Silent Treatment

Isn't the silent treatment the worst? It has always been the worst form of punishment in my book, the most torturous, inhumane form. The anxiety train that docks in my head revs up its' engine and excelerates to maximum speed when the silent treatment is administered to me. That is why I am especially ashamed at myself for administering this sort of treatment to my blog. There was no cause for this other than general apathy and major boredom on my own part. I have been bored, and yeah yeah yeah, only boring people get bored, but I did not want to inflict this level of boredom and lack of inspiration on my blog, so I have been hiding out on my couch and various other uninteresting places. But I will get back at it soon hopefully. In the mean time, anyone interested can celebrate my new level of lack of famousness by watching this video of a silly interview I did on Russia Today (scroll about 6 minutes in, the below mentioned Jeff is also featured).

Also this was sort of scripted hence my above-normal level of awkwardness and over enthusiasm.



The Goat Might Eat the Cabbage

Packing for our summer trip to France is like the riddle about getting the goat, cabbage, and tiger across the river in your canoe without losing any of them.

These items all need to make it to France with us:


An abnormally large dog to support our pity addiction,



This adorable nugget to support my love of all things adorable addiction,





An abnormally large bike case to support my Husband's cycling addiction,

 Also traveling with us will be a suitcase most likely toe-ing the line of allowable weight due to my over packing and hair appliance addiction.

To say the airport system in Moscow to inconsistent would be a gross understatement. We are traveling on a russian airline, Aeroflot, and a Polish airline, LOT. I have made flash cards and studied their baggage policies (highlighting and doing suicide drills over the special item and pet section), called numerous times, written notes in English and in Russian, and still I am worried about being turned away at the airport. This is not unrealistic anxiety on my part, it is a real concern. The printed information on their websites will mean nothing in the face of an airline employee who just feels like "no" or "give me more money" is an appropriate response of the day.



But They Can Pee Indoors!

If you find yourself comparing adopting a child to adopting a dog and writing a list of how they are similar and different, the former may not be for you. I was guilted into going to visited an orphanage a few weekends back because my husband had volunteered us to go and was going to "check it out" if I was or wasn't. I asked him if this was just playing or shopping, but I never really got a straight answer for the motives behind this outing. I was given the option to not go, and it was a genuine offer, but somehow the response of "laid on the couch until around noon, foraged in the kitchen for food, and then painting my toenails while deciding if I liked crunchy or smooth peanut butter better" to the question 'what did you do this weekend?' doesn't seem like an option when your husband can respond with, "you know, playing with real live orphan" because you know, I like to make it my life goal to never let anyone ask the question. 'how did SHE end up with HIM?' I like that table neatly turned as it turns out. Because you know, that isn't insecurity or anything. Of. Course. Not.

An hour spent on the air-condition deprived metro, because we live in 1978 and an hour in the back seat of a car where I managed to not get car sick (hooray!) brought us to the orphanage. I spent the entire trip over nervous about my interactions with the children which typically involve a lot of awkwardness after I ask my go to kid questions of, "So, how's school going?" and the follow up one that makes Barbara Walters weak in the knees, "What's your favorite subject" After that I am out of ammo and the awkward silence usually envelopes all around. In fairness I am not just an adult that doesn't know how to relate to kids, I was also a kid that didn't know how to relate to kids. If I wasn't alone silently playing with Barbies, who were having very real deep conversations in my head, I was being indoctrinated with  discussing right-wing politics with my Grandmother. I was never interested in dirt, intramural sports, boy bands, or candy land as a leisure activity. Magnum PI was my first crush, not Joey Macintyre. Fucked up, I know. Maybe I missed out on something, or maybe you missed out on something. Who can tell? I am incredibly ill at ease around kids, just like my dad, and his parents before him. I come from a long line of children-make-me-uncomfortable-folk. Coupled with my disdain of being touched by strangers and this was shaping up to be a perfect Saturday.

I am also not good with pity or sad situations. That nervous laugh? That came from me. Really, genuine emotion in general, not my forte. So, we are spending the day with orphaned children. Yes this seems like exactly something I should be doing. But my excitement to try new things inability to say no because I am worried someone will think I am a bad person won out. Nervous laugh. What do you talk about with orphans? "So how do you like living in an orphanage?" Seems inappropriate. "What's your favorite thing about not having a family?" also seems a bit forced. Turns out, these kids aren't even orphans, they were extracted from bad home lives. For a child to be taken out of the family home in Russia, it had to have been pretty awful. Afterall, this is the country that is excited they have a child-service hotline now, and their PR person gave a conference bragging about how a 4 year old left home alone while her mom went to work the other day called because she was bored and was read storeybooks over the phone by the operator. A flawed system they has.  I was truly expecting emotional basketcases to come bounding towards me. Then, they weren't. These children, politely approached me, extended a dirt-caked-hand, and offered a heavily accented 'how do you do?' They were excited to practice the few words of English they had been taught, excited to play with the sidewalk chalk we brought, and fascinated by the parachute game. Before we came, I wasn't worried I was going to get punched in the nose, I was expecting it. After an hour there, I was laying on the sidewalk having myself outlined in chalk.

Maybe not being expected to have comfortable conversations, after all they know about 5 words of English and I know about 20 10 words of Russian, helped ease the tension for me. I don't know what it was but I found myself with a sense of peace and joy.

I went home with dirty fingernails considering an option that has never been one for me. Maybe it was when I was making a mental list of how it would be harder and easier than adopting a dog, or maybe it was going out that night in heels that were too high deciding what was an appropriate amount of rubles to spend on drinks, that I realized I am probably not ready for that noise.

Childhood Fears and Ominous Dolls

During Conversation Group with the Russians this week, the topic was something along the lines of fears and anxiety. One of the questions pertained to what you most feared as a child. A couple people from my group said America, most of the men said nothing of course because they are not and have never been scared of anything because of course they are Russian men for example, several of the women said of being fat women, and one man veered off into an off topic story that went nowhere about his cousin. While they were talking and I was mindlessly correcting their grammar, pronunciations, and adding the necessary articles, I was thinking back to what I was most scared of as a child. Sure I had nightmares of the Spit Monsters (imaginary horrible things), but that would be too difficult to explain to them. Yeah, I was really scared the kid from the movie Pet Cemetery might be living under my bed and cut my Achilles tendon, but I wasn't sure if they had ever heard of that movie since it came out in the 80's when my mom took me to see it as a 6 year old at the drive-in theatre. I definitely didn't think they knew what a drive=in was, I don't know if you can borrow a metro car for that. So I told them about the incident with the dolls. I was convinced has a child that my dolls came to life after I went to bed and maybe had adventures of their own. This was a neutral subject for me. At the time I didn't think the dolls meant to cause me harm, but I also didn't think they wanted to play with me, them coming to life was just a matter of fact.

6 year olds are my mom's favorite. Old enough to still be gullible, smart enough to be aware, but not quite smart enough yet to flesh out bullshit.

When I was most likely around the age of 6, I found myself in my canopy bed sleeping one night, probably dreaming about hanging out with Lassie or Rush Limbaugh, I was very mature and easily influenced by my very Republican Grandmother back in those days. Whispering woke me up. I spent a period of time, eyes shut, trying to figure out what was going on. Spit monsters maybe? Bastards. One eye opened to see several of my dolls swaying side to side at the bottom of my bed. Holy shit. I thought you guys were supposed to instantly lose animation when child eyes found you. You guys SUCK at Red Light, Green Light. Then there were eight dolls swaying at the bottom of the bed. Then, the chanting began, "Robin, we are coming to get you, we're going to get you, we are going to KILL you!" I don't remember anything after that. I may have passed out from fear.

By the time I woke up from my fear coma the next morning, any thoughts of discussing this incident with anyone were out. I knew what I had to do. It was me, or it was them. This was 1988 Toy Story had not made its debut, but Child's Play starring Chucky the doll had. I knew those barbies and dolls meant business and had nothing good planned for me. I was 6, I just wanted to watch Lassie and listen to republican talk radio in peace like any normal 1st grader.

I packed up all impending threats in a large black hefty bag and snuck outside to the dumpster. I discussed this decision with no one for fear the dolls would overhear me and make a daylight exception. After all they already had the power to stay animated while being watched and let me in on their intentions for my demise. Who knows what these spawns of Matel were capable of.

Good thing it was trash day. This time, I win, suckers.

No one ever asked what happened to my dolls. My mom bought me new ones, and although I experienced a lot of anxiety, I enver experienced the night time animation again.

Many years later, at a booze filled family BBQ hosted at my house,  I heard my Aunt, my mom's younger sister, recount a story about one time when she and my mom had gotten high together, "and listen to what we did to Robin..." The HORROR!  I hadn't thought about this incident in years, once the offending dolls had been properly disposed of, it hadn't overtly crossed my mind again. Sure, I was a little cautious walking down the doll aisle at Toys'R'Us, sure I spent many restless anxiety filled nights sleeping with one eye open, but the memory had been washed around in my head and I didn't quite recall why dolls made me so nervous. Of course the retelling of the story from my Aunt's perspective brought it rushing back. They smoked some pot, snuck in to the gullible 6 year old's room, hid under the bed, while each of their hands held two dolls and mustering their best creepy doll voices, whispered the words of doom. My Mom piped in to the story to give a reason for the psychological torture of her then, only child, "it was payback from her tattling on me to mom about listening to Salt N' Pepa while driving her to school," fair enough, after the Seagull Incident, I don't know why this surprised me.  Oh the trauma.

The Russians in my class were fascinated by my story of child hood fears and had one very important question they were very impatient to ask at the conclusion, "you have canopy bed, for example?"

The Pushkin Hangover

Saturday was guzzled down with Vodka Shots and Cheap Champagniski. Now that I have infiltrated a regular social group in Moscow, this is now how most weekends are widdled away. Gladly I add.

I've broken plans two times now with a friend to go see the Dior Exhibit at the Pushkin Museum, and was determined not to cancel on her again this weekend.

This dress is hand embroidered with over 1,000 flowers! Eeep!



Before imbibing on Saturday night, I committed to her once again for Sunday morning, and asked that we not trek out too early on the chance I was hungover. You know you are getting too old for this shit/drink too much too often/live in Russia when...you plan for a hangover. She tells me, "maybe, don't drink tonight so it isn't a risk?" Fool, don't be so bossy, either way we are going to Pushkin Museum tomorrow and we are seeing some mother fracking dresses, so calm down with your nonsense talk.

Saturday evening blearily passed, and Sunday morning arrived unreasonably early. I pushed back my brunch and museum date by a half hour, typical, and awoke feeling sleepy but overall ok. Sort of a B+ for effort kind of a morning.

This is the point we drop off the good news, because it isn't going the same direction I am.

We spend an hour and two metro transfers looking for a brunch place described in a travel book, which no longer exists. We settled on a chain french breakfast place where I ordered soft boiled eggs and was served two raw eggs that gave me the dry heaves and the first indication that a hangover was looming.

At Russian museums there seems to be a price for residents and a price for tourists. I presented my Russian ID and asked for the resident price, where I was told no because I am not Russian I just work and live in their country I shouldn't expect the same rights as a Russian. Fair enough.

We are yelled at by the ticket ladies that we need to leave our jackets in the coat room, despite the fact we are cold. Do you think I am planning to smuggle a dress out in my coat? Ok I see your point here.

I am light headed when I enter the main show room of dresses, and am glad when my friend drops a contact and needs to go to the bathroom. As soon as we entered the bathroom I barely made it to a stall to throw up. If I wasn't going to anyway, the smell in any ladies' room in Moscow will send you in that direction. I swear Moscow women swing their used bathroom products around their head like a helicopter and then to any available corner. Revolting.

Feeling shaky, but much better, we went to the on premise cafe so I could get some water and mentos. My friend left me at a table to watch her purse while she went to the counter. I was feeling awful and almost wished I had listened to her no drinking mandate. A babushka (older lady) who worked in the coat room approached my table and lost her damn mind. She yelled, she screamed, she ranted. Coat-room Babushka was irate. Apparently, she did not like my friend's purse being on the table, illustrating that the table was for food not for purses. This is not something to be irate about. Wow I love a  good confrontation RIGHT AFTER I PUKE. You're kidding me right? Who gets so upset by something that is not in any way affecting them? The table looks dirty to begin with, I think the purse on the table is an improvement in cleanliness. Babushka throws the purse on the floor in a huff and storms off, seeing she is getting no reaction from my half-open, puffy, bloodshot eyes.

My friend returns with water, mentos, and a diet coke. With my hands propping my head up, I tell her about the going ons while she was in line. At this time I'd like to mention that this is a very new friend, of which I have only hung out with on several occasions, usually in a group setting. I had no idea of her level of comfort with confrontation. She stares down Coat-Room Babushka, who is enjoying a fragrant mayonnaise and fish sandwich at a nearby table, and plops her purse back on the table, never breaking eye contact. Babushka will have none of this, storms back, and goes through her rant once more, directing it all towards me, as I am obviously the weak link in this scenario of unfortunate events. I give no reaction until she begins poking me. I do not like being touched by strangers, and I like being poked by no one, unless of course you mean...ok ok, anyway...I swat her imposing finger away from my chest. Irate-ness (most likely not a real word) escalates, and my friend is now red and yelling about calling security. Yes, because security is obviously going to believe 2 American yahoos who speak 30 words of Russian between the two of them over this Motherland Grandma. Eye roll. Please, let's just get out of here and look at those damn dresses.

We finished the exhibit (most amazing museum exhibit I have ever seen, (despite my poor pounding head) and I would highly suggest if the exhibit comes to your town you go see it. Of course it would take clothes in a museum for me to understand the awe people are refering to with art at museums. This is not terribly surprising. I managed to wrap the even up only getting yelled at once more, for trying to read a text from my phone. No phones or photos allowed. Sigh-iski.

I really need to learn a Russian phrase to shut these crazies up, and prevent myself from being poked in the future.

Full-on Goose-ing and the Subway Cinderella

So while wandering around the city laughing last weekend, we took the Metro to a local Irish-Ex-Pat-Wow-People-Here-Speak-English-Bar, called Katie O'Shea's. Simple 2 stops on the Metro away from where we were, should be fine, right? This is Russia though, land of the no expectations. On the way to the restaurant, I got full on goosed. An underwear snapping goosing. This was really surprising to me because one thing I have liked and struggled with in Moscow has been how women are typically ignored by men. By ignored I mean, you don't get the under the breath comments on the street, the too long-wow-you're-making-me-uncomfortable-but-YESSSSS-I-still-got-it-kind-of-glances, the whistles, you just get passed by. At least that has been what I have noticed on the streets here, not just towards myself, but women in general. In the states I don't think a woman could walk down the street in a barely there mini and thigh high boots on a Sunday morning and not at least get a few glances. So the goose-ing was surprising. Also was surprising was how little power I realized I had in the situation. What could I do? Call for security? Police? Tell this guy he is an ass? I really need to learn Russian. Sigh-iski.

So that alone could have been the event of the day, however, after leaving the bar, where nothing notable or interesting occured, we were on the metro platform waiting for our train when I was approached by a hysterically crying woman about my age. She did not look crazy other than the sobbing, and looked put together enough to not have a sense of homelessness around her. But what is with the sobbing? She indicated she wanted me to sit on the bench with her, which I obliged because I had drank enough to not know better.

She says in very accented English "help me, I need help" ok this is scary. She points to her left foot which is missing a shoe. Her other foot has a 5 inch heel. She keeps ponting at her foot and sobbing. Missing a shoe? How can I help you? I asked her several times what happened, she was unable or unwilling to tell me, and asked if she could have one of my shoes. I was wearing flat sandals and not sure how this would help her and also unwilling to give up my shoe to Cinderellasova. She is hysterically bawling now, pointing at her empty foot, and the back to my shoe. I tell her no I can not give you my shoe, I am firm on this. She offers to pay me 200 rubles (about $8) which is ridiculous. My shoes were way more than that to begin with, I'd never replace them in Moscow for anything close to that, and I don't want to be hobbling around with one or no shoes either, lady. I offered to be a human crutch and help her to get home, instead of giving her my shoe. She told me to fuck off. I really need to learn the Russian equivelant of that phrase, for example.

This interaction left me with so many questions. What happened to her shoe? Was this some sort of scam? What if I had helped her back to her apartment and it was filled floor to ceiling with single shoes?

Robin on the Rocks

This past Sunday was a day made for outdoor drinking. The highs were in the very low 70's, the sun was shining, and a new recipe for Vodka Mojitos and Patriarchy Ponds were calling my name.

Patriarchy Ponds is a beautiful park, near my apartment, and is the location the book Master and Margarita was set.





Lately, when I walk my dogs to the park (often weeknights, around 9pm because with these 10pm sunsets, I have no concept of bedtime or anything of that sort) I have noticed large congregations of young russians, treating the park like an outdoor patio bar. They sit on benches, drinking champagne out of plastic cups, beer out of very large bottles, chips out of bags with pictures of fish on them, while the women wear their shorts and nude pantyhose (a phenomenon I have yet to grasp). They chat, they eat, the drink, the make out and sometimes straddle each other. The day of the week or the time of the night matters not at all for the park crowd, as long as the sun is shining.

I mixed up a pitcher of this:

Vodka Mojitos - adapted from Giada on Food Network and her freakish quantity of teeth. Chomp chomp.

• 1 1/2 cups mint simple syrup, recipe follows
• 1 cup vodka, chilled-ish, because my freezer is too cold and my fridge tries to ruin my life by melting everything
• 1/4 cup fresh lime juice (from 2 to 3 large limes, or whatever you can find, because it's not like we have lime trees in Russia, ya know?)
• 1 cup club soda, chilled-- who can find club soda here? Not this vodka drinker, so I used sparkling water. Same-ish.
• Ice - I have 1 ice tray for my freezer, so that is about how much I used, but would have liked 15 times that.
• Fresh mint sprigs, for garnish- I didn't bother with this, because who cares about a garnish when it is in a pitcher and you are on a park bench?
• (this part wasn't in the recipe but I added it) Some macerated strawberries (strawberries soaked in sugar and water over night)

Directions

In a pitcher, combine the simple syrup, vodka (extra for sipping), lime juice, and club soda  sparkling water. Pour into ice-filled  sparse glasses empty 1.5 liter water bottle (because I am fancy) and garnish with mint sprigs. Once again, we have no ice, and who needs garnish, unless we are talking about what I count as my daily serving of vegetables that comes atop my Bloody Mary? I then squished up the strawberries with my hands and added those.

Mint Simple Syrup:

• 1 cup sugar
• 1 cup water
• 1 packed cup fresh mint leaves

In a small saucepan, over medium heat (or really whatever heat my soviet-ish p.o.s. stoves decides to output on that particular burner, on this particular day), combine the sugar, water, and mint leaves (I chopped mine up for maximum minty-ness). Bring to a boil, reduce the heat, and simmer wait impatiently, for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally  constantly hoping it will make it melt faster because dammit, you're already 20 minutes late and losing daylight, until the sugar has dissolved  you are too bored/impatient to wait any longer, this is a cocktail not rocket science we don't need to be too detail-oriented here, ya know? Remove the pan from the heat and allow the syrup to cool for 20 minutes  by sticking the whole pot in your too-cold freezer and jumping up and down annoying your neighbors while you are doing the happy-snoopy dance in anticipation. Strain before using (so glad I finally broke down and bought a mesh strainer), pressing on the mint leaves to extract as much syrup as possible.

The next part of the recipe that I would add, if I were the one writing the recipe, would say to take your mojito-filled giant water bottle, two plastic cups (we don't share, and the plastic cups are now adding to our fancy-ness), and straws to a park bench and enjoy, allowing plenty of time for drunkenly wandering around the city laughing.

You are not a Sex God, But Your Boyfriend Is

It is always interesting heading to the Grocery Stores in Russia. I enjoy seeing some of the strange products. Especially the products that are all in Russian but have a few words advertised in English. I came across this drink in the store a few weeks ago, and it has been sitting in my fridge awaiting a review.

I did not plan on the matching nails, serendipity at its finest. I did not enjoy the drink because I am not 16, being fed kool-aid like drinks by someone hoping for my lapse in judgement. Those days are long gone, you guys.

I did enjoy the label enough though to make my 60 rubles purchase worth my while. I love that it does not promise to make you a sex goddess, but the girlfriend of a sex god. They also forgot the article again. Typical Russia.

For Better or For Worse...For Richer or For Baby

The topic in my Russian conversation group last night was "Marriage, For Better or Worse?"

One of the questions in the topic was "What do you think are the top 3 reasons people get married?"

My devushkas answer with their list:

1. Money
2. To have baby and his name on birth certificate so you can get child support
3. to not be alone (please see above, as they believe baby also solves this problem)

4. (Alternate answer, also accepted) To increase status
5. (Alternate answer #2 also accepted) To make your friends jealous

One of my particularly soviet-ish girls elaborated on points #3 and #2. She goes on to say,

"If you have baby you are not alone or lonely and then you will not kill yourself. Better, if man marries you and you have baby, then you have baby and you have money and then those people really don't kill yourself"

We have a lot to work on with her English, sure, but obviously, language acquisition is the last of her worries.

Love is simply not a factor in marriage for these women. Nobody's list included love as a reason to get married. I don't know whether to be sad for them, applaud their honesty, or respect their practicality.

Before leaving I had the pleasure of teaching the girls the American colloquialism, “Shot-gun wedding”. One girl was excited to announce that she has a shot-gun wedding, and all of the girls were very excited to use the phrase. Maybe they are excited to use the phrase, or maybe they are excited at the idea of someone forcing their groom into a wedding if they get pregnant. This was not determined.

Every Body Loves Raymond? Russians Find This Funny...Not At All

You Are Invited...To a Wax and Cheese Party

Recruiting is exhausting. I have never actively recruited friends before. Friendships are something that have been accumulated over the years. They have have been the results of sleeping on the same blue mats in kindergarten with her, being in the same brownie troupe, carpooling to school, a shared love of vagina-angst music, sharing a dorm room with five girls and one bathroom, selling jeans with him at GAP, being on the outside together, being on the inside together, serving chicken wings with them,  sitting in the cubicle next to hers, planning a farewell party with her, or working with her boyfriend. I have accumulated friends, like souvenirs, from all stages of my life. The mundane day to day results in friendships that sneak up on you and evolve until you realize (I have, maybe you too) that you don't recognize yourself unless you are first bounced off her. Your friend. With that collaboration not only are parties more fun, but your ideas are smarter, stories funnier, outfits look better, music is more intense, and the vodka is stronger. This is an elaborate way to say something I have said before: I miss my friends and it hasn't been so easy starting from scratch friendship-wise now that I live overseas. Once I got over the initial shell shock of moving to Moscow, I stuck my head out of the sand (or Moscow Metro tunnel, as it were), looked around, and began actively pursuing friendships. This has been harder than dating. It is much easier to meet men (maybe I am naive here because I have been married for nearly 5 years) because it is acceptable to ask the question, "are you single" and get an answer and move on from there. Dating takes a definitive path. Friendships, not so much. There is a lot more guess work, and there is no friendship equivalent question to "are you single?", "do you have enough friends, and are you interested in one more?" just doesn't roll off the tip of the tongue as nicely. Maybe I am saying it wrong. One thing that does make finding friends in Moscow easier is, if I meet a girl around my age and she speaks English, we already have something HUGE in common. There is not a whole lot of English going on in Moscow. My ears twitch a little when I hear a feminine English-speaking voice, and I pounce like a rabid dog, careful not to muss up my hair or smudge my eyeliner. This approach has been successful for me, so far, in meeting people. Now the friendship comes into play. There are a lot of steps between meeting and being friends, that I did not realize. Play dates need to be established, and some of these playdates may be outside my comfort-zone. I was recently invited to a new acquaintance's house where the invitation stated she would be serving Macaroni and Cheese, and the Waxing Lady, Mona would be available for appointments. I just had to let her know two things, did I want my Macaroni and Cheese with or without meat, and what areas I wanted with or without hair. Wax and Cheese Party, if you will (say it, it sounds fun, yeah?). I RSVP'd with an inquiry about if we were only talking about facial waxing or if this Mona also did bikini area. I recently got my eyebrows done, and I do not have a need to wax any other area, but did want to attend for a chance at girl-friend-making, so this was a logical question, of which I was nervous about asking due to my lack of experience in the Wax and Cheese realm. I did not get an immediate response which added to my nervousness. Did I offend this poor girl who was only on a quest for her and her friends to have perfectly arched eyebrows? I had a lengthy discussion about this with myself. I tried looking up wax party rules and etiquette. Google is (not)surprisingly lacking in this area. In Florida I have never been invited to a party like this. Food and drinks at a girlfriend's house after work? Sure. Going together for a spa day? Maybe once or twice. But never the twain shall meet. Unless you are trying to make new friends, in which case, 'yes I would love to, thanks for inviting me' is the phrase that pays. I got a response. Yes, bikini wax is approved and common, I've attached the price list for you. Relief. After work, 2 metros, one wrong turn, and a 45 minute walk (carrying a bottle of wine in my purse the entire time), I made it to the scene of the Wax and Cheese Party. I was happily greeted by several girls I had met previously and a few new faces. Aside from  schlepping a bottle of wine, while lost, across town, this was off to a great start. Within minutes I had a glass of wine in my hand, and we were all fast on the road to friendship, discussing the types of topics I thought were only discussed on tampon commercials. I am typically more into modesty when the topics of periods and birth control arise, but I am already partying on the outskirts of my comfort zone, and these girls already know the state of all my body hair so let the good times roll. This is not a phrase I ever saw myself typing. But I guess I also never saw myself living in Moscow, stalking English speakers at Happy Hours and in malls. Mona-the-wax-genie arrives with her crock pot of wax and sets up in the guest bedroom. The order of waxing is determined to go from top to bottom. So the first few girls go in, and come back out with less eyebrows. Next up is the first bikini waxer (not I), and a symphony of screams. I am getting nervous here. This sounds like the soundtrack to a rape in the guest bedroom and we are just happily chatting, eating spiced nuts, and drinking wine? Someone help my possible-new-friend! I just stay on the couch, hiding behind my wine glass (after two glasses I can fit behind the stem, I swear this), not sure if my possible-new-friend is a melo dramatic type or not. I was next up. I barely had enough time to make eye contact with the first girl as I was ushered into the room. If I had, I would have noticed her strange gait and the wild look in her eyes. I repeat to Mona what I wanted done. She is a monotone woman from India, who speaks perfect English. Mona instructs me to undress, waist down, and lay on the bed. She grabs me by the knees to yank me towards her closer and as an attempt to strip away my modesty. Not bad. She begins with the wax application. Wait a minute, is applying the wax supposed to hurt too? No that doesn't seem right. She tells me to calm down the crock-pot is unplugged and the wax is an okay temperature. Ouch. I am a silent victim. As she slathers, smoothes, rips, and powders, I am somewhere else. Um, this wax is still really hot. Oh, I am being a baby? That seems reasonable. Ok, I won't scream like my predecessor. I understand that will make this hurt worse. She tells the last area of hair who is the boss, gives me a wet towel to wash up and leaves to wash her glove-less hands. She returns with an ointment, tells me to slather it on and to stop trying to be modest. I don't even  inspect her work as I hike up my tights and shimmy down my dress. I notice a metal application stick laying on the bed. So a non-disposable METAL stick was why the wax felt so hot? Great. I limp proudly to the living room and act like nothing happened. This will be our little secret. When the party is over, The Screamer, walked with me back to the metro. A few minutes into the walk she broke the silence with a "What the FUCK was that?". A relief immediately washed over me. This is when friendships happen.

 

Opulence, I Has It.

I am sure everyone has seen the DirectTV commercials by now, mocking rich Russians?

They are hilarious, especially since, as with most stereotypes, they are not that off base.

Then, in response to the overwhelmingly positive response they got about the "Petite Lap Giraffe" featured in the video, they made this website , where you can order your very own. I am sure they are hoping the website goes viral, which I think it is.

Sokoblovsky  Farms being a ficticious location is a real dissapointment for my friends. Good thing it's not and I am just keeping the PLG to myself.

Our new Family Portrait with the newest addition

I Talk Good Russian

In an effort to integrate myself into Moscow, I signed up at a language school to be a "conversation facilitator" for a group of Russians in the final stages of learning English. They are basically fluent, but need to be more comfortable, and need help with the little things such as articles. "I walk THE dog" not "I walk dog". Also maybe some help with tone, i.e. why do you sound so angry and flippant when you tell me you ate cake and watched TV last night?

 

My first meeting with the director of the school was to go over my role and responsibilities in the group.

 

She tells me that my main role is to keep the conversation flowing.

I am a skilled conversationalist, this is easy enough. 

 

I am not to allow any one person in the group to dominate the conversation.

Ok, cheerlead the wallflowers, I got this.

 

Do not let them fight, well they shouldn't fight, ok they will fight, but you have to not let them or it will get out of hand.

Excuse me, they're going to fight? What am I, watching the gremlins? Should I also not let them have water at night? Huh? Oh that isn't important, let's just go on to the next rule? Ok.

 

Participate int he conversation yourself, share with them things about the United States, they will be very interested int he United States. For example, maybe you tell them why you have name like man, but you are not man.

Why I have a man's name, but I am not a man? Robin isn't a man's name. It is for a woman or for a man. Like Sasha for you Russians. In America Sasha is a woman's name, typically a black woman's name. For example, our president, who is black, his daughter's name is Sasha.

 

She is appaled by this information and does not believe me. We move swiftly on, no need to dwell...

 

Week one of the conversation group and I learn  my group consists of 8 Russian women. My devushkas.

 

The conversation topics and follow up questions are provided for us and week one is about emotions and communication. This should be fun. Among the group of 8 they have 3 names. The 8 of them are all either Elenas, Natalias, or Tatianas. Easy enough not to mix up.

 

The question comes around: "Are you open with your emotions, do you show people what you are thinking easily?"

 

HA! Silly question, Russians don't show emotions, I am not even sure they will understand the meaning of this question. How can this be a question if there is no alternative?

 

Tatiana #1 (The only Tatiana in her world) is a tall typical Russian woman with a severe blonde bob haircut who keeps her fur coat on the entire class. She is anxious to answer this question, I can tell by her raised eyebrow. She tells me:

 

I do not show emotions. People at my business will say I am cool? Yea, cool. Because I will not show emotion. For example, you do not know if I like you, I don't like you, who knows? But for example, they I have power. If you do not know, power is with me."

 

(Side note: Russians love the phrase "for example" and place it awkwardly and excessively in conversations. It is their well placed curse word I believe. For example.)

 

The wall-flower sitting next to her is excited by this realization, and wants to high five Tatiana. Tatiana will have none of this, and tells wall-flower in a monotone voice:

 

No! You do not touch me. You have no access to me.

 

Wall-flower is very sad.

 

Tatiana continues with:

 

You see what I did there? I have power. Also, I do not like to be touched.

 

The phrase of the day I teach Tatiana is "cold-fish", as in "Your co-workers don't think you are cool, they think you are a cold-fish". She enjoys this phrase very much, I can tell by her raised eyebrow. She writes it down in her notebook and mumbles about remembering this and using it in the future.

My Tampa Trip...No Elaboration Required

Booked a ticket on Saturday. Left on Sunday. Plane delayed for 4 hours in the airport that got bombed. Sat on by a Russian. Shoved by a Russian. Generally assaulted by all surrounding Russians. Vodka spilled in my purse by a Russian. Can't wait for America. Slept most of the flight, that was good. Arrived in D.C. way past connection flight. Lost all hope of arriving in Tampa on Sunday. Realized I left coat in Moscow. Possible serial killer offered sweatshirt and tried to share hotel room. realize that no one who is actually normal ever needs to say they are normal. Pass. Woke up 3 hours after going to bed. Jet lag sucks. Go back to D.C. airport. Meet a girl who reminds me of my slightly white trash sister. End up holding her cat through security. Not convinced cat isn't a drug mule. Hear her sob story about her meth-making boyfriend. Now convinced cat is a drug mule. Realize cat scratched me. Wondering if I would now fail a drug test.  Arrive in Tampa. Go to lunch. I hate hugs. Go to a club. Fist pump. Nothing has changed in Tampa. Remind myself how to drive. Melt my credit card at the mall. Beach. Go to the dentist hungover. Get told by the dentist to eat an Alka Seltzer if I ever have a UTI. Wonder the entire dentist visit why he told me this. Wondering if the dentist ever verbally told me he is normal. Go out way too late way too often. Tried a jalapeno margarita. Reminded why I don't drink tequila. Where did these bruises come from? Physically exhausted. Please don't hug me. Partied with my favorite Asian. Pulled car over the throw up. Dinner with deceased step-dad's ex-wife. My family is strange. Drink wine. Eat cheese dip with a friend. Name it a "in queso emergency" party. Tell my friend I am not stoned. Hit by a slow moving car. Drag a coffin shaped bike case through the airport. Get the wrong boarding pass. Collude with the flight attendant that I am too sick to have people sitting next to me. Arrive in Moscow. Get shoved as soon as I exit the plane. Robin, Welcome Home, Love, Moscow.

P.S. With all of that said (in one breath, mind you). I couldn't have been doing this on February 27 in Moscow:

Did You Spill Vodka in My Purse or Did It Always Smell Like This?

I recently flew from Moscow back to Tampa for a visit. I flew out of DME airport, the one that was involved in the bombings a few weeks ago. Although security was stepped up compared to in the past, there was still virtually no security when it came to female visitors/passengers. I don't know if this comes from a feeling that women aren't capable (how far can she get in THOSE heels?) or fear of the women (what will she do to me with THOSE heels if I hassle her?). Either way, while all the men in line were getting pat down, I breezed right through the metal detector, being given a friendly wave of passage when my watch set off the alarm.

My plan was going to be 4 hours late. This is fine, I don't ever bet on anything or look forward to too much now that I live in Moscow. Russia has really taught me to just appreciate the moment..



Sitting on a chair, reading a book, tuning out the thoughts that I am spending the day in an airport that was recently bombed, an old man came up and thumped me with a rolled up magazine. I had absentmindedly crossed my legs with my foot touching the chair. So sure, hitting me is a totally reasonable reaction.

Waiting in line to board, a thin tall Russian man with a crossbody purse edged up in my peripheral. Oh so you are going to try the bottle neck cutting approach? No. I know rationally we are going on the same plane, with assigned seats, and it makes no difference if you get on first or if I do. But he should know that too.  I give him the eye of inappropriateness, but he is Russian and therefore immune to such passive tactics. I offer him up a sharp shoulder  the bottom two ribs to assert my line position. I am not back on American soil yet, so this is acceptable. This translated nicely and he cuts the person behind me instead.


Happy to finally board and take my seat, I start reading my book again. I have the someone-is-staring-at-me feeling and look up to see my buddy from the line leaning over THE CHAIR IN FRONT OF ME....HIS CHAIR. He is smiling. I don't know what to make of a smiling Russian. I can trust them scowling, this is their baseline. He wants to shake hands and talk to me in Russian, despite me informing him (in both Russian and English) that I don't speak Russian. No worries. The look still doesn't work. I just thought I would give it another shot.



About a quarter of the way through the flight, the best seat neighbor ever, spilled his duty-free bottle of vodka inside my purse that was properly stowed under the seat in front of me.  He is passed out and doesn't notice. I am happy he had already drank half the bottle. I went bobbing for my blackberry, that now, won't turn on.

This is also around the time of the flight, for the customary, all Russians out of your seats, let's ALL pop the duty-free bottles and have a block party in the aisles. The two women next to me have unidentifiable brightly colored liquor in water bottles they are mixing with their bottles. TSA, I am giving you the eye now. I take another xanax, I will not be upright for the remainder of the flight.

The plan lands, and as is the normal, the Russians clap. I am always so confused why the plan landing is such a surprise that it requires applause. But this time, I got it and applauded too.

From Russia...With Love

This title had to be used eventually. I get a pass on the cheesy factor and expectancy because it is Valentine's day, yeah?

Our first mistake was trying to recreate what Valentine's Day was for us in the states. Flowers, fancy dinner, dressing up...yadda yadda...I don't know why. We know nothing in Moscow works out if you put in in an American box. But we tried...hard.

We won dinner from the local Ex-Pat magazine, Element. I was nervous about trying a place we haven't been to before considering how pricey a meal out can be in Russia, and how hit or miss the food is, and miss the service is. The website had no English, but we decided to give it a go anyway.

I rushed home after work pretty-fy. My husband booked a cab. I told him I may wear boots despite the cab since we have a history of cabs not working out and being as door to door as you would expect from a cab. He assures me it will be fine and to please wear heels.

The cab was late, we sat in Moscow traffic for over an hour, decided to ditch the cab and make a go for the metro. My nearly 5 inch miserable-going-in-the-trash-as-soon-as-I-get-home (i vowed all night, but they're back in my closet now, all forgiven) Jessica Simpson heels helping me to slip and slide my way across the street.

We metro'd, found the restaurant, and were completely blown away by the ambiance. Rarely, do pleasant surprises happen here when it comes to food.

There were a few typical how-do-they-eat-this-ew dishes on the menu:

But overall, normal fancy menu. We stuffed ourselves beyond capacity. I wasn't drinking due to the events of Saturday night and the-hangover-that-should-never-be-talked-about. It was so nice to have a normal meal for once here in the land of hidden herring.

The restaurant was full of typical Russian couples. Which is: super-model-gorgeous young girl, and older man who does not seem to shower or own a clean shirt. There was same-side sitting all around.

While I was in the restroom, the manager came over and in broken English asked my husband if he was pleasuring himself. We took it to mean having a nice time which he agreed he was. If that is not what he meant, then well I guess he thinks Americans are bolder than he thought.

The manager presented us with a special dessert which is amazing because I am not sure I have ever been given anything free here, and usually wait staff acts like you should be giving them free dessert:

Obviously I had no self control, and a picture was a complete after thought. How could I? This is what greeted us when we walked in the restaurant, so I knew what goodness was coming:

Nom Nom Nom Nom

The cab ride home was the most successful ride we have had yet. We participated in the gypsy cab phenomenon in Russia (basic common hitch hiking) got in a car with a stranger, who was sitting on the wrong side of his car (drivers here drive on the same side of the street and same side of the car as America....typically) and watching TV and surprisingly gave us door to door service. 



Nudity with Coworkers...Not Just for Strippers Anymore

So I did it. I experienced non-sexualized nudity. It really wasn't that big of a deal. It would have been more awkward to have been the only person with clothes on. No one cared. It really was like just wearing a different outfit than I normally do.

We went to this Banya: www.baninapresne.ru and it was one of the more authentic experiences I have had. It was a segregated experience. Women on one side, and men on the other. (Not sure how ok I would have been with it otherwise). No one cared you were naked or that they were naked. From the time you walk in, everyone is more concerned about doing their own thing. And really who cares if anyone did look? It was inspiring to see the women of every shape shed their clothes and be completely ok with the vulnerability of public nudity.

So we walked in, changed into...nothing, and then took showers, went into the steam room (that was unbearably hot), covered ourselves in coffee grounds, back to the steam room (still unbearably hot), dropped into an ice pool,  back to the steam room (you guessed it), I got beat with birch branches, got out, covered ourselves in honey, popped into the dry sauna to let said honey melt, and then on to the final shower.

Now to continue with the honest experience, I am going to write that I got a question answered (no idea why I was wondering about this). Russian women (at least the 50 or so that I saw at the Banya), do not groom the down there regions. (!?) For as polished and put together they are in public, this really surprised me (and yes I looked, come on, it can be honest and authentic, but you are still going to LOOK. Not to go in to too much personal detail here, but this is not a belief I subscribe to, and consequently, an old lady grabbed my junk, pointed, and wanted to discuss the state it was in (this is not a service I paid for, and I since I do not speak Russian, this is only my guess based on her pantomime and tone).

Well, it doesn't get any more non-sexualized than that.