When Worlds Collide. Or Something.

One day during the summer, I received an email from someone in Moscow named Martin, asking if I "still wanted to do any acting?"

Huh?

Still do any acting?

I had no idea what this was all about, but made some cheery, non-committal reply like "I'm not in Moscow now, but when I get back, sure."

Martin asked to let him know when I returned.

Okaaaay. I did that. Fast forward to this month.

He sent me to audition for some voice-over work. (Haven't gotten any, but thanks. It was fun.)

Oh, have I mentioned, at this point we still have not met in person? I chat about him to the nice fellow who runs the studio where I made my audition tape. He concurs that Martin is a good egg. Certainly one-of-a-kind.

Friday, I get another email from Martin:

This Sunday we are having a little performance including a recitation of some of my own work.

Please come.

He includes the program which promises "a recital of poems & advanced graffiti," live music performed by a band calling themselves The Funkovich Project, an episode from Harold Pinter's The Dumb Waiter, "& the inevitable addition of some hilarious comic interludes."

The curtain rises at 19:00, and the "entry fee is optional," meaning they will pass the hat (or teapot, as it turned out) at some point during the evening.

All this just walking distance from our place.

The Spouse, having cosy-ed up with some vodka and a good book, declines to join me.

Fine. He can babysit.

So off I head into the soft Moscow night.

The evening is just as I expected.

I looked at Martin's website to make sure I could identify him at the event. Turns out that wasn't necessary, but who knew?

As predicted, the band is funky. There's a guitar, a bass, keyboards, and a sax. They seem to be speaking English, but it's hard to tell. They're not bad, actually. They suggest, at one point, that they are sort of winging it, but although there is a sense of a jam session at times, they don't seem unrehearsed.

During the music I look at the crowd and play the "Who's Hot?" game. This is a game The Spouse and I have refined over the years. In Slovakia, where there are only eight attractive men and they keep them on three-hour shifts, we used to sit on the Main Square and play "There's Your Boy/Girlfriend." I know another couple who play a version they call "Death Is Not an Option." It's always a good way to pass the time, so I scan the crowd, mentally rating the attractiveness of the men (it's Moscow, so the women are all off the chart . . . no need to keep score there).

Martin resembles the quintessential absent minded professor. Or English academic. Slightly formal, yet slightly rumpled, hair that refuses to be contained. Charming, but no doubt complicated.

Then there is Young Guy with Biceps sitting against the wall to my right. Goodness. He is very cute. And tall. Helloooo!

Next to him is Dude with Camera. Young and attractive too, he's taking pictures of the proceedings, but has become distracted by Gorgeous Young Russian Girl on my left. He takes her picture, but the camera's flash gives him away. She smiles, but indicates he should stop that. He makes himself a tripod of sorts, by steadying the camera on his beer glass so he can take pictures of her sereptitiously. She's flattered, but keeps waving at him to stop. He doesn't.

I watch the band for a while.

The sax player reminds me of someone. Can't think of who. But he is definately attractive. Seems to have both a light on and a sense of humor based on his interactions with the rest of the band. My. He's adorable.

The band finishes, the actors do their Pinter scene, Martin reads his poetry, and the band comes back for another set, this time with a pretty blonde chanteuse. They play a few more numbers including a rockabilly version of Sixteen Tons and an encore of Tainted Love.

I go home.

This morning I was reading the blogs on the right side of the page here --->

I hit on Impressions of an Expat, a blog by a fellow American who I have never met. He writes really well, almost poetically, about his experiences here in Moscow. Today, he has posted this link. Go on. Read it.

Isn't that too weird?

For a town of over 12 million people, it sure is small sometimes.

Culling

I girded my loins, took a deep breath . . .

and ventured into the girls' room yesterday.

It is just a disaster, largely because they HAVE TOO MUCH STUFF. And few places to store it.

I know for a fact that Skittles, when asked to put away clean laundry, just stuffs it into the little cabinet she uses as an armoire (it is, in fact, an old TV cabinet from Home Depot or IKEA or something). I remind her regularly, "You DON'T want me to look in there," because that results in lots of cursing and tears. Largely mine.

But yesterday I knew I could not delay any longer.

Not only because they deserve a cleaner, more organized place for their clothes. And not just because they have absolutely no idea what they own. But because I saw a notice for a clothing drive.

And the deadline is the end of September.

I received this:

Expats,

My company, Contrast Cleaners, is running through to the 30th September its annual charity event "Coats for Kids" where we collect and distribute clothes and shoes to orphanages in the Moscow region.

In the past 2 years we have collected on average around 1500 items per year and are looking for your generosity to improve on that this year, an especially difficult one for charities. So have a rummage in your wardrobes and chests of drawers for any unwanted clothes, in the age range from 1 to 18 years, and in reasonable condition.

You can donate the clothes or shoes by bringing them to any of our collection points or express dry cleaners where we will clean the clothes and carry out minor repairs at our cost before arranging the distribution to children charities.

You can view a list of our locations on our web site, www.contrast-cleaners.ru where you will also find more detail and links to the charities we have supported in the past. Just click on About the Company and then Charities.

Thank you in advance for your help.

Sincerely
Malcolm Hill
Partner
Contrast Cleaners

Seems ideal to me. There is one of these dry cleaner shops inside a grocery store down the street. And while in Moscow one can just put unwanted items next to the trash dumpsters and they will quickly find good homes, this seemed a more reliable way of getting decent used clothes and shoes directly to a good cause with very little effort on my part.

So I culled.

Five bags of kid clothes and one bag of shoes. And this is without even opening the BIG armoire in the girls' room. I'll just have to get to that next weekend.

The girls hate this process because I make them try things on, and it is so time consuming. I only spent two hours (one per kid) here.

The Spouse offered to help me carry them over to the shop later today. Malcolm Hill asked me to kindly spread the word, so consider yourself informed.

The carrot I dangled in front of the girls as a reward was Lunch Out. I had hoped to get one final day outside at Scandinavia's Summer Terrace (much cheaper than inside and a quiet oasis right off Tverskaya). But when we arrived, there was not a stick of furniture outside. Starlite Diner is not a bad second choice, and just up the street. So that was the Booby Prize.

After lunch, Baboo and I went to pick up (still more) newly arrived 6e textbooks. Another $100 worth (I swear I have already spent $200 on her books). And her math workbook and an English textbook have not yet arrived.

The Spouse and Skittles went to have a shoe of his repaired.

Then they stopped for a pastry and a chat.

About how the adults' personal life is none of her damn business, thank you very much.

See Friday night it happened again.

The Scene: Kids asleep in their room which is as geographically far from our room as is possible in our little place. They face the street (as do we) so the constant roar of the traffic covers up, on a normal night, the sounds of the television in the living room (which is between our bedrooms). That never disturbs her.

Our door was closed.

And yet. And yet . . .

The kid is somehow mysteriously tied to my nerve endings. I'm assuming it's mine. I should ask The Spouse to have what we here Chez Beet euphemistically call "A Moment to Himself" and see if the Money Shot wakes her from a sound sleep and causes her to wander the hall between her room and the toilet, weeping and retching.

So back in the bakery, he asked her why she thought it was any of her business. Her eyes welled up, and she started to get all weepy. And he said, "How's that pain au chocolate? Better than the one you had at the other place?"

And suddenly all was fine. They just . . . moved on.

Although now she's probably going to transfer the association to pain au chocolate and have to spend years in expensive regression therapy as an adult trying to figure out why French pastries simultaneously attract and repulse her. Or worse.

If you don't normally read the comments, go to the last entry and read those. The Loyal Beet-niks supplied some hilarious solutions.

I'm just glad I'm not the only one.

And now, for your amusement, some cat pictures:

Crooky has these funny back legs when she lies down.

We call this one "Cat-o-flage."

Tonight I'm going to a little soiree. Or salon. I'm not sure exactly what to call it. The Spouse will babysit.

The program promises a poetry reading and some music and a scene from a Harold Pinter play and "hilarious comic interludes." I have never met any of these people (another in my series of Moscow Virtual Friends), so if I don't make it home by midnight, I was last seen at Pivo Vodi, 26/1 Sretenka ul.

Good or bad, it could be good blog material.

Blow. And a Plug.

I don't have any Moscow-related wonders/horrors/chuckles to share lately as I have been sort under self-imposed house-arrest with my cold. It, that is, the cold, is coming along nicely, given that it swept in without warning on Saturday night during dinner out at a Posh Moscow Restaurant, effectively ruining any notions I had about a little Saturday Night Romance With The Spouse.

Poor Spouse.

He was due, too, since Date Night was his idea.

Aside: Romance has become increasingly difficult these days, what with the light sleeping habits of The Skittle-One, her sudden awareness that her parents are (HORRORS!) sexually active, and her heartfelt wish that they refrain from doing so ever again until she has moved out. "I promise to do so as quickly as I can," she added. Talk about a block. Suggestions? Our apartment is very small.

But I digress.

Date Night was The Spouse's idea because we quarreled earlier in the week. Well, if you want my side of the story, he was Crank Monster and snapped my head off one night because he said I did not announce that I was going to bed and left him, alone and sad, in the living room.

In his defense, that was, indeed, the series of events.

Except, as I may have mentioned, we live in an apartment the size of a refrigerator box.

He could see my feet on the bed from where he sat, abandoned, on the living room sofa.

I had wandered off to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, and then became distracted with toenail clipping and whisker removal and eyebrow tweezing and moisturizing and then remembered that I was right at the exciting part in my book and it was getting close to 11 o'clock and if I wanted to see the conflict resolve that night I'd better hurry up and get to it before it got too late.

So I was lying in bed reading my book when he came in and told me off.

The next day he declared we deserved a little time away from kids so we could work on our strengths, which really is being the best of friends and talking non-stop. In spite of the odd economic climate, he has had a couple of all-nighters recently, and he's just not 18 anymore. He has been exhausted, and this is never a good thing.

Once I arranged for the babysitter, he actually made a dinner reservation!

It's not like the man can't pick up the phone on his own, but he is usually so concerned about consensus that we have to discuss everything.

Sometimes a girl just wants to go on a date. That's already arranged. Because her fella already knows what she likes.

I had told him that a few weeks ago, and he remembered, and just did it. Which was so nice.

So I got to have breast of duck with foie gras, ginger puree, endive, plum wine, savoy cabbage, and oyster mushrooms. Oh, and a martini (actually TWO). And it was gooooood.

Except that on the way to the restaurant my throat began to hurt like hell. In the middle of the night I could no longer swallow, it hurt so much, and I repaired to the living room sofa where I dozed and watched a very old episode of Jon and Kate Plus Eight (where they still, apparently, liked each other).

Sunday I slept all day.

Seriously. After my short stint on the sofa, I crawled back to bed and slept until noon. Around 2:00 we went out for lunch. And then I went back to bed.

By now (Thursday), the cold has progressed to the point where I am blowing what is left of my brains out through my nose. Which is all chapped and peeling. Always a good, good look, isn't it? Peeling nostril?

Oh, and I've been coughing.

In my sleep.

In spite of my best efforts to dose myself with vodka/cough supressant/NyQuil. 

The Spouse told me so.

"I have?" I was crushed. I would so hate to have to sleep next to me.

"Yeah. But you're sick," he said, not unkindly. "And the coughing lets me know you're not dead."

Awww. He's said this before, and he's quite sincere. I guess that's as positive a spin as anyone can put on it.

"The coughing," he went on. "And the snoring. Oh, and the farting."

For better or worse, eh?

I do have this gadget, which is a life-saver. Yeah, it's gross, I know. But I swear it helps. With the coughing and snoring. Not sure about the farting.

But enough about bodily functions, you say. What else is happening Chez Beet?

Well, I am loving the Kindle. Yeah, I saw a less-than-flattering review in The New Yorker. But as an expat, it's a wonderful thing. I believe that it has encouraged me to read more, partially because it is so light and easy to carry around with me. (Back in my days of car-ownership, I always, on the advice of Stephen King, carried books with me for those little moments during the day when I could get in a page or two. Commuting by foot and by Metro has made me loathe to carry more than I absolutely have to.) Since the first of the month I have already plowed through three Daniel Silva thrillers (A Death in Vienna, The Confessor, and The Defector), Christopher McDougall's Born to Run, and Heather Armstrong's It Sucked and Then I Cried. Last night I started the new Dan Brown book.

None of these cost me more than $10, and none of them had to be schlepped back to Moscow in a suitcase. I have 38 other titles already loaded on it, and even though I am not in the US, I can buy and download books through my computer.

Oh, and I tested my Kindle in the sun: mine doesn't fade.

Possibly one advantage to living in Moscow?

Bad Cats

I have a nasty cold, but my friend who already HAD swine flu tells me I probably don't have swine flu. Or maybe I do, as many cases are quite mild. I did try to warn a French friend not to greet me with the standard French cheek kisses today, but she (bless her heart) announced, "I DON'T CARE!" and bis-ed me anyhow.

Awww.

Come to think of it, the friend who had swine flu is French.

Hmmm.

Last night, while I tossed and turned and snorted and coughed and wheezed and sweated, the cats, performing their nightly Cat Antics, turned on the TV and CHANGED THE CHANNEL. To cartoons.

I awoke, in a fog, trying to figure out why The Spouse was in the living room watching TV loudly at 3:14 in the a.m.

He wasn't, as it turned out.

The cats also, apparently, tried to hack into the computer. Frustrated, they unplugged the keyboard.

Brats.

Tell me again what redeeming features cats bring. Because The Spouse doesn't see any in them.

I Have to Ask for a WHAT?

Remember my shower problem?

Well, The Spouse, after careful consideration, realized that he is perfectly capable of replacing the shredded hose that connects the tap with the shower head. Last night he even left work a little early in hopes of getting to the hardware store before they close.

Alas: they close at 7:30 and he got there at 8:00.

So he took the thing apart, handed me the hose, and told me how to say it in Russian.

Are you ready?

The Russian word for hose is шланг.

That's right. Say SCHLONG.

I cracked up like a prepubescent school boy.

I need a new schlong. My old one doesn't work.

It's sooooo juvenile, I know. But I just can't say it with a straight face.

But I did it! I went to the hardware store, I showed the lady my old, tattered шланг, and she sold me a new one.

Baboo carried it home in a bag.

On a more mature note, I picked up these cards today.

I love Mr. Cat and His Catfish. The title of the piece translates to something like "Here Is Happiness."

And the animals! The title of this one is "Symbols."


Click on the images for a better view of them.

I Have to Ask for a WHAT?

Myself! Myself!

Somewhere along the way, in the past, oh, 48 years or so, I heard someone tell the story of their toddler, who, when especially pleased with something she'd done, used to wrap her arms around herself and say, "Oh! Myself! Myself!"

I don't remember who told me this story. And it's possible the child did this when she was in need of reassurance and not when she was contented. If you are the source and I screwed it all up, please, don't tell me. Because it will ruin the delicate plot thread that holds this blog entry together. These things are tenuous at best.

Because, speaking of self-love, I broke the hand-held shower.

Beet Reader 1: Did she just say what I thought she said?
Beet Reader 2: Woody Allen does call it "sex with the one you love best."
Beet Reader 1: A lot of people think Woody Allen is a perv these days.

Well, actually, the hose exploded off the wall while I was setting the water temperature to take a shower last night.

So that's one of those annoying things that plague me. Another thing that needs to be fixed. But The Spouse says there's nothing wrong with the shower that a quick trip to the hardware store won't fix.

I guess that means he's planning to fix it. He's done this before. But I'm not sure when he's going to find time to pop into the hardware store before the weekend.

So I gave the kids a plastic bowl and said "Rinse your shampoo off with this." because I'm a Lean, Mean Parenting Machine.

Okay, maybe not so lean. But I did go to the gym today. The kids may have to use a plastic bowl, but I can take showers at the gym.

I went to the gym, I did. For the first time since I left Moscow to go to the Summer Dacha. I swam my kilometer (Myself! Myself!). And scrubbed off two months worth of dead skin cells in the sauna.

Yeah, it was gross. But my skin feels so nice now.

On the way home I stopped at the bank and paid the telephone bill.

Because we lost a bill right about the time I left Moscow to go to the Summer Dacha. Making us derelicts in the eyes of RosTelecom.

We owe them 300 rubles (about $10US).

But without that little piece of paper that comes in the mail, I can't pay the bill. And then next month, they will send you a NEW bill. But it doesn't have any information about the previous month.

You have to wait for them to send you a copy of the original bill. In the mail.

In the meantime, they call you regularly to remind you that you are a deadbeat.

It's a recording. But you cannot hangup without listening to the entire message. Or they call you back. Forcing you to listen to the entire message.

As soon as I hear a Russian man's recorded voice on the other end, I know who is calling and what they are want. I don't need to hear the entire message. I can't understand the details of it anyhow. What I need is for RosTelecom to send me another one of those damn pieces of paper.

They eventually did that, and I paid it today. But I didn't understand the nice lady behind the glass at the bank who asked me for 50 mmmmhhuumms, which I interpreted as "50 rubles." I didn't have 50 rubles, and I said so. I only had bigger bills. I hadn't done the math at home, so I didn't know exactly how much money she would want. Something in the neighborhood of 300 rubles was all I knew.

So then she asked me for one ruble. Which I gave her.

Duh-oh.

She wanted 50 kopecks.

I have a purse full of kopecks. There were probably 5,802 kopeck coins in various denominations lying on the floor of the bank. They are worth so little, honestly, people do not even stop to pick them up.

Aside: As I need to pay for some things related to school in euros, I was wondering what is the plural of euro in Russian? Because the official and correct use is always singular even though it sounds a bit odd to my ear. And so I learned that there's no plural for euro in Russian either. And now you know, too.

But I digress.

I left the bank feeling like an idiot.

Okay, Teller Lady probably won't remember me. But I still felt like an idiot.

Fast forward to later this afternoon, when I stopped on the way home from school to buy Baboo a sloika (think "danish"). The price was 32 rubles. I was sure I handed Sloika Lady 52 rubles. But she gave me back a whole bunch of change. I was about to insist she take it back, but the kids said I handed her 502 rubles.

"Well, that doesn't make any sense," I told them.

Am I, in this blog, documenting my slow decline into dementia?

I may have oatmeal for brains, but I do make an excellent pesto.

Seriously. It's good. But it really does need the lemon juice.

And I produced another in a series of kick-ass roasted chickens today.

Does anything smell better than a roasting chicken?

I have taken to spatchcocking my chickens.

Beet Reader 1: What did she just say?
Beet Reader 2: Perv!

I saw someone on a cooking show (probably the same person who told the story about the toddler) cut the backbone out of a chicken before grilling it on a barbecue. And I thought it might make for a nice roasted chicken.

I slice a few onions, cut up a lemon, and pull off some cloves of garlic to put in the pan under the flattened chicken. It smells just heavenly when it's roasting, and makes for a rather tasty chicken, too.

On a completely different topic, I am loving the Kindle. My big fear is dropping it. Or the cats knocking it on the floor. Because I get the impression that they can suffer irreparable damage if they get dropped.

I'm reading a fun spy novel on the Kindle right now. It's got espionage and Russian oligarchs and MI5, and I know where all the scenes that take place in Moscow are. I need to go finish reading it because the villain has our hero, the hero's wife, and the title character at his dacha where he plans to dispatch them.

Further, I am happy to report that I purchased another book by the same author, downloaded it to my computer, and copied it successfully onto the Kindle. So, fellow expats, one can use these things outside the US.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go see if Daniel manages to off Ivan before Ivan offs him.

I'm Ready for My Close Up

Yesterday, we went on a tour of Мосфильм (Mosfilm), also known as the Russian Hollywood.

The event was noteworthy, not just because we got to see the extensive film studios and grounds, but because I am, as of this writing, no longer either a trolley bus nor a marshrutka (маршруткa) virgin.

That's a big deal for me.

Perhaps I have mentioned this before, but, odd as it may sound coming from a serial expat, I abhor new experiences. Really.

If you want me to be intrepid, you basically have to drag me by the ear to try anything new.

My comfort zone is pretty damn small.

But getting to the film studios required taking the Metro (in which I have an advanced degree) and then either a bus, a trolley bus, or a marshrutka.

The last form of transportation is a sort of fixed route minivan. You pay the driver 20 rubles (he will make change), and you can get off anywhere along that route. But you have to know where that is and pipe up. Besides being a bit language intensive, the other potential drawback to this form of transportation is that the drivers like to wait until most or all of the seats are full before embarking on the route. If you are in a hurry, this might not be the mode for you.

But we were a large group, so we filled up a van and went off, en masse, to Mosfilm. Coming back, there were not enough places in the marshrutka for all of us, so we took the trolley bus.

This is slightly more expensive (25 rubles each). You buy a ticket from the driver (again, he will make change), and then put it into a slot that allows you to pass through the turnstile. Don't forget to retrieve your ticket. I seem to recall a tragic story about a brave expat who ventured onto a tram not realizing she was required to retrieve her ticket. When she was berated by the driver, the rest of the tram rose to her defense, shouting back at the driver to cut her some slack and just drive the tram!

These are the tales that chill my blood.

But now I might actually try taking the B trolley bus. It goes around the Garden Ring and could be pretty darn useful. There is a stop practically in front of our building. If I had any idea how often it runs, I'd be in business. I suppose I could sit there for a while with a notebook and a pen and see if there's a recognizable pattern.

But what about the tour, you ask?

Blogger is a clumsy vehicle for uploading lots of photos. So unless you are my Facebook friend, you will have to content yourself with these paltry offerings from the tour.

There is quite an extensive collection of vintage vehicles, all fully-restored and operational. If a director needs one, it be started up and driven to the site.

There were lots of costumes from famous Russian movies.

No animals were harmed in the making of this film.
Apparently, if an animal needs to move in a scene, they use live animals. But if the animal is merely a glimpse of something in the background, then they use mock-ups like this one. The guide assured us that it looked quite real in the finished movie. Ew.

My favorite part of the tour was the back lot of Old Moscow. All of this was facade, made of Styrofoam and plywood. But it looked convincing, even at rather close range.

The facility is remarkably kid-friendly. We had six children in our group, and they were encouraged to climb on and in things. I was very pleasantly surprised.

I was also pleased that everyone seemed to enjoy the tour. It's one of those Something-For-Everyone experiences. I recommend it.

In Which I Have a Bone to Pick

Behold.

This is my stove.


It is a behemoth with four gas burners and two electric burners on the top. Inside there is only one oven rack, but it is large enough to hold a Thanksgiving turkey or two lasagna dishes. Those are the good things about it.

The cons?

First, you have to light the gas burners and the oven with matches. I am not afraid of gas stoves. But I wish I could find an appropriate clicker here so I wouldn't have to be scrambling for matches all the time or taking them from local restaurants. Airlines frown on putting those nice clickers in your checked luggage. I know because I asked.

Second, the whole thing seems to pitch ever-so-slightly forward making cookware slide off the front two burners. All omelets and pancakes come out uneven. But even this I can live with; I just don't use the front burners (although The Spouse does).

What has really stumped me this week was the discovery that one of those electric burners is often on (i.e. hot to the touch) even though I never use those burners and the control dial on the front of the stove indicates that the burner is off.

Well, it isn't.

How on earth do I have that fixed?

Short answer: I probably won't. I'll just add that to the list of Things That Won't Get Fixed Because of the Language Barrier. That list includes

* The curtain rod in the living room that the cats pulled out of the wall and
* The piece of wood trim that holds the magnets that keep the doors closed that the cats pulled out of the closet.

Just an aside: We own pets because they lower our blood pressure, right? I mean, that's what all the literature says, doesn't it?

I don't know who to talk to about making these niggling repairs since Man Friday doesn't speak any English and neither problem seems worth bothering our Non-Russian-Landlords-Who-Live-in-China-Now.

It's not like I don't have tools here. I suppose I can fix at least the closet trim myself. But who wants to?

I can take solace in the fact that all of this makes for good blog material. Except lately I've been . . . well, vexed because it seems that when, say, dooce, one of my favorite bloggers, has a domestic problem, all of the Internet reads her tale of woe.

Don't get me wrong. I adore dooce. I bought her book. I wish only the best for her, and that includes a minimum of domestic hassles. I laugh with her; I cry with her.

But her washing machine nightmare wasn't any funnier than mine. Not only did she get to solve the problem speaking her native language, but she got 2906 comments on her blog entry about it. Because she has a gazillion readers. I'm lucky if I get 100 readers a day (yeah, I know who all of you are, too . . . the Internet has powerful tools). I was reading along as she explained her predicament, and I was thinking, "Oh, I so feel your pain, girl. Now, let's take it from the top in Cyrillic!" (Go back to May 2009 and wander through the archives if you missed my saga. It goes on and on and on . . .)

Likewise, when I read her posts about the birth of her second child (go here, here, and here if you haven't read them already), it was like reading about my own Journey of Discovery Regarding Birth, which also took place largely in another language except that time it was in Spanish which no one can complain is too hard. I mean, really.

Okay, dooce gets the points for that one since she actually recorded her experiences because, like, blogs weren't invented yet when Skittles was born. But I think I ought to get some credit for getting there first. And for the ensuing police investigation. Dooce didn't get to have a file opened up when she applied for her kid's passport, nor did she get to have her building super whisked away by the cops for questioning about the señora on the séptimo piso. Seems the Argentines find it a bit odd when an almost-40-year-old American woman has a homebirth in the center of Buenos Aires. It is a good story, and it's even almost funny now looking back, and I suppose I really ought to write down what I can remember nine years later while I can still remember the details, if only for Skittles and not my own shameless blog self-promotion.

The point of all my rambling here, I guess, is the fickle nature of the Blog-O-Sphere. Okay, first you actually have to write stuff down. But then it seems so capricious which blogs manage to attract readers. Even the Julie/Julia Project . . . you know, the blog, the book, the movie with Meryl Streep? . . . How did readers find her blog in the beginning?

Because, let's be honest here. I want Meryl Streep to play me in the movie.

On a sunnier note, the doorbell rang rather late last night. I had just returned from the opening of HOW DO YOU DO . . . MOSCOW? (because I was one of the people they photographed . . . look for me . . . "The Blogger") which is a very cool project about expats by expats. You should check it out. Anyhow, at the door was our neighbor with a huge bowl of apples from their dacha.

Aren't they lovely?

I'm making apple crisp today, that's for sure.

The Spouse wants to know why, if they have a dacha large enough to produce so many apples that they can afford to give huge quantities to the neighbors, why haven't we been invited out there yet?

Am I a Bad Person?

Oh, probably yes in so many ways.

First, I am sitting here, typing this. Instead of swimming laps at the gym.

I like the gym. I really SHOULD have gone to the gym this morning.

But I didn't.

Because although school started this week, today was the first normal day with a real, all-day school schedule. And it is so quiet in the house.

So nice and quiet.

All summer long, even though I was at the Summer Dacha in My Ancestral Village, I was looking forward to the moment when the children would go out the door.

And it would be quiet.

I have not done the dishes yet. (Although Muscovites are advanced and civilized people, we happen to not have a dish washer at our place except for me. This is not typical, nor was it my choice. It just is.)

I am still in my pajamas.

Haven't even bothered to brush my teeth yet.

Is it wrong to be happy the children are out of the house? Because, while I like them, if I have to have one more conversation involving SpongeBob, I honestly think I will go mad.

As an aside, while I was fixing breakfast this morning, Baboo came in to tell me she had a SpongeBob song stuck in her head. And while she spared me the actual melody of the song, she proceeded to recount everything that happens in that particular episode of SpongeBob leading up to the singing of the song. The Spouse, passing by the kitchen heard that we were talking and, before he was able to actually make out what was being discussed, said to himself, "How nice. For once Baboo is talking about something other than SpongeBob."

Ha.

While I am on the subject of the children, I will say that although I probably had just a little too much togetherness with them over the summer, I did see them at their best and got lots of nice feedback from friends and family about how pleasant the girls are.

I cannot take full credit for that, but I will hold on like grim death to as much credit as I can.

Since motherhood, generally, is a rather thankless job.

There are no yearly evaluations.

No performance bonuses or even cost-of-living raises.

The product takes forever to launch.

It seems endless.

So this was as close as I get to any sort of customer feedback or project plaque from my boss.

Seeing as the girls are the only thing I feel I have produced in, say, the last 11 years (I don't count dinners and clean laundry), that was nice to hear.

Made me feel good even.

And while I spent the last week in the Ancestral Village not-totally-looking-forward-to-the-thought-of-returning-to-Moscow, I did spend that week reading a book called The New Global Student. Although the author is mainly addressing parents of high school students, what she said did reassure me about what we are doing to and for our daughters.

Namely, that making them uncomfortable a lot of the time, by forcing them to live outside their native culture and comfort zone, is largely responsible for making them the poised, charming people their American friends and families found them to be.

If you can navigate a foreign mass transit system in Cyrillic, a college interview, heck, a job interview, should be a piece of cake.

At least I hope so.

There has to be some reward on this earthly plane for what, let's be honest, isn't always lots of fun.

The book also reassured me about my decisions to do less with my kids. By that I mean that I don't have much scheduled for them outside of the normal school day.

Because I think having to attend school in a foreign language while living in a second foreign language is enough.

So I shouldn't feel bad that it is difficult (either because of transportation logistics, price, or my language limitations) to arrange things like swim team and horseback riding lessons. Things their cousins in the US or friends in the UK have and that I sometimes wish I could provide for them. I may even put cello lessons on hold this year since Baboo's school day is now as long as the average American adult's work day.

You gotta have time just to be a kid, and after speaking French at school all day and Russian on the street, well, it's nice to chill out and just watch a little SpongeBob.

From the Earth to the Stars, Moscow Rises

Moscow celebrates its 862th birthday this weekend. There are explanations of "City Day" events here and here. With more than 550 events taking place around town, there is plenty to do. (Waiter races anyone?)

Since there are great posters for this all around town now, I took a lot of pictures this week. Translations appear below each photo. The Spouse helped me.

Moscow. Beloved!

Happy Holiday, Beloved City!

Hey! What's this doing here?

In Russian, G-Force becomes Darwin's Mission. The text at the top of the poster reads "Furry and Ruthless." Sort of like Baboo.

Back to City Day posters.

Happy Birthday, Moscow!

Happy City Day!
(Literally, it's sort of weird . . . it doesn't really make sense if you translate it word for word.)

The little quote on the upper left says
From the earth to the stars, Moscow rises!
The text in the red ribbon says
Happy Birthday, Moscow!

My Dear Capital,
My Golden Moscow!

The only thing we have planned for the weekend is a tour of the Moscow film industry Saturday morning (promises to have lots of sets and costumes from classic Russian movies) and a dinner with friends that night. After a busy first week of school, I, for one, intend to cocoon on Sunday.

Welcome Back

Today was the First Day of School, not just for my kids, but for every school child in Moscow. MoscowMom, one of my blogging buddies here, mentioned the "huge white Russian schoolgirl hairbows" on her blog.

Boy, oh boy, were they out in force today. And for once I had my camera with me.

These are especially ginormous:

Here is a whole flock of hairbows having celebratory milkshakes.

We say "a school of fish," "a mob of kangaroos," "a gaggle of geese." Two of my favorites are "a murder of crows" and "an exaltation of larks." I wonder what the correct measure word is for a group of hairbows?

As usual, I digress.

Another lucky little girl got ice cream after her first day back at school.

This girl skipped the seemingly obligatory white tights and Mary Janes, but her hairbows are still pretty spectacular.


This one stuck with the standard look.


Question: What do little boys wear on the first day of school?

Answer: A necktie.

This one is adorable. I'll bet he had to suffer through endless cheek-pinching and photos this morning.


Back at the French school, my girls had two very different schedules today: Skittles went from 8:30 until noon, and Baboo went from 1:30 until 4:30. This was just for la rentrée; it will not be the norm. But it meant I had a few extra moments to enjoy a coffee with friends. The weather was so nice today, we sat outside at a new coffee place near the school.

Pretty cool, eh?

Skittles enjoyed a meringue.

I have always liked the building across the street.


"So how was the first day?" you may ask.

High fives all around.

Skittles had a very unfortunate situation last year with a combined class of third and fourth graders, plus two teachers who did not get along in any way. One of them was practically debilitated by culture shock and the stress of living in Russia. It was his first overseas gig. All of this made for a very unsatisfactory and stressful experience for us.

This year Skittles got an older, more experienced teacher. In fact, he is one of only two returning staff this year. I think he sometimes skates a little close to phoning-it-in, but in this case, a little mellowness may be just what the doctor ordered. The bottom line is that Skittles is pleased: the vibe in the classroom is 180 degrees different, and that's a good thing.

Even better, she "graduated" to the second floor of the building.

"It makes me feel bigger," she says.

Baboo entered college (sixth grade in the French system) today with a lot of trepidation about this new level, but that was all for naught. Everything was fine.

She was most amused by her "professeur principal" (sort of like a homeroom teacher) who, coincidentally is the English teacher for her class. Mme B. had told the kids to call her "Teacher" instead of the French term, "Maîtresse."

"But I'm thinking of calling her 'Teacher Lady'," Baboo confided.

I think that's funny.

What is not so funny is her schedule this year. Yikes! For one thing, her day never ends at the same time as her sister's. Every day is different. She might finish around noon, 4:30, or even as late as 5:30! Seems like a big leap for her, and a logistical challenge for me as it doesn't make sense to run back and forth between home and school in the afternoons.

Rumor has it that the school is going to offer some sort of after-care that Skittles may be able to utilize (details to come from the PTA). But that makes for a very long day for both of them. And we haven't even added Baboo's fencing or any additional activity Skittles may want to do this year (the PTA will give us that information next week). I am not eager to start cello lessons for Baboo again the way things look. It's just too much.

On a brighter note, since I had my camera with me, I finally got some pictures of details in the Metro stations I frequent. I must point out, however, that these are, by Moscow Metro standards, lesser stations.


And the kids were glad to see our local dog friends were all fine.

From nearest to farthest, we call these three fellows Rex, Spot, and Ting-a-ling.

Note, Elton John will play Moscow October 7. See the billboard?

We stopped for this photo op outside the Ukrainian restaurant.


And I was tickled that I can read this sign on the Italian restaurant downstairs. I will certainly mispronounce the words, but I at least get the gist.

Across the top it says "Italian Lunch, Quick, Tasty 250 rubles." That's about US$8.

The small panel on the left says "Pasta Non-Stop Every Tuesday from 1:00 p.m. until 4:00 p.m." (Er . . . so it does eventually stop. I guess they mean unlimited seconds?) The panel on the right says the pastafest will set you back 399 rubles (US$13), but I must confess I cannot tell you what the text below the price means. The middle word is what I say when I want to ask "How much?" I think.

Keep in mind, that eating in this outdoor portion of the restaurant means dining alongside the Garden Ring. That's like eating on the berm of the Interstate to me.

Bon appetit!

Cookies

I found these in a little producty store (think bodega) across the street. Not much in this particular store except for snacks and booze. I was the only one in there who wasn't shopping for booze, either. Or so it seemed.


Aren't they lovely? I was willing to risk buying them even if they weren't any good just because they are so pretty. I confess, I was hoping to open the package and find chocolate on the underside.

No such luck.

But they're not bad. They taste like Lorna Doones (shortbread). And they really, really want a glass of cold milk to go with them.

The girls even liked them.

Back in the USSR

Our return trip to Moscow was the best kind: uneventful.

We arrived Friday around noon. In spite of The Spouse's warnings that the cats had fouled the apartment, I found little, if any evidence. Someone peed on his courier bag. And no amount of laundering or applications of Febreeze has rendered it usable again. But I had another camera-style bag he was able to use. Not ideal, but at least the problem was solved.

Saturday afternoon we went to a Scottish Stramash here in Moscow. It was summer garden party sponsored by the St. Andrew's Society of Moscow. The kids had a ball. I danced too much and limped around the next day. But it was a very nice way to ease back into life in Moscow: we saw lots of friends.

So now that I'm back and the contrasts are still fresh, what have I noticed about both the USA and Russia, you ask?

Well, the people, to start.

Americans are GINORMOUS. Depressingly so. On more than one occasion The Spouse and I would look around a restaurant and realize that EVERY table held at least one obese person, and often more than one. Clothing sizes are all out of whack now. I mean, a medium should not be too big for me. Restaurant portions have been too big for a long time, but I was still a bit surprised sometimes at exactly much food was presented to me.

Americans like to believe that all Russians look like the roly-poly babushka. And a few of them do. But they are far and away the exception.

Russians are slim.

Americans are not.

It's shameful, really.

What else did I notice?

Prices. It was often very frustrating to be in a store like Wal-Mart or Target and see how inexpensive items like shampoo and pet supplies are in the US. I couldn't even justify bringing shampoo and conditioner back with me because the size and weight of the bottles was just too much with everything else in my suitcases.

Smells. Moscow is a city, and it smells like a city. I like cities. In Ohio, I was struck by how often I smelled flower gardens, freshly cut grass, fallen leaves in the woods, and just fresh air. It was delightful, and I tried to be appreciative every single day.

Now that I am back, I notice the dusty, metallic smell of the Moscow Metro. Diesel fumes around the Garden Ring. A whiff of alcohol on the breath of a passer-by. But also the smells of delicious meals being cooked in apartments and in local restaurants. I am overwhelmed by good-food smells.

Tomorrow, the girls return to school. Baboo starts college, which is middle-school and high school combined. There is a lot of unknown here, including her daily schedule, which, as I understand it, can vary from day to day. So I don't know yet what my schedule will look like until we get in there and start figuring it out. I'll know more tomorrow, I hope.

I also hope I can get back to the gym soon. I'm looking more American these days, and not in a good way.

Word Games

None of this has anything to do with being an expat.

File all this under "If you can't say anything nice . . . then come sit right here next to me."

I love the idea of having a stock phrase you can use when you have been discussing something catty or gossipy or otherwise inappropriate and need to suddenly appear to be talking about something mundane.

The Spouse and I have long relied on switching, mid-sentence if necessary, to " . . . and what's left over is butter."

As in, he and I are discussing something and a third person walks into hearing range and we need to appear as if we were not previously talking about them.

The scenario: a business cocktail reception.

Me: "I dunno. I think it's a toupee."

Him: "It IS a toupee, it is a BAD toupee, and every time I see him I want to snatch it off his head . . ."

Enter the toupee-wearer.

Him: " . . . and what's left over is butter."

Today, I was in a car with my mother, one daughter, and one of my nieces. I overhear Niece say, "That's what my feet smell like."

I think I have an alternative to the butter-phrase.

Next topic: Fun With Fortune Cookies.

It's always much more interesting to read one's fortune aloud and then add the words "between the sheets."

For example, Skittles got this fortune tonight: "Great things happen when men and mountains meet . . . between the sheets."

But mine was even better.

I got the following fortune: "A small act of charity will go a long way."

Between the sheets.

It's That Time of Year Again

. . . when expats' thoughts turn to shopping lists and packing two tons of Very Important Stuff into too-small bags and asking themselves how seriously over-weight WILL those suitcases be?

I sent The Spouse back to Moscow today with

*A fencing helmet, protective clothing, and a chest protector

*Items purchased from Ann Taylor and Victoria's Secret for a friend of ours (she bought them, we're just delivering)

*School supplies . . . sooooo much cheaper at Target than at World of Books in Moscow. Not to mention sooooo much calmer shopping in July instead of The Day Before School Starts.

*A cardboard cat scratching box. It's a clever thing that one of our evil cats actually uses, sparing our fine IKEA furniture.

His bags totaled something like 48 or 61 pounds. It seemed to change. But the Nice Lady at Check-In didn't say "boo" about it. Hurray.

I will be packing the following later this week:

*Two rubber spatulas. Mine died.

*A ginormous Zip-lock bag filled with Splenda packets.

*Some sort of little video recording camera type doo-hicky-gadget for a friend.

*A year's supply (I hope) of my Preferred Brand and Flavor of Lady Products. Maybe this menopause thing will start to work in my favor for once, and I'll get to stop importing these.

*Cough medicine. Extra strength. It's not that the Russians don't make cough medicine. I just wasn't terribly impressed. Didn't like what the Brits sold me last winter either. I wanna be silent as the tomb.

* Industrial-sized bottle of Febreeze. See earlier "cat-astrophe" blog entries.

Yet to be purchased: appropriate measuring cups. Like what Ina Garten uses. Not those dumb collapsible ones that seem to be all the rage these days. Does anyone actually use these things? I could see a college student-type buying a set once. But I can't imagine anyone ever buying these a second time. Aren't they going to wear out instantly? I already balked at the $30 price tag for the nice stainless steel ones. But it isn't like I never cook, right?

Oh, and today, I acquired a Ganesh pendant. He's the Lord of Obstacles and a Patron of Letters. Seemed like just the thing for me.

Departure: Thursday. We arrive in Moscow on Friday.

This event is coming up shortly upon our return. See anyone you recognize?

Little, If Anything, to Report

Just a note to let my Loyal Beet-niks know I'm not dead.

Spent a week visiting the in-laws. It was hot, but uneventful, really. One day we went here, which I really liked. Ate a lot of pie.

A lot.

Of pie.

Got some sun at the swimming pool. Read the Julie and Julia book, a Lucas Davenport mystery, and a chick-lit novel called Certain Girls while I was there. Went on a few bike rides with The Spouse, including a 35-mile jaunt from his Ancestral Home in Bryan, Ohio to the bank in Edon, Ohio.

Did you know that the Etch-A-Sketch factory is in Bryan? Well, it was anyhow, before they shipped all the manufacturing to India or China or something.

The Spangler Candy Company is still in Bryan. They make Dum-Dum lollipops, Circus Peanuts (ugh), and most of the candy canes sold in the USA. We visited the factory last year, and I can tell you that the only suckers we saw there were those of us on the tour.

Yawn.

Have now seen the guinea pig movie (G-Force?), Aliens in the Attic (when did Kevin Nealon get old?), Night in the Museum 2 (when did Hank Azaria get so buff?), and the latest Harry Potter movie (in 3-D and on an IMAX screen).

Now we are all back at the Summer Dacha in my Ancestral Village. Been doing the 22-mile bike ride every morning with The Spouse. One day I was able to do it in 90 minutes, but I've been dragging ass since then. The Spouse, of course, doesn't even get sweaty.

I bought a Kindle. I am loading it up with books to read during the long, dark Moscow winter.

Tomorrow, we are taking the girls to King's Island. On Friday, 16 of us are celebrating Skittles' and her cousin's birthday (they were both born on August 21) at the Chum Bucket. Chum-balaya. Chum-on-a-Stick. The Akron branch of the Expatresse Clan will be joining us, so it should be loud and chaotic.

The Spouse returns to Moscow mid-day on Saturday, August 22, and the girls and I follow on August 27.

The two months have gone so fast.

At least Moscow is more likely to produce interesting blog entries.

The Fair Is a Veritable Smorgasbord

The Ohio State Fair, that is.

What I ate at the fair today, more or less in the order I ate it:

1. A lamb gyro

2. A lemon shake-up

3. Ice cream in the dairy barn (while admiring the Butter Cow)

4. Another lemon shake-up

5. Grilled corn on the cob with hot sauce (not Tabasco, but similar . . . it was VERY good)

6. An Italian sausage with grilled onions and peppers and marinara sauce on a bun

7. Another lemon shake-up

8. The rest of the girls' funnel cake and elephant ear

9. Inky Dinky Donuts

10. One more lemon shake-up for the road

Glut! Glut! Glut!

The girls had corn dogs as well. Now Baboo is in the bathroom puking up funnel cake. A lesson in moderation, I suppose.

Skittles is across the street at the cousins', eating! What she can possibly have room for is God's own mystery. Personally, I won't be eating again until Halloween.

Below are some images from the fair.

This is the state flag of Ohio. It is the only US state flag that is not rectangular.

This is a view from the Sky Ride. One of the funniest moments of the fair was when I passed a gondola heading the other direction. In it were two Hispanic men, talking on the phone, in speaker-phone mode in rapid-fire, idiomatic Mexican Spanish. One of them was holding the phone, and they both were carrying on a detailed conversation with whomever was on the other end. I couldn't hear enough to tell you what they were saying, but it just tickled me.

Skittles climbed the Corn Wall. I was so proud of her. She didn't make it to the top, but she had never climbed anything like this before.

"It's hard work!" she said. No kidding.

Three cousins rode the Avalanche. Skittles was brave enough to try the Corn Wall, but not brave enough to ride the Avalanche. Excuse me. The Fiery Fist o' Pain!

She was brave enough to tackle an elephant ear, however.

Here is Baboo working on the Funnel Cake of Doom.

They all tried fishing in the Department of Natural Resources park.

We saw the Great Lakes Timber Show. Here they are demonstrating competitive log rolling.

And spring-board tree chopping.

We also saw Retriever Dogs in Action! but that was during the fishing portion of the day, and I didn't get any photos.

The cousins met Smokey the Bear, who had them pledge to never-ever, ever-ever play with matches, lighters, or fire. Interestingly, he also knew their names, which rocked their little world.

We did not get to see this.

My brother told me that those are monkeys racing on sheep. But I think he was pulling my leg and that the event involves children instead. Not sure which is worse. Guess I ought not be offended by monkey acts in the Moscow Circus when we have World Championship Mutton Bustin'.

I guess the difference is that here in the US of A, we're Bustin' for Glory!

We did get to see an All Breed Dog Agility demonstration. It was a riot. Included breeds as diverse as pugs and Weimaraners. Pure hilarity.

The photo below is from the Sheep Barn.

Me: "That's one big ass ceiling fan."

My brother: "I think that's really the brand name of these fans."

Pause while the two of us move our heads around and around in little circles trying to read the name on the center of the fan works.

It was, indeed, a Big Ass Fan.

The fair also includes concerts every evening. Alice Cooper played opening day with special guest Blue Oyster Cult. Since I saw Alice last summer, I know he puts on a good show. And I would not mind hearing "Don't Fear the Reaper" under the August stars.

But the concert I really want to see is Wednesday night.

Foreigner and Eddie Money. I love Eddie Money! For $24. Wouldn't that be a blast? Is anyone willing to go with me? Show starts at 7:00 p.m.

Two tickets to paradise . . .

In other news, the garage sale netted about $25 for each of us (that's me and my father), not counting what I spent on advertising. Seriously, I don't think I covered my expenses. The good news is that we did make some things go away. But sheesh. I honestly expected to make a couple hundred bucks off this. Times is tough all over, I guess.

In other, other news, the girls start a week-long art camp tomorrow. They are very excited. They participated in this last year and enjoyed it immensely. There was an article in the Columbus Dispatch yesterday about how this might be the last year of this program, so I'm glad they get one more chance.

Now, off to bed.

Must digest.