Lawn-mowing and the Green Guys

So here in the city there are workers to whom we refer as “green guys.” The explanation for this is simple. They wear green uniforms in all four seasons. They usually work in groups and you often find them leaning up against a building having a cigarette. I caught one guy ducking from his supervisor in my front yard last week. After the manager walked away, he sat back down and had another smoke.

So anyway, these guys do all the jobs that I used to do at home. They shovel the snow in the winter, mow the lawns in the summer, and basically keep the place spruced up. But I’ve found that in our neck of the woods, so to speak, lawn-mowing isn’t a high priority. It was mid June before I called property management to get somebody out here. My explanation---I couldn’t find #4 in the grass behind our patio. Within an hour they were right out here. So I just call every other week when it seems the grass can’t be managed.

When they do get around to finally mowing, it looks like a kamikaze pilot was driving. There are never straight lines or any general direction at all. Even better is when they weed-eat and trim around the fence, but never actually mow. Or sometimes they mow a three foot path through the grass and never mow around it. Thank goodness for that path.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband had made no-bake cookies and Number #1 thought it would be a good idea to share with the workers. With her cheerful disposition, she bounded out the door with the plate in hand. She figured it was a good opportunity to practice her Russian.

Each man has his job.
One man pushes the mower.
One man empties the bag from the mower.
One man rakes the grass into a pile.
One man uses his hands to put the grass into a trash bag.
One man ties the trash bag and heaves it into the truck.
One man drives the truck.
One man works the radio in the truck.
And I can’t remember what the last man does but I am certain there were eight.

So Number #1 walks out there with our American no-bake cookies made with Jif Peanut Butter and Hershey’s Cocoa and says, “pazhalsta!” (sort of a help yourself invitation). A few of the men obliged but the man with grassy hands shook his head and tried to explain that he couldn’t possibly. Number #1 insisted, “Da! Da!” she said (yes, yes) while nodding her head. He smiled (a rarity) and took one. I haven’t had to call property management since. In fact, I think they hang around our side yard a little longer each week hoping we’ll bring out a snack.

Toi-Toi, Squatty-Potties, and other reasons to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts

It’s a necessary topic. Bathrooms. Where to find them, which ones you pay for, and how little you can spend to use a restaurant bathroom. When we first arrived, we always kept change in our pockets for the toi-toi (Hubby calls them Blue Rockets---basically a group of porta-jons in a row). Outside, a babushka charges anywhere from 15-20 rubles for one person to use it. One of the potties is actually her hut. In the winter especially, she will sit inside and smoke, read trashy magazines, or eat her lunch. Yum!

You have to take your toilet paper ahead of time and hope you’re right. The picture shows me with a few of my kids at a stop along the Moscow River. This was a special treat because she let my youngest through without paying. I was 20 rubles richer that day!

Then there are the squatty potties. Even at some of the most beautiful statues and parks, they have buildings filled with these. They also cost money. There is no concern about somebody taking too long because they are like urinals in the ground. Thus the name, squatty potty. I have three daughters. Our visits to the squatty potty are long and unpleasant. Number 3 often proclaims out loud, “It smells so terrible in here I think I’m going to throw-up!”

A few weeks ago we had some guests here. It was late at night and we were sight-seeing. We had heard about a really neat diorama in the lobby of one of the nicest hotels in Russia so we decided to walk there. After strolling past the guards in our casual get-up, we found the diorama. It was incredible! On the way out, we spotted some bathrooms. I know well enough to stop when you see one, especially if it’s free. Forget the diorama, THEY were incredible.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned that Russian women pose in front of everything and apparently, fancy restrooms are no exception. I have to admit, I took a little bit of toilet paper to show my friends because it was seriously thicker than most tablecloths I’ve seen. There were warmed, individually rolled, hand towels for each patron and the fragrance was very inviting. I lingered in there a little bit longer than necessary.

And my last example: restaurants. Last night I stopped at Dunkin Donuts with a friend on a very busy street. After we waited in line behind nine people, they told us they didn’t have smoothies, iced coffees, or anything else cold despite the 80 degrees and humidity. But, since I waited in line, I definitely deserved to use the jon. On the back of the door, the very poor English translation said, “DO NOT THROUGH YOUR PAPERS INTO THE TOILET.” I forgot to mention that some potties have little baskets right next to the can so you can toss your paper. Ick.

One last warning. If you walk into a water closet and see a member of the opposite gender, don’t sweat it. Maybe you’re jet-lagged. Or maybe you’re in a fancy, recommended restaurant in Moscow where bathrooms are co-ed. And don’t forget, janitors may walk in at any time. Guys, they’re usually female. Don’t worry, they don’t mind. You do your business and they’ll do theirs.

The Housekeeper

Russia is dusty.

In fact, our recent American visitors kept commenting on how much the dust swirls around everything---everywhere. Back home I lived next to a grain elevator. I had to dust my house every couple of weeks to keep up but it wasn’t unmanageable. Here it is unmanageable. Which leads to my dilemma. I home-school my four children and spend 4-5 hours a day in the kitchen preparing our meals. Each load of laundry, in the European washing machine, takes about 3.5 hours to complete. Needless to say, I don’t have any spare time to clean the house---or maybe I don’t want to use the little spare time I have to clean the house. That’s more honest.

Most people in our international community are well off. They drive Bentleys, send their kids to 16K per year International schools, have housekeepers, nannies, and buy virtually whatever they want. We are the oddballs. We budget for food, drive a beater van, and home-school to save money. It’s not as glamorous as it seems.

So my husband encouraged me to get someone to clean the house every so often. Most of the housekeepers/nannies are Filipino, but every time I called one of them, they didn’t come through. So my friend introduced me to a Russian woman named Svetlana. (I have changed the name for the security of the real person, but her name is as traditionally Russian as Svetlana.) She comes to clean about every 10 days and is wonderful with my children and the dust.

She arrives at 9:30 in the morning and stays until 5:10pm. She takes her time wiping the nooks and crannies that I don’t bother to notice and last week she folded 4 loads of laundry. She’s wonderful! On the days she comes, I’ve found I am a nicer person to----well, everyone. At about 1:30pm, she wants lunch so I serve her black bread, mayonnaise, meat, and cheese on an open face sandwich. Sometimes she wants tea.

One time I walked into my kitchen where she was mopping and she was wearing my “house shoes”. These are brown Dr. Scholls clogs that I only wear on the cold tile floors. I looked at her with a wondering face and she said, “I wear your shoes.”
I said, “I can see that.”
She said, “they’re nice. Very comfortable.”
I said, “I know.” And she went back to her mopping.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a complete stranger try on my shoes and then continue to wear them, but she did. She has worn them every week since. I quit wearing them after that first day, except one time when I broke a glass and I was desperate to protect my feet.

Once I was trying to explain to her that I had a friend who would like to call her about services and she didn’t understand at all. Her response “Akreel and Seleet.”
I said, “the cleaners?”
She said, “yes, please buy Akreel and Seleet.”
I said, “Okay, I will, but can my friend call you.”
She says, “Your English is confusing.”
I smiled and said, “okay.”

This past Monday, I was doubled over in pain. Initially I thought it was back pain, but as the day went on, I realized it was a re-visitation of kidney stones. Lucky me. So by Tuesday when Svetlana came, I was feeling better but still a little slow moving. It was 55 degrees outside and so I was in capris and bare feet. When she understood my pain, she rubbed my back and then pointed to my bare feet and said, “no---tsk, tsk, tsk, bad for body.”

I smiled and put some socks on to subdue her. Ironically, I felt better by the end of the day. She, of course, attributed my success to the socks. Not to the mega doses of Motrin and Vicodin I had taken. She will be here again soon. I am thankful for her help. Next time I’m thinking about walking outside with wet hair in a swimsuit just to see what happens.

If you like my mullet, I’ll hold your purse

I’ve been meaning to write about this for awhile, but now that Spring is approaching, these truths are more evident than ever. Russians are not like Americans. This, as you may know, is a vast understatement. Just to give you a few examples, the hairclips that the European gymnasts are famous for (you know, the brightly colored and glittery ones) are still worn…by everyone. You can be a 50 year old lady and get away with a pony-tail and hair clips. I think my six year old looks cute in them.

Purses are universal. Men have them, women have them. Or, as I’ve witnessed in many situations--- men carrying their ladies’ D&G bling bags across their own arms. I’m sorry, but it’s hard to take a guy seriously who is carrying a red bag with diamond studs on it. Men’s purses are more suitably colored. They are black and compact. They usually blend in with their jackets.

Jeans. I recently purchased a pair of pants that I thought were jeans. Now I ask myself, “how did that woman get into those?” all the time. The pants are so tight they look painted on. And then I discovered, they are spandex. I don’t know about you, but I have an unwritten rule about wearing spandex anywhere other than at the gym or underneath running shorts. They certainly are not a vital part of my wardrobe. The very same day I bought these as a gag to send home, I saw a lady in the Metro sporting this fashion. Yikes.

And mullets. Though I know the Mohawk has made a recent comeback, in America, I’m pretty sure mullets are reserved for weird, outdated, pictures of barn parties, and untold relatives who reside in the State Pen. I’ve seen some decently attractive guys sport the mullet, carry the purse, and wear jeans tighter than his girlfriend. Thankfully, my husband is a boot-cut, short hair kind of guy. Maybe once in awhile I’d like him to drape my bag over his arm, but only so I can laugh at him.

Church

I’m starting to wonder if my entries are at all exciting anymore, or like the culture shock I have recently experienced, are they old news? Whatever your answer may be to the rhetorical question, be prepared, this time I’m going to talk about church.

My life is very small. I wake up, homeschool my kids, feed everyone at least five times, do dozens of loads of laundry, and repeat each day. So going out on Sundays is a special treat for me. I walk away from the dishes, the chores, and hope that for a few hours, everyone’s bellies will be silenced out of reverence.

Our latest fave is located about 15 minutes away. This, in itself, is a large miracle. Thanks to some ex-pat friends, we were invited a few weeks back to a fully Russian church. I mean it. No translation, no subtitles. Just everyday people in their church. I have to admit that I like walking in without fanfare or special treatment. I like blending. Our kids love the Sunday school program where they get to practice their Russian and help other kids practice their English. Number 4’s class uses flannel-board. Remember that stuff? She repeats the entire Bible story to me after class with impeccable precision although it was told in Russian.

My favorite part is---no surprise here---the music. Sometimes they sing American worship songs, but they definitely have a Russian flair. I like mumbling bad translations in the safety of singing. I love practicing the name of Jesus or singing Hosanna in a different way. This week we took communion. Our friends were kind enough to translate the majority of the sermon for us. When the service was over, like clockwork, our stomachs were growling. My husband looked at me and said, “what time is it?” We had been in church for 2 and ½ hours. The time flew by.

When we left church, it was 55 degrees and sunny. For the first time since we’ve been here, our kids were wearing fancy church clothes and nice shoes. They skipped and hopped along the sidewalk saying, “this was the best day ever!” I agree.

Hold the Dill

In the past few weeks I’ve had the opportunity to get to know some Russians. I mean folks who were born and raised here and aren’t part of the ex-pat community. The customs and traditions I have heard or read about I was able to witness in real life.
Two weeks ago we attended a birthday party with Russian females and American males.
Through some translation and grace, we were able to communicate and learn a bit about each other. Since it is lent season, it is said that Russians go without meat, butter, and alcohol. Like American holidays, I figured this was ‘fudged’ over. Not so with some in this crowd. While we enjoyed Beef Stroganoff and Chicken Kiev, they nicely sat with plates of potatoes and greens covered in nothing else but dill.

Dill is in everything here. I haven’t done my research enough to know if it is in great abundance or if it has some medicinal advantage, but it’s in all forms of food; cheese, bread, meat, salad, vegetables, and soups. I like the flavor of dill but it definitely gets old. At the table we had an abundance of dill.

This past weekend, a Russian acquaintance to whom I had kindly remarked “let me know if you need anything” took me up on my offer. Her American friend was ill and she asked if I would go to the Russian pharmacy to get some drugs. This was a weird situation because

1) I have never set foot in Russian pharmacy
2) was this a good idea to get drugs for a Russian?
3) while asking, she made fun of her friend for having only Vitamin C and Echinacea on hand (of course common American vitamins which I have as well).

She laboriously spelled the names of the antibiotics and then pronounced them. I inadequately repeated and she kept affirming my efforts. At one point, she pronounced a word and said, “This is hard even for Russians to pronounce.” Good luck to me right? Then she proceeded to explain that it’s easy, like a Latin word. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that American kids aren’t instructed in Latin in grade school.

Anyway, my husband solved the problem by offering her a ride to the pharmacy. So today I made good old chicken and rice soup (hold the dill) and boxed brownies. I wonder if the American equivalency of dill is salt? Or maybe gravy? Hmmmm. Food for thought.

Sunday Drive

We’ve got our licenses and now we’ve got a vehicle. You may not be able to imagine how much this frees us to live our own schedules! So yesterday afternoon we took a Sunday drive. I haven’t driven at all yet (and haven’t done so since September-yikes) so my hubby took the wheel and headed out of our safely trafficked, gated community into the great unknown of foreign roadways. We weren’t going far, just down a couple of streets, but it felt like landing on the moon of successes.

On roadways in Russia, pedestrians are very common, whether there are sidewalks or not. The gypsy cab is an acceptable form of transportation and so many people walk with their hands held low (about waist-high) in hopes that they may catch a ride. Or, in our particular situation, you may encounter a runaway horse or two on your first drive out. No, you did not mis-read. As we were only about a half mile from our house, there were two saddled runaway horses coming straight at our vehicle. I braced for impact. My calm husband just put on the brakes and sat there so they could pass us. We are always surprised in Russia.

Next we went to the grocery store as a family. We’ve only done this two times here. I have become very accustomed to indifferent looks and limited personal boundaries but I had forgotten that four small children don’t understand---or frankly----appreciate these social norms. I felt like singing a new rendition of the song from Dumbo “pink elephants on parade” (what was that song about anyway?)

We emerged and proudly loaded our items into the spacious back hatch of our
vehicle. Onto another store.

The next store was smaller in comparison, but rarely busy and so we like the process a little more. However, we decided to go up the escalators and see what lies beyond. You also need to understand that every single store is really just an anchor store for several little kiosks. In this one you can get cheap toys from China in a kiosk, sewing notions, batteries, cell-phones, and of course, cigarettes. You never know what you may stumble upon.

But today was a lucky day! We found a clothing store. In fact, it is the first clothing store where there are items for the whole family and for really reasonable prices. I found women’s t-shirts for only 150py which is about $5. I have always hated clothes shopping, but I find that necessity forces me to do it. It’s almost spring and I am running very low on clothes that are appropriate beyond the confines of my kitchen.

We happily drove home anticipating the next time we will need something and will be able to get it for ourselves and maybe even offer to bring somebody else. Of course, I could always catch a ride into town on a runaway horse. Why not? It’s Russia!