Rebecca Mildren's Blog, page 2
September 16, 2014
Fish out of water
I found this blurb in my Facebook notes, dated 3 May 2012, which was very soon after we arrived back in the US from Israel. A fun walk down memory lane for me. Not sure that I've progressed all that much with my repatriation -- I avoid Starbucks like the plague -- but I do own a vehicle now, and I have actually learned how to drive! But just because I speak English like an American, that doesn't mean I necessarily feel like I really belong here yet. Enjoy...
Talk about feeling like an idiot! Or at least awkward and out of place. It's not like we haven't visited the US before, but this time is different, because we aren't just here as tourists, visiting, staying with friends and family. We're starting to LIVE here.
So, on the first day back after living abroad for 19 years and traveling for 48 hours, we began to feel the difference. At a couple meetings, Nate had to make extra effort not to insert foreign words like "balagan" into his speech. Are you OK? they asked at the bank, sensing his obvious conscious effort to make sense to the average American.
Meanwhile, I had some shopping to do at Safeway. After a painfully long decision-making process on diapers, while picking out some jars of baby food, I accidently knocked one to the floor, where it shatter-splatted. Horrified, I had no idea what to do - report or ignore it? Happily, some other mothers in the aisle said they would go get help. Whew.
After paying, I had been thinking to collect my bags and leave when the cashier brought them around for me and plopped them in the shopping cart I had planned to abandon. It was then I realized that everyone here arrives in a vehicle. No one even lives near enough to walk. I had also arrived in a truck, a borrowed one, but then had to wait for Nate to return. During the long wait, I grew more and more aware of the fact that we were people without a vehicle of our own in a land of vehicles. Not to mention that I don't even know how to drive. I actually felt a bit embarrassed.
Finally tired of waiting around outside and watching shiny rigs drive by, I went back inside to get a drink at Starbucks. Not a coffee drinker anyway, I got flustered trying to remember their special sizing terminology. "I'll take a big, no a tall, no a..." Looking at the board didn't help, because the prices were too small, and I couldn't decide whether to read the sizes right-to-left or left-to-right. Then on to the choice of tea. I had to have the surprised girl bring the selection over for a close-up view, instead of just knowing off the top of my head, out of the apparently vast experience typical to every customer, which tea I wanted. Sigh. This being American thing is going to take a lot of getting used to!
Talk about feeling like an idiot! Or at least awkward and out of place. It's not like we haven't visited the US before, but this time is different, because we aren't just here as tourists, visiting, staying with friends and family. We're starting to LIVE here.
So, on the first day back after living abroad for 19 years and traveling for 48 hours, we began to feel the difference. At a couple meetings, Nate had to make extra effort not to insert foreign words like "balagan" into his speech. Are you OK? they asked at the bank, sensing his obvious conscious effort to make sense to the average American.
Meanwhile, I had some shopping to do at Safeway. After a painfully long decision-making process on diapers, while picking out some jars of baby food, I accidently knocked one to the floor, where it shatter-splatted. Horrified, I had no idea what to do - report or ignore it? Happily, some other mothers in the aisle said they would go get help. Whew.
After paying, I had been thinking to collect my bags and leave when the cashier brought them around for me and plopped them in the shopping cart I had planned to abandon. It was then I realized that everyone here arrives in a vehicle. No one even lives near enough to walk. I had also arrived in a truck, a borrowed one, but then had to wait for Nate to return. During the long wait, I grew more and more aware of the fact that we were people without a vehicle of our own in a land of vehicles. Not to mention that I don't even know how to drive. I actually felt a bit embarrassed.
Finally tired of waiting around outside and watching shiny rigs drive by, I went back inside to get a drink at Starbucks. Not a coffee drinker anyway, I got flustered trying to remember their special sizing terminology. "I'll take a big, no a tall, no a..." Looking at the board didn't help, because the prices were too small, and I couldn't decide whether to read the sizes right-to-left or left-to-right. Then on to the choice of tea. I had to have the surprised girl bring the selection over for a close-up view, instead of just knowing off the top of my head, out of the apparently vast experience typical to every customer, which tea I wanted. Sigh. This being American thing is going to take a lot of getting used to!
September 9, 2014
The darker side of being an adrenaline junkie
My husband and I used to joke that after living so long in (relatively) crazy places like Russia and Israel, we'd have to move to Afghanistan to feel we were keeping up with the level of excitement we're used to. I suppose that would more mean Iraq today -- hey, the Kurds are nice people, we know some. And in fact, we'd love to visit places like Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, even Iran. Someday. As for living in Montana… Well, it hasn't been overly exciting so far, except for the terrible car accident we got into when moving here that totaled our minivan. But I could do without that sort of excitement. And yet…
Once, a friend told me about how he went bungee jumping, three times in one day. Afterwards, he found himself speeding in his car, because it felt like he was going super slow. Such are the effects of adrenaline. Even worse, after months of prolonged exposure to stress, there is a physiological change that occurs in the body: You can literally become an adrenaline addict.
Now, in a country that is just getting over its own little war, in which thousands of rockets were launched at it, Israeli tourists are supposedly flocking to the Golan Heights with binoculars in hand to watch the battle play out between rebels and the Syrian Army on the other side of the border. See photos here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/artic.... Nor is this a particularly safe form of recreation, since there are reports of Israelis being injured from errant fire almost daily. Maybe about as safe as skydiving or other extreme sports. But far be it from me to criticize them. As anyone who's watched the Hurt Locker knows, war can get to be addicting. But that doesn't necessarily let those of us who aren't actively involved in combat off the hook, as the entertainment industry can testify. Sure, movies are safer, but are they really?
In fact, constant exposure to stress (and adrenaline) isn't good for your health. I say this as a person with a driven personality, who can't seem to get enough to do, who has been on the verge of nervous breakdowns in the past. But once you've reached a certain level of activity and stress, it becomes agonizing to cut back, until you're flat on your face and have to sit on the beach for three months. Been there, done that. And still, though in our right mind, we might know better, once you get used to something, it's hard to go back to "normal." You grow hardened to anything less. And the hardening is a type of defense mechanism. I can almost guarantee you that there was less coverage, interest, and fewer Google searches made on Steven Sotloff's beheading by ISIS than there was of James Foley's, which came first. Why do you think that ISIS is giving kids dolls and knives to play with so they get used to decapitations?
But where is the balance between hardening ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously, to stress, war, and other negative factors, and letting things get to us? I remember a photography exhibit of the faces of Israeli women that I once saw. I would say that compared to the average American, there was a definite hardness to them. Sure, the body's defenses kick in and we become less affected by stressful things, but there is a price. I would love to be soft, empathetic, and relaxed. I'd love to be the person who enjoys chick-flicks and rom-coms instead of action/suspense films, yet at the same time, that also seems detrimental in its own right.
With that, I have to report that I went to the Planet Beach spa yesterday and enjoyed an aqua massage! Yes, it was quite relaxing. But it was almost more stressful to take 20 minutes out of my hectic day just to lie there and do nothing else. Sheesh! Life is tough. So today, I took this unscientific stress-test. You can, too, at http://stress.about.com/library/adren.... I scored 5 out of 10, meaning that I'm an adrenaline junkie and might need to scale things back a bit. I'm definitely going to try. Just as soon as I get everything else done…
Once, a friend told me about how he went bungee jumping, three times in one day. Afterwards, he found himself speeding in his car, because it felt like he was going super slow. Such are the effects of adrenaline. Even worse, after months of prolonged exposure to stress, there is a physiological change that occurs in the body: You can literally become an adrenaline addict.
Now, in a country that is just getting over its own little war, in which thousands of rockets were launched at it, Israeli tourists are supposedly flocking to the Golan Heights with binoculars in hand to watch the battle play out between rebels and the Syrian Army on the other side of the border. See photos here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/artic.... Nor is this a particularly safe form of recreation, since there are reports of Israelis being injured from errant fire almost daily. Maybe about as safe as skydiving or other extreme sports. But far be it from me to criticize them. As anyone who's watched the Hurt Locker knows, war can get to be addicting. But that doesn't necessarily let those of us who aren't actively involved in combat off the hook, as the entertainment industry can testify. Sure, movies are safer, but are they really?
In fact, constant exposure to stress (and adrenaline) isn't good for your health. I say this as a person with a driven personality, who can't seem to get enough to do, who has been on the verge of nervous breakdowns in the past. But once you've reached a certain level of activity and stress, it becomes agonizing to cut back, until you're flat on your face and have to sit on the beach for three months. Been there, done that. And still, though in our right mind, we might know better, once you get used to something, it's hard to go back to "normal." You grow hardened to anything less. And the hardening is a type of defense mechanism. I can almost guarantee you that there was less coverage, interest, and fewer Google searches made on Steven Sotloff's beheading by ISIS than there was of James Foley's, which came first. Why do you think that ISIS is giving kids dolls and knives to play with so they get used to decapitations?
But where is the balance between hardening ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously, to stress, war, and other negative factors, and letting things get to us? I remember a photography exhibit of the faces of Israeli women that I once saw. I would say that compared to the average American, there was a definite hardness to them. Sure, the body's defenses kick in and we become less affected by stressful things, but there is a price. I would love to be soft, empathetic, and relaxed. I'd love to be the person who enjoys chick-flicks and rom-coms instead of action/suspense films, yet at the same time, that also seems detrimental in its own right.
With that, I have to report that I went to the Planet Beach spa yesterday and enjoyed an aqua massage! Yes, it was quite relaxing. But it was almost more stressful to take 20 minutes out of my hectic day just to lie there and do nothing else. Sheesh! Life is tough. So today, I took this unscientific stress-test. You can, too, at http://stress.about.com/library/adren.... I scored 5 out of 10, meaning that I'm an adrenaline junkie and might need to scale things back a bit. I'm definitely going to try. Just as soon as I get everything else done…
August 4, 2014
Being a woman is both easier and harder than you might imagine
So, I read this blurb making its way around the web, a post on ThoughtCatalog by contributor Caitlin Leggett, with the misleading title: "50 Ways To Be a Woman." You, too, can read it at http://thoughtcatalog.com/caitlin-leg....
Now, I don't really consider myself a feminist, but I was all ready to get up in arms about some of Caitlin's points. Until I saw that she's a college freshman. At the University of Arkansas. So in that case, far be it from me to discourage this young southern belle from writing, exploring, and expressing her views. Rather, I should say: Way to go Ms. Leggett! It's awesome that you're composing, being pro-active, and all that jazz. And I am absolutely not being sarcastic. More young women your age should be doing exactly that. I'm sure your article received far more views and shares than my measly little blog. Kudos to you. I hope you keep at it, even when you're the dentist that you plan on becoming.
Having said that, I have a serious bone to pick with many of Caitlin's points. (I hope, if she ever reads this, she will manage to distinguish between my critique of her views and my encouragement of her personal achievement in sharing them.) First of all, some are good advice for anyone entering adulthood, but I have no idea why they should apply specifically to women: "Learn to keep a checkbook," "be leery of who you trust," "handle confrontation with grace and dignity," "practice good telephone manners," and "find beauty in every day." Others are more offensive, however, and range between the overtly sexist -- "learn to walk in high heels" and "wear pink;" to the archaic -- "a few conservative dresses, a string of pearls, a nice handbag, and a good pair of pumps should always be in your wardrobe" (seriously, were you born in the 1940s? 1840s?); to the downright bizarre -- "learn to handle your liquor."
While she advises: "do not restrict yourself to gender stereotypes," in fact, her first point in her 50 ways to be a woman is this: "Practice good personal grooming habits. If you are going to have colored hair, keep your roots covered. If you are going to have fake nails, keep them filled. Take care of your skin, take care of your teeth." Is this really the measure of being a woman? Perhaps it's no wonder that Arkansas is ranked the 7th worst state for women. See: http://247wallst.com/special-report/2.... And while she also advises: "Never allow a man to make you feel inferior," she also says: "Do not outwardly reject society’s conventions of a woman just because they differ from your personal convictions."
So, given this wealth of contradictions, along with her warning to watch out since one never knows if one might become a Sunday school teacher someday (which I am), I'd like to point out (and this subject is touched upon in my novel, The Tides of Time and Chance, which is set in the 17th century) that many of these "society's conventions" of what it means to be a woman have absolutely revolting roots in the historically misogynistic distortion of Scripture. It's not just the right to vote that women have had to fight for over the years. How about "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?" Sorry, only for men. Property? Nope. Wife-beating? Absolutely legal. No joke. And justified by the Bible, no less. And even though we've come a long way past some of the cultures and religions that we enlightened Westerners look down our noses at today for their oppression of women, we don't have to go as far back as the 17th century to find some of the same chauvinistic treatment of women that prompted Caitlin to suggest that women should "dress modestly," for example. And before I get raked over the coals by well-meaning Christian friends, please note that the New Testament version of modesty has much more to do with not overly adorning oneself outwardly than with wearing a burqa. In fact, it was men Jesus warned to take control of their adulterous thoughts, not women about… Anyway.
I would also like to observe that there are many points to be gleaned from the ancient Proverbs 31 passage concerning a woman whose value is far above rubies, rendered "virtuous" by those translators commissioned by King James (don't get me started on that so-called "translation," but "woman of valor" is much closer to the original Hebrew), that reek less of the modern narrow-mindedness prevalent in Caitlin's list. Proverbs 31 doesn't say much about a woman bearing countless offspring whom she is compelled to shepherd day and night; it says her children make her happy (that's one way to translate it, by the way; look it up). It doesn't say she wears a dress and pumps; it says she girds herself with strength and dignity. It doesn't say her place is limited to the kitchen or at home; it describes her as an entrepreneur, a go-getter. It doesn't say she keeps her house perfectly clean; it says she has servants -- she's obviously got better things to do. It doesn't say she keeps her mouth shut when she's got something to say; it says both wisdom and kindness are on her tongue. It doesn't say she has to have the perfect hair and nails; it says she is God-fearing.
I could go on and on, but I'll conclude with my favorite item from Caitlin's list, her point #22: "Cultivate yourself as an interesting person and develop a personality that is unique to yourself." I do hope she will follow her own advice. She should start by questioning why she believes what she believes about women, and about herself.
As for me, if I could have a list with only one item on it, I would tell Caitlin and all young women: Be yourself. Don't feel trapped into living up to anyone's expectations of womanhood. Even your own.
Now, I don't really consider myself a feminist, but I was all ready to get up in arms about some of Caitlin's points. Until I saw that she's a college freshman. At the University of Arkansas. So in that case, far be it from me to discourage this young southern belle from writing, exploring, and expressing her views. Rather, I should say: Way to go Ms. Leggett! It's awesome that you're composing, being pro-active, and all that jazz. And I am absolutely not being sarcastic. More young women your age should be doing exactly that. I'm sure your article received far more views and shares than my measly little blog. Kudos to you. I hope you keep at it, even when you're the dentist that you plan on becoming.
Having said that, I have a serious bone to pick with many of Caitlin's points. (I hope, if she ever reads this, she will manage to distinguish between my critique of her views and my encouragement of her personal achievement in sharing them.) First of all, some are good advice for anyone entering adulthood, but I have no idea why they should apply specifically to women: "Learn to keep a checkbook," "be leery of who you trust," "handle confrontation with grace and dignity," "practice good telephone manners," and "find beauty in every day." Others are more offensive, however, and range between the overtly sexist -- "learn to walk in high heels" and "wear pink;" to the archaic -- "a few conservative dresses, a string of pearls, a nice handbag, and a good pair of pumps should always be in your wardrobe" (seriously, were you born in the 1940s? 1840s?); to the downright bizarre -- "learn to handle your liquor."
While she advises: "do not restrict yourself to gender stereotypes," in fact, her first point in her 50 ways to be a woman is this: "Practice good personal grooming habits. If you are going to have colored hair, keep your roots covered. If you are going to have fake nails, keep them filled. Take care of your skin, take care of your teeth." Is this really the measure of being a woman? Perhaps it's no wonder that Arkansas is ranked the 7th worst state for women. See: http://247wallst.com/special-report/2.... And while she also advises: "Never allow a man to make you feel inferior," she also says: "Do not outwardly reject society’s conventions of a woman just because they differ from your personal convictions."
So, given this wealth of contradictions, along with her warning to watch out since one never knows if one might become a Sunday school teacher someday (which I am), I'd like to point out (and this subject is touched upon in my novel, The Tides of Time and Chance, which is set in the 17th century) that many of these "society's conventions" of what it means to be a woman have absolutely revolting roots in the historically misogynistic distortion of Scripture. It's not just the right to vote that women have had to fight for over the years. How about "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?" Sorry, only for men. Property? Nope. Wife-beating? Absolutely legal. No joke. And justified by the Bible, no less. And even though we've come a long way past some of the cultures and religions that we enlightened Westerners look down our noses at today for their oppression of women, we don't have to go as far back as the 17th century to find some of the same chauvinistic treatment of women that prompted Caitlin to suggest that women should "dress modestly," for example. And before I get raked over the coals by well-meaning Christian friends, please note that the New Testament version of modesty has much more to do with not overly adorning oneself outwardly than with wearing a burqa. In fact, it was men Jesus warned to take control of their adulterous thoughts, not women about… Anyway.
I would also like to observe that there are many points to be gleaned from the ancient Proverbs 31 passage concerning a woman whose value is far above rubies, rendered "virtuous" by those translators commissioned by King James (don't get me started on that so-called "translation," but "woman of valor" is much closer to the original Hebrew), that reek less of the modern narrow-mindedness prevalent in Caitlin's list. Proverbs 31 doesn't say much about a woman bearing countless offspring whom she is compelled to shepherd day and night; it says her children make her happy (that's one way to translate it, by the way; look it up). It doesn't say she wears a dress and pumps; it says she girds herself with strength and dignity. It doesn't say her place is limited to the kitchen or at home; it describes her as an entrepreneur, a go-getter. It doesn't say she keeps her house perfectly clean; it says she has servants -- she's obviously got better things to do. It doesn't say she keeps her mouth shut when she's got something to say; it says both wisdom and kindness are on her tongue. It doesn't say she has to have the perfect hair and nails; it says she is God-fearing.
I could go on and on, but I'll conclude with my favorite item from Caitlin's list, her point #22: "Cultivate yourself as an interesting person and develop a personality that is unique to yourself." I do hope she will follow her own advice. She should start by questioning why she believes what she believes about women, and about herself.
As for me, if I could have a list with only one item on it, I would tell Caitlin and all young women: Be yourself. Don't feel trapped into living up to anyone's expectations of womanhood. Even your own.
July 22, 2014
Get your gardener on!
It's summer! So, if you're anything like me, you've been spending excessive amounts of time out in your garden. Some people, like my mom, do flowers. Others, like my dad, do fruit trees. My guilty pleasure is veggies and herbs. Though both my parents garden, I wasn't always into it. I think I was particularly inspired by visits to my friends' dacha in Russia and my other friends' apartment balcony in Italy. In Russia, all sorts of good, fresh produce is waiting in the ogorod right outside the screen door, and in Italy, you can spit a seed in a pot and have it sprout into a tree without any trouble at all. That's how it should be, folks! If more people gardened, I'm convinced we'd have world peace by now. OK, almost convinced.
Meanwhile, having lived in tiny apartments on the Mediterranean for a decade, where I had to make do with anything I could grow in a pot, this is actually only my second-year-ever proper in-the-ground veggie garden. And yes, I'm very proud of it! And yes, I totally have garden envy, since my neighbors planted at least 2 weeks before me! Grow, little plants, grow!!!!
I've been rather busy the past week or so and haven't been weeding as much as I should. To be truthful, the garden is overrun. Even my dear hubby was out there yesterday, weeding around the raspberries. There was one particularly large weed that he left, and I absentmindedly wondered why he had until I went to pull it out and learned I shouldn't have been so overzealous. My ungloved hand (I was watering the sunflowers) quickly informed me that it was a stinging nettle. Ouch! I could be forgiven for not noticing, since I've never seen them in my garden here before. I actually do know what they look like, however. In fact, I even know what they taste like. In Russia, people get back at the pesky nuisances by boiling them in soup. Or tea. Just to show them who's boss.
Anyway, since the popularity of BuzzFeed is proof just how much we all like to stroke our egos by taking tests, I've created a little test for you:
How Much of a Gardener Are You Really? Just answer these simple questions and find out!
Weeds… a) are inevitable b) steal vital nutrients, water, and space from other plants c) are evil and must be destroyed d) all of the above
When your houseplants' leaves turn yellow, it's a sign that… a) you looked at them funny b) winter is around the corner c) you may be overwatering d) you may be under-fertilizing
When you start coming up with life metaphors from working with a wheelbarrow… a) be afraid. be very afraid. b) you've been hauling stuff way too long c) well, you need something to keep your mind off tired muscles! d) I have an electric wheelbarrow
The rewards of gardening are: a) a farmer's tan b) fresh air and exercise c) pretty flowers and/or yummy food d) a bad back and dirty fingernails
When you see bees and ladybugs in your garden, you: a) wonder where's the DDT? b) run and hide c) feel like a proud momma d) take photos
How much time do you spend in your garden? a) I don't have a garden b) as much as a can c) I take my meals there d) my family hasn't seen me for weeks
And here's your score: You aren't nearly the gardener you could be. Isn't that always the truth?
Meanwhile, having lived in tiny apartments on the Mediterranean for a decade, where I had to make do with anything I could grow in a pot, this is actually only my second-year-ever proper in-the-ground veggie garden. And yes, I'm very proud of it! And yes, I totally have garden envy, since my neighbors planted at least 2 weeks before me! Grow, little plants, grow!!!!
I've been rather busy the past week or so and haven't been weeding as much as I should. To be truthful, the garden is overrun. Even my dear hubby was out there yesterday, weeding around the raspberries. There was one particularly large weed that he left, and I absentmindedly wondered why he had until I went to pull it out and learned I shouldn't have been so overzealous. My ungloved hand (I was watering the sunflowers) quickly informed me that it was a stinging nettle. Ouch! I could be forgiven for not noticing, since I've never seen them in my garden here before. I actually do know what they look like, however. In fact, I even know what they taste like. In Russia, people get back at the pesky nuisances by boiling them in soup. Or tea. Just to show them who's boss.
Anyway, since the popularity of BuzzFeed is proof just how much we all like to stroke our egos by taking tests, I've created a little test for you:
How Much of a Gardener Are You Really? Just answer these simple questions and find out!
Weeds… a) are inevitable b) steal vital nutrients, water, and space from other plants c) are evil and must be destroyed d) all of the above
When your houseplants' leaves turn yellow, it's a sign that… a) you looked at them funny b) winter is around the corner c) you may be overwatering d) you may be under-fertilizing
When you start coming up with life metaphors from working with a wheelbarrow… a) be afraid. be very afraid. b) you've been hauling stuff way too long c) well, you need something to keep your mind off tired muscles! d) I have an electric wheelbarrow
The rewards of gardening are: a) a farmer's tan b) fresh air and exercise c) pretty flowers and/or yummy food d) a bad back and dirty fingernails
When you see bees and ladybugs in your garden, you: a) wonder where's the DDT? b) run and hide c) feel like a proud momma d) take photos
How much time do you spend in your garden? a) I don't have a garden b) as much as a can c) I take my meals there d) my family hasn't seen me for weeks
And here's your score: You aren't nearly the gardener you could be. Isn't that always the truth?
July 4, 2014
Wimpy booms
When I picked the kids up from daycare yesterday, they were all excited and asked when they would get to see fireworks. And then, since my eldest asked what the holiday was about, I told him. Most of it was new to him, except that he knew who George Washington was. And I told him that we have fireworks to remind ourselves of the war our founding fathers fought so we could have a country of our own and make our own rules, such as the one that says he has to sit in a car seat until he grows another half inch. Not sure just how true that is about the reasons behind celebrating with Saturn missiles and Roman candles, but that's how I see it.
We also talked about Israel's Independence Day. Unlike in America, over there, the same old war still seems to be going on. Yesterday, more than 40 rockets were fired at Israel's towns. A soldier was injured. The other day, a rocket scored a direct hit on a house. Luckily, its residents were in their shelter. Israel's aircraft bombed some weapons storage facilities and concealed launch sites in Gaza. Meanwhile, other wars are happening other places. Iraq, for instance. I read that the Saudis have moved troops to their border now.
I guess it seems ironic to me that we would celebrate independence with sorry imitations of war. Sure, fireworks are pretty and fun, unless you've got PTSD. But it's not only us. Some of the best fireworks shows I ever saw were in Russia. They really get into them there, at least for Victory Day. Yet, it's my opinion that on Independence Day, we would do better to celebrate with peace and quiet instead. Surely we've earned it as a country -- or at least our soldiers and leaders, past and present, have.
And anyway, fireworks aren't just wimpy in comparison to the cannons of old and the missiles and bombs of today. They also pale in comparison to nature's display. Last night, a few people in our neighborhood were setting off fireworks. But then, a thunder storm rolled into our valley. As the lightning strikes lit up the sky and our house shook from noisy rumbles, I found the silly little popping noise of the fireworks sadly outdone. My husband and I celebrated our freedom by watching the storm, having a glass of wine, and making out on the couch. I know, TMI. But we're heading to visit relatives now, where we'll have to try to be impressed with the fireworks while working hard to keep the kids away from them, and I don't think we're going to enjoy it half so much.
We also talked about Israel's Independence Day. Unlike in America, over there, the same old war still seems to be going on. Yesterday, more than 40 rockets were fired at Israel's towns. A soldier was injured. The other day, a rocket scored a direct hit on a house. Luckily, its residents were in their shelter. Israel's aircraft bombed some weapons storage facilities and concealed launch sites in Gaza. Meanwhile, other wars are happening other places. Iraq, for instance. I read that the Saudis have moved troops to their border now.
I guess it seems ironic to me that we would celebrate independence with sorry imitations of war. Sure, fireworks are pretty and fun, unless you've got PTSD. But it's not only us. Some of the best fireworks shows I ever saw were in Russia. They really get into them there, at least for Victory Day. Yet, it's my opinion that on Independence Day, we would do better to celebrate with peace and quiet instead. Surely we've earned it as a country -- or at least our soldiers and leaders, past and present, have.
And anyway, fireworks aren't just wimpy in comparison to the cannons of old and the missiles and bombs of today. They also pale in comparison to nature's display. Last night, a few people in our neighborhood were setting off fireworks. But then, a thunder storm rolled into our valley. As the lightning strikes lit up the sky and our house shook from noisy rumbles, I found the silly little popping noise of the fireworks sadly outdone. My husband and I celebrated our freedom by watching the storm, having a glass of wine, and making out on the couch. I know, TMI. But we're heading to visit relatives now, where we'll have to try to be impressed with the fireworks while working hard to keep the kids away from them, and I don't think we're going to enjoy it half so much.
June 26, 2014
Kids say the darndest things
It's a sleepy day today. Low pressure. Foggy. A snooze-button sort of day. We even had to wake both kids up, and they are usually the ones who get us up.
So to ease you into the morning -- or the evening, if you're on the other side of the world -- here's a few things I've heard from the kids lately.
Zuri is in summer school. They went on a field trip last week to see one of the local dams here on the Missouri River. He apparently took two things away from this educational journey: He insisted that we build a "watershed" in the backyard with dirt and the hose and proceeded to create as much mud as I could handle. And, he told me a joke he had learned: What did the fish say when it bumped its nose? Dam. Yeah, great. Ha, ha. Just what I want to hear from my 6-year-old.
Then the other day, when I was heading out to drive Jeremy to daycare, right when we were about to pull onto the main road, I hear my 2-year-old say: "Mommy! Follow that car!" Not sure where he gets these things. But between him and Zuri, his personality and sense of humor are much closer to Nate's.
Of course, they say sweet things, too. When I dressed up to go out with Nate for our 17th anniversary -- I think it was 17th this year. Sorry, I'm about ready to go back to bed, here… No, wake up, Rebecca -- Zuri said: "Wow, Mom! You look so nice!" I wasn't quite sure how to take that. I need to dress up and do my hair and makeup more often? Probably. But then Jeremy clinched it for me: "Mommy, you are a princess!"
I'm sure that my kids say a lot of cute things every day. Jeremy loves to crack jokes, and he can barely talk. But when I am sitting down here to write, it's hard to remember them all. Needless to say, our anniversary was back two months ago, and I don't have a problem yet remembering the kids' kind words. Interesting, what sticks with you, isn't it? Have a great day. Or a great night. Or whatever. Time for a morning cuppa.
So to ease you into the morning -- or the evening, if you're on the other side of the world -- here's a few things I've heard from the kids lately.
Zuri is in summer school. They went on a field trip last week to see one of the local dams here on the Missouri River. He apparently took two things away from this educational journey: He insisted that we build a "watershed" in the backyard with dirt and the hose and proceeded to create as much mud as I could handle. And, he told me a joke he had learned: What did the fish say when it bumped its nose? Dam. Yeah, great. Ha, ha. Just what I want to hear from my 6-year-old.
Then the other day, when I was heading out to drive Jeremy to daycare, right when we were about to pull onto the main road, I hear my 2-year-old say: "Mommy! Follow that car!" Not sure where he gets these things. But between him and Zuri, his personality and sense of humor are much closer to Nate's.
Of course, they say sweet things, too. When I dressed up to go out with Nate for our 17th anniversary -- I think it was 17th this year. Sorry, I'm about ready to go back to bed, here… No, wake up, Rebecca -- Zuri said: "Wow, Mom! You look so nice!" I wasn't quite sure how to take that. I need to dress up and do my hair and makeup more often? Probably. But then Jeremy clinched it for me: "Mommy, you are a princess!"
I'm sure that my kids say a lot of cute things every day. Jeremy loves to crack jokes, and he can barely talk. But when I am sitting down here to write, it's hard to remember them all. Needless to say, our anniversary was back two months ago, and I don't have a problem yet remembering the kids' kind words. Interesting, what sticks with you, isn't it? Have a great day. Or a great night. Or whatever. Time for a morning cuppa.
June 18, 2014
A first time for everything
You might not think that I am someone who is easily intimidated. And I'm not, generally speaking. I have faced KGB interrogators (FSB, actually); I have knowingly visited cities where uranium and asbestos are mined; I survived the Second Persian Gulf War, the Second Lebanon War, and the tail end of the Al-Aqsa Intifada; I have rearranged meetings with a dozen ambassadors on a moment's notice; I have wrestled with crocodiles in the Australian outback.
Well, all except for that last bit. But still, you'd think that I wouldn't be frightened by a little fish.
But it wasn't just any fish I was up against today. It was a walleye. I've never fished for walleye before. I'm more of a trout-bass-salmon sort of gal. Being from the West Coast, walleyes are definitely out of my comfort zone, even after trying to read up on them on the Internet. The thing is, thanks to my father's outdoorsman genes and my stepdad taking me on fishing trips as a kid, I really, really like fishing. But I'm a total amateur. And even when I've got the right gear and am having a good casting day, I'm still only as good as the fishing spot and the insider tidbits that this introvert can get up the guts to weasel out of the locals. This brings me to the next point of intimidation.
You know a good fishing spot when you see all the men lined up. There is a supposedly great walleye fishing hole 10 minutes' drive from my house. But I've never ventured there to fish before today. Why, you ask, apart from my absolute ignorance about how to catch a walleye? As many times as I've driven by, I've never seen any women there. Plus, there's this difference between men and women. Since when do you see bunches of girls sitting around by a lake drinking beer, chatting it up, and poking worms on hooks? See? And I'm not a female version of that, either. I'm here for the hunt. To bring back food to cook and eat. Yes, I enjoy being outdoors, and I saw some lovely pelicans today, but that's not what I'm all about.
Anyway, supposedly Montana has some fantastic walleye fishing. So I've been trying to psych myself up to go and try for some time. And now that I have my license and discovered a walleye kit in my tackle box, I don't have any more excuses, do I? But between my utter incompetence and feeling like a complete idiot, not to mention the whole venturing into this man's world, it took every ounce of courage today for me to get all my equipment together and drive up to the lake. But I did it! I was so nervous I almost drove off without my pole, and I did forget my net, in fact, but I did it.
When I got there, at first I was ecstatic to see that no one else was out there on this cold and gloomy early morning. But then I came around the corner fully, and saw someone was there. A male someone. Standing in a good spot at the causeway. Sigh. Back to feeling utterly insecure and totally intimidated.
Well, I fished for a while. I tried a few spots. I was starting to feel OK about it all, if a bit chilled by the wind. I caught only a large fish scale (weird) and a leaf. Until I caught the tree. The only tree on the whole bank. Yes, back to feeling like a complete idiot! I decided to cut my losses then and there. Well, it was the line I cut and my jig and silicon worm that I lost.
Still, even walleye-less, I feel like I've achieved something important today. I've gotten past the first run of it. Surely, the next time will be easier. But at the beginning of a new season, I also see that I could use some new line. And the bearings in my reel aren't functioning as well as I'd like them to. I wonder how long it will take me to muster the nerve to go venture into the man's world that is the sporting goods store. Sigh. It might take a while.
Well, all except for that last bit. But still, you'd think that I wouldn't be frightened by a little fish.
But it wasn't just any fish I was up against today. It was a walleye. I've never fished for walleye before. I'm more of a trout-bass-salmon sort of gal. Being from the West Coast, walleyes are definitely out of my comfort zone, even after trying to read up on them on the Internet. The thing is, thanks to my father's outdoorsman genes and my stepdad taking me on fishing trips as a kid, I really, really like fishing. But I'm a total amateur. And even when I've got the right gear and am having a good casting day, I'm still only as good as the fishing spot and the insider tidbits that this introvert can get up the guts to weasel out of the locals. This brings me to the next point of intimidation.
You know a good fishing spot when you see all the men lined up. There is a supposedly great walleye fishing hole 10 minutes' drive from my house. But I've never ventured there to fish before today. Why, you ask, apart from my absolute ignorance about how to catch a walleye? As many times as I've driven by, I've never seen any women there. Plus, there's this difference between men and women. Since when do you see bunches of girls sitting around by a lake drinking beer, chatting it up, and poking worms on hooks? See? And I'm not a female version of that, either. I'm here for the hunt. To bring back food to cook and eat. Yes, I enjoy being outdoors, and I saw some lovely pelicans today, but that's not what I'm all about.
Anyway, supposedly Montana has some fantastic walleye fishing. So I've been trying to psych myself up to go and try for some time. And now that I have my license and discovered a walleye kit in my tackle box, I don't have any more excuses, do I? But between my utter incompetence and feeling like a complete idiot, not to mention the whole venturing into this man's world, it took every ounce of courage today for me to get all my equipment together and drive up to the lake. But I did it! I was so nervous I almost drove off without my pole, and I did forget my net, in fact, but I did it.
When I got there, at first I was ecstatic to see that no one else was out there on this cold and gloomy early morning. But then I came around the corner fully, and saw someone was there. A male someone. Standing in a good spot at the causeway. Sigh. Back to feeling utterly insecure and totally intimidated.
Well, I fished for a while. I tried a few spots. I was starting to feel OK about it all, if a bit chilled by the wind. I caught only a large fish scale (weird) and a leaf. Until I caught the tree. The only tree on the whole bank. Yes, back to feeling like a complete idiot! I decided to cut my losses then and there. Well, it was the line I cut and my jig and silicon worm that I lost.
Still, even walleye-less, I feel like I've achieved something important today. I've gotten past the first run of it. Surely, the next time will be easier. But at the beginning of a new season, I also see that I could use some new line. And the bearings in my reel aren't functioning as well as I'd like them to. I wonder how long it will take me to muster the nerve to go venture into the man's world that is the sporting goods store. Sigh. It might take a while.
June 12, 2014
Back in the USSR…
Or almost. Today is Russia Day, in case you didn't know. I lived in Russia for exactly 9 years, 1993-2002. As a country, it changed dramatically during that time, or at least Moscow did. I'm sure I'd hardly recognize it today. If you've never been ever so happy to stand in line to buy rolls of sandpaper-like toilet paper off a little old lady sitting on the street corner, hoping there will still be some in her suitcase when you reach her; if you've never been smuggled onto a Russian military base to hang out with people you barely know; if you've never been invited to celebrate the birthday of an Ismailovsky Park artisan by toasting his health with a disposable plastic cup of champagne; if you've never been gifted a 3-liter glass jar of unpasteurized milk on the Metro by someone you've never met, just because they were overjoyed to meet their first American; if you've never trembled with dread to check in with authorities and get your visa and residence papers stamped every three months, I'm afraid those fun times from the early 90's are gone forever.
When I arrived in August 1993, a clueless 19-year-old all excited about building bridges with these former Cold War enemies, I didn't realize I was about to witness a historic event. By September, a big clash was brewing between Yeltsin and the parliament, over the difficult transition from Soviet Communism to a more Westernized economy, generally speaking - though I was only to learn that much later. Did I mention I was clueless?
I remember that one Sunday morning in early October, I was hanging out in downtown Moscow on Novy Arbat with a couple of newly acquired Russian friends - Alexey spoke English with such a perfect southern drawl that it was a long time before I believed he was really Russian, and he thus became my inspiration to try to master Russian with an accent good enough to fool a native speaker, a feat I eventually accomplished. I don't remember the other guy's name. Anyway, we watched the demonstrators marching with red flags, and no one seemed to really think much of it. Until the tanks began rolling down that very street that same afternoon of 3 October. By then, of course, I was safe back "home," watching Moscow's bloodiest street fighting since the 1917 Revolution unfold on television. I remember my host parents - the director of the school where I was working with their ESL staff and his wife - in tears, but their English and my Russian were too poor at the time for me to quite understand what was happening.
Some of my other young expat friends weren't so fortunate to be watching it on television, because their electricity had been shut off. Imagine their terror to be watching it all through their window instead, and without the benefit of host parents: While I lived in the city outskirts, they lived by themselves a couple blocks behind the White House, where all the action was going on. I suppose most Americans don't realize that Russia also has a White House, but this government edifice is more of a White Building. By the time the tanks were done with it, though, it was a Black Building. These friends were so freaked out that they crawled around on the floor to keep from being seen by the soldiers outside and subsisted on rice and Jello for a week. Not sure where they got the Jello. What I will always remember as the attempted coup of October 1993 is enshrined on Wikipedia as the 1993 Russian constitutional crisis. Feel free to look it up. Then you'll know a heck of a lot more than I knew at the time. As they say, hindsight is 20/20.
The fact that the army sided with Yeltsin meant that he won that round, and most of you have never even heard the name of the guy who tried to replace him, albeit briefly. But now, even the Yeltsin era is far, far behind us. As to what's happened in Russia since then, more on that later. When I feel up to it. Stay tuned.
When I arrived in August 1993, a clueless 19-year-old all excited about building bridges with these former Cold War enemies, I didn't realize I was about to witness a historic event. By September, a big clash was brewing between Yeltsin and the parliament, over the difficult transition from Soviet Communism to a more Westernized economy, generally speaking - though I was only to learn that much later. Did I mention I was clueless?
I remember that one Sunday morning in early October, I was hanging out in downtown Moscow on Novy Arbat with a couple of newly acquired Russian friends - Alexey spoke English with such a perfect southern drawl that it was a long time before I believed he was really Russian, and he thus became my inspiration to try to master Russian with an accent good enough to fool a native speaker, a feat I eventually accomplished. I don't remember the other guy's name. Anyway, we watched the demonstrators marching with red flags, and no one seemed to really think much of it. Until the tanks began rolling down that very street that same afternoon of 3 October. By then, of course, I was safe back "home," watching Moscow's bloodiest street fighting since the 1917 Revolution unfold on television. I remember my host parents - the director of the school where I was working with their ESL staff and his wife - in tears, but their English and my Russian were too poor at the time for me to quite understand what was happening.
Some of my other young expat friends weren't so fortunate to be watching it on television, because their electricity had been shut off. Imagine their terror to be watching it all through their window instead, and without the benefit of host parents: While I lived in the city outskirts, they lived by themselves a couple blocks behind the White House, where all the action was going on. I suppose most Americans don't realize that Russia also has a White House, but this government edifice is more of a White Building. By the time the tanks were done with it, though, it was a Black Building. These friends were so freaked out that they crawled around on the floor to keep from being seen by the soldiers outside and subsisted on rice and Jello for a week. Not sure where they got the Jello. What I will always remember as the attempted coup of October 1993 is enshrined on Wikipedia as the 1993 Russian constitutional crisis. Feel free to look it up. Then you'll know a heck of a lot more than I knew at the time. As they say, hindsight is 20/20.
The fact that the army sided with Yeltsin meant that he won that round, and most of you have never even heard the name of the guy who tried to replace him, albeit briefly. But now, even the Yeltsin era is far, far behind us. As to what's happened in Russia since then, more on that later. When I feel up to it. Stay tuned.
June 10, 2014
Oh, give me a home…
I may have lived in Montana for over a year now, but I still get happy when I see the antelope. "Look, Jeremy!" I said this morning, on the way to daycare. "Do you see the antelope?" It was standing close to the road, facing away from us. "Antelope's butt," he says. "Bottom. Antelope's bottom," say I. "Butt," says he. I remember that when I was in kindergarten, I thought "butt" was a 4-letter word. Jeremy's only 2. Oh, well. But anyway, now I have a new rendition of glass half empty/half full. Am I seeing the antelope or it's bottom?
It really is a beautiful day here today. The sun is shining, and the snow seems to have melted on the surrounding mountains. And, it's my kindergartener's last full day of school, which necessarily brings out the sentimental in me. My apologies to those who were hoping for something cynical. This past Saturday, Nate was out of town. Actually, I woke him at quarter past 4 in the morning so he could get on the road. Then, at 6am, 0600 hours, I kid you not, Zuri bursts into my bedroom. What's 2 with 4 zeroes after it? he wants to know. I had almost fallen back asleep when he tried again 15 minutes later. What's 1 with 5 zeroes after it? He is always on about numbers and is rather a math whiz, if you ask me. The other day, he asked himself what is 5 minus 8? And he answered himself that it was minus 3. Genius! But at 6am-desperate to be certain that Jeremy, cuddled next to me since 5am, didn't wake up-I was more inclined to see the antelope's bottom. Or butt.
I'm not your ultra-fun-type mom. But I am trying. That Saturday, I decided a baking project was in order. To be honest, I was really just trying to survive at home all day as a single mom. What did the kids want to bake? Cookies? Brownies? Cake? Caramel popcorn? The decision was cake. And we made it, though I knew they wouldn't eat a bite. They hate cake. They LOVE frosting. Before I had even got out the recipe, Jeremy was pulling the stool over to my drawer. You know, the drawer that has all my mommy odds and ends in it, that I always tell him to stay out of. He got out the birthday candles and proceeded to crumble wax around the parquet floor. Then, the kids battled over "helping," and mommy ruled that Zuri would measure and Jeremy would mix. Later came the frosting. Then candy heart sprinkles, a whole small jar of them, and our unbirthday cake was finished.
I was right, of course. Neither of them have eaten a bite. Well, maybe one or two. Mainly frosting. But on this beautiful Tuesday morning, I'm thinking that focusing on the negative would be like only seeing the antelope's butt, so I'm taking the time now to smile. To remember the excitement, the licking of beaters, the peeking in the oven, noses and shirts dusted with flour. To remember something other than the mess I had to clean up or the whole cake that Nate and I are eating all by ourselves this week. Lest all the good things in life be more like the squirrel I also saw this morning. "Look! A squirrel!" I said to Jeremy. But even at 35mph, we had passed it by, and Jeremy said he didn't see it at all. Not even its butt.
It really is a beautiful day here today. The sun is shining, and the snow seems to have melted on the surrounding mountains. And, it's my kindergartener's last full day of school, which necessarily brings out the sentimental in me. My apologies to those who were hoping for something cynical. This past Saturday, Nate was out of town. Actually, I woke him at quarter past 4 in the morning so he could get on the road. Then, at 6am, 0600 hours, I kid you not, Zuri bursts into my bedroom. What's 2 with 4 zeroes after it? he wants to know. I had almost fallen back asleep when he tried again 15 minutes later. What's 1 with 5 zeroes after it? He is always on about numbers and is rather a math whiz, if you ask me. The other day, he asked himself what is 5 minus 8? And he answered himself that it was minus 3. Genius! But at 6am-desperate to be certain that Jeremy, cuddled next to me since 5am, didn't wake up-I was more inclined to see the antelope's bottom. Or butt.
I'm not your ultra-fun-type mom. But I am trying. That Saturday, I decided a baking project was in order. To be honest, I was really just trying to survive at home all day as a single mom. What did the kids want to bake? Cookies? Brownies? Cake? Caramel popcorn? The decision was cake. And we made it, though I knew they wouldn't eat a bite. They hate cake. They LOVE frosting. Before I had even got out the recipe, Jeremy was pulling the stool over to my drawer. You know, the drawer that has all my mommy odds and ends in it, that I always tell him to stay out of. He got out the birthday candles and proceeded to crumble wax around the parquet floor. Then, the kids battled over "helping," and mommy ruled that Zuri would measure and Jeremy would mix. Later came the frosting. Then candy heart sprinkles, a whole small jar of them, and our unbirthday cake was finished.
I was right, of course. Neither of them have eaten a bite. Well, maybe one or two. Mainly frosting. But on this beautiful Tuesday morning, I'm thinking that focusing on the negative would be like only seeing the antelope's butt, so I'm taking the time now to smile. To remember the excitement, the licking of beaters, the peeking in the oven, noses and shirts dusted with flour. To remember something other than the mess I had to clean up or the whole cake that Nate and I are eating all by ourselves this week. Lest all the good things in life be more like the squirrel I also saw this morning. "Look! A squirrel!" I said to Jeremy. But even at 35mph, we had passed it by, and Jeremy said he didn't see it at all. Not even its butt.
June 6, 2014
National WHAT day?
Seriously, people, since when did you start letting marketers and lobbyists run your life? Apparently, today is national doughnut day. Which is not so horribly offensive, I guess, except for the fact that in the nearly 20 years since I've been away from the US, national days have sprung up like mushrooms after the rain. How does one even keep up with them all? What happened to just Earth Day, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Thanksgiving Day…?
There is now national popcorn day, national pizza day, national blueberry popover day, national zucchini bread day, national peanut butter cookie day, national lollipop day, national pancake day, and my favorite, which happens to fall on my birthday: national bicarbonate of soda day. (!!!) In fact, there are two national doughnut days. If you miss today's, you can catch it again in November. And those are just a few of the food days. Don't get me started on the rest that have nothing to do with food.
What I want to know, as an uninformed outsider, is who decides on all these days? Is there some government board? If not, how can these holidays be declared national days? And how exactly does one impose a national day of one's choosing? By collecting 100,000 signatures? By paying the right people? By starting an ad campaign? How is the specific date selected? Are there any sort of criteria for determining whether something warrants its own day? I'm sure I could do an Internet search about it all, but I'm curious as to whether anyone who is celebrating today can give me a straight answer to my questions.
And the worst part of all is that now, all I can think about is eating a doughnut!
There is now national popcorn day, national pizza day, national blueberry popover day, national zucchini bread day, national peanut butter cookie day, national lollipop day, national pancake day, and my favorite, which happens to fall on my birthday: national bicarbonate of soda day. (!!!) In fact, there are two national doughnut days. If you miss today's, you can catch it again in November. And those are just a few of the food days. Don't get me started on the rest that have nothing to do with food.
What I want to know, as an uninformed outsider, is who decides on all these days? Is there some government board? If not, how can these holidays be declared national days? And how exactly does one impose a national day of one's choosing? By collecting 100,000 signatures? By paying the right people? By starting an ad campaign? How is the specific date selected? Are there any sort of criteria for determining whether something warrants its own day? I'm sure I could do an Internet search about it all, but I'm curious as to whether anyone who is celebrating today can give me a straight answer to my questions.
And the worst part of all is that now, all I can think about is eating a doughnut!
