The Unwritten Code

So now that it’s Christmas time and all the private school kids are on break, we seem to have more friends in the neighborhood with which to play. While this is wonderful, and certainly a big change from our usual homeschool group, there are drawbacks. The hard fact is that I that I have felt like the Wicked Witch of the West recently. Here’s why.

On Christmas Eve, we received some boxes from friends and family. Some were packed full of gifts and presents, and some with special treats for the kids. One in particular had some hard-to-come-by edibles that are special at our house. Namely: microwave popcorn, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and fruit snacks with absolutely no nutritional value. These came from a lifelong friend who knows exactly our hankerings on cold, blustery, Russian winter evenings.

My first mistake was to unload said boxes in front of neighborhood children and then display them neatly on the kitchen counters. My second mistake was putting them where little hands could reach them to kindly say, “can I have some?” I like sharing with my neighbors. In fact, it’s a common theme in our home especially among siblings who we should consider “neighbors.” I like bringing friends cookies, treats, breads, and the like. I do not like sharing packaged goods sent all the way from America, full of unintelligible preservatives, and wrapped in brightly colored wrappers. Don’t judge. Just try to understand.

Anyway, the other afternoon we decided to have a box of Macaroni and Cheese. We haven’t had a box of Kraft in 4 months. I just make mac and cheese the good ol’ fashion way; with noodles and cheese. Crazy I know! But this was the day after Christmas and it deserved something special.

At that time there were precisely 8 children in my home, including my own. When I said out loud, “I’m going to make macaroni” 8 hands went up with squeals of delight and “I’ll have some!”

I said no. I looked into their sweet, rosy cheeked faces and said, “I cannot share this with you today. It is a special gift from a friend. If you want macaroni, go home and ask your mother.” They put their hands down and said gloomily, “we understand.” Not to mention, all these kids have either been back to visit America for long periods of time or recently arrived in Moscow all together. My kids haven’t been stateside in 13 long months. Geesh, what a Grinch.

Anyway, I have taught my kids to never ask for coveted American items in someone else’s home. However, if another mother offers you some fruit snacks, you are welcome to accept. I’m sure there are all kinds of clauses and exceptions to this rule, but if I could post a sign on my door it would read:

Please don’t send your kids over here during the hours of when they are hungry and when they will be eating at your house.

I am trying to rectify the situation immediately. I ordered a case of mac and cheese and 64 fruit snacks from walmart online. Maybe next time the mail truck comes I can invite the kids over for an American food festival. Then again, maybe not.

Break Down

Sometimes in a woman’s life, there is this explosive need to cry and yet no outlet or appropriate reason in which to release the deluge. For whatever reason, this happened to me this week. I knew during the weekend that I should have watched some ridiculous Hallmark Christmas movie with cheesy music, crummy acting, and a predictable outcome just to lose the internal torrent. But I didn’t. And I paid for it.

As I started the week, we were dealing with an appliance situation trying to get me an American style laundry center instead of the inefficient, ridiculously slow European model I was using. It was finally delivered to our garage and then my husband and some neighbors moved the old unit out and the new unit in. This was a massive task and will literally change my life in Russia.

The very next day, I was doing lessons with the kids and for some reason, I had a melt-down. It could be from the four small voices constantly needing something or from the awareness that I was so stinking excited about a washing machine. Anyway, Number 1 needed help with a science experiment involving simple machines. They may be simple to the scientific mind, but let me tell you for a fact, there was nothing simple about these stupid plastic pulleys, yarn, and some metal washers.

Which is when the floodgates opened.

Right in the middle of lifting the movable pulley, the string fell off and I lost it. I started sobbing-not just whimpery crying. Sobbing. I apologized to the kids, went to my room for a time out, and got a grip. The rest of the day went fine and the laundry saved me so much time that I messed around with my graphic design software for two hours that afternoon.

Later in the evening, Number 2 had a nightmare and came to talk to me about it. He said, “Hey Mom, do you remember earlier today when you were sitting there---all----cryin’ over the pulleys?” I was trying to help him feel safe after his bad dream and yet I was stifling the laughter from my own ridiculous behavior.

I learned my lesson. Next time I feel the need to cry, I’ll quench the urge and make it happen. Maybe over a lever or an inclined plane.

Personality Test

After a suggestion from a friend, I took a personality test this week. It was shockingly accurate and I can't say that I loved my title. After 72 brief, though thought provoking questions, I was titled an 'Inspector': a follower of rules, an advocate of justice, and a painfully dependable person. It wasn't new information, just new to have it all compiled in one simple paragraph.

Now it is haunting me. I feel like everything I do is because of this internal inspector. Number 2 was trying to ask me a question and I said, "get to the point man!" That's so like me! Aaaahhhh! It does, however, explain why my hubby's thrilling stories are not always engaging for me. I'm just waiting for the punchline. Sometimes it's a long wait.

It's also given me some assurance that I am good at my job. If I was a sloppy, overly-merciful, pushover, I could never be happy at homeschooling my kids. Granted, I make up grade sheets for my pre-schooler, but she'll thank me later. I'm sure of it.

But God bless my husband. He is on another end of the spectrum (good ole' opposites attract) and still listens to be blather on about how I re-structured the paper file or organized the paper-clips so that they are easier to grab in a hurry. I mean, I can't tell you how many times I've needed a paper clip in a split second and been unable to grab one. Or not.

One of his pre-occupations is considering humanity and it's destiny. I have to be honest that I think about that as it relates to me. Will I be able to get paper? Will there still be deadlines for bills? Why do I love office supply stores and what if they close? The good part is that we talked about our differences and realized that a big picture person (him) needs a details person to help the big picture come to realization (me). We are a great match.

Especially living in Moscow, where most things are unpredictable, I've gotten so much better at loosening up my expectations of people and events. I feel like everything I do here has been a learning experience and maybe even a softening of my innate inspector.

I'm not sure what kind of things we'll accomplish together, but I know for a fact that we'll do it well, organized, and sometimes spontaneously.

Cashiers and Customer Service

In America, the customer's always right? Right?

In Europe, if you don't like the service, options, or policies; TOO BAD! Find a different company. See if we care.

I've gotten used to this style of living. I don't purchase anything on a whim if I know it can't be returned. Returns are rarely available. I don't complain if my food is half-cooked. I don't call a manager about the way the bus smells. It's a fact of life.

When I was in America everyone wanted to take me out to eat for my favorite foods. This sounded like a good idea when I first arrived but I realized almost immediately that there is one problem with restaurants; Waitstaff. My brother-in-law pointed out to me that I used to be one of these people. I'm sorry.

It always especially bothers me when an 18 or 19 year old kid calls me "hun" every time she stops at the table. During a meal that lasted 45 minutes, she came to the table 8 times with her high pitched perky voice asking things like, "Does the food look good? Do you think my ponytail is too tight? If I was a pie what flavor would I be?"

In Russia we hardly ever eat out. It's always too expensive, always bad service, and usually disappointing. We cook in. When we do eat out, it takes 20 minutes to find your waitress, 10 minutes to order, and then she brings the food. After that, you look around or bring your money to the counter and try to figure out how much you owe because your waitress is MIA. It's not this way in every restaurant, but many.

At the grocery store in Moscow, I must have a face that says 'dangerous' because every time I check out, the cashier calls a security guard over to stand at the end of my lane. While I feverishly unload, bag, and reload my goods, the cashier scowls at me and looks annoyed. Several times throughout the transaction she may subtotal the bill for me and point to the numbers, figuring I can't possibly have enough money to pay for all this. She's always glad when it's over.

This is how the supermarket skit played out in USA.

Cahiser: Oooh, makin' pizza tonite, huh?

Me: Yes.

Cashier: You know I was at my brother-in-law's neighbor's house, and he made pizza with spinach and garlic, have you ever heard of that?

Me: Yes, it's quite good actually.

Cashier: Well I wouldn't eat anything healthy on my pizza. That's just wrong. Are you hanging out with friends?

Me: (wishing I had chosen the less obnoxious, automatic self-serve lane). Yes.

Cashier: do you have our special store card that saves you 50% on everything so you can get bonus points and free offers and all kinds of neato stuff?

Me: No. I don't live here. Thanks anyway.

Cashier: ooooh, you're from out of town. Where ya comin' from?

You get the idea. Why can't I just pay for my stuff and leave? Maybe I am cold hearted, but I just don't want to be best friends with the cashier. I know, I know...they're just being friendly.

If you are a cashier or a server, please don't be hurt by my pondering. Americans seem to love this kind of behavior. I must have too, at one time. I know one thing for sure, I don't anymore.

Further proof today of non-customer service in Moscow. I haven't had internet for two days. When I finally reached somebody at the office, they informed me that there is a bad cable in my area which needs to be replaced. I said, "Are they replacing it?" Her diplomatic answer, "Our service department is aware of the problem." Pretty sure I won't be getting a credit on my account for this one. Oh, well. At least she didn't tell me about her day.

Eating Crow

This post has nothing to do with food. I have an old friend who would often refer to forced humility as "sharing a slice of humble-pie" or more eloquently, "eating crow." I ate crow today. It does not taste good.

My poor hubs has been slowly recovering from the travel disaster to Paris. Just yesterday I was boasting to a neighbor about my ability to take care of myself and not get in jams. I spoke too soon.

This morning I took my girls to get their hair cut, a task which gets easier all the time. After only 15 minutes at the salon and $25 later, the lovely ladies were ready to hit the road. I was excited that I had so much of my day left!

When we got to the car I unlocked the door with the key. Then, I opened the door and tossed the keys onto the passenger seat. I tried opening the back door as the front door swung shut and all the doors locked simultaneously. It's an old car. I'm not exactly sure how this all happened. But there, gleaming in the rare November sunlight, were my keys on the seat. That first bite of crow didn't go down very easily.

Number 3 complains of car sickness all the time. We are constantly having to close the back windows because she has opened them. Go figure she didn't do that today.

I looked at my watch thinking maybe I could catch the bus back home. The bus schedule I just happened to grab before I left was strategically placed between the two front seats so that I couldn't read the departure times. I'm glad I couldn't because it turns out the bus was just leaving. I hailed a cab and paid $10 to go 2 miles. The second bite of crow sat bitterly in my stomach.

So I sat at home and ate caramels until the phone rang. Somebody had an idea and I could meet them at 6pm at the Metro station. The good neighbor (the same to whom I was boasting my independence) was able to get a window open and grab the keys with a long wire. I smiled in disbelief and thankfulness.

I could blame this situation on lots of things, but I'm going to take the high road and claim that everybody does something stupid once in awhile. Fortunately for me, my tow bill cost me a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a little perspective.

My vehicle wasn't any worse for the wear really. I missed a whole day of carefully planned activities because I just didn't keep the keys in my pocket. I highly doubt if that same blunder will happen again, but don't quote me on that.

Going home

I went back to America. Alone.

I needed an R&R from my demanding Russian life. No, that's wrong. Let me clarify. I needed a vacation from being the universe to my family. They are an amazing family but I like solitude. I always have. Even if it requires 37 hours of travel. Of course it should have only been 22 hours, but delays happen and sometimes you pull up the boot straps and sleep in Detroit Metro Airport. You get the idea.

It was my first time being 'home' since I moved to Russia over a year ago. Once I landed in New York, I had a bagel with unhealthy amounts of cream cheese. I may or may not have sighed when I took a bite. When I noticed two women staring at me, I looked at them to explain. "I haven't lived in America for a year and this is my first bagel." They smiled and said, "Live it up, girl!"

When I noticed that five planes were boarding from gate 24 and all of them were late, I realized the day was going to get longer. A man from Detroit, who introduced himself as Ryan, starting small talking with me. Here's how it went.

Ryan: Are you going to Detroit?
Me: Yes, I am. And you?
Ryan: Yeah. It's home for me.
Me: Where are you coming from?
Ryan: Italy. And you?
Me: Moscow, Russia.
Ryan: Wow! Your English is really good!
Me: That's funny because I'm actually American.

If I were this guy, I would have made up some lame excuse about needing to rummage through my bag and walk away. Not him. He was brave. He stayed. In fact, he even invited me to stay at his place in Detroit where he assured me he would be a gentleman. I know Americans are nice, but creepy too maybe?

When I finally arrived at my destination, I had an hour before a hair-cut appointment with my stylist. I made it. Before I had even washed the air travel out of my hair, she cut off 11 inches of it. Yes, I donated it to Locks of Love for the second time. It grows insanely fast in Russia. We have a joke that it's because of Chernobyl.

There's more. Much, much more that I will save for a later entry. This weekend I told some friends about my first visit back to "the States" and they smiled and nodded. "You are officially an ex-pat now. Welcome." Thanks. Glad to be here.

Last big about Paris

I apologize for leaving you hanging. I was on a vacation back to America by myself and lost track of time. Blogs on that subject to follow. But for now, I want to finish recreating my memories of Paris.

My all time favorite stop in Paris was Montmartre and Sacre Coeur. I think knowing that Ernest Hemingway, Coco Chanel, Pablo Picasso and other "greats" have walked these same streets gathering inspiration for their art, stories, and paintings made the place even more magical.

As we meandered our way through the charming little alleys filled with vendors, someone called out my husband's name. I was confused at first, but we turned around to see a high school classmate standing in front of us! How in the world could we run into somebody we know in such an obscure place? What if we were just five minutes later? What if we decided to to go Sacre Coeur another day? These questions may never be answered but it was a small luxury to see a friendly American face so very far from home.

Once we got to the top of the hill, everybody was hungry. We couldn’t afford to feed a family of six at the charming little bistros along the way and so we fed them ice cream. They will attest for some time that it was the best lunch ever! It felt so easy to be a great parent in that moment.

When we arrived at Sacre Coeur, our slow moving bunch got trapped. Several African men had the kids hold out their fingers on which they tied bracelets. As they weaved and wound they kept smiling and saying, “Hakuna matata” to the kids. Soon after, big surprise, they asked for money. Since it was our second to last day in Paris, I didn’t want to use up our euros when I knew they paid pennies for their embroidery floss. In fact, Number 1 makes these bracelets for me all the time----for free! They wanted 10E, but I offered them 5. They argued and when I made it clear I wouldn’t relent, they agreed to take 5 euro and let us be on our way.

Next, we saw another African man climbing up a lamppost whilst balancing a soccer ball on a ball-point pen held by his teeth. He was truly amazing. I’m pretty sure he made a good living that sunny day.

We hung out to hear bad karaoke done by a Spaniard who was singing American songs and then lingered inside the church to hear the beginning of Sunday evening mass. It was incredible to me that a nun whose life was completely cloaked in simplicity and devotion, could have the most beautiful worldly voice I have ever heard. We stood still and enjoyed the moments in this ageless church.

Then we paid the Euros to climb to the top of the dome. I honestly think Europeans laugh at stupid tourists who pay to climb stairs. We took it step-by-step up 300 winding steps in a corridor about the size of a small closet and made it to the top of the dome. There we could see the opposite view of the city skyline complete with the Eiffel Tower and the city center. While I volunteered to take the kids to the local squatty potty, the hubs stayed up top to catch the sunset.

That evening we went to Trocadero to see the Eiffel Tower lit up at night. We fed the kids yet another loaf of bread for dinner and headed back to our hotel.

So that about sums it up for Paris. It was beautiful,friendly, and certainly as romantic as I imagined. I suppose some day if I take a crack at novel writing, I would want to be eating baguettes, drinking espresso, and walking the streets of Montmartre for inspiration. Until then, Moscow it is.