Valentina Zubova - In Memoriam

Today I received some very sad news -- my second cousin, Valentina Zubova, died. I hardly knew Valentina, having met her really only once when my parents brought her to my Washington University LL.M. graduation. She stayed with us as my home in St. Louis, and I remember her as a very lovely guest. I think Valentina was only in her thirties when she died.

As if her death at such a young age weren't tragedy enough, there are other circumstances with make learning of Valentina's death all the more difficult. First of all, she was from a branch of the family that were left in Russia after my grandfather came to America. So in a certain "U.S.-centric" way, I feel that's almost the first tragic part of the story. I have been able to grow up and live in relative freedom and prosperty, while Valentina lived under a repressive system--first, in the U.S.S.R., and then later in a slightly more free Belarus.

But in addition to that, Valentina had never married, nor had children. She lived with an elderly father who depended on her, I'm told, for much of the facilities of daily life. He is now left mostly alone, depending on other cousins to check in on him.

The news of Valentina's death was also very difficult on my mother. After Mom & Jim had visited the family over in Russia in the early 1990s, Mom had become close with Valentina. I distinctly remember her saying how much Valentina "looked like a Cohen" (my mother's family name). She and Valentina would communicate via email and the occasional phone call, and it was a fond hope of my mother's to bring Valentina back to this country for another extended visit. "Who knows", my mother would muse, "maybe she could meet a nice man over here".

On the day of Valentina's death, she had sent an email to my parents telling them that, after her long trip to Minsk (the capital of Belarus--my cousin lived in Gomil), she had been denied a visa. To this day I'm not sure whether it was the United States government or that of Belarus which denied her visa, but it was clear she ws very upset. They had essentially taken her $100 application fee and provided no explanation--merely telling her she's free to reapply. Later that day, in her last email to my parents, she wrote, "in my heart, I am already in America".

My folks sent several responses to that email, and even tried to marshall the eforts of extended family to intercede with U. S. Government officials in an effort to award a visa to Valentina. But after no response, Mom tried calling. The only person to answer the phone was Valentina's father who did not speak any English. Unbeknownst to my mother, he was trying furiously to communicate, in Russian, that Valentina had died. But he could not.

After a few days, my parents received an overnight letter from someone in Houston. All it said was, "Valentina Zubova died", and it gave the telephone number of someone in Russia or Belarus--presumably someone who spoke English--who could provide details. My mother took this news very hard. It wasn't just her fondness for Valantina, or her efforts to bring her to this country. Valentina was just 38 years old when she died. Death is sad at any age, but even more so at such a young age as this.

Despite her young age or, as likely, because of it, there was surely much about Valentina I never learned. She had friends, she was very successful in her career, and she surely had many talents--one of which, I know, was a very warm and ready smile. But now she has died, leaving people on two continents very sad over her loss.

Stellaaaaaaaaaa!!!!

Why do the people I work with insist on placing food at their desks for their colleagues to nosh all day long? And I'm not talking about just the typical candy dish. No, these folks do it UP: Chips, dips, cookies, casseroles, cakes, brownies, powdered donuts and more cookies. Do they think I don't get enough food at home? Do I look malnourished? Do I appear so underpaid that I can't afford my own snacks from one of the five restaurants downstairs? I think not.

So why all the food? I have a cynical, but likely reason: passive-aggressiveness. Think about it; no one likes to drink alone. Why would they want to gorge alone? They don't. So they bring in a shmorgasbord of artery clogging goodies to drag the rest of us down with them. I doubt their actions are intentional, but I think my thesis is compelling.

The piéce de resistance, though, is the parade of carb-addicted co-workers who saunter up to the food, oh, every five minutes, as though on every pass they're surprised to find it there. And trust me when I say most of those who partake could stand to lose a few pounds -- like about 30. We all know it's bad, but we just keep coming back like crack-whores strung out on Krispy Kremes.

For we who are trying to lose a few pounds (yes, like 30) this is a difficult dilemma. But while it may be difficult to visualize what we want to look like after we lose weight, it is easy to visualize what we could look like if we keep fressing on all the snacks. The evidence is walking all over the office: stomachs hanging over belts, derrièrs wide enough for two, and--as they say--more chins than a Chinese phone book.

Faced with such a choice--say, the chance to look more like a young and hot Marlon Brando, or an old and bloated one--I'll take a 50s Brando every time.

Now if I could only remind myself of that fact each time I walk past a plate of brownies....