Names of things

The fact that my husband is sick is evidenced by the fact that he is married to me. He has some incredible number of bziks, which eventually begin to spread by airborne droplets to relatives, friends and acquaintances.

One of these is the way of giving human names to inanimate objects. Not everyone, of course, but only the most worthy. And he doesn't just baptize them -- he talks to them.

For example, he has a favorite mug. There's a penguin on the mug. The penguin's name is Paphnutius.

I once asked:

- Why is Paphnutius?

My husband looked at me surprised and asked:

- How's that?

I thought and realized, really, no more.

In the morning, the husband takes Paphnutius out of the kitchen locker and says:

- Well, brother Paphnutius, a coffee?

In the evenings he and Paphnutius drink tea, and my husband complains to him about me.

- You see, Paphnutius, with whom we have to spend the century? Appreciate, brother, loneliness, don't get a penguin.



We have a Bulgarian woman named Zinaida. Bulgarian is not a native of Bulgaria, but a tool for cutting metal.

At first, her husband named her Snezhan, because he believed that the Bulgarian must have a Bulgarian name. However, after getting acquainted with the character of the Bulgarian, he realized that she was Zinaida.

When you need to cut something metal, he pulls it out of the shed and says,

- Zinaida, why don't we go crazy?

And they go crazy. And when they get mad, he takes her to the shed, puts her on the shelf, and gently says,

- Sweet dreams, Zina.



And in the apartment we have a closet named Boris Petrovich. That's respectful, by name, yes.

When we first bought an apartment, we ordered a closet. And we collected this closet collector, whose name was Boris Petrovich.

Of course, this fact casts a shadow of shame on my husband, but in fact there is an explanation.

In fact, the rest of the furniture in our house (as well as in my mother’s house, in his parents’ house and in the homes of many of our friends) was collected by the husband himself. And the closet would have gathered just to spit, but it turned out that on the day of delivery he was on a business trip and had to return only in two weeks.

I categorically refused to live for two weeks in the midst of an inconceivable number of boards and boxes, besides, I couldn’t wait to hang all the clothes on the hangers as soon as possible, so I did not wait for my husband and invited a store collector. And, of course, forty times regretted it.

The collector Boris Petrovich, going to visit me, took a cologne bath, and this cologne of the brand “Coniferous Forest” (or “Russian Field”, or “Youth of Maxim” – I do not know) stinked the whole house. I was escaping from Boris Petrovich’s balcony.

Boris Petrovich worked with concentration, leisurely, with feeling, with sense, with arrangement, with five breaks for tea drinking. I wondered why I didn’t keep him at the table. And I just can't drink tea that smells like cologne.

Professional Boris Petrovich, being a collector from God, collected the closet from 9 am to 11 pm. My husband could easily have built a two-story house and a bathhouse in the yard.

My things remained in boxes, not knowing the cold hangers, because all two weeks before the arrival of my husband, I aired the whole apartment, and the closet in particular, from the fragrance of Boris Petrovich. I was even ashamed to ride the subway, because I felt like I was staring at this cheap killer cologne.

When my husband arrived, there was a decent atmosphere in the apartment. He jumped joyfully to the new furniture, happily shouted: “Oh, locker!” and froze, opening the doors.

For about a minute he came to his senses from the stench, and then he asked me:

- Mmm. What's that?

- This is Boris Petrovich, I replied.

That is how our closet got its name, and the collector Boris Petrovich, without knowing it, became his godfather (our coum, therefore).

Now the husband, going to some important event, consults with the closet, what to wear:

Boris Petrovich, what about the blue shirt?

Or asks:

- Would you lend me a tie, Boris Petrovich?

Or put a suit in him and say,

- Boris Petrovich, keep it as your honor.

We also have Stepan's coffee table.

Well, everything is simple: we bought it in disassembled form, and at home it turned out that the assembly instructions are written in English and Chinese.

My husband first asked me to read the Chinese version, then for ten minutes he was indignant that he had married some illiterate schmuck who did not even know Chinese, and then graciously allowed me to read English.

She's a fucking wife and she's in English. But something else.

The instructions read “step one.” Well, in my pronunciation... So the coffee table became Stepan.

When I look for a lighter or a magazine, my husband says,

- I don't know where. Ask Stepan.



We also have a Galya microwave. I take it it's something personal that I don't need to know.

Because when her husband shoves a plate of food into her and gently says: "Warm, Galya ..." Do it for me, baby..." - I have all the questions stuck somewhere in the thyroid gland.

Reflections of a romantic past, apparently.

We also have an electric tiles that are always breaking. Her husband calls her Nadia.

When I asked him why, he replied:

- Yes, I had one... It's also broken all the time.

When he's going to fry an egg in the morning, he always asks:

- So, Nadia, will you finally become mine today? Come on, baby, give my balls a chance.



We also have Raisa's ashtray. Her husband claims that she is Raisa, visible to the naked eye.

When a husband wants to fuck, he says,

- Raisa, keep a nice company.

And when something distracts him, he puts a siret in it and says,

- Raisa, guard.

This infection is viral in nature.

Some of our friends have Phil's TV (because Philips) and Anatoly's fridge (because it's always full of shit, like Wasserman's vest pockets).

Others called the lazy girl from the TV - in honor of the neighbor, who also, according to them, is lazy.

The third live washing machine Lyubov Petrovna. When this car was delivered to them and unpacked, their old grandmother threw her hands up and said:

- Beautiful as Lyubov Petrovna Orlova!

And even my mom has a teaspoon named Isolde. I still don't know why Isolde is. When I tried to find out, my mother looked at me as crazy (though she always looks at me like that), and my husband said indignantly that he had never heard the stupidest question in his life, and that every fool understands why the spoon is called that.

Actually, here.

I don’t know why I wrote all this here. Well, probably in order to once again emphasize the idiocy of his family and friends close to her.

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