Maryna’s Working on the Nuances

I grew up in a home where Mentholatum was considered so much more than just an attractive green jar. 

Chest rub?  Chapped-nostril soother?  Pretend lip gloss?

You can imagine my disappointment when I grew to discover that lip glosses are not always “mentholated”.

Maryna, a sophisticated Ukrainian with eyes the color of midnight and a dark wit to match them, leans over the table, hands me a pink lip gloss made by Buxom.  Like my beloved Mentholatum, it, too, makes the lips tingle.  

“You like thees?   I do not like.  Take.”

I look at the tube.  “Really?”  Buxom is not cheap.  I fight the urge to slam my drink, do a victory lap, maybe give my sister a call just to gloat a bit over the free booty.

Maryna waves a dismissive hand.  “I don’t like.  My friend Olya geev to me.  She don’t like either.”

I grin at her.  “Well thank you, Maryna!”

We raise our glasses to each other.  Then: “I have question for you.”

I slide my new favorite thing into the section of my purse reserved specifically for favorite things.  “Hmmm?”

“What is ‘moon’?”

I close my purse, peer at her over my glass of wine.  “Moon?”  I point out the window.  “Like, moon?”

She frowns, a pretty gesture in one so beautiful.  “No, I don’t theenk.”

“Where did you hear it?”

“Coworker.  She is funny woman.  Maybe has, mmm, sandy corners.”

“Mm,” I say.  “She’s a little rough around the edges?”

“Yes,” she says, smiling.  “Yes.  Rough edges.”

 “So what did she say?”

There is a moment of silence while she ponders.  Her dark eyes light up as she recalls the sentence.  In a vague approximation of an American accent done by someone born in Kiev, she says, “Hey, Maryna.  Here eet comes our boss.  Let us moon heem.”

She beams innocently at me.

I grab the wine bottle, smiling, and pour myself a full glass.