When my commute to church was 15 minutes, 20 on a snowy day, I could dress any way I want. I would go outside and scrape off the snow from the truck in my jammies and boots and then quickly change into my Sunday best complete with heels and earrings.
It’s just not the same here.
My commute to church is 1 hour and 20 minutes and I have to dress for every occasion; sub-zero temps, the bus stop, the metro, the walk to and from the building, and of course, the service itself. So what this means for me is that someone who used to like to wear nylons and fancy jewelry every week has turned to wearing jeans, a nice sweater, and a bun for church. Suffice it to say, it’s a bit of a downer.
I know this is an individual preference because I have plenty of friends who would love to wear jeans every week to church, but not me. For me, Sundays are special occasions, equally important as date nights or social events.
Disclaimer: to all my homeschooling friends out there, the following is a flagrant generalization.
When people hear that you’re a homeschooler, they picture one of two things. First are the ones in a classic denim skirt, white tennis shoes, long straggly hair and a parade of children in stair step height walking behind. They picture a family pulling water from the well and using a wood stove for cooking. It’s primitive, but true.
The second is a hippie style version of a family with parents who don't have traditional jobs, kids who paint on the dining room walls and make up words to foster creativity. They have chosen to avoid traditional schools because they’re afraid it will put their kids in a box.
I am neither one of these, but definitely somewhere in between. A friend who was a missionary in Africa warned my sister and me before I left that when I returned, I would dress weird. I can already see this happening. You wouldn’t have caught me anywhere in the states wearing tapered jeans, but guess what, they fit inside knee-high boots and just make sense. I also sometimes wear leggings---in five degrees, because they don’t let in the breeze like jeans do.
That being said, I was insistent on wearing a skirt to church this week. I found a denim one that goes to my ankles and tried it out. It was great because I wore my purple boots underneath and no one could tell.
I was warmer this Sunday than I’ve been in a while. I had to laugh at myself as I saw the very stereotype I’ve tried to avoid walking down the streets of Moscow. I'm certainly not a fashion queen, but there's a lot to be said for feeling like you look nice and being warm a the same time. Cheers to those who invented the denim skirt.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Hairdresser
Today I took my girls to the salon to get their hair trimmed. As you know, elementary aged girls rarely look neat, especially when required to wear wool headwear everywhere they go. Even after a fresh wash, they are static ridden and frizzy. When we arrived, we sat quietly in the reception area awaiting our turn. I glanced through some magazines, all in Russian of course, and noticed something particularly interesting.
On a side-note, something I’ve noticed about Russian women is that it is almost faux pas to have a good dye job. It is better and more popular to have a very bad dye job so that your hair looks brassy and has dark roots. I can’t explain this, it just is. Anyway, while perusing some hair magazines, I came across one that was titled in English, “Hair Today.” Guess what I found. Hair from the 80s. I’m not exaggerating. The main focus of the whole thing was Princess Di and Prince Charles. It was on the top of the heap which means some ladies were actually looking at it.
When the stylist was ready for us, we walked back behind the foggy glass to the seat. No big surprise, she had brassy bleach blonde hair with dark roots. I had to chuckle to myself. My girls wanted to eliminate their layers and get straight cuts like their European friends. I thought that would like nice and neat as well.
As we sat there, watching infomercials in Russian about a handy new shower faucet, I think the stylist noticed my six year old getting restless. She grabbed the remote and changed the channel to none other than Nickelodeon, in English.
Here is an opportune time to tell you that I don’t mind Nickelodeon, but I despise one show…Dora the Explorer. “Do you want to play with me?” RIDICULOUSLY LONG PAUSE…..”Okay!”
I bet you can guess what was on. My kids were so excited, they started humming along with the “D-D-D—D-D-Dora…” I thought I might throw up.
After the haircuts were over, I went downstairs to pay the bill at the front desk. It wasn’t bad, only $30 for two little girls’ trims. Back home, I would have paid my stylist $15 plus tip for both, but the location was right and the entertainment was free.
On a side-note, something I’ve noticed about Russian women is that it is almost faux pas to have a good dye job. It is better and more popular to have a very bad dye job so that your hair looks brassy and has dark roots. I can’t explain this, it just is. Anyway, while perusing some hair magazines, I came across one that was titled in English, “Hair Today.” Guess what I found. Hair from the 80s. I’m not exaggerating. The main focus of the whole thing was Princess Di and Prince Charles. It was on the top of the heap which means some ladies were actually looking at it.
When the stylist was ready for us, we walked back behind the foggy glass to the seat. No big surprise, she had brassy bleach blonde hair with dark roots. I had to chuckle to myself. My girls wanted to eliminate their layers and get straight cuts like their European friends. I thought that would like nice and neat as well.
As we sat there, watching infomercials in Russian about a handy new shower faucet, I think the stylist noticed my six year old getting restless. She grabbed the remote and changed the channel to none other than Nickelodeon, in English.
Here is an opportune time to tell you that I don’t mind Nickelodeon, but I despise one show…Dora the Explorer. “Do you want to play with me?” RIDICULOUSLY LONG PAUSE…..”Okay!”
I bet you can guess what was on. My kids were so excited, they started humming along with the “D-D-D—D-D-Dora…” I thought I might throw up.
After the haircuts were over, I went downstairs to pay the bill at the front desk. It wasn’t bad, only $30 for two little girls’ trims. Back home, I would have paid my stylist $15 plus tip for both, but the location was right and the entertainment was free.
Monday, January 3, 2011
A Hot Date
My hubby and I haven’t officially gone on a date since August. That being said, we were well overdue. Some lovely people here in our community offered to watch our kids for us so we could have a night out on the town. We waited at the bus stop at 3:30 in the afternoon with novels in hand and cash in pocket. We arrived at the metro station and hopped on board for an hour ride. We were lucky to get seats because the train got so crowded that I could barely see my date. We got off at our stop and headed up top to see what was there. Our goal was a movie theater where they would be showing an American movie in English. We arrived at the cinema a little early so we could go find some dinner.
We stepped down to the first floor and asked the concierge where there might be a bathroom. He pointed us through some doors and said “It’s across from the wardrobe.” In coats, scarves, hats, jeans, and gloves we pushed our way through what appeared to be a private party. No one was wearing heels less than four inches and the dress length was mandatory mini. We reluctantly found the restrooms with no labels as to MEN or WOMEN. So we watched and waited. Women came out of both. I told my hubby he was out of luck. We saw another couple (obviously guests of this party) who were dealing with the same problem. They quickly pointed out which room they were going to and went in. We hopped quickly behind them.
Note to self---if I can see through the stall doors, so can they.
Anyway, we headed back out to the streets to find a restaurant. We only had an hour and a half before movie time and Russian restaurants aren’t exactly known for their speedy service. So we found a McDonald's. McDonald's in itself is a science. First you have to shove your way through the line, and I mean shove! Then you have to get an English picture menu and point out what you want. They rarely manage to get it right. Then you pay for it and they shove the tray back through the crowd. This is the easy part.
Next you have to find a table. Basically this means you can sit in any unoccupied seat regardless if there are others at the table. Russians have no personal boundaries and will sit with complete strangers. We did the same. We found a table where an elderly gentlemen and his granddaughter were seated and joined them. We ate in silence and looked around at the ambiance.
After we ate, we walked about fifteen minutes in fifteen degrees back to the cinema. We were the only ones there at first but slowly, seven more Americans sat down. It was strange because for the first time, I felt out of place with Americans. I kept hoping some Russians would crowd in and sit next to me but they never did. Weird.
After the movie, which was a disappointing version of the book, we headed back to the metro station. We arrived at our destination about 45 minutes before our bus would come to pick us up so we had some time to kill. All the stores were closed so we stopped at a beverage kiosk and paid the lady for a beer. We stood at the bus stop in 15 degrees for 45 minutes, shared a beer, and talked. It was a unique date, but of course with a Russian twist. We got home just before midnight.
We stepped down to the first floor and asked the concierge where there might be a bathroom. He pointed us through some doors and said “It’s across from the wardrobe.” In coats, scarves, hats, jeans, and gloves we pushed our way through what appeared to be a private party. No one was wearing heels less than four inches and the dress length was mandatory mini. We reluctantly found the restrooms with no labels as to MEN or WOMEN. So we watched and waited. Women came out of both. I told my hubby he was out of luck. We saw another couple (obviously guests of this party) who were dealing with the same problem. They quickly pointed out which room they were going to and went in. We hopped quickly behind them.
Note to self---if I can see through the stall doors, so can they.
Anyway, we headed back out to the streets to find a restaurant. We only had an hour and a half before movie time and Russian restaurants aren’t exactly known for their speedy service. So we found a McDonald's. McDonald's in itself is a science. First you have to shove your way through the line, and I mean shove! Then you have to get an English picture menu and point out what you want. They rarely manage to get it right. Then you pay for it and they shove the tray back through the crowd. This is the easy part.
Next you have to find a table. Basically this means you can sit in any unoccupied seat regardless if there are others at the table. Russians have no personal boundaries and will sit with complete strangers. We did the same. We found a table where an elderly gentlemen and his granddaughter were seated and joined them. We ate in silence and looked around at the ambiance.
After we ate, we walked about fifteen minutes in fifteen degrees back to the cinema. We were the only ones there at first but slowly, seven more Americans sat down. It was strange because for the first time, I felt out of place with Americans. I kept hoping some Russians would crowd in and sit next to me but they never did. Weird.
After the movie, which was a disappointing version of the book, we headed back to the metro station. We arrived at our destination about 45 minutes before our bus would come to pick us up so we had some time to kill. All the stores were closed so we stopped at a beverage kiosk and paid the lady for a beer. We stood at the bus stop in 15 degrees for 45 minutes, shared a beer, and talked. It was a unique date, but of course with a Russian twist. We got home just before midnight.
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