Oh what fun it is to Wallpaper. I always wondered why wall paper went out of style in the 70’s in the U.S. and now I know. It is a true pain in the neck to put it up.
In my apartment I had very old, mismatched, slightly moldy wallpaper. The pink floral wallpaper that dominated my main room was peeling away from the wall as if in an effort to escape the orange checkered wall paper underneath. The orange checkered wall paper was disintegrating so that you could view the blue paisley paper under that. It was like a color changing gobstopper on my walls (lick at your own risk).
Ukrainians really like their wall paper. Since most buildings are made of concrete or something similar painting the walls does not really work. They are just too rough and uneven, so instead they wall paper. In Ukraine, wall paper is almost art. You go into the hardware stores and there are hundreds of types of wall paper. Almost all of it is textured now (to cover the roughness of the walls). Some have glitter, others have raised designs, and the children’s wallpaper has Winnie the Pooh on it. It ranges from 12 UAH ($2.50) a roll to over 70 UAH ($14.00) for the super nice Italian wallpaper. It also comes in every color, from plain white and silver to vibrant orange with huge mauve tropical flowers. Whatever suits your taste, although who’s tastes the latter matches is anyone’s guess.
My director decided that I needed new wallpaper; I did but didn’t really care enough about it to do anything. I was actually kind of interested to see how many layers would peel off before my end of service. I mean, how many layers could there be? Either way, a date was chosen and several teachers were going to come over and help me wallpaper. My job was to measure and buy new wall paper and get the old wall paper off before they got there. Okay, no problem, how hard could that be?
Problem one, I was told Friday night that I needed measurements for Saturday morning because one of the teachers would take me to the store to get the paper. I do not have a measuring tape, or even a ruler for that matter. I do however have string and a sheet of paper that I know measures 8.5 by 11 inches. The piece of string is close to three sheets of paper. The first measurement I took was exactly 3 pieces of string, so far so good. The second was 2 and maybe 3/4ths. Shoot, I have no way to measure small distances. No wait! I have some two by five inch index cards and if I fold the sheet of paper in half that is 5.5 inches or 4 inches soooo…do you see where I am going with this? You get creative when you are a Peace Corps volunteer. I measured around my house, 4 surprisingly odd shaped rooms and it took me over two hours of moving furniture, climbing on chairs folding and unfolding string, cards and sheets of paper and endless paper cuts. I already don’t like wall papering and I haven’t ever gotten to the paper part yet. Well, the wall paper part anyway. I won’t even tell you what a pain it was to convert all of those inch measurements into centimeters longhand. It hurt even more when I realized I had a converter on my phone that could have done it for me.
We go shopping for the paper the next day and I feel like I have fallen down the rabbit hole. There are aisles of the stuff. Silver, gold, shiny, matte, every shade of the rainbow, with rhinestones or little mirrors, animals or flowers, light or dark, like sandpaper or like leather. The “leather” wallpaper was nice enough you could upholster your car in it. It was unbelievable and I thought to myself, “how will I ever choose?”. And then I looked at the price tags and said, “oh, that’s how.” There were only 15 or so options but I still agonized over it for almost an hour. It’s worse then picking out a couch because bad wall paper will totally kill a room. Especially rooms like mine that have not furniture to offset the bad wallpaper. I chose white with gold flowers (it’s not as bad as it sounds but it is real shiny) for the main room, blue geometric pattern for the corridor, pink geometric for the kitchen ( I am in a pink phase, I have no idea why), and white geometric for the bathroom. No, it’s not riveting but it was cheap. Well, around 200 UAH. We had to give my measurements to the pimply faced guy in the wall paper department and he figured out how many roles I needed of each color. He SEEMED competent but more on that later. Then I get the pleasure of lugging 30 pounds of wall paper, glue, and brushes on Ukrainian public transportation for 45 minutes to get home.
Next, to get the old wall paper off of the walls. It’s already peeling off of the walls anyway so it should just pull right off. Right? Wrong. To be continued…
Monday, February 11, 2008
Monday, December 31, 2007
You would think I would learn but noooooo
December 29th,2007
You would think I would learn. As any of you who read my blog would know, I had a somewhat interesting experience in the elevator at my apartment complex when I first moved into my apartment here in Ukraine. I, and all of my stuff, got stuck in the elevator for about 40 minutes. After that I took the stairs because I had visions of getting trapped without my Ukrainian host family to save me. Recently, the elevator was broken for over 3 weeks and special people were finally brought in to fix it. I still avoided using it on general principal but as the days have gotten shorter I have started using the elevator after dark simply because the landings in my building only have a light bulb on every third landing and you never know who you might meet, or what you might step in in the dark so I generally choose to risk a known danger rather then a unknown one.
This being said, I decided to make a late night run to the store to get the stuff to make crapes and after dodging all of the youths hanging out on a Friday night (this is how pathetic I am, I am cooking alone in my house on a Friday night. I am trying not to think about it, it could always be worse and I could be drinking) I elected to take the elevator, which had been working perfectly since the repair guys came, up to my apartment. I get in, press the button and the elevator doors close and I start moving up. There is a gap when the doors close and you can see the landings as you pass them and say hello to you neighbors, that sort of thing. I always count the landings because I am trying to improve my Ukrainian numbers. I reach seven when the elevator jerks to a stop. I am eye level with the eighth floor landing so I know we have stopped in between floors. I say “we” meaning me and the giant premonition of doom standing beside me. The elevator shudders and I can hear the elevator engine (which is probably a refurbished model-T engine from 1910) straining to lift the elevator. My brain does the lightening calculations:
The engine is still running
but the elevator is not moving
meaning the elevator really is “stuck”
Meaning the cable (which is probably as old as the model T engine) is under a significant amount of stress.
and I am 8 floors up
in an elevator that probably does not have the best safety backups
all this equals = major bummer for me.
I hear a loud clink, much like somebody dropping a giant wrench, the engine stops and the elevator drops 2 feet. I scream like a little girl. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I find myself once again stuck in the elevator. But unlike last time, I am 7 floors up and I have no babycia to come get a burly taxi driver to pry open the doors for me. I think to myself, “hmm, what would Jesus do?”, no wait that won’t help me. Jesus is busy and if I am about to die I don’t want him to hear any of the words I am using right now anyway.
I know,“what would Macgyver do?” I take a catalogue of all of the things I have on me. I have just gone to the store and I bought, flour, milk, vinegar, and fizzy mineral water. I also have my purse with Faulkners Absalom, Absalom, some migraine pills, a maxi pad, and pens. “this is good.” I think, “I have some things to work with, what can I make with what I have”. Macgyver was able to stop a leak in a Soviet nuclear reactor with a chocolate bar surely I can get out of a soviet elevator with what I have. Right?
This is roughly my train of thought. “Okay, I have fizzy water, maybe if I shake it really hard I can create an explosion, ooohh, I also have vinegar doesn’t that fizz and explode with baking soda? Wait, I don’t have baking soda. Will flour work? no stupid, all you need to add then is the milk and you can make a cake. But I have no eggs…that’s not the point. Wait a minuite, I don’t really want an explosion anyway, I am in a little elevator, held up by a cable that has more rust on it then the water coming out of my pipes. And how would I make the explosion go out of the elevator instead of in and ending up as Peace corps puree? Don’t be an idiot Shannon, it’s fizzy water, not TNT, the worst you could do is soak yourself and put your eye out with a flying bottle top. Wait, I have paper and I think I have matches I can send a smoke signel. Faulkner won’t mind and it’s not like I am ever really going to read this book anyway, I have been carrying it around for weeks and I am only on page 17. Hold on, lighting a fire in a small confined space is probably not a good idea. Smoke is not a good warning, people here burn their trash all the time and I would suffocate far before I ever got noticed. Maybe if I wedge the maxi pad between the doors and get it wet it will push the doors open. Who are we kidding, they aren’t really that absorbent and I would rather die of starvation then have to try and explain what I was doing with a maxi pad in an elevator and why it was all wet. Well, I have enough water for a few days and a book to read surly someone will notice I’m missing, Right? Wait, Macgyver would never think that Shannon, but then who are we kidding, you are not Macgyver. Maybe I should leave a note just in case? Mommy!”
Macgyver I am not. So instead of coming up with a brilliant solution I stare stupidly at the elevator doors. I hear something. It’s a meow. The cat from the 8th floor is looking down on me from it’s perch on the 8th floor landing. An idea dawns, the people on the 8th floor always come out to let their cat in when it meows and then I can call out to them. The cat looks at me. It doesn’t want to meow at it’s door because I am far more interesting then going inside. I stare at it, it stares at me. And I think, I am going to have to wait until this cat gets bored. That could take forever since my cat in America can stare at a blank wall for hours and not even blink. “go home honey!”, I say “go home, isn’t kitty hungry?”. I am talking to the cat like it’s Lassie. But Lassie is a dog, Lassie would care, this is a cat, they don’t care about anything but eating and napping in sunbeams. I jump up, waving my arms and trying to scare the cat away so it will ask to be let in at it’s door. All the while saying, “go home honey, go home”.
I hear another noise. I look down and see that, while my attention was fixed above my head on the cat a large group of teenagers had walked up to the 7th floor landing and were watching me wave my arms and shout towards the ceiling. I look at them and blushed deep red from my toenails to my ears.
Being my usual eloquent self I blurt out, “I’m stuck” (in English, which none of the kids speak)
“Are you drunk?” They ask in Ukrainian.
“Hi (no) lift ne pratsue (the lift does not work) I reply.
Understanding dawns and the teenagers separate to either side of the elevator doors and begin to pull. They have obviously done this before. The doors open and I step the two feet down to the 7th floor landing. “Thanks” I say and scurry up the stairs before they can ask who I was talking to all by myself in the elevator. I pass the cat on the 8th floor that is still staring into the elevator and probably stayed there all night. I see lots of stairs in my future.
You would think I would learn. As any of you who read my blog would know, I had a somewhat interesting experience in the elevator at my apartment complex when I first moved into my apartment here in Ukraine. I, and all of my stuff, got stuck in the elevator for about 40 minutes. After that I took the stairs because I had visions of getting trapped without my Ukrainian host family to save me. Recently, the elevator was broken for over 3 weeks and special people were finally brought in to fix it. I still avoided using it on general principal but as the days have gotten shorter I have started using the elevator after dark simply because the landings in my building only have a light bulb on every third landing and you never know who you might meet, or what you might step in in the dark so I generally choose to risk a known danger rather then a unknown one.
This being said, I decided to make a late night run to the store to get the stuff to make crapes and after dodging all of the youths hanging out on a Friday night (this is how pathetic I am, I am cooking alone in my house on a Friday night. I am trying not to think about it, it could always be worse and I could be drinking) I elected to take the elevator, which had been working perfectly since the repair guys came, up to my apartment. I get in, press the button and the elevator doors close and I start moving up. There is a gap when the doors close and you can see the landings as you pass them and say hello to you neighbors, that sort of thing. I always count the landings because I am trying to improve my Ukrainian numbers. I reach seven when the elevator jerks to a stop. I am eye level with the eighth floor landing so I know we have stopped in between floors. I say “we” meaning me and the giant premonition of doom standing beside me. The elevator shudders and I can hear the elevator engine (which is probably a refurbished model-T engine from 1910) straining to lift the elevator. My brain does the lightening calculations:
The engine is still running
but the elevator is not moving
meaning the elevator really is “stuck”
Meaning the cable (which is probably as old as the model T engine) is under a significant amount of stress.
and I am 8 floors up
in an elevator that probably does not have the best safety backups
all this equals = major bummer for me.
I hear a loud clink, much like somebody dropping a giant wrench, the engine stops and the elevator drops 2 feet. I scream like a little girl. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I find myself once again stuck in the elevator. But unlike last time, I am 7 floors up and I have no babycia to come get a burly taxi driver to pry open the doors for me. I think to myself, “hmm, what would Jesus do?”, no wait that won’t help me. Jesus is busy and if I am about to die I don’t want him to hear any of the words I am using right now anyway.
I know,“what would Macgyver do?” I take a catalogue of all of the things I have on me. I have just gone to the store and I bought, flour, milk, vinegar, and fizzy mineral water. I also have my purse with Faulkners Absalom, Absalom, some migraine pills, a maxi pad, and pens. “this is good.” I think, “I have some things to work with, what can I make with what I have”. Macgyver was able to stop a leak in a Soviet nuclear reactor with a chocolate bar surely I can get out of a soviet elevator with what I have. Right?
This is roughly my train of thought. “Okay, I have fizzy water, maybe if I shake it really hard I can create an explosion, ooohh, I also have vinegar doesn’t that fizz and explode with baking soda? Wait, I don’t have baking soda. Will flour work? no stupid, all you need to add then is the milk and you can make a cake. But I have no eggs…that’s not the point. Wait a minuite, I don’t really want an explosion anyway, I am in a little elevator, held up by a cable that has more rust on it then the water coming out of my pipes. And how would I make the explosion go out of the elevator instead of in and ending up as Peace corps puree? Don’t be an idiot Shannon, it’s fizzy water, not TNT, the worst you could do is soak yourself and put your eye out with a flying bottle top. Wait, I have paper and I think I have matches I can send a smoke signel. Faulkner won’t mind and it’s not like I am ever really going to read this book anyway, I have been carrying it around for weeks and I am only on page 17. Hold on, lighting a fire in a small confined space is probably not a good idea. Smoke is not a good warning, people here burn their trash all the time and I would suffocate far before I ever got noticed. Maybe if I wedge the maxi pad between the doors and get it wet it will push the doors open. Who are we kidding, they aren’t really that absorbent and I would rather die of starvation then have to try and explain what I was doing with a maxi pad in an elevator and why it was all wet. Well, I have enough water for a few days and a book to read surly someone will notice I’m missing, Right? Wait, Macgyver would never think that Shannon, but then who are we kidding, you are not Macgyver. Maybe I should leave a note just in case? Mommy!”
Macgyver I am not. So instead of coming up with a brilliant solution I stare stupidly at the elevator doors. I hear something. It’s a meow. The cat from the 8th floor is looking down on me from it’s perch on the 8th floor landing. An idea dawns, the people on the 8th floor always come out to let their cat in when it meows and then I can call out to them. The cat looks at me. It doesn’t want to meow at it’s door because I am far more interesting then going inside. I stare at it, it stares at me. And I think, I am going to have to wait until this cat gets bored. That could take forever since my cat in America can stare at a blank wall for hours and not even blink. “go home honey!”, I say “go home, isn’t kitty hungry?”. I am talking to the cat like it’s Lassie. But Lassie is a dog, Lassie would care, this is a cat, they don’t care about anything but eating and napping in sunbeams. I jump up, waving my arms and trying to scare the cat away so it will ask to be let in at it’s door. All the while saying, “go home honey, go home”.
I hear another noise. I look down and see that, while my attention was fixed above my head on the cat a large group of teenagers had walked up to the 7th floor landing and were watching me wave my arms and shout towards the ceiling. I look at them and blushed deep red from my toenails to my ears.
Being my usual eloquent self I blurt out, “I’m stuck” (in English, which none of the kids speak)
“Are you drunk?” They ask in Ukrainian.
“Hi (no) lift ne pratsue (the lift does not work) I reply.
Understanding dawns and the teenagers separate to either side of the elevator doors and begin to pull. They have obviously done this before. The doors open and I step the two feet down to the 7th floor landing. “Thanks” I say and scurry up the stairs before they can ask who I was talking to all by myself in the elevator. I pass the cat on the 8th floor that is still staring into the elevator and probably stayed there all night. I see lots of stairs in my future.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Ukrainian Post
You have to love the Ukrainian postal service. This is what that package I recieved yesterday looked like. I think they played soccer with it before delivering it. Note: if you ever send anything to Ukraine, pad it well and make sure it isn't that valueable.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Guinea Pig Drama
Guinea Pig Drama – December 12, 2007
I don’t know if any of you out there have a guinea pig but for the first time in my life I now have one of my very own. My host sister was afraid that I would be lonely living all my myself so one day she handed me a shoe box that was filled with vegetables and a six month old guinea pig. I promptly named the little thing Misha because it is the only Ukrainian name I can remember with any regularity besides Miroslav. And since Miroslav means “warrior for peace” it seemed a little presumptuous for a guinea pig, so Misha it was.
Guinea Pigs are interesting creatures. It is like having a really dumb dog in a cage. Misha will squeal when I come in and purrs like a cat when I pet her. I like to think its purring because the only other option would be trembling in fear. She is also as twitchy as a canary on espresso. If I move to quickly she will freak out and run full force in the opposite direction, often forgetting that she is in a cage so she just ends banging her little head against the bars. Did I mention that she is cute but stupid? When I put her on the linoleum floor in my apartment she tries to run so fast that her little clawed feet only slip and she ends up going no where. It’s like watching a dog run on hardwood floors but slightly more pathetic.
This being said, I often feel bad to keep her in her little cage so I shut the door to my bedroom and let her run around the hallway way while I study Ukrainian in the kitchen. That way I can keep an eye on her but still do something else. Well the other day, I didn’t pay enough attention and I looked up to see Misha at my feet in the kitchen. I don’t let her run around the kitchen because there are places that she can hide that I would never get her out of like under the stove or refrigerator. So guess where she goes the second I try to catch her. Behind the fridge. Now, I am not to worried about this because she will have to come out eventually so I just finish studying. She hasn’t come out and I need to leave. I know that guinea pigs like to chew on wires so I can’t very well leave here out while I am gone. I look behind the fridge…and she isn’t there. This is not good. Then I here something, I look a little closer and realize that she is not longer behind the fridge because she has crawled under the fridge and into the 1960 motor it is powered by. Now the motor for my fridge come one about ever 25 minutes and it sounds like a garbage disposal running. It is loud and makes the whole fridge shake but it works so I don’t complain. But I know that with that amount of action that means there are some rapidly moving parts in that motor that will not hesitate to turn my guinea pig into chop suey. So I do the only reasonable thing I can think of, I panic. I move the fridge away from the wall so I can see the tiny space between the motor and the back cover. I can also see Misha left rear foot. I can’t get my hand in there to grab her and am not really inclined to try out the medical system here in Ukraine by going in with a fridge mauled hand so I grab my ever trusty spatula and attempt to spatula her out of the motor. She simply squeals (probably a guinea pig laugh) and disappears from my view. The fridge has not turned on for awhile so I know it is just a matter of minutes and I have these horrible visions of the fridge starting to rock and little pieces of guinea pig being flung out of the motor. Then I would be minus a guinea pig and the fridge that it took me 5 months to get. I would not be happy. I am just about to get my leatherman to remove the back panel of the fridge when the motor turns on.
The fridge rocks, I drop to the floor to look for Misha, I hear a squeal, and she shoots out from under the fridge faster then lightening and hits me straight in the face. We both fall back surprised but since she is used to banging her head into things she recovers faster and shoots down the hall. I am grateful that Misha is still alive because now I am going to kill her. She hides in my sneaker, her little white tush still visible but to a guinea pig “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me” is the rule. I straighten my glasses, which she has actually bent with the force of our encounter and (knowing that If I touched her I will wring her little neck) I put the whole shoe in her cage and head out the door for that class that I am now late for. I should have gotten a cat.
I don’t know if any of you out there have a guinea pig but for the first time in my life I now have one of my very own. My host sister was afraid that I would be lonely living all my myself so one day she handed me a shoe box that was filled with vegetables and a six month old guinea pig. I promptly named the little thing Misha because it is the only Ukrainian name I can remember with any regularity besides Miroslav. And since Miroslav means “warrior for peace” it seemed a little presumptuous for a guinea pig, so Misha it was.
Guinea Pigs are interesting creatures. It is like having a really dumb dog in a cage. Misha will squeal when I come in and purrs like a cat when I pet her. I like to think its purring because the only other option would be trembling in fear. She is also as twitchy as a canary on espresso. If I move to quickly she will freak out and run full force in the opposite direction, often forgetting that she is in a cage so she just ends banging her little head against the bars. Did I mention that she is cute but stupid? When I put her on the linoleum floor in my apartment she tries to run so fast that her little clawed feet only slip and she ends up going no where. It’s like watching a dog run on hardwood floors but slightly more pathetic.
This being said, I often feel bad to keep her in her little cage so I shut the door to my bedroom and let her run around the hallway way while I study Ukrainian in the kitchen. That way I can keep an eye on her but still do something else. Well the other day, I didn’t pay enough attention and I looked up to see Misha at my feet in the kitchen. I don’t let her run around the kitchen because there are places that she can hide that I would never get her out of like under the stove or refrigerator. So guess where she goes the second I try to catch her. Behind the fridge. Now, I am not to worried about this because she will have to come out eventually so I just finish studying. She hasn’t come out and I need to leave. I know that guinea pigs like to chew on wires so I can’t very well leave here out while I am gone. I look behind the fridge…and she isn’t there. This is not good. Then I here something, I look a little closer and realize that she is not longer behind the fridge because she has crawled under the fridge and into the 1960 motor it is powered by. Now the motor for my fridge come one about ever 25 minutes and it sounds like a garbage disposal running. It is loud and makes the whole fridge shake but it works so I don’t complain. But I know that with that amount of action that means there are some rapidly moving parts in that motor that will not hesitate to turn my guinea pig into chop suey. So I do the only reasonable thing I can think of, I panic. I move the fridge away from the wall so I can see the tiny space between the motor and the back cover. I can also see Misha left rear foot. I can’t get my hand in there to grab her and am not really inclined to try out the medical system here in Ukraine by going in with a fridge mauled hand so I grab my ever trusty spatula and attempt to spatula her out of the motor. She simply squeals (probably a guinea pig laugh) and disappears from my view. The fridge has not turned on for awhile so I know it is just a matter of minutes and I have these horrible visions of the fridge starting to rock and little pieces of guinea pig being flung out of the motor. Then I would be minus a guinea pig and the fridge that it took me 5 months to get. I would not be happy. I am just about to get my leatherman to remove the back panel of the fridge when the motor turns on.
The fridge rocks, I drop to the floor to look for Misha, I hear a squeal, and she shoots out from under the fridge faster then lightening and hits me straight in the face. We both fall back surprised but since she is used to banging her head into things she recovers faster and shoots down the hall. I am grateful that Misha is still alive because now I am going to kill her. She hides in my sneaker, her little white tush still visible but to a guinea pig “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me” is the rule. I straighten my glasses, which she has actually bent with the force of our encounter and (knowing that If I touched her I will wring her little neck) I put the whole shoe in her cage and head out the door for that class that I am now late for. I should have gotten a cat.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Group Photo
Here is a picture of me with some of the PCV who were there. We spent most of the time outdoors because we couldn't get the lights to work in the house for most of the evening. Thats Ukraine.Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Football Dishes
Since the girls did most of the cooking it was the boys job to do the dishes after the meal. In true Thanksgiving fashion they decided to "football" wash the dishes. Complete with passing, fakes, and calling out plays and probably freaking out the neighbors. I haven't laughed that hard in a really long time. Some of the plays were like "double forks, double forks, up high." or "sharp knife, sharp knife, watch yourself" They would huddle to make sure they handled things like large bowls and platters correctly. It was great and much more interesting then watching real football.
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