Russian TV shows scare the hell out of me, too.

I have a confession to make...I'm not actually Russian. But yet, I am. Allow me to explain.

My parents, years and years ago when I was just a hope and a distant dream, came to this country from a little place called Odessa, in Ukraine. So technically, while my family lineage extends all the way into Ukraine (heck, I probably have about 15 cousins still there), we all consider ourselves Russian. This is because my family left the soulless communism when it was well...communist USSR, so it was all Russia at the time.

And thus, we're Russian. Which explains why we don't consider ourselves Ukrainian. Why we all speak Russian. But yet we are still different from Russian Russians, who are the hardcore types who were the same folks my parents were quick to leave behind in the first place.

Which explains the heritage I have to uphold. Which explains why I had to nod and smile during every communist joke growing up, claim I love vodka (it's better than beer though), and why I have one of those ironic "Communist Party" t-shirts in my closet. But yet, none of this really encapsulates the culture I have to endure on a daily basis.

For some of those intricacies, I highly recommend the website Russians Anonymous (http://www.russiansanonymous.com) of who not only tackle the same subject matter, but they have their website figured out. Meaning they have pictures. (Hey, I bring wit and humor. Even Michael Bay didn't start out by making huge explosions in his backyard.)

So, I'm visiting my house the other night, spending quality time with my parents. Which mind you, means my physical body in at the table with my parents while we all watch TV. Good intentions, right?

The dial that evening happened to be on Russian television, of which has always fascinated me. But I have another secret to share...my Russian isn't so great. I can understand casual Russian conversation, and I can read / write Russian. But I speak at the level of a two-year old, and I have actually met infants with better Russian prononciation than me. And Russian TV? The actors / comedians/ singers / whoever speak so fast it blows my mind.

So how do I watch Russian TV? By nodding and smiling. I get the basic gist of it, and I can understand it mostly. But what I don't understand completely confuses me, and even moreso...Russian humor.

Russian humor means that every show is sprinkled with some sort of humor, and it extends from the juvenile (cross dressing) to that of various animals (seen a monkey or two), and even jokes about drinking. I know, shocked as you are.

True Story: I watched a game show once with my late grandmother and father that was an odd mix of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. 5 letter word, the clue was "This goes great with bread in the morning." I said butter, answer was vodka. Can't make this up.

Anyhow, back to the other night's television quest. A commercial aired for a new show! What was it about? Why...it's a show about Russian women who are all extremely overweight. Something something Ruskaya (Russian in well..Russian) XXL!

The first few minutes were boring until they panned in one girl who I thought was the best looking of the bunch. My parents lamented how the girl looked "like a stick". I said I thought she looked good (Russians are brutally honest if anything), to which I was told "Of course you do...Anna is skinny." Hear that hun? Compliment from the in-laws.

This raged on for a while, until they randomly brought out a group of people with over-sized lips. And I don't mean slightly. These people would give you nightmares as their lips were engorged in such a fashion, it looked like 5 Botox injections completely regressed any chance of looking normal again.

Next, a woman was brought out that looked entirely like a man. Moustaches can apply to both genders, apparently. Then a man who looked like a woman was carted out. Long, flowing bleached blond hair looks odd on a man.

Then, in the Coup De Gras of completely awkward things to watch with my parents, the main attraction entered the stage. Not just any woman, mind you, but...the woman with "Russia's biggest bustline". To say that her chest arrived before her was an understatement. She had cleavage inside of her cleavage. And then more cleavage. The homeless could have lived in there. I could go on. Her chest was huge.

It was at this point either the show ended, or I had to go. One of the two. For all I know, they could have showed something worse and I blocked it out of my memory. The way I had to block out certain Russian television events from my childhood.

But come to think of it, with the way Russian television is, it's no wonder that I grew up with my quirky sense of humor. Don't get me started on Russian concerts, however, that's a whole different ballgame.

The box.

I've always hated Sundays.

Chalk it up to the forced family time growing up (window shopping at stores too expensive to even think about purchasing items at) , or the predominance of sports (I am an extremely casual sports fan), but Sundays have always left something to be desired for me. Not this morning though.

I woke up in a pretty good mood, eager to finish my book "Ready Player One" which my friend Jon lent me two weeks ago. I'm seeing him tomorrow so I figured I would finish the book ahead of time, which I wound up doing about ten minutes ago. This entry isn't about that book. (Which is fantastic and you should be reading. Right now.)

I rolled over in bed, plotting out my escape from the room not because Anna was still sleeping, but because I had to use the bathroom. I stealthily swung my feet out, lifted the sheets perhaps a quarter inch, all while Anna was still face down on her pillow. Unaware of anything except her psyche and her deeply relaxed state. So it figures that the second I get out of bed, she's up and alert. "Why are you getting out of bed?" I swear, my future wife has super sonic hearing. It's the only explanation.

I returned from washing up to find Anna in bed, staring off into the distance. We have oddball personalities, but no, this isn't a common occurrence. So I asked her what was wrong. She motioned towards something she was looking at. "What is that box?"

I looked in the same direction as her, and unable to figure out what she was looking at, asked her what she was talking about. "It's right there! How do you not see it!" Even at 9 am on a Sunday, female logic is triumphing over my existence. Figures.

She continued asking about this box until she pointed to it. "There, under the dining room table!"

Like a gentleman, I got out of bed. Climbed underneath the table so my 6'1.5" height was no longer in play, and reached underneath our luxurious wooden..well table. I found a box. "This box?" I called out.

"No! The other box." Just once, I'd like to get something on the first try. It'd be refreshing.

I called out to her. "Which other box?"

"The box that's right there. How do you not see it?" 9:02 am and I've already managed to get several things wrong. Preview of married life, according to most popular comedians. "C'mon, it's right there!"

I turned around, and a device I had never noticed before was there right in front of me. Usually blocked by one of our dining room chairs, I noticed a box plugged into an outlet I never saw up until that moment. I jiggle it a little bit, and manage to take it out of the wall socket. I have no idea what it is, so I bring it back to bed so both Anna and I can take a look at it.

"What do you think it is?" I ask. I hold it out to Anna but she refuses to touch it as if the thing was made out of hot lava.

"I don't want to touch that!" Anna tells me. While it's continuing to sit in my hands. I take one for the team. "How do you not know what that is?"

I shrug. I don't. And truth is, I still have no idea what is. I place it aside. "So what do you want for breakfast?"

Anna looks at me in surprise. "Aren't you curious about what that is? What if it's a recorder?"

I try to defuse that thought by stating that it's a smoke detector. Anna points out that our smoke detector is in the hallway. I try suggesting that it's our carbon monoxide detector. She points out that our carbon monoxide detector is in the living room.

I shrug again. "Okay, well do you want me to put it back?"

"No...put it in the closet or something."

And so it sits. I have no idea what is. All I can tell you is that it doesn't tick, has no timer, and just appears to be a battery of some sort. For all I know, we have now unlocked some force field, or we'll find that gravity stops working around here. Nothing would surprise me.

I wound up having some Trix cereal. I consider that a small victory, at least for a Sunday morning.

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"A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid." - J.R.R. Tolkien