The metro. Recently I have become an aficionado or something like that. I have ventured out on my own with kids in tow and arrived perfectly timed at my destination. I also have walked to and from different stations and been able to navigate around my traditional path. This is a big accomplishment. Believe me.
There are some interesting things to note about the metro. The groggy masses board and depart the train with equal amounts of indifference. Some of these people have ridden these rails since childhood, back when communism was alive and well.
It’s different now to be sure. Young people sport ear phones, cell-phones, and e-books instead of the traditional bound materials. But I’ve noticed something unique about this massive public transit---its silence. Aside from the announcer who tells us at which stop we’ve arrived and where we’re headed, there is no talking. You don’t really notice when the sounds of the scraping breaks ensue, but when it stops, the silence is almost deafening.
There are, like all things, some exceptions. The kids and I witnessed a few when we were out the other day. One is the occasional giggle or screams from a small child. I get to witness this often when my three older kids tickle number 4. If you want to see a Russian smile, cause a small child to laugh or giggle. It gets them every time.
Second is the cell-phone ring. In the States you might hear a cheesy television theme song, heavy metal, or even rap on the ring. Here it is something akin to the Russian version of techno music (which surprisingly reminds me of polka). It rarely rings more than once. The guilty party is very quick to pick up and conduct their business. Although I don’t know what they’re saying, I don’t think they talk on the phone just to yak.
The third phenomenon is unique. Real musicians. Yesterday we stood feet away from a young boy playing the accordion keeping his balance on the moving vehicle. At first I thought it was a cell-phone but the volume increased and my kids’ eyes widened. He didn’t look poor or sick, but he took donations in a bag on his arm anyway. Many were happy to oblige.
A fourth unique scene is the traveling salesperson. The most frequent item is foldable shopping bags that make something cute like dangling strawberries, a triangle or whatever. These people move from car to car, wait until the doors close, and then prey on the captive audience. My favorite item was Dr. Scholl’s insoles for men. Very funny.
The last thing I want to mention is real beggars. This is heartbreaking. Usually we are decently comfortable in our seats when someone stumbles onto the train. A seat is always offered to them but they decline and then announce their needs. They hobble down the aisle asking for a kopeck or two. A woman I saw yesterday had a body that looked 80 years old. When my eyes wandered to her face, I saw that she was no older than me. It made my heart ache to look at her. Moscow isn’t exactly handicap friendly.
Despite all these social oddities, we will continue to ride the metro. We’re definitely getting the best view of the city from this angle.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Supermarket (Супермаркет)
We got paid this week and so my friend and I planned a big grocery store excursion. As usual, my hubby stays home with all seven kids while she and I venture into the cold to bring home the bacon. This morning we left the house at 10am. This was good because we were hoping to have missed the morning traffic. Then we remembered----there is no rhyme or reason to Moscow traffic ergo, there is always traffic. It took us only 40 minutes to get to the store.
You may ask, “Why this store,” or “can’t you go somewhere else?” The answers would be yes and if I go somewhere else, their produce might not be fresh, there may be funky tasting cheese there, or worse yet, and it may not have cases of milk that I can buy in bulk to freeze. Which brings me to my next observation: There are malls galore here, but each one of them has a supermarket as an anchor. Can you imagine stopping by the Buckle, stepping into Claire’s and then hitting Food-A-Rama on your way out?
We parked the car, grabbed a cart, and headed into the store. But first we have to stop to get our canvas grocery bags stapled into a plastic bag. This way we can’t steal stuff. I used to shop very methodically. I would begin in dairy and work my ways up and down each aisle grabbing what I need and ending up in the produce. Not here. Here I get to bag, weigh, and label my own produce and skip whole aisles because they are restocking during rush hour. Anyway, after I loaded my cart down with an obscene amount of items (believe me, there was staring) I tried to head toward a cash register.
Now, something to keep in mind----all four wheels on the cart swivel. So imagine my cart weighing about 200 pounds now requires all of my body weight just to keep it on course. This is assuming there is room to maneuver. But there isn’t. Today must be national shopping day. When I reached for a carton of milk, I’m pretty sure I grazed a woman’s shin/calf area. She didn’t seem to notice. There is no “pardon me” or “would you mind if I reached above you?” Oh no. People just move to where they want to be. I’m getting pretty good at this. There is one exception to this rule.
IF YOU TOUCH MY SHOES, MY DIRTY LOOKS JUST MIGHT KILL YOU.
I am not exaggerating. Russians take their shoes very seriously. Note to self, do not touch shoes with cart.
Once at the checkout, I’m wondering why I showered today. I heave all of my items onto a belt about the size of a yardstick. My cashier is not impressed that I am American. She is flinging my stuff past the belt so fast that she actually yells and points that I need to start bagging it. This would be great except that my cart is still full! So I try to find balance between heaving things onto the belt and then heaving them back off the belt, cartless. This goes on for what seems like a natural lifetime. I wonder to myself if she is going to call one of the roller-skating managers to swoop in on the current slowpoke. No big deal, it gave her time to flirt with the security guard.
Despite all this, today was a breakthrough.
The last two shopping trips I have had to bum money off my friends because I still haven’t got the ruble quite figured out. Not today. I brought double what I hoped to pay and had plenty to spare. I proudly paid the woman the exact amount (including kopecks) and pushed my cart into the foyer to take a breather. There was sweat running down my neck and elbows. There will be no exercise routine for me today.
I knew what was coming next. The exit. I had one bag on each shoulder and a cart loaded down with swiveling wheels. I barely made it onto the magnetic walking belt in one piece. Three bags of frozen corn jumped ship on the way down. I heroically rescued them and vowed not to buy so many next time. Once we made it back to the van, we loaded up all our stuff. The trip back was much faster and we made it home in an almost new record- 3 ½ hours total! Good thing I bought Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on Amazon ‘cause guess what’s for dinner tonight?
You may ask, “Why this store,” or “can’t you go somewhere else?” The answers would be yes and if I go somewhere else, their produce might not be fresh, there may be funky tasting cheese there, or worse yet, and it may not have cases of milk that I can buy in bulk to freeze. Which brings me to my next observation: There are malls galore here, but each one of them has a supermarket as an anchor. Can you imagine stopping by the Buckle, stepping into Claire’s and then hitting Food-A-Rama on your way out?
We parked the car, grabbed a cart, and headed into the store. But first we have to stop to get our canvas grocery bags stapled into a plastic bag. This way we can’t steal stuff. I used to shop very methodically. I would begin in dairy and work my ways up and down each aisle grabbing what I need and ending up in the produce. Not here. Here I get to bag, weigh, and label my own produce and skip whole aisles because they are restocking during rush hour. Anyway, after I loaded my cart down with an obscene amount of items (believe me, there was staring) I tried to head toward a cash register.
Now, something to keep in mind----all four wheels on the cart swivel. So imagine my cart weighing about 200 pounds now requires all of my body weight just to keep it on course. This is assuming there is room to maneuver. But there isn’t. Today must be national shopping day. When I reached for a carton of milk, I’m pretty sure I grazed a woman’s shin/calf area. She didn’t seem to notice. There is no “pardon me” or “would you mind if I reached above you?” Oh no. People just move to where they want to be. I’m getting pretty good at this. There is one exception to this rule.
IF YOU TOUCH MY SHOES, MY DIRTY LOOKS JUST MIGHT KILL YOU.
I am not exaggerating. Russians take their shoes very seriously. Note to self, do not touch shoes with cart.
Once at the checkout, I’m wondering why I showered today. I heave all of my items onto a belt about the size of a yardstick. My cashier is not impressed that I am American. She is flinging my stuff past the belt so fast that she actually yells and points that I need to start bagging it. This would be great except that my cart is still full! So I try to find balance between heaving things onto the belt and then heaving them back off the belt, cartless. This goes on for what seems like a natural lifetime. I wonder to myself if she is going to call one of the roller-skating managers to swoop in on the current slowpoke. No big deal, it gave her time to flirt with the security guard.
Despite all this, today was a breakthrough.
The last two shopping trips I have had to bum money off my friends because I still haven’t got the ruble quite figured out. Not today. I brought double what I hoped to pay and had plenty to spare. I proudly paid the woman the exact amount (including kopecks) and pushed my cart into the foyer to take a breather. There was sweat running down my neck and elbows. There will be no exercise routine for me today.
I knew what was coming next. The exit. I had one bag on each shoulder and a cart loaded down with swiveling wheels. I barely made it onto the magnetic walking belt in one piece. Three bags of frozen corn jumped ship on the way down. I heroically rescued them and vowed not to buy so many next time. Once we made it back to the van, we loaded up all our stuff. The trip back was much faster and we made it home in an almost new record- 3 ½ hours total! Good thing I bought Kraft Macaroni and Cheese on Amazon ‘cause guess what’s for dinner tonight?
Monday, December 13, 2010
Small Treausres
A couple of my kids have croup, so yesterday, the other two kids and I went to church alone. This was my first solo trip navigating the metro and buses and I was excited to be so independent. Church was wonderful. My kids are about 80% of the Sunday School program, but they love their teachers dearly who represent several different countries around the world. I asked Number 1 why she likes church so much and she said, “Because the leaders are so different from us. They have different lives and families, but we have one thing in common---we all come here because we love Jesus.” What wisdom from an eight year-old.
One of the highlights of Sunday mornings is the florist stand outside the metro stop. Every time we attend, I treat myself to a bouquet to remind myself that living things do grow in this cold atmosphere. This week, Number 3 had requested roses. They are expensive, but we found some pretty orange ones. In Russia, it is bad luck to give flowers in even numbers so you would never see a dozen. We purchased five. I paid the man 300 rubles and waited for him to wrap them. After he wrapped them he proclaimed in a loud voice with opened arms, “EYE LUUFFF YOU!” I smiled and said, “Spaseebah.” He saw my confusion and pointed to the flowers and said again, “EYE LUUFF YOU!” I said, “Da,Da” and walked away. While I thought the vendor was proclaiming his undying devotion to me, he was actually explaining what the flowers represented.
Occasionally on the metro, they will empty the train completely at a random stop. I don’t know why. Official police (sometimes with guns) motion for everyone to get off. Usually you just wait for the next train, but today they would not let us get back on. So I was forced to re-route. An older lady saw the map in my hands and assumed my confusion. I said to her in Russian, “Do you speak English?” She nodded and showed us where we needed to go, even going so far as to give us directions regarding the next station. Nothing like this has happened when my husband is with me.
We arrived in our town and I thought we would try a taxi this time. But I discovered that I had misplaced my badge that grants entrance to our private community. So I waited for the bus. I took the girls to a coffee shop where I ordered hot chocolates, a latte, and a yogurt parfait. She delivered the hot chocolates and they were exactly that! Cups of warm chocolate syrup. It looked more like pudding than a beverage. We all laughed about it and re-checked the menu. Cocoa was one line down from hot chocolate and it contained milk. Lesson learned. The bus came and we went home.
I took a hot shower, turned on the bathroom heater, sat by the fire and thanked God for all the small treasures I had enjoyed today.
One of the highlights of Sunday mornings is the florist stand outside the metro stop. Every time we attend, I treat myself to a bouquet to remind myself that living things do grow in this cold atmosphere. This week, Number 3 had requested roses. They are expensive, but we found some pretty orange ones. In Russia, it is bad luck to give flowers in even numbers so you would never see a dozen. We purchased five. I paid the man 300 rubles and waited for him to wrap them. After he wrapped them he proclaimed in a loud voice with opened arms, “EYE LUUFFF YOU!” I smiled and said, “Spaseebah.” He saw my confusion and pointed to the flowers and said again, “EYE LUUFF YOU!” I said, “Da,Da” and walked away. While I thought the vendor was proclaiming his undying devotion to me, he was actually explaining what the flowers represented.
Occasionally on the metro, they will empty the train completely at a random stop. I don’t know why. Official police (sometimes with guns) motion for everyone to get off. Usually you just wait for the next train, but today they would not let us get back on. So I was forced to re-route. An older lady saw the map in my hands and assumed my confusion. I said to her in Russian, “Do you speak English?” She nodded and showed us where we needed to go, even going so far as to give us directions regarding the next station. Nothing like this has happened when my husband is with me.
We arrived in our town and I thought we would try a taxi this time. But I discovered that I had misplaced my badge that grants entrance to our private community. So I waited for the bus. I took the girls to a coffee shop where I ordered hot chocolates, a latte, and a yogurt parfait. She delivered the hot chocolates and they were exactly that! Cups of warm chocolate syrup. It looked more like pudding than a beverage. We all laughed about it and re-checked the menu. Cocoa was one line down from hot chocolate and it contained milk. Lesson learned. The bus came and we went home.
I took a hot shower, turned on the bathroom heater, sat by the fire and thanked God for all the small treasures I had enjoyed today.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Need for Heat
Last week the temperatures were below zero several days in a row. The sun was shining and the sky was blue, but it was cold. It was then that I discovered that all three methods of heat are necessary here in Russia. So we begin with the central furnace. This is impossible to regulate. If you turn the thermostat up to 70, the temperature gets up to 85. If you turn it down to 60, it’s freezing.
So the secondary version is the baseboard heaters. These are dangerous. You can heat up a room in a few minutes flat, but it turns out that they burn blankets and pillows with little evidence but an odd smell. It’s only after a few hours of this oddity that we ask ourselves, “what is that smell?” I would love to blame it on the kids, but I burned my organza pillow shams all by myself.
Number three is the fireplace. My husband and I both grew up tending wood furnaces in our childhood, so we know how to build a fire and keep it from smoking. Except, of course, when you happen to burn paper from Russia that is coated with a strange plastic and smokes like crazy. We also have to wonder what the heat is worth when it is roaring so loud that my man calls for a squirt bottle and a shovel.
This week it is 15. It’s incredible what a warm up that is. Number Two was outside in the snow with his friends for three hours yesterday. Most of the time I stay pretty toasty in the house, but today I took a bike ride to the Sport Center to visit the Solarium (aka sunbed). Best 300 rubles I’ve spent. I got to listen to soothing music in Russian and when I left to rejoin the tundra, I had a little tan line.
So the secondary version is the baseboard heaters. These are dangerous. You can heat up a room in a few minutes flat, but it turns out that they burn blankets and pillows with little evidence but an odd smell. It’s only after a few hours of this oddity that we ask ourselves, “what is that smell?” I would love to blame it on the kids, but I burned my organza pillow shams all by myself.
Number three is the fireplace. My husband and I both grew up tending wood furnaces in our childhood, so we know how to build a fire and keep it from smoking. Except, of course, when you happen to burn paper from Russia that is coated with a strange plastic and smokes like crazy. We also have to wonder what the heat is worth when it is roaring so loud that my man calls for a squirt bottle and a shovel.
This week it is 15. It’s incredible what a warm up that is. Number Two was outside in the snow with his friends for three hours yesterday. Most of the time I stay pretty toasty in the house, but today I took a bike ride to the Sport Center to visit the Solarium (aka sunbed). Best 300 rubles I’ve spent. I got to listen to soothing music in Russian and when I left to rejoin the tundra, I had a little tan line.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Metro Dogs and Other Such Nonsense
Back home my kids liked the PBS show "Martha Speaks." It featured a talking dog who was able to communicate with both humans and people. The program has forever changed my perception of dogs so that when I see them, I imagine what they would say. Stray dogs in Russia are a problem. I don't know why they don't have mean, nasty dog-catchers running around except that they would be stuck in traffic for hours each day. So---we feed the dogs.
Recently it came to my attention that children ride the metro for free. With a family of six in a city where virtually nothing is free (including public restrooms) I was happy to discover that it costs only 52 rubles (about 1.75) for all of us to ride. I was, however, unhappy to discover that dogs ride free. They are called metro-dogs. They ride the metro for however long they choose and disembark at stops where they know the scraps will be plentiful. Our stop is apparently popular.
Nearly every time we ride the metro, Number 3 points out the distinct "stinky" smell. She, of course, is never whispering or discreet, it is said with a squeezed nose and a high-pitched voice squealing in disgust. This is when they know we are foreigners. It could also be that we wear brightly colored coats; everyone here wears brown or black or sometimes....wait for it.....charcoal. Or it could also be that we smell so clean. I will admit, I only shower every other day here, but that's still very often compared to the weekly wash of the locals.
Oh and by the way, young children, sometimes six and seven year-olds, ride the metro alone to and from school each day. My hubby mentioned to my almost nine year-old that soon she may be able to ride alone. That conversation is pending. It will eventually be vetoed. After all, I may be living in Russia, but my kid still talks, walks, and looks like an American. Maybe if I got her a dog...
Recently it came to my attention that children ride the metro for free. With a family of six in a city where virtually nothing is free (including public restrooms) I was happy to discover that it costs only 52 rubles (about 1.75) for all of us to ride. I was, however, unhappy to discover that dogs ride free. They are called metro-dogs. They ride the metro for however long they choose and disembark at stops where they know the scraps will be plentiful. Our stop is apparently popular.
Nearly every time we ride the metro, Number 3 points out the distinct "stinky" smell. She, of course, is never whispering or discreet, it is said with a squeezed nose and a high-pitched voice squealing in disgust. This is when they know we are foreigners. It could also be that we wear brightly colored coats; everyone here wears brown or black or sometimes....wait for it.....charcoal. Or it could also be that we smell so clean. I will admit, I only shower every other day here, but that's still very often compared to the weekly wash of the locals.
Oh and by the way, young children, sometimes six and seven year-olds, ride the metro alone to and from school each day. My hubby mentioned to my almost nine year-old that soon she may be able to ride alone. That conversation is pending. It will eventually be vetoed. After all, I may be living in Russia, but my kid still talks, walks, and looks like an American. Maybe if I got her a dog...
Monday, November 8, 2010
Moment of Reality
So I've been impressed with many deep, inspiring situations here lately and I've had a hard time expressing the scope of my change in perspective. But this morning, I got a good swallow of it.
It was a beautiful moment where I was reading aloud to my classroom (my kids) and they were engaged in, and enjoying the delightful story of Madeline. I saw number 4 put a pony bead in her mouth and I gently discouraged such behavior. Four pairs of eyes were glued to the book and I thought to myself, "what a wonderful mother I am!"
Just then, number 4 let out an ear-piercing yowl. She had removed the bead from her mouth and attempted another inviting passage; her nose. It inevitably got stuck. Now is a good time to tell you that sometimes I suffer from inappropriate laughter. It always comes at the wrong time and I am often deeply compassionate to a situation and yet exhibit the complete opposite.
This was just such an occasion.
I held the flashlight so her daddy (who had been sleeping on the couch during the story) could shove tweezers up that slimy tunnel and retrieve the sparkly bead. I was laughing so hard I had to bury my head in my elbow and try to hold the flashlight steady. For about 30 seconds, I realized that if we couldn't get it out, we would have to visit the medical center and I didn't want to make introductions for this purpose, but I got over that fear pretty fast.
With his face looking keenly up her nose, my hubby asked her to farmer blow. She did. The inappropriate laughter got worse. If my face was covered in snot, I'd be furious, but he just continued on. A few more tweezes and blows later, the bead flew out. She screamed in absolute jubilation and complete fear. I'm not sure exactly what went through her little head, but maybe it was a little bit wiser minus one pink bead.
It was a beautiful moment where I was reading aloud to my classroom (my kids) and they were engaged in, and enjoying the delightful story of Madeline. I saw number 4 put a pony bead in her mouth and I gently discouraged such behavior. Four pairs of eyes were glued to the book and I thought to myself, "what a wonderful mother I am!"
Just then, number 4 let out an ear-piercing yowl. She had removed the bead from her mouth and attempted another inviting passage; her nose. It inevitably got stuck. Now is a good time to tell you that sometimes I suffer from inappropriate laughter. It always comes at the wrong time and I am often deeply compassionate to a situation and yet exhibit the complete opposite.
This was just such an occasion.
I held the flashlight so her daddy (who had been sleeping on the couch during the story) could shove tweezers up that slimy tunnel and retrieve the sparkly bead. I was laughing so hard I had to bury my head in my elbow and try to hold the flashlight steady. For about 30 seconds, I realized that if we couldn't get it out, we would have to visit the medical center and I didn't want to make introductions for this purpose, but I got over that fear pretty fast.
With his face looking keenly up her nose, my hubby asked her to farmer blow. She did. The inappropriate laughter got worse. If my face was covered in snot, I'd be furious, but he just continued on. A few more tweezes and blows later, the bead flew out. She screamed in absolute jubilation and complete fear. I'm not sure exactly what went through her little head, but maybe it was a little bit wiser minus one pink bead.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
What are you up to?
This morning I got up at the traditional time, 9:00am, and hobbled downstairs to find my glasses. After I set the coffee pot, I plugged in the transformer, which weights about 20 pounds by the way, and then plugged in my toaster. Then I hand sliced a loaf of bread and toasted a couple of pieces. They have dozens of kinds of honey here so today I sampled a new kind. I didn't like it. I'll go back to last week's flavor.
After a couple hours of homeschool, I prepared a big lunch and cooked up some meat for later. The onions are different here too and they leave you crying for an hour after you cut them. I made fun of my husband last week when he cut them, but today I ate some humble pie with red, stinging eyes.
Then I went to work with my hubby. This sounds just as simple as "I went to Wal-mart", but it's nothing like. We commuted an hour, both by bus and metro. We spent an hour in the commissary (appropriately called the Liberty Store) where I bought tax free American groceries like Campbell's Tomato Soup and Domino powdered sugar. The bonus in this deal is that if you spend more than $100 at the store, they deliver to your house. This means that instead of carrying six bags of groceries back on the bus with me, I left with only my kids and my backpack. I'm thinking it's worth the overpriced items I purchased just for this peace of mind.
During our brief visit, I also stopped at the Post Office where I had three boxes waiting. I was very excited to get the snow boots I ordered, but my son was less than excited to discover that his pair were brown and pink. I tried to make the best of it, but I'll end up sending them back. Boys can tolerate some things in a world of sisters, but pink boots aren't one of them.
I'm back home and sitting here alone at 21:36 (that's 9:36pm) and counting backwards to try to remember what it is that you are doing right now. Maybe you're waiting to watch the world series. I'm stuck watching a compressed version of yesterday's game, but hey, whether we're here or there, the Giants still won.
After a couple hours of homeschool, I prepared a big lunch and cooked up some meat for later. The onions are different here too and they leave you crying for an hour after you cut them. I made fun of my husband last week when he cut them, but today I ate some humble pie with red, stinging eyes.
Then I went to work with my hubby. This sounds just as simple as "I went to Wal-mart", but it's nothing like. We commuted an hour, both by bus and metro. We spent an hour in the commissary (appropriately called the Liberty Store) where I bought tax free American groceries like Campbell's Tomato Soup and Domino powdered sugar. The bonus in this deal is that if you spend more than $100 at the store, they deliver to your house. This means that instead of carrying six bags of groceries back on the bus with me, I left with only my kids and my backpack. I'm thinking it's worth the overpriced items I purchased just for this peace of mind.
During our brief visit, I also stopped at the Post Office where I had three boxes waiting. I was very excited to get the snow boots I ordered, but my son was less than excited to discover that his pair were brown and pink. I tried to make the best of it, but I'll end up sending them back. Boys can tolerate some things in a world of sisters, but pink boots aren't one of them.
I'm back home and sitting here alone at 21:36 (that's 9:36pm) and counting backwards to try to remember what it is that you are doing right now. Maybe you're waiting to watch the world series. I'm stuck watching a compressed version of yesterday's game, but hey, whether we're here or there, the Giants still won.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Shopping Day
Today my family and I went to market. With several Spartan Green canvas bags in hand, four small children, a stroller, and virtually no Russian language skills, we climbed aboard the bus. Some of my preconceived notions about Russia were true. Old women still wear skirts, knee-length boots, scarves on their heads, and thick pantyhose that slump at the ankles. Younger women have bad hair dye jobs and put sparkles on nearly all of their clothing, even if their coats look like something from the 1980s that we would make fun of at goodwill.
As we walked through the town, stopping at several different stores where prices or selection were better than the last, people ogled at our parade of brightly colored coats and small people. In this big city today, I saw only one pregnant woman. Apparently, they go into hiding until their kids are four. I have yet to see a family with more than two children. Of course, where we live, American families have more, but Russian families can only afford one or two. Seeing four kids with the same parents is very odd.
I decided that although I had no intentions of going on a diet while here, the best diet plan in the world would be-----move to Russia. Here’s why. When I got on the bus, I had coat, hat and mittens on to protect me from the brisk 32 degrees outside. On the bus it was about 100 degrees and so I immediately began sweating inside my coat. Back outside to walk the block and then inside again to a store. This pattern went on and on so I was both exercising and sweating. Also, my husband and I had to carry whatever groceries we purchased so I thought twice about snacks and stuff that taste good, but are heavy and expensive.
Three hours later, we took the bus home after spending about 6,000r. My favorite item of the day was the alarm clock that my hubby bought. He’s been using some prehistoric wind up thing that ticks in the night and sounds like a fire alarm in the morning. He also bought a watch battery so he won’t miss the bus anymore and hold up at dinner. These things were priceless.
We got home, ate a big lunch and totaled our receipts. We were overcharged 500r (about $15) for who-knows-why at one store. Maybe it was our accents? Anyway, the Nutella I snuck into the cart was carefully put in a high cupboard for my own secret enjoyment. I have no idea how much I actually paid for that, but I’m sure it was worth it.
As we walked through the town, stopping at several different stores where prices or selection were better than the last, people ogled at our parade of brightly colored coats and small people. In this big city today, I saw only one pregnant woman. Apparently, they go into hiding until their kids are four. I have yet to see a family with more than two children. Of course, where we live, American families have more, but Russian families can only afford one or two. Seeing four kids with the same parents is very odd.
I decided that although I had no intentions of going on a diet while here, the best diet plan in the world would be-----move to Russia. Here’s why. When I got on the bus, I had coat, hat and mittens on to protect me from the brisk 32 degrees outside. On the bus it was about 100 degrees and so I immediately began sweating inside my coat. Back outside to walk the block and then inside again to a store. This pattern went on and on so I was both exercising and sweating. Also, my husband and I had to carry whatever groceries we purchased so I thought twice about snacks and stuff that taste good, but are heavy and expensive.
Three hours later, we took the bus home after spending about 6,000r. My favorite item of the day was the alarm clock that my hubby bought. He’s been using some prehistoric wind up thing that ticks in the night and sounds like a fire alarm in the morning. He also bought a watch battery so he won’t miss the bus anymore and hold up at dinner. These things were priceless.
We got home, ate a big lunch and totaled our receipts. We were overcharged 500r (about $15) for who-knows-why at one store. Maybe it was our accents? Anyway, the Nutella I snuck into the cart was carefully put in a high cupboard for my own secret enjoyment. I have no idea how much I actually paid for that, but I’m sure it was worth it.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
First Family Day
This morning I slept in until 9am as did my entire family! My husband taught me the word for hello last night before bed and I repeated it so I wouldn’t forget. It’s pronounced Zdraz-voot-ya. Sure enough, I woke up saying it.
Number 3 ran into our room with a tooth in her hand. I didn’t even know she had a loose one. We all got up in a frenzy to make it to the 10 o’clock bus to the metro station. We rode a dilapidated bus a few miles with lots of Filipino ladies wanting to touch my kids’ hair and then we took the metro into the city.
We arrived about a block from Red Square and did some minimal window shopping. After all, walking on brick with one stroller and four kids tends to take awhile. Plus, we’ve only been here five days so we’re still somewhat out-of-sorts. I thought number 1’s face was going to crack as she was squealing about the fact that she was at a place that she had seen in her history book back home. Definitely an A+ parenting moment.
We saw a couple of wedding parties go by and Number 3 couldn’t get over the fact that nearly all Russian women wear “shiny shoes with heels.” We paid for a porta-potty (20 rubles, about 67 cents) and hoped everybody else would hold it until we got home. After a walk around the Kremlin, a picnic lunch, and Russian ice-cream from a vendor, we took the metro back home.
We raced in the door, changed our clothes (dignitary appropriate) and headed for the bus stop where a school bus took us to the Embassy for a meet and greet with Arnold Schwarzenegger, former Terminator and current Governor of California. Like most things, it is hard to explain to four hungry, tired children how important an event like this could be in their young lives. Numbers 2 and 4 stood in the front row with their friends and he shook my son’s hand. Number 2 came up to us afterward with a huge smile on his face and said “I’ve got to call Papa and tell him!” He may not know much, but he knew Papa had seen him in movies before and would be impressed.
Anyway, not much energy left to infuse this entry with laughter, but at least I recorded it somewhere so it won’t be forgotten. I've gotta go put some rubles under a pillow.
Number 3 ran into our room with a tooth in her hand. I didn’t even know she had a loose one. We all got up in a frenzy to make it to the 10 o’clock bus to the metro station. We rode a dilapidated bus a few miles with lots of Filipino ladies wanting to touch my kids’ hair and then we took the metro into the city.
We arrived about a block from Red Square and did some minimal window shopping. After all, walking on brick with one stroller and four kids tends to take awhile. Plus, we’ve only been here five days so we’re still somewhat out-of-sorts. I thought number 1’s face was going to crack as she was squealing about the fact that she was at a place that she had seen in her history book back home. Definitely an A+ parenting moment.
We saw a couple of wedding parties go by and Number 3 couldn’t get over the fact that nearly all Russian women wear “shiny shoes with heels.” We paid for a porta-potty (20 rubles, about 67 cents) and hoped everybody else would hold it until we got home. After a walk around the Kremlin, a picnic lunch, and Russian ice-cream from a vendor, we took the metro back home.
We raced in the door, changed our clothes (dignitary appropriate) and headed for the bus stop where a school bus took us to the Embassy for a meet and greet with Arnold Schwarzenegger, former Terminator and current Governor of California. Like most things, it is hard to explain to four hungry, tired children how important an event like this could be in their young lives. Numbers 2 and 4 stood in the front row with their friends and he shook my son’s hand. Number 2 came up to us afterward with a huge smile on his face and said “I’ve got to call Papa and tell him!” He may not know much, but he knew Papa had seen him in movies before and would be impressed.
Anyway, not much energy left to infuse this entry with laughter, but at least I recorded it somewhere so it won’t be forgotten. I've gotta go put some rubles under a pillow.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
After flying with my kids for 15 hours, number 3 clearly stated a time-honored motto “it is impossible to be comfortable on airplanes.” Despite that, we made it to Russia. I headed to the diplomatic passport line and then waited. I waited…waited…and waited some more. For the first time during the trip, my kids started getting cranky, rude, and whiny. I felt like whining myself but I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere.
After two hours, we got through the line to see my hubby on the other side. After collecting all the baggage, we flagged our driver who took us home. It felt so good to finally be there.
A friend made us dinner and we all managed to stay up fairly late here so as to avoid jet lag. We went to bed last night and woke up 13 hours later, which was 11am here. Hubby went to work at 6 (actually I have no idea when, I am just guessing). I found myself some pants among the suitcases, got the kids breakfast and then they went outside to ride their very own bikes.
Shortly after, repairmen arrived to fix something upstairs in the attic. They carefully explained to me in broken English that they had to replace the emergency heat which still runs in case of a power outage. What a good idea. They were here a little while when number 2 came running to tell me his bike tube was flat. I know I shipped extras but I can’t tell you where since Daddy unpacked the shipment. I went outside to look in the garage. I removed the tire and an English speaking worker came over to help me. He was very kind. He said to me “I glad you here. Your husband miss-ed you.” I explained that I miss-ed him too. If anyone has heard number 4 speak, she always emphasizes the ‘ed’ sound in words. It’s great.
A little while later, the foreman of the crew asked for my help. I agreed and we went upstairs. He needed me to turn on the dryer. I know this sounds simple. It probably is, but I haven’t been here 24 hours yet and haven’t done laundry. I tried everything and he was getting frustrated. Then he told me to call my husband and I realized, I have no idea how to get in contact with him at work. The foreman started looking through my kitchen for the manuals muttering to himself in Russian and I just stood there. He said, “We always keep in drawer. No move them.” I explained again, I have only been here one day.
My husband will be home soon. He will fix the tire and find the manuals. My friend offered to keep the kids so he and I could get some dinner alone. Number 1 told her “you are such a good person.” She is. I’m going to get washed up, if I can only find the shampoo…..
After two hours, we got through the line to see my hubby on the other side. After collecting all the baggage, we flagged our driver who took us home. It felt so good to finally be there.
A friend made us dinner and we all managed to stay up fairly late here so as to avoid jet lag. We went to bed last night and woke up 13 hours later, which was 11am here. Hubby went to work at 6 (actually I have no idea when, I am just guessing). I found myself some pants among the suitcases, got the kids breakfast and then they went outside to ride their very own bikes.
Shortly after, repairmen arrived to fix something upstairs in the attic. They carefully explained to me in broken English that they had to replace the emergency heat which still runs in case of a power outage. What a good idea. They were here a little while when number 2 came running to tell me his bike tube was flat. I know I shipped extras but I can’t tell you where since Daddy unpacked the shipment. I went outside to look in the garage. I removed the tire and an English speaking worker came over to help me. He was very kind. He said to me “I glad you here. Your husband miss-ed you.” I explained that I miss-ed him too. If anyone has heard number 4 speak, she always emphasizes the ‘ed’ sound in words. It’s great.
A little while later, the foreman of the crew asked for my help. I agreed and we went upstairs. He needed me to turn on the dryer. I know this sounds simple. It probably is, but I haven’t been here 24 hours yet and haven’t done laundry. I tried everything and he was getting frustrated. Then he told me to call my husband and I realized, I have no idea how to get in contact with him at work. The foreman started looking through my kitchen for the manuals muttering to himself in Russian and I just stood there. He said, “We always keep in drawer. No move them.” I explained again, I have only been here one day.
My husband will be home soon. He will fix the tire and find the manuals. My friend offered to keep the kids so he and I could get some dinner alone. Number 1 told her “you are such a good person.” She is. I’m going to get washed up, if I can only find the shampoo…..
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Balloon Man
Tonight I went downtown with a friend and five small children to see the most recent art exhibit. Though I was often yelling at my kids or corralling them back toward the sidewalk instead of the busy streets, we found moments of fun in the random art locations. At one stop, we played the piano for about ten minutes, each taking turns at our renditions of "Chopsticks".
We made our way to an eatery where the adults enjoyed Greek food and the kids ate hotdogs. We joined in a couple hands-on exhibits and then continued on our way. As we walked, we spotted a man making balloon animals. If I hadn't actually seen the animals, I would wonder if he was a less-than-upstanding citizen just watching onlookers. Anyway, the kids saw him and made a beeline toward him. He successfully modeled a sword for my son in moments. Then my daughter requested a cat. He groaned about how hard cats are to make and in the process popped three balloons.
At this point, it was one kid down, four to go. There would be NO moving on. The kids were trying to talk to him, but he looked up at us instead and tried to engage in a conversation about his balloon shortage. We nodded our heads and watched the clock tick as several other kids lined up. He opted for a monkey instead and handed it to her.
He started working on the next balloon when his cell phone, perched properly in his belt holster, rang. He leaned his tattooed arm across his thinned white scoop neck tank and answered it. With several children around him waiting patiently, he had a conversation on the phone which put a halt to his creative endeavors. A few minutes later, he began again on a silly hat balloon.
While modeling, he explained that he had been talking to his "supplier" on the phone (we didn't ask what they were supplying) and how he went through nearly 1,000 balloons this weekend. I didn't feel too bad for the guy since he popped another one in the process. We still had to wait.
My daughter said "I'm glad we got to come down here tonight" and he responded dryly, "Yeah me too. The only thing I want to do after I worked a long day is sit here with you kids and make balloons." I thought it impossible that he could be that sarcastic and yet still muster up the energy to actually make the balloons. Who is making him do it? Is there a balloon mafia boss? Has he shorted his supplier and has to make up for it? Will his presence in a crowd of children really protect him?
He eventually made one for each of our kids. Then he looked up at us and said rudely "Could you at least make a donation?" Incredible.
Most vendors just put a jar out and you know what to do with it. This guy had to practically beg us. I'm sad to say that his ill-constructed figures popped on the walk home. Every single one of them ended up in the trash. However, after this fiasco, the highlight of the evening was when we boarded the city bus and rode a few blocks. My daughter's smile was so big that I temporarily forgot about the balloon man. Maybe he'll be there next time. If so, I'll walk the other way around the block.
We made our way to an eatery where the adults enjoyed Greek food and the kids ate hotdogs. We joined in a couple hands-on exhibits and then continued on our way. As we walked, we spotted a man making balloon animals. If I hadn't actually seen the animals, I would wonder if he was a less-than-upstanding citizen just watching onlookers. Anyway, the kids saw him and made a beeline toward him. He successfully modeled a sword for my son in moments. Then my daughter requested a cat. He groaned about how hard cats are to make and in the process popped three balloons.
At this point, it was one kid down, four to go. There would be NO moving on. The kids were trying to talk to him, but he looked up at us instead and tried to engage in a conversation about his balloon shortage. We nodded our heads and watched the clock tick as several other kids lined up. He opted for a monkey instead and handed it to her.
He started working on the next balloon when his cell phone, perched properly in his belt holster, rang. He leaned his tattooed arm across his thinned white scoop neck tank and answered it. With several children around him waiting patiently, he had a conversation on the phone which put a halt to his creative endeavors. A few minutes later, he began again on a silly hat balloon.
While modeling, he explained that he had been talking to his "supplier" on the phone (we didn't ask what they were supplying) and how he went through nearly 1,000 balloons this weekend. I didn't feel too bad for the guy since he popped another one in the process. We still had to wait.
My daughter said "I'm glad we got to come down here tonight" and he responded dryly, "Yeah me too. The only thing I want to do after I worked a long day is sit here with you kids and make balloons." I thought it impossible that he could be that sarcastic and yet still muster up the energy to actually make the balloons. Who is making him do it? Is there a balloon mafia boss? Has he shorted his supplier and has to make up for it? Will his presence in a crowd of children really protect him?
He eventually made one for each of our kids. Then he looked up at us and said rudely "Could you at least make a donation?" Incredible.
Most vendors just put a jar out and you know what to do with it. This guy had to practically beg us. I'm sad to say that his ill-constructed figures popped on the walk home. Every single one of them ended up in the trash. However, after this fiasco, the highlight of the evening was when we boarded the city bus and rode a few blocks. My daughter's smile was so big that I temporarily forgot about the balloon man. Maybe he'll be there next time. If so, I'll walk the other way around the block.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Behind every woman there is a list
When this job change/world move started in March, I knew I would have my share to do. I have filled out countless visa applications, passport applications, and medical forms. As I rented out my house, sold cars, canceled policies, changed my address and moved my family into my parents’ house, there was increasingly more paperwork.
We are now in the countdown. I am preparing to take four kids on a 13 hour flight with 10 pieces of checked baggage, 5 small carry-on suitcases, and 5 backpacks. I got to thinking, if I lost a piece of luggage, how would I know which one? So I did what every mother would do----I took digital pictures of the luggage, got them printed at my favorite store and wrote the contents on the back. I’m pretty sure a picture speaks a thousand words and this way I’m saving myself tumbling over 10,000 Russian words.
My husband emailed me last week that while he was in a store, his beer top busted open in the cart and spewed all over the place. He was trying to communicate to the security guard that he needed a new one, but instead the guard opened it all the way for him and handed it back. Apparently they drink and drive carts. After single parenting four kids for six weeks, I can’t say I disapprove.
Knowing that airports are intimidating anyway with all the security and schedules, I figured I could save myself a little bit of heart-ache with this new list. I’ve also made myself one to obey when I arrive. Here’s a bit of it:
1. Get a bath. I have definitely showered in the past few weeks, but not without someone entering uninvited or breaking up a fight through the curtain. Does anybody else understand this? If so, give a shout out!
2. Send the kids to their rooms. Honestly, I think they will totally love this one. When my three year old screams “I just wanna be lone!” I get it.
3. Drink irresponsibly. Maybe not. Being hung-over in Russian is probably just as crummy as being hung-over in English.
4. Bake a HUGE batch of cookies for my hubby and my kids to enjoy. That’s the best way to really feel moved into a house.
5. Throw away all my other lists.
If you can’t tell already, I’m on the up-and-up. I’m starting to feel like the light at the end of the tunnel isn't a train, but instead an airplane flying on the Moscow horizon.
We are now in the countdown. I am preparing to take four kids on a 13 hour flight with 10 pieces of checked baggage, 5 small carry-on suitcases, and 5 backpacks. I got to thinking, if I lost a piece of luggage, how would I know which one? So I did what every mother would do----I took digital pictures of the luggage, got them printed at my favorite store and wrote the contents on the back. I’m pretty sure a picture speaks a thousand words and this way I’m saving myself tumbling over 10,000 Russian words.
My husband emailed me last week that while he was in a store, his beer top busted open in the cart and spewed all over the place. He was trying to communicate to the security guard that he needed a new one, but instead the guard opened it all the way for him and handed it back. Apparently they drink and drive carts. After single parenting four kids for six weeks, I can’t say I disapprove.
Knowing that airports are intimidating anyway with all the security and schedules, I figured I could save myself a little bit of heart-ache with this new list. I’ve also made myself one to obey when I arrive. Here’s a bit of it:
1. Get a bath. I have definitely showered in the past few weeks, but not without someone entering uninvited or breaking up a fight through the curtain. Does anybody else understand this? If so, give a shout out!
2. Send the kids to their rooms. Honestly, I think they will totally love this one. When my three year old screams “I just wanna be lone!” I get it.
3. Drink irresponsibly. Maybe not. Being hung-over in Russian is probably just as crummy as being hung-over in English.
4. Bake a HUGE batch of cookies for my hubby and my kids to enjoy. That’s the best way to really feel moved into a house.
5. Throw away all my other lists.
If you can’t tell already, I’m on the up-and-up. I’m starting to feel like the light at the end of the tunnel isn't a train, but instead an airplane flying on the Moscow horizon.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The tortoise may not have been married
I apologize for the absence. I keep trying to write something funny or uplifting, but to be honest I haven't felt funny or uplifting. Each day at 1pm I run down to the mailbox to see if my visa paperwork has come yet so I can make my way to Moscow to join my husband. How is it that in a culture where everything is digital and online that I still have to wait for paper visas to send to the consulate? It makes me think of the story of the tortoise and the hare. Granted, the slow paced tortoise wins in Aesop's prized fable, but maybe he wasn't really running to anybody.
It's my 29th birthday next week. My husband and I have been together for 13 1/2 years. Most of my life is filled up with time spent with him. Unfortunately, I'm living in my hometown where he and I went to high school and fell in love. It seems like every corner I can see him smiling and remember something special about that time or place. Nobody else can make me smile like he can.
Today, number 3's loose front tooth started to dangle and bleed.
This is not my job.
My brave husband has pulled dozens of teeth from 1 and 2, but 3 is always a different story. She wanted me to pull it and so out of necessity, I tried to yank it. As I yanked, she bit me. I tried again and she bit me again while simultaneously grabbing my wrist with her hand. This tug-o-war went on for half an hour. No tooth fairy tonight.
At bedtime, number 2 was unwilling to give up his bed for someone else (his mother) because he just sleeps better on the couch when it's not pulled out. Who knew my son would be the princess and the pea?
During prayers, number 4 sweetly prays "Dear Jesus, thanks for the day. Help Dad to not fall out of the plane in Russia. Amen." I'm sorry to say I laughed, but I totally did.
So here I sit. Waiting. Waiting. I've been out of my own house for 6 weeks and without my best pal for 5. I'm starting to feel like my poor sister who is always two weeks overdue with her babies. Everybody comes up to me and says "you're still here?" I know. If I could leave, I would. One of these days, I will win the race and move on.
It's my 29th birthday next week. My husband and I have been together for 13 1/2 years. Most of my life is filled up with time spent with him. Unfortunately, I'm living in my hometown where he and I went to high school and fell in love. It seems like every corner I can see him smiling and remember something special about that time or place. Nobody else can make me smile like he can.
Today, number 3's loose front tooth started to dangle and bleed.
This is not my job.
My brave husband has pulled dozens of teeth from 1 and 2, but 3 is always a different story. She wanted me to pull it and so out of necessity, I tried to yank it. As I yanked, she bit me. I tried again and she bit me again while simultaneously grabbing my wrist with her hand. This tug-o-war went on for half an hour. No tooth fairy tonight.
At bedtime, number 2 was unwilling to give up his bed for someone else (his mother) because he just sleeps better on the couch when it's not pulled out. Who knew my son would be the princess and the pea?
During prayers, number 4 sweetly prays "Dear Jesus, thanks for the day. Help Dad to not fall out of the plane in Russia. Amen." I'm sorry to say I laughed, but I totally did.
So here I sit. Waiting. Waiting. I've been out of my own house for 6 weeks and without my best pal for 5. I'm starting to feel like my poor sister who is always two weeks overdue with her babies. Everybody comes up to me and says "you're still here?" I know. If I could leave, I would. One of these days, I will win the race and move on.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Hometown Hotties
Tonight I took a long walk in my hometown with a good friend. It felt great to get out of the house, talk, laugh, and burn some calories at the same time. She's not originally from here so I enjoyed pointing out landmarks and their importance and smiling to myself at random special places that I remember. As a kid, I rode these same sidewalks on my bike going to the liquor store where they had water balloons for a penny a piece.
We were dressed in yoga pants, sports bras, tank tops, and tennis shoes. I felt freer just by not holding somebody's hand and walking at the pace I wanted.
Just then, an older-looking gentleman in an SUV stopped at the stop sign to let us pass in front of him. I'm pretty sure he sat there a little too long. We continued babbling on about family, church, and whatever when there was another sighting. A guy on a bicycle passed us, nodded, and rang the bell on his bike. It begs the question; does he ride a bike because he lost his license from a DUI?
Although my friend is beautiful, I continued to be amazed that we were drawing such obvious attention. Don't people walk around this town in yoga pants all the time? In fact, don't most people around here wear yoga pants for everything but their own wedding?
It happened several more times. I wondered if we told these people we have seven children between the two of us, would they still be interested. Another older gentlemen on a bike (whose kid I graduated with) smiled rather friendly and three guys in a car yelled out the windows. My personal favorite for the evening however was the two guys on motorcycles who yelled at the stop sign. They said something about watching for three blocks. My friend reminded me that McDonalds is three blocks from there so maybe they were headed there. Unfortunately, they ended their loud comment with "babe!" I don't think boys talk to each other like that.
Is it wrong to smile even if it's false flattery? It made me laugh anyway.
We were dressed in yoga pants, sports bras, tank tops, and tennis shoes. I felt freer just by not holding somebody's hand and walking at the pace I wanted.
Just then, an older-looking gentleman in an SUV stopped at the stop sign to let us pass in front of him. I'm pretty sure he sat there a little too long. We continued babbling on about family, church, and whatever when there was another sighting. A guy on a bicycle passed us, nodded, and rang the bell on his bike. It begs the question; does he ride a bike because he lost his license from a DUI?
Although my friend is beautiful, I continued to be amazed that we were drawing such obvious attention. Don't people walk around this town in yoga pants all the time? In fact, don't most people around here wear yoga pants for everything but their own wedding?
It happened several more times. I wondered if we told these people we have seven children between the two of us, would they still be interested. Another older gentlemen on a bike (whose kid I graduated with) smiled rather friendly and three guys in a car yelled out the windows. My personal favorite for the evening however was the two guys on motorcycles who yelled at the stop sign. They said something about watching for three blocks. My friend reminded me that McDonalds is three blocks from there so maybe they were headed there. Unfortunately, they ended their loud comment with "babe!" I don't think boys talk to each other like that.
Is it wrong to smile even if it's false flattery? It made me laugh anyway.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Too Friendly?
So we have had to say goodbye to the myriad of people with whom we are acquainted. This sounds easier than it is, as each visit requires a few hours. I'm not saying my friends and family are burdensome, just that I want every minute of every visit to be worthwhile.
Which brings me to my recent visit at a local chain restaurant which shall remain nameless. Let's just say that all the ladies who are servers wear ties and mostly serve pasta. If you've been there, you know what I'm talking about.
My husband and I waited at the bar with our friends until our table was ready and the red buzzing coaster went off. We headed to the host kiosk and awaited directions. The overly-smiling hostess said the classic "how are you tonight?" and we responded that we were fine.
In my mind, that's enough. Apparently not for miss chatty. She walked with her body forward and her head backward so as to engage us in brief, yet meaningful conversation. Really? I'm here with friends. I don't want to talk to you, I want to talk to them.
"what's the occasion tonight" she said.
Just dinner.
"Isn't the weather outside just beautiful?"
Yes.
"my boyfriend and I are going to the beach later"
That's nice.
"He's so great, he bought me flowers today."
Neat.
Now I've worked in the restaurant business and yes, the hostess is the first impression of the place, but if not for my love of five-cheese ziti, I would have turned around.
I half expected her to ask me to friend her on facebook or something. Was she trying to get my husband to pay her some attention? What was her motive? Does she need friends? what was worse is that my girl-friend and I were already having conversation and yet she kept butting in to add her unimportant questions and comments.
I'm not bitter. I just want that three minutes back. There definitely is a line that can be crossed with friendliness. May I advise, if you ask three questions and people answer with one word answers, they're probably not interested in conversing with you. Quit while you're ahead.
Which brings me to my recent visit at a local chain restaurant which shall remain nameless. Let's just say that all the ladies who are servers wear ties and mostly serve pasta. If you've been there, you know what I'm talking about.
My husband and I waited at the bar with our friends until our table was ready and the red buzzing coaster went off. We headed to the host kiosk and awaited directions. The overly-smiling hostess said the classic "how are you tonight?" and we responded that we were fine.
In my mind, that's enough. Apparently not for miss chatty. She walked with her body forward and her head backward so as to engage us in brief, yet meaningful conversation. Really? I'm here with friends. I don't want to talk to you, I want to talk to them.
"what's the occasion tonight" she said.
Just dinner.
"Isn't the weather outside just beautiful?"
Yes.
"my boyfriend and I are going to the beach later"
That's nice.
"He's so great, he bought me flowers today."
Neat.
Now I've worked in the restaurant business and yes, the hostess is the first impression of the place, but if not for my love of five-cheese ziti, I would have turned around.
I half expected her to ask me to friend her on facebook or something. Was she trying to get my husband to pay her some attention? What was her motive? Does she need friends? what was worse is that my girl-friend and I were already having conversation and yet she kept butting in to add her unimportant questions and comments.
I'm not bitter. I just want that three minutes back. There definitely is a line that can be crossed with friendliness. May I advise, if you ask three questions and people answer with one word answers, they're probably not interested in conversing with you. Quit while you're ahead.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Moving Intervention
On Tuesday, two movers came to my house to pack, load, and ship all of our stuff. When I was a nanny in college I got to watch this in action when the family I worked for moved to France, but I think my movers were a little bit different. First of all, to protect the names of the innocent, we will label these two capable men Brain and Brawn.
Brain had very good people skills. As I watched him carefully wrap my dishes and family photos, he talked with me about his own kids and his busy life. He may have thrown in there once or twice how disappointing his life has turned out to be and though I was tempted to give him a tissue, I wanted the job done so I could move on.
Brawn took more smoke breaks than I think is humanly possible in one day and spent most of his time inside the air conditioned house on his cell phone. He wasn’t so cautious about my worldly goods. After three hours of this hard labor (I sat at my kitchen table drinking lemonade and doing a crossword) the boys looked tired. I asked if I could feed them anything or if they needed a lunch break. They agreed it was a good idea and they headed across the street for some eats. Had I known this would cut their stamina in half, I never would have suggested it.
They returned sluggish and cranky. If my kids had been home with me, we would have had nap time, but I farmed them out so the movers wouldn’t trip on anybody. The movers definitely needed a nap.
This is when it began to get ugly. The sun climbed higher and higher and made the whole situation hotter. It was when Brain started taking inventory that he realized Brawn was packing our air shipment in one HUGE 15 cubic-square-foot box. This included appliances, bedding, food, etc. He didn’t make any distinction, just tossed it in. Brain had explained to me earlier that if something turns out wrong and I make a claim, the company doesn’t pay it----these two professionals do. I’m pretty sure when Brain saw Brawn’s packing job, actual steam came out of his ears. This made his face go red for the rest of the afternoon. There were some under-the-breath curse words exchanged and Brain went out to the truck while Brawn finished the job.
The job got done. I won’t know for two months whether it was done well or not. I thought about sitting down with them and working it out, but hey----I’ve got my own problems.
Brain had very good people skills. As I watched him carefully wrap my dishes and family photos, he talked with me about his own kids and his busy life. He may have thrown in there once or twice how disappointing his life has turned out to be and though I was tempted to give him a tissue, I wanted the job done so I could move on.
Brawn took more smoke breaks than I think is humanly possible in one day and spent most of his time inside the air conditioned house on his cell phone. He wasn’t so cautious about my worldly goods. After three hours of this hard labor (I sat at my kitchen table drinking lemonade and doing a crossword) the boys looked tired. I asked if I could feed them anything or if they needed a lunch break. They agreed it was a good idea and they headed across the street for some eats. Had I known this would cut their stamina in half, I never would have suggested it.
They returned sluggish and cranky. If my kids had been home with me, we would have had nap time, but I farmed them out so the movers wouldn’t trip on anybody. The movers definitely needed a nap.
This is when it began to get ugly. The sun climbed higher and higher and made the whole situation hotter. It was when Brain started taking inventory that he realized Brawn was packing our air shipment in one HUGE 15 cubic-square-foot box. This included appliances, bedding, food, etc. He didn’t make any distinction, just tossed it in. Brain had explained to me earlier that if something turns out wrong and I make a claim, the company doesn’t pay it----these two professionals do. I’m pretty sure when Brain saw Brawn’s packing job, actual steam came out of his ears. This made his face go red for the rest of the afternoon. There were some under-the-breath curse words exchanged and Brain went out to the truck while Brawn finished the job.
The job got done. I won’t know for two months whether it was done well or not. I thought about sitting down with them and working it out, but hey----I’ve got my own problems.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Pack Mule in a Pretty Dress
All six of us were in a family wedding this weekend. It was special to be a part of the of the bridal party. I’ve had enough experience preparing my family for day-long events to know that you always plan for the inevitable. Adding to it a child who had been vomiting all week, the preparations were extensive.
I began putting things in my SUV early in the morning, adding whatever I saw fit. It didn’t really seem like that much at the time; Two tuxedos, two flower girl dresses, two bridesmaid dresses, everyone’s shoes, make-up, clothes for later, lint roller, hairspray, curly hair spray…okay, that’s just the beginning.
My mom came with me to the hotel to help get everyone ready whilst my beloved was gallivanting with his brother for one last time as a bachelor. She was gracious. Wiping faces when needed and getting the kids distracted with Kung Fu Panda on cable. I don’t think my sister-in-law imagined that she’d be watching Kung Fu Panda in her bridal suite on her wedding day, but I guess that’s what you get when kids are involved.
I opted to take off my glasses for the day---a choice made primarily because I still feel like a nerd in them, and also because the extreme heat made my nose sweat. Now you need to know that they don’t make contact lenses for me because my prescription is too thick. Walking without my glasses is typically a challenge, so walking in heels, a fancy dress-----practically unprecedented.
So I exited the building, one of the area’s most premiere hotels, and took to the street with my four kids, a stroller, five bags, a mother, and enough food to get them all through the day. I actually got checked out (not discreetly) by two guys at the stop light. I was torn between slapping them for considering me and blowing a kiss. I felt proud of the roles I was able to simultaneously conquer. That of pack mule and bridesmaid.
I began putting things in my SUV early in the morning, adding whatever I saw fit. It didn’t really seem like that much at the time; Two tuxedos, two flower girl dresses, two bridesmaid dresses, everyone’s shoes, make-up, clothes for later, lint roller, hairspray, curly hair spray…okay, that’s just the beginning.
My mom came with me to the hotel to help get everyone ready whilst my beloved was gallivanting with his brother for one last time as a bachelor. She was gracious. Wiping faces when needed and getting the kids distracted with Kung Fu Panda on cable. I don’t think my sister-in-law imagined that she’d be watching Kung Fu Panda in her bridal suite on her wedding day, but I guess that’s what you get when kids are involved.
I opted to take off my glasses for the day---a choice made primarily because I still feel like a nerd in them, and also because the extreme heat made my nose sweat. Now you need to know that they don’t make contact lenses for me because my prescription is too thick. Walking without my glasses is typically a challenge, so walking in heels, a fancy dress-----practically unprecedented.
So I exited the building, one of the area’s most premiere hotels, and took to the street with my four kids, a stroller, five bags, a mother, and enough food to get them all through the day. I actually got checked out (not discreetly) by two guys at the stop light. I was torn between slapping them for considering me and blowing a kiss. I felt proud of the roles I was able to simultaneously conquer. That of pack mule and bridesmaid.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Lawnmowers and Eyebrows
As I ponder the thought of disregarding lawn work for up to four years, it makes me feel an edenic peace. Don’t get me wrong, I like my lawn to match the height of my neighbors, which honestly is the only thing that keeps me mowing it. I used to sweat and labor over keeping mine shortest first so the neighbors had to keep up with me, but that ship has sailed. We all agreed this summer we would mow once a week. I may even be stretching it to once every ten days.
When I was a kid, I never mowed the lawn. There were certain people in my family who commandeered the task and I was happy to avoid it. But when hubby started working overtime and the kids got older, I had no excuse to avoid it any longer. That thing is more temperamental than a woman…well you know. I get all suited up, ipod in pocket, nasty shoes on, and the darn thing won’t start for me. Of course when I lament to my husband later that evening, he sighs at me, walks outside, and starts it with one pull.
I’m the one who insisted we have a push mower. “It’ll be my fitness-for-life plan” I said. I figured with shoveling in the winter and mowing in the summer, I could stay lean and trim practically forever.
Which also leads me to consider eyebrow waxing and who came up with that? Am I simply keeping up with the Joneses with the length of my furry brows? Maybe we should leave it all as God intended. Or maybe not.
When I was a kid, I never mowed the lawn. There were certain people in my family who commandeered the task and I was happy to avoid it. But when hubby started working overtime and the kids got older, I had no excuse to avoid it any longer. That thing is more temperamental than a woman…well you know. I get all suited up, ipod in pocket, nasty shoes on, and the darn thing won’t start for me. Of course when I lament to my husband later that evening, he sighs at me, walks outside, and starts it with one pull.
I’m the one who insisted we have a push mower. “It’ll be my fitness-for-life plan” I said. I figured with shoveling in the winter and mowing in the summer, I could stay lean and trim practically forever.
Which also leads me to consider eyebrow waxing and who came up with that? Am I simply keeping up with the Joneses with the length of my furry brows? Maybe we should leave it all as God intended. Or maybe not.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The UN in UNsolicited
When you tell people you are moving to a foreign country, it is somewhat similar to being eight months pregnant. They look at you like you’re best friends and then it happens….unsolicited comments. Being that I had the privilege of being eight months pregnant four times, I remember the lack of respect for one’s physical space and/or capability as a human being.
It goes like this; “Kids are expensive.” Really, I had no idea. I thought they came out of an egg made of money that paid for them. Bummer. Too late now.
Or, “You’re so young.” How would they like it if I told them they were so old?
Or my personal favorite;”You sure have your hands full.” It seems that this comment usually comes from a complete stranger in a super-market where in fact, I have a cart full.
So it goes when people hear you’re moving across the world.
“It’s cold there.” Oh, man! I just bought a bikini because I thought it was on the equator. I haven’t even checked a map or the weather patterns to see where I am taking my whole family. Really? Is that the best you’ve got?
“How are you planning to get there?” By boat, of course. Air travel is so bothersome and slow.
“What are you going to do with the children?” Spread them out among family members and leave them here. No, honestly though, they’re coming with us. I thought that was natural, but maybe not.
Forgive my sarcasm. Someday I know I will be older and wiser and will come across those who haven’t seen my life experiences. And when I do, and they inform me of their adventures in life, I will kindly smile and say “good luck with that.”
It goes like this; “Kids are expensive.” Really, I had no idea. I thought they came out of an egg made of money that paid for them. Bummer. Too late now.
Or, “You’re so young.” How would they like it if I told them they were so old?
Or my personal favorite;”You sure have your hands full.” It seems that this comment usually comes from a complete stranger in a super-market where in fact, I have a cart full.
So it goes when people hear you’re moving across the world.
“It’s cold there.” Oh, man! I just bought a bikini because I thought it was on the equator. I haven’t even checked a map or the weather patterns to see where I am taking my whole family. Really? Is that the best you’ve got?
“How are you planning to get there?” By boat, of course. Air travel is so bothersome and slow.
“What are you going to do with the children?” Spread them out among family members and leave them here. No, honestly though, they’re coming with us. I thought that was natural, but maybe not.
Forgive my sarcasm. Someday I know I will be older and wiser and will come across those who haven’t seen my life experiences. And when I do, and they inform me of their adventures in life, I will kindly smile and say “good luck with that.”
Monday, June 7, 2010
Only the beginning
Today is the first day of summer break. I can tell it’s going to be a good one. Number 3 descended the steps this morning with a new hairstyle; let me clarify, a new self-inflicted haircut.
This use to be an everyday occurrence, but from the girl who has finally grown it out long enough to French braid, it came as a shocker. More so because she is the flower girl in a family wedding in a few weeks.
And so I’ve reminded myself these small people, who look like me, are no longer in the hands of capable educators; they are in my hands. It’s ironic that I have been warning this child that if she continues to chew on her hair, I will cut it all off. Maybe she was saving me the trouble?
Unfortunately, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the punishment was made. I didn’t have to give coarse words or any discipline because the reflection she saw was horror enough. I feel the same way sometimes. I would rather have somebody slap my wrists than make me deal with the physical consequence of my errors.
Be that as it may, I am optimistic that this little one desperately needs my care. Homeschooling her will the challenge of the century. But before that, we have many more summer days.
This use to be an everyday occurrence, but from the girl who has finally grown it out long enough to French braid, it came as a shocker. More so because she is the flower girl in a family wedding in a few weeks.
And so I’ve reminded myself these small people, who look like me, are no longer in the hands of capable educators; they are in my hands. It’s ironic that I have been warning this child that if she continues to chew on her hair, I will cut it all off. Maybe she was saving me the trouble?
Unfortunately, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the punishment was made. I didn’t have to give coarse words or any discipline because the reflection she saw was horror enough. I feel the same way sometimes. I would rather have somebody slap my wrists than make me deal with the physical consequence of my errors.
Be that as it may, I am optimistic that this little one desperately needs my care. Homeschooling her will the challenge of the century. But before that, we have many more summer days.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Stinky Situation
As Memorial Day was on Monday, my usually scheduled trash pick-up was running one day late. This is no big deal really. We recycle so much that we only actually put about two kitchen-size trash bags in each week. However, we had a yard sale this weekend and after a yard sale, one is able to evaluate what is actually worth something and what is in fact----trash.
Last night, I noticed my overly full trash can was still at the end of the road. My prompt and efficient neighbors had already pulled their cans back up to their houses. Someone must be in the wrong.
I called the trash company this morning and to my surprise and alarm, they didn’t pick up because I simply didn’t pay the bill. After all, how would I pay the bill when it never came? This problem can be traced back to the fact that we use to have a PO BOX and the post office is located not 75 feet from my house, but they refused to deliver to me because it was not, and I quote “on their route.” It took me three months of arguing and refusal to pay my box fee to get them to give me a mailbox down an adjacent street, which is actually farther than the post office itself. When miss-marked mail would arrive, the old post-master would simply forward it on to us.
There’s a new post-master in town.
She’s a rule follower. I know the type---I tend to be one myself. But do we really have to send mail back when there are a whopping 12 people who live on Main Street, six of them contained in my own house?
It’s bad enough that all the farmers in town are spreading and the wind keeps blowing in my windows, but this whole trash situation…well, it stinks.
Last night, I noticed my overly full trash can was still at the end of the road. My prompt and efficient neighbors had already pulled their cans back up to their houses. Someone must be in the wrong.
I called the trash company this morning and to my surprise and alarm, they didn’t pick up because I simply didn’t pay the bill. After all, how would I pay the bill when it never came? This problem can be traced back to the fact that we use to have a PO BOX and the post office is located not 75 feet from my house, but they refused to deliver to me because it was not, and I quote “on their route.” It took me three months of arguing and refusal to pay my box fee to get them to give me a mailbox down an adjacent street, which is actually farther than the post office itself. When miss-marked mail would arrive, the old post-master would simply forward it on to us.
There’s a new post-master in town.
She’s a rule follower. I know the type---I tend to be one myself. But do we really have to send mail back when there are a whopping 12 people who live on Main Street, six of them contained in my own house?
It’s bad enough that all the farmers in town are spreading and the wind keeps blowing in my windows, but this whole trash situation…well, it stinks.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Welcome
Today I started a blog. Obviously you already know that because you are reading it now. If you are family, thanks for your support. If you aren’t, I hope you are amused, inspired, and intrigued by the daily life of a 28 year old woman, mother to four children, ages 3,5,7,& 8, with a husband to whom I often refer as “Tigger” (think…whoo-hooo-hooo-oooo, fun all the time).
We are moving to Russia. The sub title of the blog is a Russian proverb but also an intrinsic part of my life.
From here on after, I will refer to my kids as 1, 2, 3, and 4. I can barely remember the names I gave them and for those of you who know them, you will be able to connect the dots. Everyone else will have to determine for themselves the personalities of these little people who change my life daily. Sometimes I am an active participant. Other times, I feel like being sent to prison could be a good time.
Anyway, it's taken me months to get this far, so enjoy what I manage to create.
We are moving to Russia. The sub title of the blog is a Russian proverb but also an intrinsic part of my life.
From here on after, I will refer to my kids as 1, 2, 3, and 4. I can barely remember the names I gave them and for those of you who know them, you will be able to connect the dots. Everyone else will have to determine for themselves the personalities of these little people who change my life daily. Sometimes I am an active participant. Other times, I feel like being sent to prison could be a good time.
Anyway, it's taken me months to get this far, so enjoy what I manage to create.
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