Sh*t My Russian Wife Says: Diamonds

I get a call on my ride home. It’s her ring tone. My son clued me in to that, so I am forewarned and forearmed when I answer the phone. “Hello, honey.” So she asks me, “Can you pick up a few things on your way home?”

I know it’s a plot, but where is the trap? I am going to figure it out this time. She never asks me to run errands. This isn’t about the store.

“Can you get me sea salt barbecue potato chips, turnips, and white vinegar?”

There must be a clue. My brain was twisting so hard, I half forgot what she asked. But then! “Honey, can you please text that?” Written record. I’m going to pass this test.

Give me a moment to reminisce about when I was young and ice covered most of the earth. An age when food stores actually carried food. Here there were flowers and self-help books, sports bras and gardening equipment, but no white vinegar. Was that the plot? Did she think I was still rookie enough to come home with plain-old-regular vinegar? Ha! I picked up turnips and sea salt barbecue potato chips and moved on to another store. More flowers, gym shorts, pet toys, but no white vinegar. Undaunted, I scored at the third store. In the bag, in the car—bang!—on my way home.

Plot solved. This is good. I checked the text, I checked my bag. I did it! There was a bounce in my step as I came through the door. I dropped the bag with a bang on the table right in front of her. Victory!

She gave me a look like I had ripped her heart out. She hadn’t so much as glanced at the bag. I tried to remember the text. What had I missed?

“You didn’t buy me flowers.”

I barely heard her words as I racked my brain for what I might have screwed up. She hadn’t asked for flowers. She knows she hadn’t asked for flowers. Before I could think better of it, I said what any American man might say who is not forewarned by generations of family members who had survived the onslaughts of would-be conquerors and Russian winters.

“You didn’t ask me for flowers.”

You know how I know that was the wrong thing to say? Let me give you a hint. You’ve heard of Medusa—one look at her and you turn to stone? That’s nothing like the look of a Russian woman who has just heard something that’s true but is not what she wanted to hear. So I waited for it, having no idea what I was waiting for, though I didn’t want her to see that. As I waited, my mouth spilled out more garbage. “Did you?”

She spread her arms like Moses parting the Red Sea. “Look at me.”

So I looked at her. I know you can’t see her, but if you could, you might understand what I understood at that moment. That a beautiful Russian woman didn’t think she should have to ask for flowers. I knew better than to apologize, which would only earn me the one-millionth: “You can put your ‘I’m sorry’ in your ass.” So I kept my mouth shut. I left the bag where it was. She left the bag where it was. It was still there the next morning. No borscht. No late night snack. This wasn’t about the bag.

I thought about getting her flowers before I got my morning coffee, but flowers feel no better than “I’m sorry” in the nether region, so I called the cavalry. The cavalry is Vasily, my Russian friend. I told him what had happened. I asked him for a solution. When he answered, the plot became suddenly clear.

Diamonds.