Babushka

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. I realized today that trying to teach the kids school after Christmas is like trying to spoon-feed a baby on a trampoline. Unusual metaphor, I know, but you get the idea. I have declared tomorrow a day off so we are all free to enjoy our new gadgets, sip some cocoa, and watch holiday classics.

That being said, I am taking some time to blog and I want to talk about somebody special. The Babushka. This is pronounced "Bah-boosh-ka". Contrary to popular opinion, it is not a scarf. It is a grandmother. Not my grandmother or yours, but somebody's. Something I have come to realize while living in Russia is that the place is teeming with Babushkas. They lurk in corners, they strut on buses, and they hit your feet with their cane on the metro.

When I go anywhere in this city with my children, we are like a parade. We hog the sidewalk and if somebody has a tune in their head (this is very common) they may gallop or skip to the beat. Babushkas are not impressed. They are looking at me with hawkeyes to make sure that my children are covered properly. Are their scarves wrapped well enough? Are they wearing tights under their jeans? In the Spring when it gets warmer, I still make sure my kids are wearing hats because out of some dark alley, a Babushka will hop out and yell at me. Not them. Me.

When I was a child my father used to yell out, "Close the door! Are you paying the bills?" In similar manner, I tell my kids each time we walk out of the door, "Cover your head! DO you want me to get yelled at by a Babushka?"

The other day I was on the metro escalator without my children. As we ascended, my hands crossed in front of me and brushed the Babushka's coat. She turned around and slapped my hands. I apologized in Russian and put my hands at my side. A minute later, she turned around, put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down one step. Apparently, this particular Babushka did not want me to stand so close. I can't imagine why she cared. If you're not shoved up against somebody here then you're doing something wrong. It's the way of life.

One last thing about Babushkas. They are always right. It doesn't matter where or when. They know all. One particular Babushka in the 1970s wanted an Orthodox church to be re-opened. Of course this was the time of Communism and it wasn't permitted. She sent so many letters, so aggressively, that the government agreed and opened her little church. They were so tired of her endless complaints. Perhaps the Communists should have hired her. She may have made their regime last longer.

(The photo at the top is of Number 4 dressed for -10F on a bus. We rode this bus for 45 minutes dressed this way. It wasn't worth the risk of a Babushka getting on the bus.)

Things Can Change

I feel like the senior in the freshmen hallway. We've been here for almost two and a half years. Most people are braving their very first Russian winter while I am entering my third.

Today it is 12 degrees. That's right-twelve. When I suited up to go outside, I smiled and said to myself, "It's kinda nice out today." When I lived in the States, I wouldn't shop for the necessities in 12 degrees, much less go out. But today I volunteered to walk to my friend's apartment to pick up my son from a sleepover. It wasn't far. Only a 15 minute walk one way. My smiling boy echoed my thoughts. "It's pretty warm out today, isn't it?"

My mistake was wearing my boots. These are Sorel boots from Canada. Russians say, "there's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." We've found this to be mostly true so I paid $200 for boots from Canada. I wore them all last winter, but today they chafed the back of my Achilles and I returned home with bloody feet. "Geesh," I thought to myself. "I should have worn my heels." For this typical comfort-over-fashion girl, things sure have changed.

This is, however, my first winter living in the city. It's beautiful. All the shining Christmas trees and traffic sounds a little bit more like "Silver Bells." Well....maybe not. When we got out the Christmas decorations, my four small people decorated everything while I sat down and drank a fresh cup of coffee. I didn't have to police their arrangement of the ornaments or remind them not to break anything. They did it all perfectly by themselves.

This morning I woke up with a sore throat, a headache, and sore joints. My kids dutifully took care of the dishes, worked on their school assignments, and tidied up the house. I laid on the couch and tried to feel better. There was a time when these little ones ran circles around me. Now they are waiting on me and telling me to take it easy. What a difference.

I know this post is random. At least I had five minutes to write it. I just wanted to stop and recognize that things can change and they often do; right in front of your very eyes.

And we're back

Wow. I read my own stats of when I posted last and I was ashamed. I've been dealing with lots of things I haven't done that I need/want to do, but that is just uncalled for. I apologize.

My life in Moscow is new and different. Lots of my friends left and we moved to a whole new part of the city. Now I am struggling with where to find groceries, how to say no to activities, and where or when it is appropriate to sneak out of my house in my pajamas to take the trash out. These are real concerns.

Anyway, I felt like the material I had to work with was somewhat mundane. Until this weekend. We attended a fancy-pants fundraiser at the Ritz Carlton for our church. There was a silent auction and a live auction (which featured a good friend's unique, inspiring piece) as well as dancing, food, and music. The music is where I will begin the fun.

The Emcee introduced a Russian pianist who looked directly out of a stereotypical cartoon: frizzy hair, black tails, tall, thin, and generally unattractive. His musical ability certainly compensated for his fair looks. As he pounded away at Rachmaninov, I was very impressed and struggled to look anywhere in the room but at the black and white keys. After two songs played from memory, he put on his glasses and pulled out sheet music. A few measures in, I heard an operatic voice entering the room and heading toward the stage.

It sounded like the range I would sing, so I expected to see a woman. He wasn't. Despite the ponytail, he was extremely masculine, well dressed, and expertly trained by the late Pavarotti. He beautifully sang "Ava Maria" and then moved into a jazzier genre. This is where it got interesting. I immediately recognized the music as "Summertime" made so popular by Porgy and Bess. Then I realized, he wasn't actually singing any words. He was sort of humming and blowing the tune through his nasal passages. I started to eat my meal until I was forced to look up to see his new talent.

My husband leaned over to me and says, "He's playing the harmonica." Somebody else at the table leaned in and said, "No, he's not. He's playing his hand." I kid you not. He was wah-wahing his hand over his mouth like it was a makeshift coronet. I wonder if Luciano taught him this. We all expected him to beat-box next. Quite possibly the best entertainment ever at a fundraiser.

I promise to get back to regularly posting. This stuff is just too good not to share.

What I thought I wanted

It's three o'clock in the morning. I wish I was suffering from jet lag, but I'm not. I've been in the States for six weeks, with two more to go before I return to my home in Russia. The doctors visits are almost wrapped up, the shopping list is almost complete, and my kids are thoroughly ready to return.

I apologize for the absence. I wanted to "vacate" while I was here and just enjoy the moments. There have been plenty of good ones to cherish. While I was visiting with some friends this weekend, one commented to me, "you probably haven't written because you don't want to hurt anybody's feelings or say something that questions your loyalty to your home." WOW! After hearing it said out loud, I determined that was perhaps the very reason.

So back to the title. One of my favorite songs has the lyrics "what I thought I wanted, what I got instead..."

I feel this way because I had an idea of how this trip was going to turn out and it seems so completely opposite, yet good. Things with the kids came up, things with family came up, and friends often went above and beyond to help me out. I thought I wanted a working vacation, but instead I haven't touched the schoolbooks at all. There's just been no time. I thought I wanted time and space for myself, but it's been a challenge to be alone.

I am just writing this to tell you all that I'm still out here. I'm okay. Each day has its joys and disappointments, but this will soon be a memory. I've got pictures to prove I was here and yet I don't feel my own presence. I guess this is what you get at 3am. Stop by in a few weeks and I'll give you the real scoop.

Crazy Dinner

We are packing boxes and suitcases getting ready to move and go on vacation for two months. Although I am an organized, scheduled, calendar-loving doobie, I'm a little overwhelmed. So my good friend invited us over for dinner. Not just any dinner. A crazy dinner.
The food was normal. In fact, it was delicious! So what made it crazy? The tableware. Instead of using plates, forks, spoons, and cups we used random utensils and containers. Each person drew numbers and letters out of a hat and then chose the corresponding item. It was an absolute riot! Here are some pics to help you out. This is Number 2 eating on a diaper wipe container with a potato-masher and drinking from a dosage cup. I was surprised at how well he managed to scoop up pudding and pasta with that thing.

There were challenges involved. I felt like a big winner because I got a 9x13 cake pan, a rice paddle, and a baby teacup. None of my food was touching and I could fit quite a lot into my mouth at once. Unlike the hostess who got corn cob holders, a small lid, and a teapot.

In the second picture, Number 1 overcame the challenge of how to fit a spatula into a muffin tin, but she just used the handle. Using a sippy cup was kind of a blow for this young lady, but she was thankful anyway. With adults at one table and kids at the other, I couldn't tell who was having more fun. When we had to correct or discipline the kids, it was hard to take my host seriously as he ate with a slotted spoon out of a Bundt pan drinking from a pink baby bottle.

Although Number 3 was devastated she did not get to drink out of the honey bear, she made good use of the pitcher, especially sitting next to her brother with the dosage cup. While she filled that thing full of grape soda, he took little shots of carbonated beverages and refilled about 20 times.
On nights like these, I can't imagine my life without Russia. When would I have ever met these wonderful, creative people? When would we have opportunity to share our lives on a daily basis irregardless of schedules and preferences? Please don't mistake me. When I come to your house for a visit, plates and forks will be just fine. I'll just be glad I'm there.

Think like a Russian

So my husband is an epic story-teller. No, I mean it. Apparently something in his Irish roots make his hands flail and his volume increase when there's an event to re-tell. His most recent tale is worth sharing.

I think I mentioned that our car was in the shop. What this meant for us for the last few months was that we rode buses, cabs, and marshrutkas (basically van shuttles; quality varies)and sometimes walked. I don't balk at the tab-I pay the cab. It is a good 45 minute walk from the nearest metro to our "house in the country." He walks. But then he had a good idea. He could ride his bike into the metro in the morning, chain it up, remove the front tire, and ride back home at night. This seemed like it made good sense. Until he arrived that evening to find his bike gone. I'm not talking about a Huffy. This is a bike worth around roughly $600. Kind of a bummer.

He paid the piper (or cabdriver) that evening and came home with smoke fuming out of his ears. I didn't blame him. I didn't see any gaps in his logic. As he mulled it over in his mind, he realized that Russians don't keep trash. They pick it up. In fact, there are thousands of city workers whose exact job is to pick up trash. This is why we can readily litter anywhere in the city because someone will pick it up. For the record, I am not condoning or encouraging this behavior, just simply reporting truth.

Despite the bike chain, he figured if they saw the tire missing, they would assume it was broken. If it was broken, nobody would come back to claim it. If nobody came back to claim it, it was free game or trash.

The next day he took a friend to translate for him and they walked into a shop nearby where the bike was parked. The guards and receptionists were helpful enough and agreed to watch the security footage and call some of the groundskeepers. After several phone calls and explanations, they opened a closet and there was his bike! How crazy is that? Once they returned it to him, they chastised him for removing the wheel. Obviously, a bad idea in Russia. Next time, leave the whole bike so somebody doesn't mistake it for trash.

I thought of this little anecdote because I went grocery shopping yesterday. As I wandered through the aisles, I realized that shopping here has become easier for me because I just think like a Russian. Where are granola bars? By the flour, of course. What about the pretzels? Those aren't crackers so they go in the beer aisle. And my most recent favorite of all; Band-Aids. They aren't by cotton balls or hand sanitizer. I am proud to say I walked right up to them surrounded by condoms and tampons. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why exactly, but at least I found them.

You like it, we make it.

So today I took a new friend shopping at the supermarket. After my car being out of order for three months, I have it back and I was ready to assist a new-comer. We arrived at the store this morning to discover new ways to make old recipes.

As we meandered through the aisles, she would ask me things like, "Where do you get such-and-such?"

"We make it," I would simply say.

A few minutes later she would again repeat, "Where can I get..." and I would again calmly reply, "we make it."

I realized that I sounded like an I've-been-here-two-years-and-know-everything type of person, but it's true. If you like it, we make it. When I first moved here, I homemade chili. That's about it. I have always been a cookie aficionado, but meals were somewhat hard to execute. Now I make things beginning with a roux (that's a French word for butter/flour) including cream soups. I make my own bread, sorbet, and hummus. I don't balk at making Greek, Indian, or Asian food. My heart skips a beat when I think of my food processor, my rice cooker, or my crock-pot. Who knew?

So today, in the spirit of making things from scratch, I tried making soft pretzels. Oh-my-word! They were sooooo delicious. I invited an old friend to come enjoy them with me because she too appreciates the toil of our home cooking.

Though I still prefer things that come fresh from the farm, I found the complimentary side to the pretzels was melted Velveeta, which has no natural origin at all. I guess there are some things that can't be made.

I think both.

So the fact of the matter is that we're moving...and staying here. We are moving out of our gated, international community with a beach, big yards, and a fabulous sports center. We're moving away from friends, but we're moving to new ones.

We are relocating to the compound in the city, this city. What this means for us is that, on average, we will get 20 hours more per week of Husband/Dad time. He'll sleep in until right before work, come home to see us at lunch, and walk across the way after he punches out at five. For our family, this is a huge improvement.

There are nay-sayers on both sides of the fence. People out here say, "Why would you ever want to live in the city?" People in the city say, "What could possibly be good about your gated community?" I am a lemonade out of lemons type of person. I can find the good parts of either location. Did I mention we are going from a 3 bed, 2 bath to something twice the size complete with room for a classroom? Well, that's a perk in my sight. Not to mention that we'll be walking distance from a metro, close to theaters, music halls, parks, and lots of fun venues. We are goers. With everything so close, now we can really go where we want and not worry about catching the bus home or getting a legitimate cab at night.

Our family has thrived here. Though we've made meaningful relationships and kept flowers alive, we're ready for some more adventure. Some day, when I look back on my time in Moscow, if people ask me which location was my favorite, I hope I answer, "Both." (view from my current back window)

Garage Sale

When I lived in America, I often watched my mom and sisters unravel the science of yard-sales. Your signs have to be the right color, with proper arrows, placed on the appropriate corners. You must operate on the best days; Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. You must have everything priced properly and organized into categories or people won't buy.

Like most things in Russia, yard sales are done a little differently. In the international community in which I live, it is common for people to come and go. However, this summer there seems to be an influx of people leaving. Whether they or the company are paying for the move, they realize there is just too much stuff to put into boxes. Bring on the garages full of random goodies!

So here are some new rules. Put the signs up whenever you want, including the day of the sale. The signs can be handwritten, printed, vague, or concise. Just because the starting time is listed doesn't mean you have to be ready to sell by then. Bus stops are the prime locations for fliers. Nannies, seasonal workers, and the non-corporate group actually use buses. (There is no criticism here. I use the bus stops all the time as well).

Don't price your stuff. Run around like a crazy person while 50 Filipinos are asking prices and then offering you ten percent of said price. When you are being asked questions, yell to your spouse/child/friend in at least two languages. Then respond to the questions in whatever language you choose, even if the person asking the questions doesn't speak that language.

I hope you get the idea. I am having a garage sale of my own tomorrow. I haven't got much, but I want to experience the popularity of people flocking to my garage. I didn't price anything. That kind of recklessness wasn't possible for me before I lived here. Who knows what could happen next.

Ready to Move...or not.

Today my housekeeper was laughing at me because I was organizing my spices. You should be impressed that they are NOT in alphabetical order (like most things in my house) but instead they are organized by shape of container, material of the lid, and oh, yikes. Maybe I am a little loco.

Anyway, the school year is finished. Standardized testing has been done.

So I have begun cleaning the closets. This entails sorting clothes that no longer fit, throwing out old textbooks (this hurts--I admit), and finding new places for old things. We are at a strange crossroads in our life and the house shows it.

This is our first time overseas. It's our first time doing contract work. In August, we could simply pack up, go home, and game over. Or.... it's a big word.

A few weeks ago we planted some perennials in the front of the kitchen window. I've never been able to keep flowers alive. My boast is that I keep kids alive and that is sufficient. Somehow, I am nurturing a Spider plant in a pot and the flowers outside are looking prettier every day.

Today we hung a bulletin board in the classroom (really a twist on the dining room) that is about 3ft by 5 ft. In some ways I feel like we're finally moved in and yet may be preparing to move out. Who knows?

I'm not alone. Every one of my ex-pat friends deal with the same feelings on a yearly basis. Will we stay? Will we go? Will we get a new job? Better pay? What will people think?

So, we've committed to stay another year. We reluctantly told the kids and they....cheered and screamed. Not exactly the response I was expecting, but I guess they like it here better than I thought.

I'll write more soon. We've been on summer break and I've been busy quilting, reading, and gathering house plants from people leaving. It's official. I have houseplants. I'm staying for a bit. But of course, my life motto: Write your life in pencil and carry a big eraser. I'm always ready if it changes.

Mitino

To begin, I want to list some of my favorite things about the metro in Moscow.

1. There is no division of classes.
Although the politicians and 'mucky-mucks' ride around in limos and black sedans with blue lights, the rest of the population uses the metro. This could be your average homeless guy (who may or may not be an alcoholic depending on the smell) or the CEO of some major company using his smart phone to do business.

2. If you miss this train, there will be another one in a few minutes.
At the front of each tunnel, there is a timer that counts down when the last train left. I have rarely seen the timer go past 3 minutes. If a train is too full or we don't feel like shoving, we just wait for the next one.

3. Rides cost 28 rubles and kids are free.
I know I've mentioned this before, but for a family of six, there is NO cheaper transportation. Technically kids over six years-old are supposed to pay, but we have found that the guards often have pity on such a large family and allow all of the kids to go through free. If I have only one or two of the older ones, we pay for them. The fare is not based on amount of stops or destination. You simply pay 28 rubles and ride until 1am if you want. Once you go up to the surface through the gates, you would have to pay again.

4. The interior of some stations are lovely enough to be in museums.
Yes, some of it is methodical and rigid, but some of it is colorful and breathtaking.

5. I can read my Kindle and skip the traffic.
No honking drivers, no crazy six lane mergers, and no sitting with miles of cars in front of me. It's a peaceful feeling.

So with that, I would like to share with you my favorite station and why. This station is called Mitino (pronounced Mee-tee-na although some insist on calling it Mit-no) and is among the very few stations that don't end with "skaya". It is my favorite because it is our "hometown" metro stop. I have been here more than any other stop and it is new, clean, and very accessible. When I hear the announcement over the loudspeaker for "Stansiya Mitino" I know I'm almost home.

Metro Madness

I apologize for not writing much lately. I have a bad case of "senior-itis." I'm not a senior in high school or college, but I am a homeschooler and the Spring time brings promise of projects getting finished, hours of the kids being outside, and simply put; no school.

Officially my husband's contract ends in August. This doesn't mean we're leaving, but we are behaving as if this is our last summer in Moscow. My husband is the master of hair-brained schemes. I have found myself reluctantly following him to the ends of the earth only to discover that the results of his ideas are profound and wonderful. His latest idea---visit and photograph every one of the 185 metro stations in Moscow which span 305km (190mi). The best part about this plan is that a metro ride costs only 28 rubles (about $1) and we ride as long as we want.

So every weekend, we run off for a couple of hours to tour the underground greatness that is the metro. We are struck by the beauty of the stations and also intrigued by the people who use them. They are intrigued by us as well. Standing in a metro station taking pictures tends to draw attention in such a dismal routine.

Last Saturday we left our house at 7am to travel a particular line. We forgot about the Russian holiday the week before and the strange arrangement that it requires of employees. It's like this. If there is a holiday on Tuesday, you get the day off, but you have to work Saturday to make up for it. It begs the question, why have a vacation day at all? What's the difference? Anyway, what we thought would be a leisurely ride turned into a cutthroat, shove-all to get a standing spot inside the moving wagons. As I flexed every muscle in my stomach and legs, I discovered, for the first time, why it is Russian women have such nice legs.

As of today, we have completed 44. To begin, I am posting a picture of the metro map itself so you have an idea of what we're trying to cover.

Good Day Sunshine

When I was a child, my mother always warned me about being a "fair-weather friend". I didn't really understand that until about middle school when I was sitting alone at the lunch table because I wasn't considered cool anymore. My "friends" smiled at me from the popular table and I understood perfectly what it meant.

I like Moscow.

Some people call me crazy. It's true that it's dirty, overcast, and the traffic is terrible, but the eternal optimist in me can't help but see the good side. I always liked the story about Pollyanna because she saw good in everybody and everything. But lately, the crummy weather has me moaning and sighing about this place.

But I've begun to see myself through this lens of fair weather. The snow melted, the sun is shining, and my mood is lifted. The summer last year was so beautiful that I felt it had forgiven the hard winter. Why should the winter have to be forgiven? Moscow seems so near the North Pole, it would be considered uncouth to be overly warm.

A friend of mine in the neighborhood is always pointing out to newcomers how courteous Russian drivers can be. Courteous? After really paying attention, I see it too. There has never been a time when I couldn't merge from a shoulder into an actual lane without somebody letting me it. I have never been run off the road by somebody honking their horn and giving me the bird.

The good weather has also warmed the hinges on my front door as the kids come in and out...in and out. Yesterday we did school in the yard and Numbers 1 and 2 burned ants using a magnifying glass. The sun has so many benefits. I will stop paying for tanning (which, by the way, I do medicinally to ward off severe psoriasis symptoms). I will skim off the winter pounds by walking to my friends' houses, jumping on my bike for a ride, and strolling longer than expected in downtown Moscow.

Call me a fair weather friend. I can take it.

How many underwear?

If you don't already know it, I have three daughters. They all share a room. I grew up with two sisters and we all shared a room. I don't ever remember it being inhabitable. Then again, I don't ever remember specific toys we played with other than blocks and crayons. On a weekly basis, I have to cajole, threaten, and encourage my girls to clean up their room (which is, by the way, the master suite). My husband, Mr. Fix it, says to me, "It's simple. They have too much stuff."

After defending my right to overindulge my kids with worldly goods, I though I might give his suggestion a try. yesterday was our first official day of Spring Break. In less than an hour, I managed to sort out all four dressers (my son's included) and found that each child had a garbage bag....maybe you didn't hear me...A GARBAGE BAG of unnecessary, superfluous clothing. I'm pretty sure Number 3, a fashionista, will never need three, green, long-sleeved shirts or 14 pairs of pants. I think she can exist with just seven.

I have never been like this before. It's moving across the world that's changed me. Somehow inside I panic. What if I need that for another child? What if I find I can't replace something of equal value or quality for a decent price? But the true fact of the matter is that my wardrobe, though limited, gets me through life just fine and I manage with 5 pairs of pants.

My son's room cracks me up. He is the only one in the house who lives alone. In some ways I envy him. Free to keep things tidy. Free to sort and organize any way he wants. Until I went into his dresser.

Here's a math problem for you.

If a boy wears a clean pair of boxers each day and does his own laundry every Thursday, in what situation would he ever need 25 PAIRS OF BOXERS?

And what's more, many of them on the bottom of the drawer had never been worn or washed since outside Walmart. That being said, somehow the hand-me-downs didn't quite add up this round because Number 3 has no socks at all! Go figure.

Anyway, today is day two of Operation

"Why are we storing crap we don't need, use, wear, etc?"

Can you have etc. in a title?

Here's the other truth that occurred to me. Imagine your kitchen. Imagine that each type of utensil is in a plastic container the size of a shoebox. Then imagine that the shoeboxes are stacked up in a corner that's somewhat hard to get to. When you get one out, you have to unstack the pile, open the container, stack them back up, then put it back later. Would you bother or would you leave everything in a pile in the middle of the room. Exactly.

They need better storage. Thankfully, IKEA is close-by. I rewarded myself for all the hard work by going there today and purchasing much needed storage for the girls and a meatball or two for myself. Call it retail therapy or what you will. If it makes it possible for fireman to get to my girls in a fire, then it's worth it.

Stick in the Eye

When I was a student, I was a good one. I handed in my work ahead of time, always did the extra-credit projects, and generally expected others to do their best. As you can imagine, I was sorely disappointed on a regular basis.

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I attended the Summer Institute for a few weeks at a college campus hours from my hometown. I was one of those students who opted to spend my summer break learning more and spending time with like-minded, self-proclaimed geniuses.

The focus of my intensive classes was creative writing. For this small town, conservative girl, it meant spending time with kids who flippantly used colorful language (in the name of creativity) and had more "worldly" knowledge than I cared to explore. But their writing was amazing. Maybe even because of these things their writing was amazing.

My roommate was another conservative, small town girl from a different area of the state. Her focus was biology. She is a nurse now so I guess we're both using our experiences properly. She was upbeat, beautiful, and painfully optimistic, even for me. She used this phrase that is maybe more common than I give it credit:

It's better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Those words rang in my ears today as I did school with Number 2 looking out a window of yet more falling snow.

Well, it's better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Number 2 is a bare minimum type of kid who just wants to pass. He's always asking to opt out of certain lessons or somehow simplify the process. I admit I have given in on more than one occasion and it may be biting me in the rear. The lessons today were physically painful.

A couple years ago my hubby and I were desperate to expand our income. I mean, really low. He had been laid off for several months and the credit cards were maxed out. Just then a plasma donation center opened up a reasonable drive from our house. So we both donated plasma to make $50-$100 a week.

Did I mention that I'm anemic, have a really super-fast heartbeat, bruise easily, and generally don't like giving away parts or my anatomy? Well I'm mentioning it now. All this to explain that today, I would have run into a chair to let a nurse stick me with a needle just to escape the responsibility of educating my offspring. If teachers around the globe ever feel this way, we should require goggles just in case anybody wants to test the sharp stick in the eye theory. I have my doubts.

Maybe I'm upset that a security guard doing rounds yesterday wrote me up for leaving my trash on the front porch for ten minutes. Maybe I am in some serious need of a Spring Break. Maybe I can expel some of my frustration by making lovely greeting cards and drinking Mai-tais by the fireside tonight. Yeah. That should do it.

There's one other phrase I never could figure out. "It ain't no thang but a chicken wang" Maybe I'll use that one tomorrow during school. Or maybe there'll be a snow day and we'll cancel altogether. Maybe that's where it's better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Snow in March

I began my week with a play-date across town so we cancelled school Monday morning and drove to the metro. As I was patiently waiting for a parking spot to open up, a man (not Russian) pulled his Lada in front of my fender, rolled down the window, spit toward my fender, and scowled as he drove away. "Huh?" I thought. That's never happened before. Either he felt the need to spit right then or he knows what the special numbers and color of our license plate denotes. I proceeded to unload the kids and headed on our way anyway.

It was a fun day, but I was a little nervy because my husband was in Washington DC taking an exam for a possible new job. My friends were supportive and hopeful as we sipped coffee that tasted amazing! I said to her, "What kind of coffee is this?" She replied rather sheepishly, "Maxwell House?" We both had a good laugh about what we considered luxury. We also realized that the cubed, raw sugar she bought tastes pretty, darn good.

A few hours later when we arrived back at our side of town, I decided to get an impromptu haircut. After all, it had been five months and I was well past due. I opted for a straight around bob that I haven't sported since 2003. I walked out of there feeling taller, prettier, and flaunting my bare head because it was a balmy 33 degrees! Once we got to the car, I realized the lights had been left on and we had no battery. There was a time when I would have cried, fallen down, or screamed mutiny. But I didn't. I apologized to my kids and we caught a bus.

Once home, a neighbor, who is Guatamalan and all of 4.5 feet tall, drove me back to my van with a mobile charger. The battery wasn't exactly easy to get to and considering my vehicle is notoriously filthy and the snow was knee deep, I think we did pretty well by getting it started. We had Russian male spectators the whole time. I'm sure they had a good laugh. Or maybe not.

So my husband didn't get the job.

When he came home from DC, I couldn't believe the gifts he brought back and how much he thought of me while he was gone. From a Starbucks Washington DC mug to Yankee Candles, I was feeling pretty special. But the best gift of all came the next morning.

I have been feeling really tired lately because I am anemic and I ran out of iron two weeks ago. I know they have iron at the local pharmacy, but every time I go in, I forget the word and can't communicate what I need. So I have gone without. As I unpacked his bags to get out the laundry, I found one container of iron from an American pharmacy. After 11 married years with this man, how is it that iron could speak so much love?

On Friday morning, I headed to Bible Study. It's half a mile away so when it's cold I drive, but yesterday the snow was so pretty and the birds were chirping. I felt like I was in Narnia. It's hard for me to believe that I am so optimistic about the snow that I used to despise. Here it is, end of March and we're still getting regular snowfall. But I've been here for a spring/summer and know that once the warm weather arrives, we will have sun for 20 hours a day and beauty that seems to last forever.

Last week when my girlfriend was over, her four year-old son kept interrupting us to whine about wanting my son's lightsaber toy. She knew that he was getting one at his birthday party the next day but he whined and whined anyway. She shook her head and said, "If you only knew...." This is how I've felt about my life lately. God has something. I keep grasping at it and trying to make it mine, but He knows the proper time for it. Hey, if this girl can learn to find the beauty in snow, then certainly I can wait a little longer for God's timing. I hope.

First and Last

I've been feeling melancholy lately. I could attribute it to the still wintery, cold snow or maybe the prospect of visiting home makes the days seem longer. It could be caused by a wonderful friend telling me about her pregnancy and my husband confessing that he was slightly envious. With his hand cupping my face, I felt sad, happy, and complete all at the same time. For the first time since I've lived in Russia, I was homesick this week. I wanted home. Not the stuff, stores, or food. I wanted friends and family who make up home. I repeated several times over to myself words of wisdom from my mother; this too shall pass.

It did.

Imagine every time you celebrated a birthday, milestone, or holiday that it was jam-packed with the expectation of being your first. Then, reverse it and apply that same wistful, bittersweet emotion to the fact that it may be your last. We have a two-year contract. Shortly after we arrived, it was our first Thanksgiving among new friends only (no family). We realized this past November may have been our last Thanksgiving. I've started making lists of souvenirs I just have to have and need to send out to friends I've promised.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. My life motto is "write your life in pencil and carry a big eraser." It could be that all of my intricate emotions are ill-spent because we could be here another two years, or in some ways, we could be gone in a blink.

Have I learned anything? Yes, though that seems too small a word for an affirmative answer. Just today I made a meal for a new family who arrived thinking to myself, "what if I'm not even here long enough to become a good friend? Will it be worth it?" Of course. Doing the right thing is always in season. Jesus said that loving others is the greatest commandment. That's why it brings so much joy!

I'm not a touchy-feely. I never have been. Tears and hugging actually tend to drive me nuts and yet they have brought me such security this week. Somethings coming. I can feel it. I started Spring cleaning and taking inventory of what I would want to pack. This could be premature. It could be ridiculous really. Maybe we'll know or maybe we won't.

Either way, I'll keep you posted.

I Piano Teacher

For the last year I have spent some afternoons giving piano lessons to some local international kids (I know it’s an oxymoron, but it works). Two of my students were driving from another housing development located 16K (10 miles) away. That doesn’t seem like much, but in afternoon traffic it can take up to 1 hour there and even more on the way back. I noticed my students were lethargic and unmotivated after all that driving. So I suggested to a friend who lives there, if I could get a couple more students, it would be worth it for me to drive to the housing and give multiple lessons. I charged a little bit more for my time and within 24 hours I had 4 new students in addition to the 2 I already had from that area.

So once a week, I drive the long route to give piano. I love teaching. I enjoy watching kids’ eyes light up when they realize a new concept. I’ll admit, I also like the instant gratification of payment. My husband is proud as well and unsparing with his adoration for my multiple talents.

But this week, we got a flat tire.

I couldn’t cancel, it just isn’t in me to do it. I wanted to go. I wanted to see my students and keep them moving forward. So I made plans B, C, and if absolutely necessary, plan D.

It turns out I ended up using a combination of these options.

After three hours of schooling my own kids, I caught the bus from our complex to the local town. I rode a couple of miles until the first drop-off where I waited for a city bus that would take me most of the way there. I clumsily paid my 28 rubles while an elderly man kindly showed me how to insert the ticket so I could go through the barrier on the bus. You certainly can’t sneak onto these things without being pretty obvious. I was appreciative and he smiled.

On these roads, there are lanes specifically for buses. They move pretty well while car traffic sits. In a mind-boggling 15 minutes, I arrived at my next connection. From here, I had planned to walk a ways to get to my destination. Trying not to appear frazzled or out of place, I glanced now and then at my hand drawn map. I crossed countless streets and walked over train tracks realizing I wasn’t getting anywhere. My map literally flew away in the wind after a wrong turn. After walking an hour and fighting back the tears, I grabbed a cab and haggled for a decent price.

I told him where I needed to go and he smiled and said, “You America? America eez good!” I politely said, “Da.” Once we were on our way, I noticed that his gas tank was in the warning symbol for empty. Excellent. A friend told me later that sometimes Russian cabbies have mechanics wire their tanks with a spare propane tank in the trunk so when the gas runs out, they flip a switch and run on propane. That may have been true for this guy driving an older-than-dirt beater. As we sat in traffic under a tunnel, in a blend of Russian and English, he asked every form of question from my opinions on American Presidents to whether I like Russia. I have learned that simple speech is easier to understand for a foreigner. It’s certainly true when people talk to me.

“I Piano Teacher.”
“Aaaah!” he says. “You in Moscow alone?”
“Nyet.”
“You in Moscow with adeen (one)?”
“Nyet.”
“Two mebee?”
“Nyet. Shest (six).”
“Aaaah!” he says. “You mama?”
“Da.”

At this point, I quickly grabbed my phone and texted my husband. I had a feeling maybe we would be stuck in this tunnel and the man would question me to death. But he smiled so much and that is a rarity in Moscow. I actually liked him quite a lot.
When we arrived, I paid him the ridiculous price and waved goodbye. I was an hour early so I turned on my ipod and sat on a snowy park bench until my lesson started.

After all the lessons were over, a friend walked me through the route I originally wanted to take and made it back to my destination to grab a bus home. It’s the simple things like riding the bus that make me feel accomplished. I arrived home to a tidy home, happy kids, and dinner on the table. For what more could a girl ask?

Mall Day

I'm sure you already know by now that my husband is a government employee. Therefore, all of the fantastic special days are considered paid holidays. These include Washington's Birthday (thanks George) and this week's "Defender of the Fatherland Day", somewhat equivalent to our Memorial Day.

Since he was supposed to have two days off, we decided we should at least give the kids one day off of school and have some fun. For my amazing man, this meant the mall. He loves that place. I only wanted to go because of the stuff I needed at IKEA and because the kids had some Christmas money to blow. Plus, I knew it would include lunch which means slightly less time in the kitchen for me.

It was a seemingly normal Monday and the roads were moving well and freely. We arrived at the mall in very good time. IKEA was fun, as usual, and lunch was delicious and reasonably priced. Then we went into the mall to grab a couple of other things. When we passed a play area, we couldn't resist letting the kids run around for a little while. My hubby sat in a bench to supervise and I went to the OBI, the Russian version of Home Depot, for some blue painter's tape, a personal vice of mine. When I returned, we switched places so he could go check something out at another store.

While I was sitting there, a Russian couple came up to me and started talking. I could tell by their hand gestures that they were asking me to watch their stuff, and presumably, their kids. I explained kindly that I didn't speak very good Russian. They apologized and repeated, in English, "Vill you vatch our theengs? We need smoke?" What else could I say? I nodded and chuckled to myself. Their kids played around in the area and didn't even notice the absent parents. I grew up in California in the 90s when kidnapping was a really big deal. This was against everything in me to watch parents walk away from a public setting and leave their kids. But, this is Russia.

Next, we went into a store called Dyetski Mir, Children's World, which is like Toys R Us. Our kids were looking everywhere, eying the possibilities to spend their money. Four excited kids headed in four different directions. This always causes me a little bit of panic. Reasonably so. Over the loud speaker, in Russian, I could tell they were saying my name and the word for daughter. I started rushing around the store trying to find where the heck I was supposed to retrieve my daughter and which one had been found doing what? I bumped into my hubby on the way and he struggled to understand my peril. Just then, announcement number two came over and my family began to pop out of Lego and Barbie aisles. We eventually left the store, all six of us.

Manic Monday

I hope at the sight of this title you are humming a nice little 80s diddy by the Bangles. I know I am. For a scheduled, organized person like me, Mondays are great. I get to start a whole week over again. No mistakes. No limitations. Just seven days waiting to be filled with excitement. I forget sometimes that I live in Russia and in Russia, all plans are tentative, but certainly not concrete.

So I woke up on this particularly cold Monday and grabbed my grocery list because I was taking a friend to the store. Next time I will remember that if I wake up and it's -25F, stay home. The vehicle did not comply with the cold. Even though it was parked in a garage all night, that wasn't enough. I did what we always do in this situation; plug in a heater and turn on a shop light under the engine. It's amazing what 100 watts can do.

End result: No grocery store, which equals no bread, no produce, and no beer. No biggie though because at noon, we were going to some friends' house to shake things up a bit. The van didn't start then either. My dear friend was anxious to visit as well and so she and her four kids made the trip out to us. Her vehicle which was parked outside all night, started right up. Ridiculous, I know.

After a lovely couple of hours, it was time for them to go to music school where her eldest had a competitive exam of sorts. They were off and on their way with plenty of time to spare. Just moments after they left, a huddled group of five appeared in my doorway. They had only made it out of the driveway when their car started leaking gasoline all over the pavement. I ran out to the garage and my van started right up! Literally, a complete miracle. I drove them into town to get a taxi and went back home.

I'm sure I've mentioned we live in a gated community. Not just anybody can come right in. Therefore, I learned the word for tow-truck so I could call security and let them know who was coming. Mission accomplished. School was done for the day and I was ready to teach my Monday piano lessons a few houses down. Just as I headed out to teach, the tow-truck arrived. I had the key to the broken down vehicle and my friend told me how much to pay him. This was the easy part. It was when he asked for the registration to the vehicle and more money that made it complicated. He didn't speak English and my Russian is limited to grocery store terms.

So I called my friend and he called his friend. Simultaneously, we handed each other our cell phones. His friend on the phone is my friend's friend too so he says, "Hello, this is Sergei!" I was so happy to hear his voice. He explained I needed to give the driver more money. Well, geesh, that was easy.

The tow truck drove away and I went to my piano lesson. I was already running very late and so I gave lessons, ran home, and whipped up some eggs. Oh yeah, hubby had to work late. I shoveled some food into the kids' mouths and remembered that I told my earlier friend I would take her to the store tonight if the van started. I also remembered that I forgot to give Number 1 money for her gymnastics class that she was in right that minute. I started up the van again, went to the sports center and paid for class, and then on to the store. No big adventure there except when my overly-nice American friend tipped the grocery cart guy 500 rubles for helping with our bags.

Last week a friend who is stationed in Colombia sent us some chocolates and coffee. Somewhere during this crazy afternoon, I ate a couple chocolate covered coffee beans. I definitely got a good kick of energy but man, did I pay for that. I usually fall asleep instantaneously when my head hits the pillow. Not that day. I laid in bed and talked to myself until midnight when I knew there was a new day coming.

Beer Bread

I have made a decision. I'm going to post a recipe. I don't think it's a coincidence that my subtitle is a Russian saying about food. Before I lived here, I used dried garlic and onions. I cooked with things like canned chicken stock and frozen vegetables. I'm not saying that it wasn't okay. It's just different now.

The other day we went to church in -10 and sat through a 2.5 hour service. When we came home, I fell asleep in front of the fireplace and lost my whole afternoon. When I woke up at 5pm, I panicked because, of course, the small people still need to eat on Sundays. In some ways, I despise weekends because everybody in this family gets to kick back, do something fun, and relax. I suppose this is what working moms feel like. I revel in the joy of being so involved with my family, but sometimes I just want to punch out.

So I ran to the kitchen to get started. Usually in the evening when I'm cooking dinner, I wind down with a beer and some good music. Why should this day be any different? I popped the top of my favorite Czech beer and took a sip before analyzing the situation. Since it's pay-day this week, the fixins were pretty scarce. I looked it over and whipped up a savory beef and cheese soup with plenty of fresh cut vegetables. As I stirred the colorful mixture, I knew it needed something else.

Eureka! Beer bread. I grabbed another Staropramen and magic happened. Here's the recipe:

12 oz beer
3 c. flour
3 3/4 tsp. baking powder
3 TBSP. white sugar

Here's the tough part. Mix the dry stuff, add the beer, mix with a spoon, then your hands. Put it in a greased loaf pan in a 350 oven for 50 minutes. I was just kidding about tough. This bread smells amazing and tastes even better. The first time I cooked it I used 1664, a famous French beer, thinking that French bread is so good, of course French beer bread would be good. It was, but the kids didn't love it. This time, they asked for seconds.

I like cooking now. In fact, it's also part of my winding down. We still have our hot-dog and chip nights, but I've noticed they're fewer and farther between. Nothing brings a family meal together like some fresh bread. Try it, you'll be surprised.

Winter has finally arrived in Moscow. Last year at this time, we did not have the luxury of a vehicle so we stood at bus stops and waited in the subzero. We are more pampered now and accustomed to hopping in our warm shuttle to get where we want to go.

Earlier this week, my husband worked late and so he parked the van near the metro station. On his way home, the van began to overheat because the coolant had frozen inside the engine. It's hard for me to imagine anything overheating when it's 10 below, but whatever. Anyway, he ran a heater in the garage overnight, put a light underneath the engine, and covered the hood with a blanket to try to help it thaw. This worked successfully as I was able to start it easily and drive the next morning. However, when I whipped the blanket off the hood, remnants of the blue luxe remained in little clumps of frozen, fuzzy pockmarks which made the front of our van appear to have some type of venereal disease.

Our van is already easy to spot in public because we have a special colored license plate and we only wash it once in a while. This is because the local car washes charge 20 bucks and it's prohibited to wash your own car. Also, we were given a beater because our contract didn't allow us to bring an automobile with us.

That being said, the next morning I went to Bible Study. I just started attending with this group of wonderful ladies and I thoroughly enjoy their company and the study. But most of their husbands work for corporations who hire them drivers and cars for their goings-about. So as I was leaving I started up the growling, freezing engine of my mid-nineties vanmobile and made a three point turn. As I drove down the narrow driveway, I passed five, sleek, black, luxury cars, all with drivers waiting for the ladies to exit. But it was okay. I felt proud that I have the privilege of driving myself around this crazy city. I also felt proud that my friends are my friends because of me, obviously not my housing or my vehicle. I feel the same way about them.

Game Changer

I've had some recent requests for a refresher on the state of grocery shopping in Moscow. I have, during phone conversations, referred to the big box store Auchan as Wal-mart on crack, until I realized, I have no idea the effects of crack and if that parallel even applies. Well anyway. Here's the long and short of it.

My favorite day to grocery shop is Tuesday. This is not something new, I've always had favorite days. When I was a waitress it was Thursday. When I was in college it was Monday. Now that I'm a homeschooling, June Cleaver, it's Tuesday. I have my reasons. Traffic is less on that day (usually) and the store shelves are stocked better.

Anyway, I load up the kids at 9am into our van-mobile. We recently discovered there is a plug that comes out of the engine and if this is plugged into the garage wall, the heat takes about 60 seconds to blow hot into the interior. Russian winter has been very disappointing this year and has barely dropped below 30. I can't even believe I wrote that...

So we're in the van and we drive 19 kilometers which could take anywhere from 25 minutes to 1 1/2 hours. I pack snacks. When we arrive at the store, we have to pull two carts, both with four swivel wheels, and brave the jam packed aisles of food stuffs, pallets, and zambonis. There is no respect for rush hour and entire aisles are closed for forklift restocking. The air smells of fish. Not the good kind. We push, shove, grab, and forge our way to one of the 120 checkouts, each staffed, each with about 3 people in line. Whenever I check out--anywhere--the security guard comes over to stand at the end of the lane and observe. I'm so used to it, I don't even notice anymore. Now I just nod my head at him and load my stuff.

After loading, bagging, and reloading my monthly groceries on a belt the size of a yardstick and paying thousands of rubles, I sweat my way back to the van to load it some more. Sometimes the exit security guards search my kids. We return home, 4 hours later, after losing a whole day of school, and try to calm our frazzled, overstimulated nerves.

Obviously the title of this entry implies something exciting. There's a new grocery store in town. It's called O'KEY. I timed the trip. It takes 5 and a half minutes to get there, with only one stop light. There is ample parking, well lit, wide aisles, a children's play area, 60 cashiers, and all the products I prefer. To me, it is the difference of being at a private spa compared to a public squatty-potty.

When we used to shop at Auchan, we would lose a whole day of school and precocious Number 3 would moan and whine the whole trip. Today she said, "Can we go back to the store again tomorrow?" Today as I headed to my filthy mode of transportation, a cart guy helped me load my groceries into the trunk and then closed the hatch. I may have bat my eyelashes. I'm not sure if my life in Russia will ever be the same.

New Year in Moscow

A wise person once told me that whatever you love about your spouse while you’re dating tends to make you nuts later. For my husband and me this is true regarding his spontaneity. So this year, I got ahead of the game and pulled the sudden scheme of going to downtown on New Year’s Eve. Of course, I had been pondering this for weeks before I was ready to jump on it. He was geeked. We secured childcare and left the house at 6pm.

First we went to our friends’ house to share in some traditional food, fireworks, and festivities. The host had purchased a small arsenal of fireworks (no license needed) that were marked “Victory Day” which was celebrated back in May. Yikes! We burned a two-foot sparkler inside the apartment. Fire alarms didn’t go off. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they even have fire alarms.

Then we ate too much food. If it was an American New Year’s there would have been pizza, chips, sodas, and other greasy or food. For Russian New Year, we ate traditional salads made with dried fish, carrots, beets, and of course, mayonnaise. They sure love their mayonnaise! We also had an abundance of orange Fanta.

After desserts and coffee, we did something unlike any New Year I’ve ever celebrated. We watched TV together. This wasn’t any Times Square ball drop. This was 15 channels, each with fancy costumes, dancing, and famous performers lip-syncing, while words run along the bottom of the screen so you can sing along. The song, “Let it Snow” somehow isn’t the same in Russian, though I enjoyed listening to our friends sing it anyway. I’m told that even if you never do anything on New Year’s, you can sit in your living room with the television on and celebrate all night long.

Then out to the apartment courtyard for fireworks. Imagine a soccer field. Imagine it surrounded by four 22-story buildings. Then put a playground, a walkway, and an enormous pigeon coop in the middle. This is where we lit the fireworks. The men tried to read the directions in the dark while the women and children hid behind the garbage containers. There were Roman Candles and other hazardous materials but nothing more dangerous than our friend, whose occupation is break-dancing, trying to light the end which was covered with a plastic cap. After numerous tries, my husband removed the cap and assisted in the lighting. I felt like we were watching a video on youtube in action when there was a BOOM and several car alarms went off. This would never happen in the States, not without legal intervention anyway.

Then we went to the city center to catch the midnight fireworks. I have no idea how many people were downtown, but it was a lot. We walked around while people chanted “S No-vom Go-dom! S No-vom Go-dom!” It reminded me of the way I would shout for my Alma Mater at a football game. I had smuggled an American flag in my coat and got it out for a picture. This is just about the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done. I felt like singing “God Bless America” when midnight struck.

We walked to the metro and were pleasantly surprised when people were laughing and smiling. We tried on funny glasses and took pictures of each other. This was nothing like the work-a-day city. You could tell everyone was happy. We started encouraging our friend to do some break-dancing on the moving metro. We had a half-empty car and a captive audience. He reluctantly obliged and brought cheers and applause to the car.

We were told by our companions that it is important with whom you greet the New Year and how you are dressed. I was glad I wasn’t at home alone in my sweatpants.