COLUMNISTS

Deidre Dare

It is said that idle hands do the devil's work. I have discovered that idle lips fare no better.

The other night I was home alone and bored. I was also feeling lazy so, when I lamentably realised that I'd run out of champagne, I didn't feel like trekking down Novinsky to acquire more.

I scrounged around my flat for some form of alcoholic entertainment and found a bottle of vodka some Russian guy or another had apparently given me at some time or another.

We eyed each other for a long time, that vodka bottle and I.

You see, I haven't had a drop of vodka since I got trashed on it when I was 13 years old while I was babysitting for Lauren Beck. Since that memorable night even the thought of vodka has made me retch a little.

Not too good for someone living in the vodka capital of the world. Not too good for someone facing a long winter in Moscow without a steady boyfriend or two around to keep her warm and snug.

I opened the bottle and took a cautious sniff of the stuff. My vodka memories surfaced.

The Beck babysitting job was a good one. It was a regular Tuesday and Thursday night gig and it paid a whopping $5 an hour. My family was poor and the money I got from babysitting for Lauren kept me in clogs and other young teen fashion gear.

But I had recently met two older boys, whose names I cannot for the life of me recall. One night, after Lauren was safely tucked in bed, I invited these boys to come over and they brought the fateful vodka with them.

I can remember drinking the first shot and I can remember the Becks coming home hours later to find two half-naked boys in their living room and me drunkenly throwing up all over their bathroom. Everything in-between is gone.

The Becks fired me the next day and vodka and I parted ways.

That is, until the other night.

Since the smell didn't turn me off in any apparent way and it had started to rain outside, I decided to make myself a large vodka and orange juice.

I recently learned the Russian saying, "Only problem drinkers don't toast before drinking," so I На здоровье'd myself (as all stupid Americans raised on Hollywood movies are wont to do) and quickly downed my drink.

Having no bad reaction, I made myself another and went to my desk to take care of some miscellaneous e-mail correspondence I'd been putting off. That walk towards my computer, large screwdriver in hand, is the last thing I remember about that night.

I woke up the next morning to a scene of unimaginable horrors. After crawling painfully out of bed, I tripped over a book that had apparently been violently hurled against a wall.

"What the fuck?" I muttered quietly to myself, bending over to pick it up.

I gasped as I stood back up. LOTS of books had been violently hurled against LOTS of walls.

"What the fuck?!" I cried out in alarm.

Then the worst question in the world suddenly hit me. A question we've all had to ask ourselves at some point in our lives. A question that evokes such a sinking feeling of fear that even recalling it fills me with a sick sensation of dread.

"Who did I write to and what the fuck did I say?"

Frantic, I dropped the book and rushed to my computer to check my Sent Items, only to find that my computer had been violently hurled against a wall!

I finally got it working again and was reading my shameful drunken ramblings, when it occurred to me that perhaps I should do a thorough search of all the rooms in my flat.

For two semi-naked boys. Or for that matter, one completely naked boy. Or for that matter, two completely naked boys.

As my search turned up nothing and as I will never touch another drop of vodka, it looks like I'm going to have to pass the coming Russian winter extremely un-snug and un-warm.

Sigh...

xxoo

DD

Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" and "Moscow Moments" video reports are at: www.deidredare.com