Illogical life metlitskaya read. Maria metlitskaya - an illogical life. Last moment - unnecessary memories

Illogical life

Nothing like this! Here is no logic! I mean, absolutely…”

Maria Metlitskaya

Illogical life

Nothing like this! Here is no logic! That is, absolutely.

How many examples flashed before my eyes on a long journey of life! This one is beautiful, my God! Well, just keep your eyes peeled! The creator did not stint on anything, and the parents did their best. And what a smart girl! And he reads books, and understands painting with music! She knits and she sews! And the house is so cozy! And what a taste! Just make candy out of nothing! And the pickles! There are legends about her tables! And what a trembling mother! And the result - wonderful children! A feast for the eyes just, not kids. Everything is logical - she, this hard worker and smart girl, simply cannot be otherwise, if there is justice in life at all!

And now she, this hard worker, clever, faithful and devoted wife and mother, has no happiness. For example - the husband walks, and even insolently, or does not carry money. And she fights like at the Battle of the Ice, so that "everyone has everything." And the children, and this ...

Or even horror, because he drinks. And no matter how she struggles with it, it's all for nothing.

That's when you understand - there is no justice in life!

It's very frustrating to see all this illogicality.

And, as they say, on the contrary - a mirror, so to speak, reflection of the situation.

Here is a woman: you can’t say a good word, with all your desire.

Not a beauty, to put it mildly, untidy, unintelligent, uneducated. The owner is zero. Sometimes there is no ability. But at least try! No need for multi-layer cakes, complex rolls, the thinnest pancakes and jars of salted tomatoes and mushrooms. There are some simple yet delicious dishes. And there are cookbooks - always have been.

But he doesn't want to. She does not want to cook even for her closest and dearest. And he doesn’t want to wash the floors, and hang beautiful curtains. And to put on makeup, and to lose weight is reluctant, and to pluck your eyebrows, and put on a new robe - instead of the old and full of holes.

She doesn't even want to travel.

And, in addition to all the above "merits", she is also a gossip, evil-tongued, unkind to people. Envious. Greedy. Indifferent to someone else's misfortune. Cries only during Brazilian TV series. In a word, a completely unimportant person. Children annoy her. Friends and neighbors too. Mother-in-law ... That in general, her eyes would not have seen her.

And such a woman has a wonderful, loving, caring husband. Generous and unassuming. How else would he be able to live with her, you ask?

Or have you come to terms with everything? Or? Just loves?

Oh, illogical life! Illogical.

No, it wasn't all that criminal here. There were no unimportant people. But everything else, alas, was available.

The three women that will be discussed were very ugly ... Well, they were just frighteningly bad - so much so that when they met, I wanted to look away. And another question to ask: why? Why did nature treat them so unfairly, so cruelly?

Of course they are not to blame! Of course. And yet ... If they had some kind of "raisin". Not a handful - so, a couple of berries. Charm, at least. Or some other feature: wit, craving for knowledge, passion or hobby, prudence, female wisdom, an ardent heart.

No. There was none of this. All three, as if by choice, are boring, lethargic, one-sided and insipid.

And everything is like from one chest - just a chromosomal perversion.

Grandmother, mother and granddaughter. Annette Ivanovna, Izolda Alexandrovna and Sofia Vyacheslavovna.

Gray mice, white moths - what else is there?

True, friendly, do not say anything. Walk "on the promenade" in a row. Basically, they are silent. There is nothing to talk about. Books are not discussed - they are not read. They don’t go to the cinema, they are not interested in politics. Saturday dinners, when the whole family gathers, are not discussed either ...

Not because they are sublime, but because they are bad housewives.

My grandmother mimicked them: “Let's boil the potatoes. Or pasta - less hassle with them. And open the can. Let's have a cup of tea with cookies."

And this was in the most apple years, when the sweet smells of apple pies, jams and compotes were carried from all areas.

They didn't even pick apples. The village milkmaid Dusya came and carried them away in buckets - to the delight of her boars.

In the house of these three women (by the way, solid and spacious) it was “like in the barracks” - also the words of my grandmother: no tablecloth, no bedspread, no vase, the most unpretentious, ceramic, from the local general store, at least with wildflowers.

Even their dishes were boring - state-owned, or something. Like a cheap diner.

Neighbors bred dahlias and roses, let multi-colored clematis through the net, cooked jam from plums, rolled up jars of pickles. They dried mint and St. John's wort for the winter - dry mushrooms smelled sweetly on a thread above the stove.

No. There was none of this in the eighth section, where our heroines lived. What happened? Hard to tell.

But on the other hand, these three women - grandmother, daughter and granddaughter, these three "beauties and hostesses" - were absolutely happy in their marriages. True, a certain problem once happened in their lives ... Regarding male fidelity ... But - so, fleetingly. All survived. And in general…

However, as neighbors they were just wonderful. Our fences bordered each other. A rare picket fence, through which, at a glance, the whole neighborhood life was presented. Something like a communal apartment.

Everyone knew when and who goes out into the garden, who cuts bushes and cuts grass, who picks currants and gooseberries, who hangs freshly washed linen and how well it is washed. Who and what cooks the soup - you can’t get away from the smells. Who bakes a pie. Who and with whom scandals and finds out the relationship. How many bags the young people brought for the weekend for the elderly and children. Which of the loafers is lying in a hammock or sunbathing on the grass. Such attitude was, to put it mildly… Well, that's understandable. When women are torn between grandchildren, cooking and planting, what, besides contempt and envy, can idlers arouse?

My grandmother, who never sat idle for a minute - lunch, darning, washing, cleaning, flowers and carrots - threw a rare glance at the neighboring plot. Her eyebrows converged to the bridge of her nose, and her lips folded into a “bud”.

She shook her head and sighed loudly. From envy or condemnation? I do not think that from the first. She just couldn't sit still. If she sat down, then for a couple of minutes, and sat somehow restlessly, fidgeting and fiddling with the strap of an old, polka-dotted apron. He sits, gets up and says guiltily:

- Do not sit somehow!

In the meantime... Meanwhile, nothing happened in the eighth precinct! So, some kind of sluggish movement, almost imperceptible to the eye. Either Annette - without a patronymic, so in short - the one that grandmother and mother, sat down in a hammock, lazily fanning herself with a yellowed newspaper, then Isolda - Dolya - her daughter, flopped into a straw chair and indifferently looked around the area overgrown with weeds. That Sophia - daughter and granddaughter - inhibitedly rinsed in an enameled

Page 2 of 2

bowl of breakfast cups. And then she sat down. For example, on a rickety chair by the porch. And with dried varnish she tried to make up short groomed nails.

They quietly and quite rarely exchanged some insignificant phrases.

“Would you like me to hem a blue sundress?” Sophia asked Isolde.

She nodded:

- Yes, go down.

Grandma Annette was snoring in a hammock.

Maybe change the buttons on it? Sophia continued, yawning.

- Change it! mother nodded.

- And if you cook green cabbage soup? - suddenly dawned on Isolde.

“Switch,” the daughter agreed. - It is good to! With sour cream and eggs!

- And also - cool! Isolde closed her eyes dreamily.

And everyone stayed where they were. Now Isolde was also dozing, Annette was snoring impressively, and Sofya was yawning and examining her freshly painted, stubby nails.

Then, as if waking up, Isolde again entered into the conversation:

- Would mow! And then to the waist already!

The daughter sighed.

- You need to call Fedka the drunkard.

The mother also sighed and said with undisguised chagrin:

- And the braid is blunt. At all.

- Sharpen! her daughter reassured her.

And everyone fell silent again. Then, as if waking up, grandma resurrected.

It was time for lunch. Isolde rose heavily from her chair and asked one question:

- Buckwheat or noodles?

Sophia pursed her lips.

- Tired. Let's boil potatoes.

Isolde was hiding in the house. Five minutes later her voice was heard:

The potatoes are gone. One rot. Get off at the station!

- Then - pasta, - the daughter interrupted the discussion.

- Do you have black bread? grandmother lived. - I want something fresh, with butter.

“Black is bad for you,” the granddaughter said instructively. - You have colitis. And I'm not talking about oil! And they bring fresh in the morning. Now it's probably been snatched up.

Annette humbly fell silent.

After dinner they "rested". This is sacred. From what, you ask?

Grandma again dived into the hammock. God be with her, with the old woman. Although my grandmother was not much younger ...

Isolde was laying down on a cot under an apple tree, with an old magazine. She rummaged through the grass with her hand and fished out a couple of beaten, sluggish apples - she wiped them on her dressing gown and began to gnaw. And Sophia trudged into the attic - although it was stuffy there, it was quiet.

By five they flocked again. We drank tea for a long time, watched evening talk shows, and finally went to “promenade”, as my grandmother used to say.

Here she was not up to it - definitely.

And they walked, our "beauties", along the sandy paths, fanned themselves with twigs from mosquitoes and other evil spirits, exchanging rare phrases. Apparently, quite insignificant, judging by the lack of emotions on their faces. They bowed to the neighbors - quite benevolently, that is, that is. And they even admired the rich front gardens, with great, I must say, surprise.

So they strolled slowly - three absolutely ridiculous and ugly women, similar to each other as if they had been plucked from one dilapidated, outbred weed bush: thin-legged, broad-backed, long-armed, chestless. With worn, indifferent faces and poor hair, taken away in the same old buns.

It was hard to believe that these three women had educated, successful husbands. And also very beautiful.

And most importantly - loving and caring.

- God! - exclaimed pathetically Milka, my beautiful aunt, my mother's sister, who came to us for the weekend after another unsuccessful attempt to arrange her personal life. - Well, where is the justice? - She cast a fleeting, very pleased look at herself in the mirror and nodded at the neighboring plot, observing the life there. - To "this"! So!

Grandmother looked up and severely suppressed Milkin's pathos:

“You have to have brains!” And instead of them you have an ass. True, beautiful, nothing to say. - She began to fiercely crumble beets for vinaigrette.

My frivolous aunt laughed merrily, turned her back to the mirror and happily slapped her perfectly perfect thighs.

Then she grabbed an apple and jumped into a chair.

Grandmother twisted her finger at her temple and looked at me meaningfully.

I loved my aunt, admired her lightness, optimism, cheerful disposition and - alas - complete irresponsibility. She was married three times, and "all for love," as my grandmother said for some reason with obvious condemnation.

Is it bad for love? I wondered.

- The third time - bad! Grandmother answered confidently. And most importantly, it won't end there!

She was right, as always. But now, at the moment, this is not about my naughty beautiful aunt.

We are talking about our heroines, about those who are in the neighboring area.

Annette - that's what my grandmother called her - came from a respectable family of a zemstvo doctor and a midwife. They didn't live well, but they didn't live in poverty either. Only Annette's mother was sad, looking at her ugly daughter: “Well, why in her father? Why? No, he is a wonderful person - sincere. Excellent doctor. Yes, he is not good-looking, but what does this mean for a man? Absolutely nothing. But for the girl...

Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version (http://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=22026845&lfrom=279785000) on Litres.

End of introductory segment.

Text provided by LitRes LLC.

Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version on LitRes.

You can safely pay for the book with a Visa, MasterCard, Maestro bank card, from a mobile phone account, from a payment terminal, in an MTS or Svyaznoy salon, via PayPal, WebMoney, Yandex.Money, QIWI Wallet, bonus cards or another method convenient for you.

Here is an excerpt from the book.

Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, the full text can be obtained from our partner's website.

* * *

Nothing like this! Here is no logic! That is, absolutely.

Or even horror, because he drinks. And no matter how she struggles with it, it's all for nothing.

That's when you understand - there is no justice in life!

It's very frustrating to see all this illogicality.

And, as they say, on the contrary - a mirror, so to speak, reflection of the situation.

Here is a woman: you can’t say a good word, with all your desire.

She doesn't even want to travel.

...

Here is an excerpt from the book.
Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, the full text can be obtained from our partner's website.

Nothing like this! Here is no logic! That is, absolutely.

Or even horror, because he drinks. And no matter how she struggles with it, it's all for nothing.

That's when you understand - there is no justice in life!

It's very frustrating to see all this illogicality.

And, as they say, on the contrary - a mirror, so to speak, reflection of the situation.

Here is a woman: you can’t say a good word, with all your desire.

She doesn't even want to travel.

And such a woman has a wonderful, loving, caring husband. Generous and unassuming. How else would he be able to live with her, you ask?

Or have you come to terms with everything? Or? Just loves?

Oh, illogical life! Illogical.

No, it wasn't all that criminal here. There were no unimportant people. But everything else, alas, was available.

No. There was none of this. All three, as if by choice, are boring, lethargic, one-sided and insipid.

And everything is like from one chest - just a chromosomal perversion.

Grandmother, mother and granddaughter. Annette Ivanovna, Izolda Alexandrovna and Sofia Vyacheslavovna.

Gray mice, white moths - what else is there?

Not because they are sublime, but because they are bad housewives.

My grandmother mimicked them: “Let's boil the potatoes. Or pasta - less hassle with them. And open the can. Let's have a cup of tea with cookies."

And this was in the most apple years, when the sweet smells of apple pies, jams and compotes were carried from all areas.

They didn't even pick apples. The village milkmaid Dusya came and carried them away in buckets - to the delight of her boars.

Even their dishes were boring - state-owned, or something. Like a cheap diner.

No. There was none of this in the eighth section, where our heroines lived. What happened? Hard to tell.

- Do not sit somehow!

In the meantime... Meanwhile, nothing happened in the eighth precinct! So, some kind of sluggish movement, almost imperceptible to the eye. Either Annette - without a patronymic, so in short - the one that grandmother and mother, sat down in a hammock, lazily fanning herself with a yellowed newspaper, then Isolda - Dolya - her daughter, flopped into a straw chair and indifferently looked around the area overgrown with weeds. Then Sophia - daughter and granddaughter - sluggishly rinsed breakfast cups in an enamel basin. And then she sat down. For example, on a rickety chair by the porch. And with dried varnish she tried to make up short groomed nails.

They quietly and quite rarely exchanged some insignificant phrases.

“Would you like me to hem a blue sundress?” Sophia asked Isolde.

She nodded:

- Yes, go down.

Grandma Annette was snoring in a hammock.

Maybe change the buttons on it? Sophia continued, yawning.

- Change it! mother nodded.

- And if you cook green cabbage soup? - suddenly dawned on Isolde.

“Switch,” the daughter agreed. - It is good to! With sour cream and eggs!

- And also - cool! Isolde closed her eyes dreamily.

Maria Metlitskaya

Illogical life

* * *

Nothing like this! Here is no logic! That is, absolutely.

Or even horror, because he drinks. And no matter how she struggles with it, it's all for nothing.

That's when you understand - there is no justice in life!

It's very frustrating to see all this illogicality.

And, as they say, on the contrary - a mirror, so to speak, reflection of the situation.

Here is a woman: you can’t say a good word, with all your desire.

She doesn't even want to travel.

And such a woman has a wonderful, loving, caring husband. Generous and unassuming. How else would he be able to live with her, you ask?

Or have you come to terms with everything? Or? Just loves?

Oh, illogical life! Illogical.

* * *

No, it wasn't all that criminal here. There were no unimportant people. But everything else, alas, was available.

No. There was none of this. All three, as if by choice, are boring, lethargic, one-sided and insipid.

And everything is like from one chest - just a chromosomal perversion.

Grandmother, mother and granddaughter. Annette Ivanovna, Izolda Alexandrovna and Sofia Vyacheslavovna.

Gray mice, white moths - what else is there?

Not because they are sublime, but because they are bad housewives.

My grandmother mimicked them: “Let's boil the potatoes. Or pasta - less hassle with them. And open the can. Let's have a cup of tea with cookies."

And this was in the most apple years, when the sweet smells of apple pies, jams and compotes were carried from all areas.

They didn't even pick apples. The village milkmaid Dusya came and carried them away in buckets - to the delight of her boars.

Even their dishes were boring - state-owned, or something. Like a cheap diner.

No. There was none of this in the eighth section, where our heroines lived. What happened? Hard to tell.

* * *

- Do not sit somehow!

In the meantime... Meanwhile, nothing happened in the eighth precinct! So, some kind of sluggish movement, almost imperceptible to the eye. Either Annette - without a patronymic, so in short - the one that grandmother and mother, sat down in a hammock, lazily fanning herself with a yellowed newspaper, then Isolda - Dolya - her daughter, flopped into a straw chair and indifferently looked around the area overgrown with weeds. Then Sophia - daughter and granddaughter - sluggishly rinsed breakfast cups in an enamel basin. And then she sat down. For example, on a rickety chair by the porch. And with dried varnish she tried to make up short groomed nails.