RUSSIAN BRIDES STORIES

8 DAYS IN 7TH HEAVEN:
How I Ended Up In Hell 

By Dawk Ziti, Ph.D
Copyright 2009-2010

All good relationships end; only bad ones endure. At least that is the way that things happen in the good old US (United States of America); but then, nobody ever said that our priorities were right.

Thus, I found myself alone on January 8, 2009. Life is cheap; love is expensive, except on Elena's Models (EM).

Now you know my secret! Yes, I visited Elena‘s Models immediately, as I live in the US and want to meet a civilized woman; EM is far and away the best place to find a spouse and is the site of all of my previous successes -- and some of my funniest failures, which for some reason, I am eager to chronicle. I am glad that all I have to do is post a profile on the website and send a few thousand letters to women who live in Eastern Europe. I cannot be bothered with mundane issues like paying a fee per letter* or going on an actual date with someone. 

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*You probably are not Italian -- if you are, I want to meet you -- so this perquisite does not apply to you. For $10,000.00 I will obtain a free membership for you; you can tell everybody and his stepbrother that it was free, if you so desire. I will not spill the beans. Be sure to send cash, and remember, a gratuity is always nice.
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I latched on to Luba within the first month. Luba was a tigress from Snov, Belarus, and her claim to fame, besides her see-through outfits, was that she looked like a feline. In her first letter she described how she had spent the day studying the bromeliads at the park and gotten a thorn in her paw. She was truly the pick of the litter; I discovered very quickly, however, that she should have been declawed. She was about as playful as Behemoth.

Luba, after a whirlwind courtship of 6 months, agreed to meet me. She was a Belarussian citizen, but she was a Russian ethnically. What is the big difference? Instead of bringing a refrigerator magnet that says "Moscow" as a gift for my beloved mother, she brought one that reads "Minsk." 

Luba was a nurse but should have been a doctor. One way or another she was the perfect person to check me for a hernia; she declined, which was my loss.

On March 29 at the airport, my mom searched frantically for Luba. “Did the afternoon flight from France* arrive?” she asked someone. “No speak Ingles,” the El Salvadoran janitor answered. “Go window,” he said, motioning toward a kiosk that was entirely devoid of glass. His mastery of English was considered to be fluent in the modern US. The women on Elena's Models run rings around him and they speak Russian, Belarussian, Ukrainian, German, and French, too.

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* No direct flights from Belarus to Los Angeles (LA) are available. Changing planes in Paris was cheaper than swimming across the English channel, taking a ship to New York, and then going coast to coast by train, and it was faster, too--but not by much, especially when you consider all the necessary security checks.
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I found Luba and quickly looked her over; she passed the test. My mom approached us. Luba greeted her cordially with “Hi, Mickey,” Either she had been well-coached or she was a good guesser.

“Hello, Lisa--Luba,” said my mom. All my hours of preparation were thrown out the window, like a teenager who conveniently forgets all of her sex ed instruction and declines to tell her boyfriend that she is not on the pill. “Damn you eastern Europeans with your silly cognomens!” said my mom in a huff. Luba, slightly riled at first, giggled a little. “Part o' the problem,” explained my mom, casting a quick glance at me, “is that he had another Slav here a while ago.” “Oh? What was her name?” asked Luba with curiosity. “I don‘t remember,” answered my mom evasively. 

“Don’t worry about it,” I urged Luba, adding, “You’re here now ‘n’ that’s all that matters.” “He’s right. Listen to him, Lis--Luba,” added my mom. Luba nodded. I grimaced. I prayed that my dear, sweet mother would stop trying to help me.

The 3 of us drove home and my mom cooked dinner; I asked Luba to follow me outside. "Where do ya think you're goin' in such an all-fired hurry?" asked my shy mother. "Your son wants to show me the cactus garden; maybe he hopes I'll prick a finger," responded Luba, referring to me in the 3rd person for the 1st of many times. 

When I finally showed Luba the yard, she instantly bonded with the squirrels and had them eating out of her hand. I should have known right then that she was nuts. 

The next day we went to an outdoor shopping center. At 2:00 p.m. a group of 4 volunteer firemen and 1 homosexual in drag assembled folding chairs, sat, and began making music. One of the quintet quietly undressed and took a bath in the pond, scaring the turtles half to death. Guess which one I am referring to.

As I ate breakfast the next morning I announced, "We're goin' to Venice beach." "Your mom already told me," answered Luba.

The 3 of us had great fun that day. We heard a microphone produce feedback through an amplifier and the roar of approval from a tone-deaf crowd. “Let’s go there,” Luba said.

A 41 year old, slender, European male who had a fez on his scalp and a fur coat on his waist, despite the blazing sunshine, cleared his throat several times and the sound was broadcast halfway to Sri Lanka. “That’s a little loud, don’t ya think?” asked my mom, but nobody heard her over the cacophony.

“Ol-ga, Ol-ga,” sang the aforementioned skinny male. His musicians -- a bass guitar, a lead guitar, and a drummer -- joined in. The sound was dissonant but these hepcats had their own television show on cable and a weekly gig at a 5,000 seat nightclub, so they could afford to be bad. 

“Oh, he’s good,” cooed Luba, “’n he’s a Slav, too.” “How can ya tell?” I queried her. She just shrugged; she was bound to be ½ right, at any rate.

An announcer from the outback introduced the band. “Ladies ‘n’ gentlemen” -- I looked around, but all I saw were almsmen ‘n’ cocottes, but I did not correct him -- “it is my great honor to tell you that today, on this very stage” -- he motioned toward a pile of cinder blocks that were covered with paper towels -- “we have, straight from Russia” -- Luba smiled at me -- “Professor Potemkin and his Kremlin Kazachki.” Luba whistled and nearly broke my eardrums.

“Great day in the morning!” exclaimed Luba at 30 minutes past 2 in the afternoon. She had borrowed 1 of my expressions, but her timing was a little off.

“This is amazing!” she gushed; exuberance lasted forever with her. “Yes,” I concurred, adding, “how’d that percussionist ever get the whole name o’ the band across his bass drum?” 

The show began. “Ol-ga put your make-up on,” sang the vocalist, 1 syllable at a time for accentuation, a pattern that he repeated for the duration of the number. “He’s a far-out apparatchik,” pronounced Luba. “He’s probably a Jew from Brooklyn,” said my mom..

“This is the kind o’ music I grew up with,” said Luba. “Same here,” I bluffed. She was too entranced with the tune to sneer, so she raised an eyebrow.

“Ol-ga put your tu-nic on,” crooned the warbler. “Sing it, tovarish!” implored Luba, vacillating like a reed in a haboob, although her feet did not budge a centimeter. “What‘s with her?” my mom wondered. “She finally found something that moves her,” I said. 

“Ol-ga put your rib-bon on.” “Why does she need a ribbon if she’s wearin’ a tunic on her head? The tunic’ll cover everything.” “Shut up!” shouted Luba. Everybody stared at her. “She’s really feelin’ her level best ,” I whispered to my mom. “She’s off-kilter, so that’s not so good,” was her rejoinder.

"Let's dance, Luby," I suggested, holding my right hand out and calling her by my special name for her. To my surprise, she took it and we moved about as if we were stomping on cockroaches. 

“Ol-ga put your muff-ler on.” I wonder if it’s tweed, I conjectured silently. “It’s a feather boa,” explained Luba, as if she had sensed my puzzlement.

“Ol-ga put your earrings on.” “Diamonds or rubies?” some drunken Bolshevik 2 rows ahead of us shouted.

“Ol-ga put your bracelets on.” This guy was big on jewellery, or rather, Olga was.

“Ol-ga put your toga on.” Why does a Russkie wear Greek clothes? Luba did not read my mind that time. 

“Ol-ga put your panties on.” Luba turned to me. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “Wait! I wanna see if it’s a thong,” I joked. “Of course it is; all Eastern European babes wear a g-string ’n’ such,” stated Luby, an expert in such matters.. At that moment I loved her very much -- Luby, not Olga, although I have no doubt that Olga was hot, too.

The group segued into “Tanya fox, Do do do DE do do do, Tanya fox.” which was part beguine and part rumba, a strange combination. “You have a very pretty little..." This dude definitely was obsessed with Eastern European women; someone should have told him about Elena’s Models, although the babes there would have given him the brush-off faster than a gnat from a horse’s tail.

Luba removed her camera from her purse and took a photo of the quartet. The crooner stopped in mid-Olga. “You!” he shouted, pointing at Luba. “No pictures,” he warned. Luba took 3 more for spite; “He’s only from Siberia,” she said, “so I outclass him.” For good measure, she screamed, “You’re a lousy poputchik,” and stuck her tongue out at him. She had become a capitalist in 6 days; would that the liberals in the US, after more than 230 years, would do the same.

When my mom and I caught up with Luby, she was buying gifts for everyone in Belarus. Do such people really need tanning lotion?

The next day was a horse of a different color. Luby was on cloud 9 when we told her that we would drive to the paramount cultural and historical institutions around town so that her visit would be complete. I tucked a map under my arm, as I had never been to these dumps.

When we got home, Luba rejected me forever. I blamed my old school and all of my former teachers. Somebody had to be the scapegoat.

My mom tried to help; she sat down across from Luba and took a good look at her. “Dawk loved you with all his body ’n’ soul,” she told the Belarussian queen. “So what? Lots o’ guys do.” She was all heart.

My mom looked at me and stared for a long time. Finally, she sympathized with me: “None o’ this woulda happened if you’d listened to me ‘n’ gotten your haircut before Luba arrived.” 

I still write to Luba daily. She answers me weekly.

I invited her to come back for a vacation. She went to Chicago instead. 

Luba was many things, including my lifelong friend, but she certainly was not an animal activist, thank goodness. I will always recall her saying to me, more than once, as she had a slight habit of repeating herself, “Dawk, beasts were put here to entertain us -- have you ever seen the dancing wallabies at the zoo? -- 'n' when the act is over, to be eaten."

She was 100% correct about animals. You doubt me? IF so, then I have written the last 4 stories, including this one, in vain.

Before I go, I will give you a useful anecdote to file away in the recesses of your memory. You can thank me later with a money order or wire transfer. I will remind you that Ziti is spelt Z-I-T-I, exactly as it sounds.

Suppose you were in a forest or a jungle, and you got lost, and a huge 3 meter, 1020 kilogram brown bear came up to you, asked you the trouble, and helped you find your car; then, I could understand why you might feel a little guilty about consuming it 
(the bear, not the auto) for lunch. However, if the bear told you, in perfect Russian, no less, "Go to the north parking structure, walk down 3 rows of cars, turn left, and walk for 40 meters," and you did it, but were nowhere near where your vehicle was, and the ursine 
creature and his buddies -- a raccoon, an orangutan, and an overweight armadillo -- laughed at you behind your back, then you would have every right to shoot the bastard, barbecue it, and have a party with your parents! My mom would join you, as she is a carnivore of the first magnitude.

Luba returned to the scene of the crime -- my broken heart was certainly a felony -- on August 2 for a 1 week vacation. She truly liked LA very much and she absolutely loved... my mom. The 2 of them were thick as thieves and I was odd man out. Hmmm! I see a pattern, starting with Lisa, continuing with Luba, and probably extending into my next 5 Slavic girlfriends. I will have to do something about it, such as asking my mom to become rude, arrogant, and a poor hostess; if that is too difficult for her, then she can find a new place to live.

Luby and I were still not compatible the 2nd time around, despite my constantly encouraging her to change her personality or open her mind. She agreed, however, to stay in LA as a student and enrolled at our local community college. My neighbour offered Luby free room and board in exchange for help around the house, and Luby moved in with her. Luby recognizes a good deal when she sees one, and so does my neighbour, who wanted to hire Luby out as a housekeeper until I intervened and put the kibosh on the idea -- and on my neighbour's skull.

Ah, but where is Luby-tuby today, you wonder. I do not know, as she disconnected the electronic monitoring device that I attached to her left ankle. I told you that she was smart.

When I finally tracked her down, through 1 method or another, none of which I care to mention, I learned that she left sunny LA for the cold, dismal confines of British Columbia. She is now an au pair and will be a Canadian permanent resident in 2 years; 2 years after that she will be a Canadian citizen. She is trying to build a Slavic community near Vancouver. Are any construction workers available at a cheap hourly wage?

No, you misunderstood me; what I really meant was that she is trying to get as many Slavs as possible to move to Canada. She wants to have Eastern European expatriates as her new friends and neighbours because the Canucks do not understand her or her customs very well. Besides, Luba told me, money can be made hand over fist in Canada and the Canadians are free and easy with such bonuses as health insurance and child care. If those enticements are not sufficient, the 2012 Winter Olympics will be in the great north, although they will be a poor precursor to the grand spectacle that will occur in Sochi, Russia in 2016. Start packing, and brush up on your Russian!

I am destined to try Elena's Models again and with good reason. For every Anna-Banana who tells me that she is a hatmaker and that she "was born in a gulag in Siberia, but I have a Polish father and an Italian mother; their marriage lasted only 2 years because my darling dad tried, hour after hour, to stick his big Polish sausage into my petite mom’s little macaroni. Is that any way to make a salad?” I am bound to find a Gina-Farina from Kiev to whom I can give a lollipop on her birthday. I am a sucker for young ladies, you see, and Elena's Models is the best place for great women of all ages and stripes, whether they are doctors or lawyers or accountants or engineers or beauty queens who write poetry all day. Hey, Elena's Models even has room for an Italian aristocratic satirist such as I, so that tells you something; exactly what it is, I do not purport to know. 

Before you inundate me with requests for photos of Luby, calm yourself and look around. You will see the elegant Slav in a variety of poses, none of which is pornographic, I am sorry to say.

First, I must tell you -- if you did not get the main message of this story -- that I went from pillar to post with Luby. Thus, the top 2 photos show Luba at a pillar and then a post.

The 3rd photo is Luby at Venice Beach. A big sign warns people not to swim because the water is contaminated. I showed it to Luby and she immediately looked at me and replied, "Dawk, I didn't come all the way to stay on dry land. I'm goin' for a dip in the Pacific ocean." She did and she never became sick. Her skin is a pale green now, though.

The 4th photo is of Luba in Calabasas. The turtle was metal and the temperature was 38 degrees Celsius that day, a bad combination for sitting. 

The 5th photo is of Luba trying to imitate a statue at a museum. 

The 6th photo is of a clay figurine that I made to commemorate Luba. Does it look like her? I think so, if you have a warped mind.

The 7th photo is of Luba resting on a staircase in Hollywood. The next photo is of the usher urging Luby to move along and pushing her off the staircase. Wait! I will not include that photo here.

The 8th photo is of Luba at a western museum riding a fake horse. The last photo is of the horse after Luby got off. The old Luba-tuba has lost weight since then, and so has the horse. 

Dr. Dawk Ziti really lives in Los Angeles and has met 2 fabulous women from Elena's Models in the flesh. You may as well guess their names, as you probably will find the activity a pleasant diversion. If you are certain that you have figured out who they are, then please alert the author of this story, as he seems to have forgotten.

Elena's Models is regarded as a premier dating agency for Russian and European girls seeking love, romance and marriage with Western men. Elena's Models is in business since 1999 and had been responsible for hundreds of marriages between men from the U.S.A., UK, Canada, Europe, Australia and New Zealand and women from Russia, Ukraine, Belarus and other countries of Eastern Europe (some people are just luckier than others...) Having said that, if you are curious about Russian brides or what the hell all the talks are about, feel free to join Elena's Models and check for yourself!

READ OTHER STORIES BY DAWK ZITI:

• SHOOTING THE BULL: Slaying Dragons and Finding Love

• THE GOLDEN RULE - Guide to Meeting, Dating and Courting Russian women

• TONGUE IN CHEEK: The Dirty Lowdown on International Dating

• RUSSIAN BRIDES LETTERS - From the Mouth of Babes

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