparently have nothing better to do than wait on their respective street corners, hoping that I will choose one of them from my "lineup of love".

But, alas, these women are too neo-exotic (in a Bond villainess sort of way) for me in my current state. This is because, during the summer my preferences migrate to times long ago. Black and white movies, sentimental journeys, classic profiles of women therein. So, my vision of the ideal Russian gal and the ensuing relationship - both waxing and waning - would be radically different.

In my fantasy, one of my numerous replies is eventually responded to and acted upon. They notify me that my ideal woman, based on my profile (same as my blog one because I'm incredibly lazy, after all - why would I be ordering a mate in the first place?) and 360 degree nude photographs (provided in the interest of full-dis-clothesure, get it?), has been located. And is eager to come to Amerika to start her new life with me, where her only conviction in this new country will be to our relationship.

Weeks pass, though we are still in the glory of summer. Finally! I am at the pier, Lara's Theme from Dr. Zhivago radiating from my iPod, marinating my soul. There I stand, dressed in authentic costume and headgear, ready to withstand the most furious Siberian winter. The love boat docks as I switch my iPod from headphones to speakers. There! Is that her in the babushka? Or is she still below decks with the cargo? And if so, did they remember to drill air holes in the crate this time (yes, I have done this before, and getting refunds are a nightmare from these people, having to prove that she was deceased BEFORE I took possession and all that)?

Finally, after almost everyone is off of the ship, my eyes catch hers. Even the lazy one. We confirm that we are who we are. She is fascinated with my iPod, and asks if she can hold onto it. Of course, my Anna Kournikova. Just don't screw with my playlist, my beloved.



Praise Lenin, she is exquisitely beautiful in her fake fur. And blonde. My Russian ABBA girl. There IS something in the air this night. Definitely, Fernando, definitely.

We make our way through the masses loading into their SUVs to the humble, honest oxcart that I have procured for this wondrous first meeting. To my dismay, the furs and pelts that I've arranged on the bench seat for our comfort have been purloined, and additional produce has been piled into the back, mingling with the beets and rutabagas that'd been carefully placed back there for effect. But nothing can dampen the occasion, and I chalk these acts up to tough times and desperate people.



For authenticity I must take my Maria Sharapova to a farm in order to become properly acquainted in a setting that would be familiar to her. We stop at one that is desolate, save for our rapidly percolating love for each other. We engage in deep chat by the meadow, taking in the summer breeze and delicious, fragrant farm aromas. She still has my iPod. Soon we arrive at that pregnant pause in the conversation where captivation becomes lust. We head for the hayloft. There we make love. The glorious, innocent, Blue Lagoony kind of sweet, sweet love. Not the cold, calculated, dirty, financially motivated variety that is all too prevalent with American women. Canadian women in particular.



We hold each other for what seems (to me) like eternity, then we head home to embark on our new life together. For better or borscht. Seasons pass, yet our love continues to rapidly blossom and expand in all directions, scattering shards of domestic bliss, not unlike a Molotov Cocktail. She is quite the firebrand, fiercely devoted and willing to kill for me if necessary. I hand her the list (no, none of you are on it ... nyet). Just kidding, I say, but keep it handy.



She has, under my careful tutelage, attained a level of unconditional love that is thoroughly intoxicating, yet so difficult to capture onto a traditional greeting card.

And yet, I come to realize that our cultural backgrounds are way too diverse, and never the two shall intersect. There will be no Glastnost for us. Our lives spiral downward into a suffocating gulag of disenchantment. She demands more than 2-minutes of my interest each day, something as an American man I am incapable of giving. Our relationship is doomed, much like Communism. Perfect and utopian in concept, yet ultimately sabotaged by negligence and greed (on her part, of course). That, and items start to disappear from the apartment, along with my iPod and my heart. Then, I happen upon an old acquaintance of hers, a previous suitor. He shares his tragic story of initial mutual lust and eventual deception. I insist that he stop, since ALL women are that way. But then, he goes on further, and soon I understand that his fateful arc matches my own.



We agree that we must go our separate ways, thus fulfilling the prophesy of the Journey song. Sorry baby, but I gots to Zhiva-GO. We embrace, we kiss. I gently plead one last time for the return of my iPod. She tearfully whispers that - as is with my love - she no longer has it. Distraught, I lead her to her departure dock, we part for the last time, and that is that. I lose my muse. I lose my tunes.



This is my story. I wish that the ending to this tale could be a happy one. But fear not. There is one. My resilience and persistence is as robust as ever. For you see, I didn't throw in the towel, and have since consummated a relationship with another Russian Mail Order Bride. This one is a keeper.




Thank you for your interest and your compassion.