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Notes from a Crusty Seeker

Second Act for Ukrainian Virgin by Galyna Kolotnytska


Gadhafi's Nurse Says She's Going Home
Wall Street Journal



I am worried about my future. Is common saying that no publicity is bad, and, yes, is flattering to be called voluptuous by Wiccan peoples, but tell me please where is employment for forty-seven-year-old zaftig nurse with specialty in calming excitable Middle-Eastern dictator with lovely dimples but unpredictable taste for exotic Jello-eating virgins, camels, and polka dance?

With job market what is, I am no fool. Even nursing degree from Kiev hospital is no guarantee, and I watch Academy Awards and understand draw of younger demographic of which I am no longer.

"I give you excellent recommendation," Colonel tell me. "Just have them call," he say as he take me to airport disguised as Morgan Freeman playing chauffeur to me as Western journalist named Miss Daisy.

Colonel tell me not to worry. He got some dough someplace and will send just as soon as assets unfreeze. He tell reporters he rather die than give up, but is not serious. Not my boy. He say don't worry, everything be all right if you just say it is—like that popular The Secret book. Colonel is a big reader. He read Secret, Secret Daily Teachings, and all Oprah Winfrey book club picks. He say public don't understand because their vision is blurry from bad Kool-Aid soda, but his is clear. "They love me!" he tell me when I cry at airport. "I see it, so it is so."

He tell me just to say how it is, and then it will be so. He say my future no problem. I must write job description in present tense on American blog, maybe make a vision board and affirm my well-being, and all will be well even during worldwide recession where Ph.D. lucky to get job cleaning toilet. So here it is:

Fifty-year-old (I must tell truth in affirmation) former health-care professional lady is living in undisclosed location where sun always shine, skies are blue, and only noise is sound of ocean. There she work as personal assistant to discreet businessman with heart-melt dimples where she oversee staff, tend to occasional bout of paranoid schizophrenia, and help man write memoirs for which he receive several million U.S. dollars. During day, he dictate; I type. During night, I retire to my chamber because I am virgin. We live happily ever after because world is forgiving place and always in market for a good story.

 

 






 

 

 



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