Thursday, August 11, 2011


Like the creator of tonight's debuting reality series, Russian Dolls, my first name is also Alina and I too emigrated from the Soviet Union to the United States at the age of seven.

I have been known to enjoy a beef tongue sandwich and, until I had kids of my own, wasn't too versed on the denizens of Sesame Street.

However, based on the pilot episode of Russian Dolls, it is obvious the Americas she and I inhabit are worlds apart. Mine is pretty much filled with hard-working, over-educated, sure-they-can-be-overbearing-who-can't-be? people barely distinguishable from the Chinese-American Tiger Moms everyone was talking about last winter.

Her America is filled with Botox. And night-clubs. And vodka (okay, I've got that, too.)

I'm not going to ask you not to watch Russian Dolls because it's obnoxious and shallow and insulting and a blatant rip-off of The Jersey Shore. (Notice I didn't say it was inaccurate. Those people certainly do exist. I just do my best to avoid them.)

I am asking you not to watch Russian Dolls because it's just another reality show taking network space away from scripted programming.

Like soap operas.

If I'm going to watch scandalous behavior and bed-hopping, I, personally, want the illusion of believing it's all pretend....

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