Ivan

I would like to introduce you to my future husband. His name is Ivan. Ivan is 80 years old. Do not be alarmed – Ivan is also very adorable. He wears a tweed jacket that is too big and angular on his little shriveled body, along with a bright orange tie.

You may remember that last month I freaked out and hid when I thought that Communist Grandpa was in the living room. Well, it turns out that the fake-Communist was actually –  Ivan! I can’t wait to put our “how we met” story on our wedding website. He’d find it hilarious if he understood the Internet. Or English.

See, that’s the difficulty. We can’t even speak Ukrainian together because Ivan speaks Russian. He does know some German, though. When he came for dinner recently, he asked me in German – here comes the romantic part – my age and if I’m married. When I said I wasn’t, he told me I needed to get married, and then said that he’s unmarried (!!!!) and doesn’t drink or smoke. I really hope he’s still alive in 2 years so I can bring him back to America with me.

In all seriousness, now – returning to the subject of Communist Grandpa – something really scary happened. The communist LEFT HIS ROOM. Luckily I was at school at the time. He made it as far as the kitchen, yelling at Nadja because his pension check hadn’t come yet. No one told me that he could physically walk! I thought that he was forever bedridden and could only dream of ways to kill the American living down the hall. But no, he doubtless wants the money to order new parts for the complicated bomb he’s building that will be specially designed to like, go off when I sneak more apples. A heady mixture of romance and fear here, heady indeed.