In Case You Are Interested

This link will take you to my bike route. 

I hop on the red path just south of Livingston Avenue and go until the purple Blacklick Creek Greenway Trail ends right before it crosses Route 33.

Then I turn around and go back.

It's 22 miles, and today it took me just under 2 hours.

I Win! I Win!

[Puffing out chest]

Take a look over here. Scroll down until you find "WINNING STORY."

Their excellent taste in writing not withstanding, it's a useful website for expat women. They's good people.

Roll

First, three cheers for the miracle of Facebook. 

I was playing around on it last night, just stalking people and minding my own business, when I got a message from a voice from my past. 

Lovely Ivan from Puerto Rico was a student in my English class when I was a grad student at Ohio University. He was funny and talented and beautiful then, and he still is now. Just 20 years older.

But I am not.

We had a great time catching up.

Since I am in the throes of Middle Age Crazy, I not only set my alarm for 6:30 this morning, but I GOT UP so I could get my bike ride in before L-Ro (my father) goes for his morning fitness walk.

I love, love, love the bike path here. Round trip the whole path runs about 20 miles. But since I have not had my butt on a bike since last August, and I am now in the Coughing-Up-Lung phase of a cold, I did the short loop. Which is about 12 miles. And I did not try to break any land speed records today.

The route goes through all that is best about My Part of Ohio. 

There are creeks, complete with blue herons. I saw the heron today. He sends his regards.

There are woodsy areas that smell damp and lush. I always think, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep . . ." when I ride through there. Lots of bird song. Little creatures crashing through the underbrush. Cotton tail bunnies that just sit and look at you as you go by.

What were corn fields last year are soy bean fields this year. 

The best part about the bike is how quiet it is. So you can sneak up on deer without startling them off.

I saw a mama and two teenage fawns. Then a big fat doe. Then two young deer with antlers. 

Ka-BAM! 

Sorry, but that is my visceral, hill-billy ancestry response to fat, young deer. Thems good eatin'. 

Fish gotta swim . . . bird gotta fly . . . Expatresse gotta eat meat . . .

Let's all join hands and sing a chorus of The Circle of Life, shall we?

Seriously, however, I saw Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom on the corner at the house where the Russians live (yeah . . . there are real Russians in my neighborhood). Their yard has a chain-link fence. Outside the chain-link fence, on the side of the house, sat Mr. Rabbit. He was a big rabbit. Maybe even hare material. Is there a Peterson's Guide to Wildlife? 

Anyhow, I stop my bike in the middle of Charles Street to observe Mr. B. Rabbit blithely nibbling away at the tender grasses that are damp with the dew and last night's gentle rain.

And sitting there on the fence, not three feet above Mr. B. Rabbit . . . is Hawk Dude. La-la-la-la-la.

I coughed. 

Hawk Dude rolled his eyes, gave me the finger, and flew up on some nearby telephone wires.

"Um, you might want to move it along," I said to Mr. B. Rabbit. 

Out loud. 

Really. 

I did.

He ambled, lippity-lippity, under the hedge. Oblivious to the fact he just missed out on being someone's Breakfast Buffet.

I'll be he makes it onto the lunch menu.

Brats!

Ahhh! Summer in Ohio.

Skittles, recovering from the shock of learning what puberty really entails, is outside playing with some new-found friends. Nothing like the joyful noises of kids on a grassy lawn in the summer at dusk. At least until someone looses an eye.

There are cardinals chip-chip-ing in the backyard. And the sound of the dryer. I washed some towels this afternoon, and forgetting that a load does not take eight hours, left them to sit. Ooops. They passed the sniff test when I finally put them into the dryer, so hopefully crisis averted.

I took the girls to Rubino's, a local pizza place that has been an institution in the neighborhood since 1954. Baboo was underwhelmed since they do not offer ham as a topping.

"What kind of pizza place doesn't have ham?" she asked.

"But they have this incredible thin crust," I countered. "It's unusual . . . like matzo!"

"I like thick crust," she said.

Then, the non-carbonated beverage options were limited to Hawaiian Punch. She had never tasted Hawaiian Punch.

"It tastes weird," she told us.

Skittles and I both tasted it. It tasted like Fruit Juicy Red Hawaiian Punch to me. 

"It's okay," Skittles said.

Baboo continued to be cranky and pubescent. 

Fine. I spent many happy hours being cranky and pubescent in Rubino's in the mid-1970s. Next time she can just stay home.

"I'll go next door to Pizza Plus," she offered. 

Brat.

So when we got home, I put some air in my bike tires and went for a little ride. Only five miles since it was, once again, dusk. And I'm getting over a cold.

But it felt so goooooood. 

Tomorrow morning, I'm going to try my regular 20 mile route. 

Even if it kills me.

Just Wait Until I Explain Cramps and Mood Swings

Well, first, something good.

Determined NOT to be the children's maid this summer, I instituted CHORES. 

This house has one full bathroom upstairs and a half bath (toilet and sink) downstairs. They have to each clean a bathroom before they can play on the Internet, watch teevee, or go outside. We will rotate the responsibilities after Skittles works off her debt from the Great Chocolate Caper. Until then, Skittles has the upstairs bathroom.

They are doing it right now. 

Now, something bad.

Continuing in the Let's Buy You a Bra theme, I decided it was time to make sure Skittles had all her Facts of Life in order. 

"Do you understand this whole menstruation thing?" I asked her yesterday morning when we found ourselves alone.

Turns out, she did not. Horrors. I am remiss.

So I found one of my many million Birthin' Babies Books and showed her some of those cutaway pictures of female anatomy. 

I explained how the uterus prepares every month for the egg, which travels down the Fallopian tubes. If the egg meets sperm, it becomes fertilized and plants itself in the uterus' prepared lining. If not, then the uterus sheds that lining. This is what we call a "menstrual period" I told her.

She burst into tears.

"For how long?" she sobbed.

Me: "Oh, maybe five to seven days each month."

Her: "EVERY month?"

Me: "Well, yeah. Until you get to be about my age. Then it stops."

Cue Lucille Ball-style wailing. 

A little while later she is talking on the phone with her father, who is calling from Moscow. I overhear her side of the conversation.

He must have asked "How are you?"

Her: "Mama told me something BAD . . ."

He must have asked her what that was.

Her, crying again: "The uterus sheds its prepared lining!"

Yeah, Yeah, It's All Been Great

You really don't want to hear all the boring details of my 4th of July weekend. I'll just give you the highlights:

Family (Minus Any Drama)

Parade

BBQ (Pork Shoulder and Hamburgers/Hotdogs)

Backyards

Swimming Pool

Fireworks

Ginormous Neighborhood Party Complete with Sparklers and Adults Blowing Things Up in the Driveway

Ice Cream

Weather Not Hot Enough for AC

Dogs

Lots and Lots of Alcohol

Tennis

Mosquito Bites and Banged Up Knees

Now that I type the list, it sounds like I was hanging out at the Kennedy compound, doesn't it?

Actually, while the weekend was momentous in its sheer blissfulness, today was a Very Important Milestone. The girls and their cousins and I were in Target. We were buying kid underwear and socks (among other things). There is chaos all around. In the middle of the chaos, Skittles leans into me and says, discreetly, "Can I ask you something?"

She has to repeat this several times before I realize she's talking to me.

"Sure, sweetie. Ask away."

"Can I have something like a bra?"

BLESS HER HEART! She was so brave to pipe up. I actually was thinking of broaching the subject with her since her uni-boob comment. She's not even 9, but it was not an inappropriate request.

We found her some little half-camisole sort of items with silly monkeys. Just the right mix of First Intimate Apparel Purchase and Funky-Cool Kid Stuff. 

I think she's sleeping in it. I know she put it on as soon as we got home.

It is cliche, I know, but all I can think is, "My little girl . . ."

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

So I'm doing one of my Gazillion runs between my house and my brother's house (across the street from mine and about five doors down). Troy-the-Neighbor spots me and hollers, 

"I feel just like Sarah Palin! I can see Russians from MY HOUSE!"

The Summer Dacha

The flight from Moscow was uneventful and as pleasant as a ten-hour trip in Cattle Class can be. The only fly in the ointment was a four-hour delay getting out of Dulles due to a combination of summer thunderstorms and a sick fellow traveller who had to be taken off the plane.

I don't know the details on the passenger, except to say

1. He looked pale and sweaty when he walked off the plane under his own steam, and

2. When Ground Crew Dude was talking to the Flight Attendant about whether the guy's oxygen mask needed to be replaced, GCD said, "Did he puke in it?" and FA replied, "No . . . just sweated a lot." 

But we made it. And so did our bags.

I left a certain amount of stuff for myself here, so it has been a pleasant surprise discovering various items of clothing I forgot I owned.

Today, I went to a Pilates class this morning with Cool SIL. I was a little disappointed at first when I saw it was only 30 minutes. But now I can tell you that 30 minutes was plenty, thank you very much. I'm going to try to do this three times a week.

Got home in time to meet the Roof Guy, who was here to explain to me all about what may be causing the leak in the ceiling of the Big Bedroom. Seems the short answer is "I need a cricket," which is a bit of construction to deflect rainwater from the side of the chimney. Unfortunately, Roof Dude doesn't do this sort of work, but he promised to try to find someone he could refer.

Oh, and according to him, the fireplace is in working order. "I would use it," he said.

That's very good news.

Now the Akron branch of the Tribe is due this afternoon. So I'm off to provision now. More later, I suppose.

I C M P!

A B C D B B?

L! M N O B B!

S A R B B. I C M P!

[Sound of Expatresse cracking herself up . . .]

Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week and signing autographs in the lobby after each show.

I do love sophomoric toilet humor, don't you?

I was thinking about this because, typically for me, I have procrastinated until the very last minute about doing anything to prevent Cat-O from peeing in the bathtub all the time. Summer Dacha is now T minus something less than 48 hours. And I am already feeling guilty saddling The Spouse with Catsitting Detail.

Now on the one hand, cat pee in the bathtub has certain advantages: it's not so hard to clean up. Certainly easier than scooping. AND it saves on scoop-able cat litter.

But on the other hand, it is gross.

The Spouse and I probably spent 20 minutes this morning on the phone with each other, googling "Cat Pees in Bathtub." We had just finished amusing ourselves by reading titles of emails we found in our spam folders. I never look in my spam folder, but there are some real jewels in there, I tell you. You should check your spam folder. Some more notable titles include the following:

Get hose growth every day
Make her shout like alarm
Get a full-mast again!
Need mouse to become tiger?
Support your custard launcher

Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what they're pushing.

Then there are the email titles designed to make you think they are real emails:

Didn't we arrange meeting?
Code for activation
Your naked video on tube
Please delete photo

I can see the first line of the body text, too, and sometimes the combination is pure poetry. My absolute favorite one has this title: Whether the shrimps or crawfish grey. Then the first line of the body text reads Will not stay, will not stay.

Poetry.

So if you go to Google, and you start to type "cat pees . . ." all sorts of great options pop up:
cat pees outside box
cat pees on bed
cat pees on everything
cat pees on carpet
cat pees in sink
cat pees a lot
cat pees blood
cat pees on furniture

All I can say is some people are having a significantly worse day than I am. And that both The Spouse and I have way too much free time on our hands.

Now, I long suspected the tub-peeing could by a symptom of a urinary tract infection. But if I don't acknowledge it, then I don't have to deal with it, right?

We read a lot of suggestions about how to get one's cat to decide not to pee in the tub. Follow them in and squirt them with water when they commit the crime. Line the tub with aluminum foil because they hate the feel. The best one: fill the tub with a few inches of water. That brings a great image to mind, no?

Heh heh heh. Gotcha you tub-peeing little shit!

All great entertainment, but if the little shit . . . er, fellow really has a UTI, we would be remiss not treating it.

And since it is my cat . . .

I called the vet. I was instructed to collect a sample in a clean jar (easy since he pees in the tub . . . oh, and I did throw away the syringe thingy lest it be used to give liquid medicine to a child some day), put it in the fridge, and call back.

The children thought keeping a jar of cat pee in the fridge was disgusting. These are the same two people who had no qualms at all about storing Cat-O's testicles in the fridge for a week when we had him neutered. (Long story. Don't ask.) But two tablespoons of sterile urine in a sealed jar? Ugh.

It just looks like a little left-over vinaigrette. I bet you can't even spot it.


I'll give you a clue:So I called the vet back and was told to go downstairs immediately and hand the jar and some money over to their son who was serving as Cat Pee Courier. I handed it off and apologized. He sighed and shrugged in resignation. I'll let you know when the results are in.

In other news, I got this adorable toy yesterday. Isn't Mr Rabbit just wonderful?


When you move him around in a circle, his little carrot-shaped spade goes up and down. I also got a snow man, but he's not as charming (the waitress at our neighborhood Ukrainian place gave these to the girls).

And here is Pipsqueak. Skittles made him at school. He's very cute.

When he's not peeing in my bathtub, Cat-O is frantic to get at both these toys. He also likes to sit on a shelf that is full of breakable items. I have to extract him by his fat legs.

This is a Good Cat.


It is also a Very Relaxed Cat. (Yeah, that mess is my bed. Do not judge me. It was during the weekend.)


She's gotten so big. And while she's no rocket scientist, she does seem to be warming to us and slowly coming out of her shell. Which makes her seem ever so slightly brighter. She's no Einstein, that's for sure.

But at least she doesn't pee in the bathtub.

Oh, and Another Thing: School Nurse Fail, Redux

Skittles is ALWAYS being sent to the school nurse. I mean, it is at least a weekly experience.

Recently, she was hit on the head with a pétanque ball. She brought it up as we were walking to the Metro after school in an "Oh, by the way . . ." manner.

But the kid had a goose egg on her head the size of a . . . well, the size of a pétanque ball.

She was sent to the school nurse who, as usual, said "It's nothing," and sent her back to class.

Today, she was inventorying her various injuries.

"See this?" she said, pointing to her skinned knee. "When I got this, I was sent to the school nurse."

"How did that go?" I asked.

"Oh, she looked at it and said, 'What's YOUR name? Seems everyone else has been to see me, but I don't think I've ever met you.'"

Un-fucking-believable.

Hot! Hot! Hot!

Before I begin the next rant, I mean blog entry, let me draw your attention to a few things.

First, if you are not reading the other blogs under the heading "More Ways to Waste Time (But Worth It, I Swear!)" in the column on the right side of this page, you should. There's some very funny stuff there, as well as Russian stuff that waxes more political than I do. Worth looking at anyhow.

One I found particularly amusing today is not in that list, but on another list of blogs I follow (note to Carbo and Troy: that's where your blogs went. When you start posting again regularly, I'll move you back into public view). Go here to read an amusing post from a woman who recently returned to the UK after time spent in Russia. If you haven't spent a year here recently, you might not get the chuckle out of it that I did. But maybe you will.

Another funny website is this one. I was handed a brochure for this outside the Metro the other day. You don't need to read Russian to look around and get the general idea. I think the site name translates as "Tasty Bouquet." Remember: $100US = approximately 3100 rubles.

But back to our topic.

I have yet to venture into a proper Russian banya. But, being of Finnish origins, not only am I familiar with the sauna concept, but I know how to pronounce it properly (or at least Finnish-ly). I have been in proper Finnish saunas in northern Minnesota, where we braved leech-infested waters when we plunged into the lake. I have spent time with Slovak friends in their saunas.

I always sit on the top shelf.

In Moscow, I hear foreigners being advised "DON"T SIT ON THE TOP SHELF!!!!!"

Pish-posh, I have always said. Yeah, it's warmer up there. It's supposed to be warmer up there. I'm in the sauna to sweat.

My gym has what I would call a traditional (dry) sauna. It's the kind where you lie on benches of varying heights after having tossed ladles full of water onto the stones.

There is also a wet or steam sauna. I have NO idea how this works, although I do venture in from time to time. Today there were actually other women there, so I tried to observe what the procedure was without seeming pervy. But if you have tips for me on this, PLEASE write me a note in the Comments. Because I feel like I might be missing something vital here.

Anyhow, today the gym was kinda hopping, and I found I was not alone in the saunas. I was stretched out on the top shelf of the dry sauna, having tossed my couple of ladles of water on the stones, exfoliating, and minding my own business, when another woman joined me.

"Do you mind if I add some water to the heater?" she asked me. Okay, I cannot swear this was exactly what she said, but I knew this was what she meant.

"Da! Da! Da!" I said. Knock yourself out. I have Finnish blood. Better nobody than a Finn! Sisu!

She then proceeded to pour the entire contents of the water bucket onto the heated stones.

Oh. My. God.

Scorching steam filled the space.

I had been lying on my back with one knee bent so that I could scrape at myself with my loofah, but the freaking WALL OF FIRE caused me to flatten my leg ASAP.

My nipples began to burn. And not in a sexy way. I had to put my hands over my boobs to keep the skin from peeling off.

Add to this mixture a certain North American foolish pride ("Hot? You call this hot? I laugh at your heat."), but I felt like I could not run screaming from the sauna for the safety of the icy plunge pool.

So I just laid there.

Sweat ran off me in rivers.

My thighs, when I finally ventured out into the light of the dressing room and hurled myself into the freezing water of the plunge pool (how do they keep that water so wonderfully cold?), were mottled red and white like a finely marbled cut of steak. I hope the furnace was melting the fat in my thighs. It was melting the fat in my thighs, right?

So I claim total ignorance. I throw myself on the mercy and wisdom of my Russian readers. Was there anything else I need to know about surviving the inferno of the Russian dry sauna?

And what the heck goes on in the steam sauna? It's all wet in there. You don't actually expect that I will sit on the marble benches in there, do you? Lady parts on naked marble. I mean, that's got to be a veritable petri dish for unwanted bacteria, right? I see some people with towels, some people with the cotton sheets. And some people seem to plop down buck nekkid. And how long am I supposed to sit in there?

All advice is both solicited and appreciated. Go ahead: make my day.

Doesn't Matter the Country: I Hate the Post Office

I think I missed paying my last phone bill.

I suspect this because RosTeleCom, the phone company, has been calling me lately. It is an automated call, and I know if I don't listen to their recorded message all the way through, they will keep calling me.

Which is a good thing because I want them to call when The Spouse is home so he can confirm my suspicions.

Not that it helps me much. Without the bill, I'm not sure how to pay.

See, the way it works is that RosTeleCom sends me a little piece of paper in the mail every month. This piece of paper lists the long distance charges I have incurred for the current month.

It says nothing about last month: if I paid the last bill, if my balance brought forward is zero. Nothing.

Each month is a complete transaction in and of itself.

I know this because we lost a piece of paper a while ago. Eventually, when I tried to make a long distance call, I found it would not go through. Although I had paid the bills that came after the lost one, I had no idea what to do about it until Ros TeleCom kindly sent me another copy of the missing bill.

So the other day I decided to double check our mail box.

We store things in the mailbox for the landlords, and now and then Man Friday comes and takes them away.

So I took everything out. And, because out mailbox is sort of wedge-shaped, reached waaaaaay into the recess.

There I found a crumpled piece of paper.

But not from RosTeleCom.

Worse.

It was from the Post Office.

Let me preface what follows with two pieces of information:
1. I know it is my job to speak the language of my host country. No denying. Any failure to communicate is my fault. And efforts by the local populace to help me anyhow (and this is generally the case . . . people take pity on me all the time) is gravy.
2. I have been treated badly by post office employees all over the world. I had a clerk I dealt with regularly in Taiwan who used to spot me in the line, sigh audibly, and lay her head on her desk.

But I digress. We've had these receipts before, and I can read enough now to see that this was notifying me that we had received an envelope, and that it was addressed to both me and The Spouse. The last time we received the same configuration and our collective hearts stopped and we did not breathe until we collected said envelop and discovered it was our Economic Stimulus Check from the US Treasury. We had been fearing all sorts of awful news from people like the IRS.

I showed the crumbled piece of paper to The Spouse last night.

"Are we expecting anything?" I asked.

He thought about it.

"Oh! I know what this is," he sounded upbeat. This was good. "It's from Pani Babka." (Scroll down through this archive and read about Pani Babka if you are interested.)

Aside: Pani Babka, which is Slovak for Mrs Grandma, was our lovely neighbor in Bratislava. As a further aside, you should know that Pan means Mr. and Pani means Mrs. Except when it is plural. The plural of Mr. or, gentlemen, is pani. If you are still hanging in here with me, you should also know that there is no Russian word for either Mr. or Mrs. If you want the waitress's attention, you basically call out "Girl!" It's very unsettling to me.

I don't know how long this notice has been in my mailbox because I cannot read the date stamped on it. I do know there is a limited amount of time the post office will hold a piece of mail before returning it to the sender, and it is surprisingly brief. I adore Pani Babka, and don't want her offering to appear rejected.

So I just came back from an unsuccessful trip to the post office. I did not cry. But I almost did.

I knew that I had to take the receipt to a second part of the local post office that has its own entrance. I looked carefully at the sign to make sure they were not closed for lunch. Seemed they should be open for business. So I went in.

I peered through the little glass service counter window. There was a young-ish woman at the back of the work space, sitting at a computer terminal. She said something to me which I interpreted as "Go away, we are closed for lunch."

I mimed that I could not hear her. She repeated it. She did not get up.

I figured maybe she was closed for lunch. So I went next door to the regular part of the post office.

There, another woman sat at a desk some distance from the service counter windows. She, too, appeared to be actually working on something. Another potential customer had followed me into the first part of the post office, apparently had also been rebuffed, and now followed me into the regular part of the post office.

I found this somewhat reassuring.

Seated Woman said something to both of us, but did not stop what she was doing. Then First Woman appeared, having travelled to this section of the post office through "the back." She looked at me and the other guy and said again what she said the first time I met her. Then, sensing she was defeated by my stupidity, she sighed and took my receipt.

"You have to go to the other side," she said, keeping the receipt and returning to her first position through "the back."

I figured I was supposed to follow her. So I went out the front door of the regular part and re-entered the second part of the post office (or where I started). She stood behind her counter, examined the receipt, gave it back to me, and told me "You have to fill out the back with your passport information," and walked away.

Shit. That's right. I remember this now from last time. Okay. Will do.

But when I look in my purse, neither of the two pens I normally carry are there.

"Um . . . a pen?" I say. But she ignores me. It is part of her evil plan to make me go away and leave her alone.

Surely the main part of the post office has pens, right? I mean, have you even been in a post office or bank that didn't have pens on chains at all the windows and at those counters where you fill out your documents before getting in line?

Well, not here. I should have known better.

So I gave up.

I went to the grocery store and came home, defeated.

I'll go back later this afternoon with The Spouse.

Update: I met The Spouse for lunch and he filled out the back of the form in Russian. We went to the post office. He handed the woman the piece of paper.

"Where on EARTH did you get this?" she asked him.

"Our neighbors gave it to us yesterday," he lied. "It had been in their mailbox."

"Well, it's OLD," she said, actually laughing good-naturedly. "See the date stamped on here? It's from last year."

[Sound of me smacking my forehead, Oy!]

This would be the notice from the IRS last summer to come get my Economic Stimulus Check. When I realized that we never got one, I filled out the appropriate forms to get them to send me a check again. This explains why I had to do that.

She was very nice. Now we can be friends.

FIN

Shhhh!

Don't tell ANYONE, but it is possible, albeit only slightly, that Moscow has started to, well, maybe grow on me.

Just a little.

I've seen the weirdest things here. No, seriously. I swear my kids have seen every bodily function in public except, perhaps, childbirth. And, anymore, I wouldn't be surprised to see that. In the Metro.

We did see a guy puke in the Metro this week. I heard a funny splashing sound, and, sure enough, there was some poor man, in a wee bit of a corner, vomiting. A very splash-y vomit.

We sort of had to step O-V-E-R the resulting river.

Sorry. I probably didn't need to share that detail with you.

He ended up on the escalator in front of us (although we were separated by a good many empty steps). The girls were skittish. ("Is he going to do it again?" "Do you think he was drunk?")

No. He completed the ride without further incident. And, no I do NOT think he had been drinking. Since you didn't care much for my last TMI detail above, just trust me here. Swine flu? Maybe. Liquid lunch? Er . . . nyet.

Today I saw an albino woman in the Metro.

An Asian albino woman.

Now many People With Russian Passports (and even this is an over-simplification) have Asian features (it is complicated . . . see Comments). One Russian woman I know looks totally Asian. I thought she said she's of Tatar origins; other friends say that her last name is Korean. Anyhow, my point is that Russians are not as homogeneous looking as one might initially think. So maybe the albino woman was a citizen of Russia or the Former Soviet Union. Or maybe she was Japanese.

Japanese was what I thought first because they would be likely to be bleach-bottle blond by choice. And she was really blond.

Her skin was the most remarkable color. Maybe she was an albino with a jaundice issue. Combined with full eye make-up, she looked like she was on her way to a kabuki performance. And since I'm slow, it took me until I had completely passed her to think, "Oh! Maybe she's albino!"

Have I ever mentioned that my Metro station seems to be the meeting point for every deaf person in Moscow? They hang out in the central hallway between the two platforms or outside in the park. Chatting away in sign language. It is a lovely thing, actually: all these people speaking in sign language.

But back to the strange sightings.

As I was waiting to cross the Garden Ring (which is wider than I-70, the interstate highway that cuts through my ancestral village), I saw, across the street, a cute little black and white dog trotting along. He was clearly not a street dog. But where was his person?

By now, I had crossed the first half of the street and was waiting for the light to let me complete the second half.

I saw a woman with another, larger dog on a leash.

Ah, ha! She must be Little Dog's mom.

The light changed, and I crossed the street only to fall into step with her while Little Dog checked pee-mail messages.

Larger Dog had a collar, but his leash was just a length of clothesline. Now that I was right next to her, I could see she, too, wore a slightly ragtag air.

But the strangest thing was that while she held the leash in her left hand, in her right hand she carried a clump of sod.

Made me think of this scene from Love and Death:



But the best thing came later. I was walking near Chistye Prudy and saw a couple walking with two dogs on leashes. The young woman had on a rather large backpack. The kind you might use if you are really going for a trek.

On top of the backpack rode a cat.

He looked just like our Cat-O. He wore a harness and a leash that she held in one hand. He did not care much for this mode of transportation: he was hanging on like grim death and, as they turned into a building courtyard, I heard him meow.

I told the girls, "I saw Cat-O. I think he has a secret life and goes out when we aren't home."

"Don't be silly," they didn't buy it for a minute. "He's always home when we get there."

"True," I conceded. "But have you ever noticed he's always right by the door? Like he's only just got in?"

Look at the Drunks!

. . . says my brother, as he emails me this picture of the two of us in My Summer Dacha in My Ancestral Village last summer (countdown until arrival there: FIVE DAYS!).

We do look a little bleary.

Funny thing, sort of. I thought he was talking about this article in today's Moscow Times. Which isn't funny.

While I'm being not funny, what is it with the rash of celebrity deaths? Doesn't it always seem to come in waves? I remember that Elvis and Groucho died the same summer (1977 if you're interested).

David Carradine.

Ed McMahon.

Lovely Farrah Fawcett. God, how I wanted hair like that . . . her mother apparently said to always brush the back of your head because "people see that." Or so my mother told me.

And today the King is dead.

RIP.

Would You, Could You in a Box?

Countdown to Summer Dacha in my Ancestral Village: 6 days to go.

Have you ever heard of Spencer Tunick? I saw something about him on the teevee not so long ago.

He's a photographer.

He is famous for photographing nudes.

Large groups of nudes.

Outdoors.

And he's coming to Moscow in July to do a new project for the Third Moscow Biennale of Contemporary Art.

He's looking for ten people to photograph, individually this time, on the streets of Moscow.

Wouldn't that be a RIOT? Having your photo taken, NAKED, somewhere in Moscow?

My first choice would be somewhere in the Metro, but I doubt that would go over very well with the Metro authorities. Maybe I could stand in the grassy center of Lubyanskaya Square. Right in front of Detsky Mir and the FSB (former KGB) headquarters. Or maybe in the middle of the Garden Ring. Like right on the center line.

The possibilities are endless.

I'm actually sorry I won't be in Moscow, being the blatant exhibitionista that I am.

Someone! Please do this and tell me all about it. I can live vicariously.

Don't worry about me.

There is another photography project afoot that opens here in Moscow on September 3. Alas, for this one I am clothed, nay furred even (the new profile picture comes from that shoot). But save the date, and when I have more details, I will pass them along.

Shamelessly Shilling

If you are in the Central Ohio/Franklin County area and in the market for tasteful, reasonably priced, gently used furniture, look here.

Then go here, and sponsor my sister-in-law (or the rider of your choice) who is riding her bike 100 miles at the end of August as a fund-raiser for the Ohio State University Comprehensive Cancer Center. My dad was treated there for prostate cancer last summer, and as I type this he remains cancer-free.

That's always a good thing.

Weekend Round Up

It was a banner weekend for Skittles.

First, Lili the Babysitter Extraordinaire came on Friday night. Both the girls adore her. But I am especially fond of her because not only does she get my kids to bathe, but she can get them to clean their room, too. Apparently, all she says is, "Let's have a look at your room" or "My, it's worse than ever, isn't it?" and they scurry about and BINGO! It's tidy.

On Saturday was the kermesse or school fun fair day. The sort of thing you LOVE as a kid but LOATHE as a parent. We were strongly encouraged to bring treats to share and to volunteer to man a booth/game/activity. I immediately volunteered to bring a cake, but this was my downfall. "Can we count on you to help with an activity for an hour or two?" came the reply. So you feel like a real shit if you say no. I warned them I needed something not terribly language intense as I can't produce French For Children very well. So I scored two hours on a bean bag toss-type activity.

Outside.

In the rain.

It was bad enough slogging through the rainy Moscow streets dragging the cake plate while balancing my umbrella. Cramps in my hands make me cranky.

But the umbrella turned out useful for standing IN THE RAIN at the freaking bean bag toss. The other poor mom assigned along with me was incredulous. "There's NO ONE out here!" she said after we had dutifully stood out there for about an hour. A bunch of kids had come along (they get a card listing all the activities, and they have to get a check mark for having completed each one to qualify for a prize). But eventually there was no one. Just the two of us. Not even any other parents at any of the other outdoor activities.

The girls scored badminton sets, as did everyone else, for their completed cards. Just the thing for an apartment culture, right? (Turns out they make great tools for vexing cats.)

Then Skittles went to sleep over at her friend's house. And the next day (Sunday) they both went to a birthday party for a classmate.

The Spouse went to the restaurant where the party was being held to collect Skittles. He sent me the following SMS: "Party nowhere near done. Offensive pirate opens and critiques all gifts. Requires parents to add cash if he deems gift to be deficient."

WTF?

Thankfully, Skittles' tribute merited little more than a "Heh" from the pirate. I was ready to tell The Spouse to open up a can of whoop-ass on him as Skittles had put a lot of time and consideration into selecting what she felt would be THE perfect gift for her friend.

But all was well.

So, to sum up: Lili, kermesse, sleep over, birthday party. That's about as good as it gets when you are 8 going on 9.

As for me, I get excited about things like this:


CAXAP is "sugar." How cool is that? Resealable/Pourable sugar. Maybe they have this where you come from, but this is the first time I have ever seen it, and it is such a good idea.

This is not such a good idea:


We have made some sort of switch at the grocery store where now we have to pay for grocery bags. I suppose this is to encourage recycling, which I am all for. But I am also all for a clean litter box. And those grocery bags are a great place to put what I have scooped out of said litter box.

Only, when they made the switch for Bags-For-Fee, they switched to larger grocery bags. Perhaps to assuage their guilt.

I liked the smaller ones better.

But now they sometimes give me these bags. "Oh, let me give you a pretty bag," they tell me.


There is no charge for these green bags (I suspect they were given to the grocery chain by the Sprite people). And they are very nice bags. Sturdy handles. Thick plastic.

They're just not very good as a receptacle for a couple of scooped cat turds.

There's just no pleasing some people, is there.

The Ridiculous and the Sublime

I have nothing profound to report, so I'll fill the empty space with pictures I have taken but been unable to find an excuse to post.

So many weird and wonderful things are juxtaposed in Moscow.

Below: Nastasinskiy perulok off Tverskaya ulitsa. The robin's egg blue building on the left was a city treasury. It's quite lovely.

Below: The giant flower garden in the park on Tsvetnoi bulvar. Every few weeks or so they yank out all the flowers and replace them with something new.


Below: Same park. Piled up like puppies. This is about 8:30 a.m.


Below: Horrors! The faulty washer is still languishing in my apartment. The cats use it as easy access to the bookshelf. The bookshelf is full of things that are

1. not for cats and
2. fun to play with or knock off the shelf.


We hate them. Not only do they climb curtains and forbidden bookshelves, but they run around the apartment like idiots starting about 4:00 a.m. It is extremely stressful as I am convinced they will pull down the curtain hardware or knock the leg off the hall table (long story, but it isn't attached).

Then, after making noise for about two hours, they have the nerve to take naps just as we are leaving the apartment in the morning.

Below: Sometimes they nap in the clean laundry.


Below: Last escrime class. Baboo in the blue vest.


Below: Neighborhood dog takes a break.

He is always in the same place, behind a residential building that we walk by daily. We call him "Mr. No Tail." Note he is not thin. One day I came across him with a new yellow tennis ball. I got suspicious. Then one night I walked by and could not find him anywhere. As this was about the time of the Street Dog Purge in preparation for Eurovision 2009, I got worried. I walked the length of his building, until I realized he was inside, asleep on the floor in the foyer.

He clearly lives there, but I'm not sure he belongs to anyone.

One day, I heard one of the security dudes who hang out with him call him "Rex."

Below: What's wrong with this picture?


Not sure? I'll zoom in a little for you.


Not sure how Dude got there, but I saw him walk along the island, sit down, light a cigarette, lie down on the concrete wall, and finish his cigarette. Not sure how he got out of there either.

Below: A poster on the Museum of Modern Russian History. I was one of four moms who accompanied Baboo's class there on Friday. It's advertising an exhibit titled "Reality of Utopia."

Skittle-isms:

Skittles got inadvertently slashed about the shins by Crooky the Cat one morning because Skittles was winding up some ribbon the cats had unrolled and it was Just. Too. Tempting.

Me, upon hearing the pitiful wails: "What happened to you?"
Skittles: "Crooky came out of a HOLE!"

She's had a bad series of run-ins with the Teen-aged Crooky. After the leg scratching, Crooky came blasting into the living room one day, vaulted over a chair in which Skittles was innocently sitting, and used Skittles' head as a launching pad. Ow.

Another day, I think it looks like maybe she's starting to get breasts. Ever discreet, I ask, "Hey! Are you getting boobs?"

Skittles, sadly: "Just one."