A Common Woman

A Grueling Tale

 Gruel (noun): a thin liquid food of oatmeal or other meal boiled in milk or water.

 

I first learned of gruel when I read Oliver Twist. Poor Oliver and the other orphans ate gruel three times a day. Little did I know, one day I would be the one stirring a steaming pot of gruel.

 

Darling Husband and I had moved from the city out to a remote village on the Kamchatka peninsula. We were living in a one-room cabin on a camp property where we conducted children’s summer camps. When we moved to the camp, we inherited a guard dog named Jack, and a guard kitty, named Jill. 

 

Before leaving town, the former camp manager instructed me in the care and feeding of Jack and Jill.  Imagine my surprise when I learned their diet consisted of a daily bowl of gruel. Of course, my first thought was to run to the local market and buy a bag of dog food. I soon discovered that the market didn’t sell dog food. So, Jack and Jill were stuck with gruel.

 

Once a week, I would start a fire in the wood stove and drag out my cauldron. Into the boiling water, I would throw grain and any scraps left over from our meals. I stirred the bubbling brew and watched cabbage leaves, fish heads, and other unrecognizable bits and pieces circle the pot as the gruel cooked.

 

Once the glutinous mass was cooked, I would set the pot on a bench on the porch to cool. Every day I would put out a cold bowl of gruel for Jack and another one for Jill. They slurped the congealed mass and smacked their lips looking for more.

 

Jill waiting for her morning bowl of gruel. 

 

One wintry day, I finished concocting my unappetizing brew and prepared to carry it outdoors. Muscles straining, I picked up the pot and headed to the door.

 

Using my hip, I bumped open the wooden door and was greeted by Jill, the cat. The fumes from the gruel may have caused tears to come to my eyes, but it smelled like catnip to Jill. She danced around my feet, meowing and begging for a taste.

 

Suddenly, my left foot slipped on an icy patch and my right foot came down on Jill. Jill shrieked and streaked across the yard. I came down hard on my back, and gazed up at an airborne pot of gruel headed in my direction. Splat!

 

I wallowed out of the slop on the porch, wiped my face to clear the gruel out of my eyes, and stomped across the yard looking for Darling Husband. His reaction was not so darling, as he immediately burst into laughter at the sight of my gruel encrusted person.

 

As a piece of cabbage slid out of my hair and trailed down my slimy face, I poured out my grueling tale to Darling Husband. In a rage, I declared that this was my last pot of gruel. The next time we made the 8-hour drive to the city, a big bag of dog food, and one of cat food would be at the top of the shopping list.

 

Jill survived her brutal interaction with my right foot. I nursed a few bruises for the next week, but there was one unexpected consequence once I cleaned up from my gruel bath.

 

My hair never felt softer or looked better.

 

The lingering odor of cabbage and fish was a little off-putting to Darling Husband.

 

But Jack and Jill adored it.

 

 

Phone Calls and Time Zones

 

"How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?
"~ Dr. Seuss

 

photo by macinate

 

One cold Russian winter night, I snuggled deeper into my blankets trying to ignore the incessant buzzing invading my dreams. The noise penetrated my dream – a ringing telephone. I leapt from my warm bed and sprinted toward the shrill rings echoing down the hallway.

 

 These late night calls always struck fear into my mother’s heart. I couldn’t ignore the phone, because it might be one of my children. Darling Husband managed to sleep through all calls. Even if he did wake up, his mind didn’t engage and begin working for at least 20 minutes. The responsibility for answering phone calls after midnight and before 7:00 a.m. fell on my shoulders.

 

 I snatched up the receiver and in a hesitant voice said, “Hellooo?”

 

 “Hello, Robin. How are you? This is Michael, from Spokane,” replied the cheerful voice speaking from 19 time zones away.  “I need to fax some papers to you about our upcoming visit.” 

 

Not in the mood for small talk, I quickly replied, “Great. I’ll push the fax button and we should be good to go.”  As in, go back to bed! 

 

So, I jabbed the fax button, hung up the phone and waited for the fax. I waited and waited, but nothing happened. I shrugged my shoulders, and jumped back into my warm bed.

 

 My eyelids drifted shut, and suddenly there was that noise again. Telephone! I dragged my protesting body from the bed, only opening my eyes a ¼ of an inch. My theory is if you keep your eyes pretty much closed – you won’t wake up all the way.

 

“Hello,” I groggily answered.

 

 “This is Michael. For some reason the fax machine didn’t work,” he chirped. “Can we try again? Oh, and what time is it there?”

 

 “It’s 3:00 a.m. But that’s okay; let’s try this again. I’m pressing the button now.”

 

I pushed the button, twice to be sure, and hung up the phone. I waited. The cold from the floor slowly numbed my feet and began moving up my legs. I turned and sprinted back to bed placing my ice-cold feet against my husband’s warm legs.

 

Twenty minutes later, just as my feet regained feeling, the phone rang again. I jumped up, throwing the cover back far enough that even Darling Husband felt the chill, and marched to the phone. 

 

“Hello, Robin. I’m sorry, the fax didn’t work. Usually my secretary sends the faxes, and I’m not sure how the machine works. Can we try one more time?” 

 

How about we wait until the secretary comes to work to try this again, were the first thoughts that ran through my head.  I managed to reply in a frost-tinged tone, “Sure, let’s try this one more time.”

 

 I mashed the fax button and hung up the phone. Suddenly, page after page began shooting out of the fax and falling to the floor. I wearily turned and trudged back to my bed wondering why people in America were incapable of understanding time zones.

 ~~~

Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.” (NIV) It comforts me to realize that I can trust my time to God’s hands, and He crosses all time zones. 

 

So to all my friends in other times zones, I always look forward to your phone calls. Just remember there is a “time to keep silence, and a time to speak.”  (Ecc. 3:7 NIV) Be sure your call falls during the time to speak!

 

 

My Greatest Fear

 

I’m often asked what my greatest fear is in regards to living overseas. People usually expect my answer to involve bombs, terrorist hijackings, riots or getting a haircut. But in truth, my greatest fear is something much less exciting. 

 

I am terrified of breaking my leg while living overseas.

 

Why, you may ask? Because Europe is the least handicapped accessible place I have ever lived in.

 

 

Photo by Tony Crider

 

In May, I came face to face with my worst nightmare. I didn’t break my leg, but I did have knee surgery. Six weeks on crutches.

 

My first hurdle was climbing the two flights of stairs up to my apartment. I considered having Darling Husband lower a basket over the side of the balcony and hoisting me up, but I wasn’t able to find a basket sturdy enough.

 

Next, I threatened to simply sit down and scoot backwards up the steps using my arms and one good leg. Darling Husband nixed that idea. DH is an athlete and the idea of scooting up and down the stairs was too humiliating. Of course, he wasn’t the one scooting along on his booty, but that didn’t matter.

 

Finally, I turned to my most reliable source of information – YouTube. I watched countless videos of how to walk up and down the stairs with crutches. After 40 videos, I had the technique firmly embedded in my memory and was prepared to tackle the two flights of stairs up to my apartment. Two flights of slippery marble steps that include a hairpin curve without a guardrail handrail.  

 

Thirty minutes later, mumbling under my breath about dumb videos and the stupid people who post them, I made it to the top of the stairs. DH followed behind, steadying me as I experimented with various combinations of feet and crutches on my upward journey. I suspect DH stayed behind me so I wouldn’t see that he was laughing.

 

But I heard a snicker or two.

  

I got DH back for his snickers later that night. In the wee hours of the morning, nature called. I didn’t want to wake DH up from his sweet dreams, so I grabbed my crutches, carefully stood up and headed for the bathroom. Suddenly my crutches flew into the air as I tipped over backwards, bounced off the wooden sideboard, and landed on the floor. Evidently, a crutch must have hit DH in the head, because he sprang up from the bed shouting, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m SO sorry!!” The gigantic bruise on my back was worth seeing DH jump up from a sound sleep shouting, “I’m sorry.” 

 

My biggest problem arose when DH went back to work and I was home alone. How do you carry your lunch from the kitchen to the recliner when you are on crutches???

 

My solution involved sweatpants with an elastic waistband. My drink of choice was poured into an insulated mug with a lid, then carefully positioned in the waistband of my pants.  Lunch was packed in a plastic bowl with a lid, and set inside a plastic shopping bag. With my drink tucked into my waistband, and the bag wrapped around the handle of my crutches, I limped my way from the kitchen to the recliner. I quickly discovered that my mug would begin a meandering path down my leg if the elastic in my pants wasn’t tight enough. I solved that problem with a bigger mug.

 

I survived my six weeks of crutch torture, and realized that my fear wasn’t so fearful. God was still in control and walked alongside me each limping step of the way.   

 

I also made Darling Husband promise that the next apartment we move into will have an elevator. He agreed after I held a crutch to his head.

 

My Modernization of Olympic Events

 

I'm not an avid sports fan. I’ve never understood the lure of footbal. lt boggles my mind that some women willingly choose to watch football, even when their husbands aren't home and in control of the remote. I enjoy ice-skating, and have even watched a tennis match or two. But, I must confess, I love the Olympics.

 

I never know who to cheer for when watching the Olympics. I'm an American, and of course I want to cheer for my fellow countrymen. But, I feel obligated to cheer for Russia and Greece, as these countries have also been a part of my life. To make it easier and fairer, I cheer for everyone.

 

I loved watching athletes from around the world compete for the Olympic gold. I couldn’t turn my eyes away from the women’s weightlifting event. I worried that without my visual support, their arms would splinter into a thousand jagged pieces as they strained to lift the weights. I watched trampolining and wondered how a backyard toy evolved into an Olympic event.

 

Photo by smeert 

 

Many of the modern Olympic events are outdated. The Three Musketeers were the last people who fenced on a daily basis. I think Olympic events should be revised to include modern-day life skills. Living in Greece, I’ve observed several adrenaline-spiking skills that would make great Olympic events.  Here are a few suggestions:

Scooter Slalom: Athletes race motor scooters during rush hour traffic, holding a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Extra points awarded for balancing a frappe between your knees.

 

Pedestrian Sprints: Athletes cross six lanes of traffic, without the aid of a crosswalk. Points are given based on quickness, daring, and skill. Points are deducted for blood or loss of limb.

 

Bus Surfing: Athletes pack into a crowded bus and compete to remain standing for the duration of the ride. Points are awarded for a hands-free ride (no holding on to handrails or seat backs), reading a book while standing, and leaving the bus with your wallet still in your possession.

 

Rhythmic Honking: Athletes, sitting in cars at a traffic light, compete to honk first when the light turns green. Points are awarded based on quickness, degree of visible aggravation, and the gracefulness of accompanying hand gestures.

 

What new event would you like to see added to the Olympics?

 

 

 

Try a Little Kindness

 

A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person. 

~Dave Barry~

Recently, Darling Husband and I flew from Texas to Greece. When we fly, my DH always freaks out about the weight of the luggage. There are multiple weigh-ins involving much moaning and groaning before heading to the airport. Personally, I just pack, and then pray that all will work out for good. But, this time we were traveling with a small dog in tow. I was more than a little worried about getting our dog, Katya, on the plane and also preventing her from exercising any odorous bodily functions in her crate.

 

We arrived at the airport and hurried to the back of the check-in line. DH nervously shuttled the luggage through the line, while I tried to keep the dog’s carrying case level and not dump her upside down which would probably cause irreparable brain damage.

 

Frankly, I was appalled to see how the passengers treated the airline personnel who waited on them. Let’s just say, there weren’t very many kind words being thrown around.

 

Finally, it was our turn. We stepped up to the counter, smiled, and offered our passports to the agent. She immediately noticed our dog, and exclaimed “Oh look, a Shiba Inu!” It is rare to find someone that recognizes our dog’s breed, and we began the usual “dogese” talk that only dog lovers enjoy.

A picture of Katya, the Shiba Inu, for the dog lovers who read this blog

 

During the conversation, we discovered that the ticket agent had lived in Alaska, our home state. As the agent checked in our extra bag, she commented that it wasn’t too big, so there would be no charge. Of course, our smiles broadened, and we thanked her for her kindness.

 

Later, we heard our names called over the loudspeaker at the boarding gate. We hesitantly approached the desk, worried that something was wrong with the dog’s papers, or the flight was overbooked. The ticket agent who checked us in stood behind the desk. She handed us new boarding passes and said she wanted to take care of her Alaskan friends. We turned our passes over, and realized we had been bumped up to business class. Business class on an 11-hour flight! Heaven on earth a plane.

 

Now, I don’t promise if you are kind to the ticket agent you will always be bumped up to first class.  But wouldn’t this world be a nicer place if we all followed the Golden rule: Do to others as you would have them do to you. (Luke 6:31, NIV.) 

 

Or in the words of Thumper the rabbit, “If you can't say something nice... don't say nothing at all.” (Bambi)

  

 

 

A Wedding Cake, Three Men and a Dolly

 

My daughter was married in May, and it was a lovely wedding. Of course, planning a wedding in America when I was living in Europe was a little stressful. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined that a simple wedding cake would almost be my undoing.

It was a beautiful day for a wedding. After a touching ceremony, we adjourned to the outdoor reception. I scanned the tables, checking out the decorations and verifying everything was in its place. The cake table looked a little bare. WHERE WAS THE CAKE!!!

 

Moving as quickly as my high heels would allow, I sprinted into the kitchen and flung open the refrigerator door. There, in all its splendor, sat the five-tiered wedding cake. It was gorgeous. I had to get it moved outside to the reception, quickly, discreetly, and in one piece.

 

I returned to the reception, smiling at guests as my eagle eye checked out all the attendees of the male persuasion. I needed a combination of muscle and brains. Zeroing in on my choices, I snagged three men out of the appetizer line.

 

With my helpers in tow, we proceeded to the kitchen where I explained my predicament. The cake in the refrigerator had to be moved to the cake table. Complicating matters, the ¼” thick board under the cake was too thin and flexible for the heaviness of the cake.

 

After much discussion and scratching of heads, my hulky angels slid the cake out of the fridge onto a dolly (the flat platform kind with a handle at one end – like you see at Sam’s Club.) I closed my eyes and prayed until I heard relieved sighs as the cake was gently placed on the dolly. I opened my eyes and noticed that the cake was leaning, just a tad to the right.

 

The cake movers began to trundle the cake down the ramp from the kitchen to the reception. To our horror, the cake began leaning even more. We scuttled back to the top of the ramp to assess the damage and devise a plan B.

 

There was only one alternative. Pick up the dolly and muscle it out to the cake table. I led the cake parade as we marched around the reception area and through the flowerbeds to the cake table. The guys held the dolly level with the table as I carefully slid the cake onto its final resting place.

 

I surveyed the leaning tower of cake, and wondered if I could gently shove the layers back into position. I tentatively poked at a layer, and realized this was a bad plan. Instead, we simply jammed several paper plates under one side of the cake board so it would appear level. I draped the tablecloth around the plates that were chalking up the cake, and voila, a level cake. I glared at the cake with narrowed eyes, daring it to slide off the table.

 

Just then, my radiant daughter danced by in the arms of her new husband. She wasn’t worried about leaning cakes, missing forks, or wind-blown decorations. Her glorious smile said it all. God had provided her a perfect soul mate, and the rest was just icing on the cake.  

 

So I relaxed, sat down and enjoyed a piece of wedding cake. It was delicious.

 

 

 

 

My Life in Headlines

 

As a child, I often dreamed of being famous and having my name splashed across the headlines. So today, I’ve decided to outline the past two and a half months of my life in headline fashion. Yes, it has been almost that long since my last blog, and maybe these headlines will help you understand how I’ve been wasting using my time. 

How to Locate a Wedding Venue and Caterer On the Internet: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words and Photoshop Makes Everything Look Better 

~~~

Skype: Planning a Wedding Face to Face Without Being in the Same Room, or on the Same Continent

 ~~~

Hobby Lobby: My Wedding Decoration Inspiration and Darling Husband’s Nightmare

 ~~~

Top Ten Father Daughter Wedding Dances: Guaranteed to Make a Grown Man Cry

~~~ 

The Saga of the Sliding Wedding Cake, Three Men, and a Dolly.

 ~~~

The Antidote to Post-Wedding Exhaustion:  Relaxing in a Hospital Waiting Room (While Your Father-in-law Has Heart Surgery)

 ~~~

The Hot Dog Dance: Breakfast Fun with Our Darling Granddaughter

~~~ 

Darling Husband as the Baby Whisperer: Loving on a New Grandson

 ~~~

A New Cure for Pet Allergies: Send the Dog Back to Europe with Your Parents

 ~~~

The Key to Getting Upgraded to Business Class on an 11- Hour Flight:  Be Nice, Talk About Alaska, and Have a Cute Dog as a Carryon

 ~~~

Best Recovery Plan for Jet lag: Check Into a Hospital for Knee Surgery

 ~~~

Looking Up From the Operating Table: What Are Those Spots on the Ceiling?

 ~~~

A Patient’s Choice: Jerk the Drain Tube From Your Knee Fast or Slow

~~~ 

How to Get Out of Walking the Dog and Other Chores: Six Weeks on Crutches 

~~~ 

How To Distract Your Mind From Your Knee Pain, Or, How To Rouse Your Husband Out of a Dead Sleep: Trip, Fall Over Backwards, Hit the Bed Frame on Your Descent While Simultaneously Pitching a Crutch at Your Darling Husband’s Blissfully Dreaming Head

 ~~~

Physical Therapy: The Potty Squat and Other Exercises

 ~~~

 

What would your headline read for the last few weeks?

 

Top 10 Reasons I Avoid Going to the Doctor

This last week, I broke down and went to the dentist. I was terrified. Fortunately, it was a good experience and didn't involve much pain. But I still have a lingering fear of doctor's offices. Particularly in countries who have socialized medicine. This is a repeat of one of my favorite posts. Hope you enjoy!

Photo by striatic 

When we moved to Russia in the early 90’s, I  told my husband the only way I would go to the Russian hospital was if I was already dead. I hoped things would be better after moving to the Balkans. Unfortunately, some things are eerily the same.

 

1. Socialized medicine means making an appointment for 9:00, and finding 37 other people in line for the same appointment.

 

2. When the nurse tells you to strip off your clothes, she doesn’t provide a sheet, gown or fig leaf to cover up with.

 

3. As you sit naked, shivering on the table, the other 37 people in line periodically pop in the room to remind the doctor that they are waiting.

 

4. The nurse uses an ink pen to draw a circle around the spot where she just gave you a TB test, and says to not wash the ink off your arm until your return in 3 days.

 

5. Your doctor leaves in the middle of your exam for a frappe/smoke break.

 

6. If you have a cold, the doctor blames it on sitting in a draft or using ice in your drink.

 

7. The doctor diagnoses your “female problems” as the result of sitting on a cold surface, such as the ground, a marble step, or the floor. After everything thaws out, you’ll be able to have children again.

 

8. While drawing blood, the glass tube attached to the needle falls off and breaks, so the nurse holds another tube to catch the drips falling from the needle still impaled in your arm.

 

9. The machine for chest x-rays is located right in front of the door, which is open more than shut, providing a free peep show for everyone waiting in line for their x-rays.

 

10. By the end of your appointment, at least 37 strangers will have seen you in your birthday suit.

 

 

My Kids are Green

My kids are weird. A little on the strange side.

 

(Okay, these aren't really my kids. Mine have better hair. I just like the picture.)

Almost 20 years ago, I packed little pieces of our lives into 22 assorted pieces of luggage and footlockers. I wondered how moving overseas would impact my kids. Would they grow up and write a tell-it-all exposé about their heartless parents that forced them to grow up in a new culture??? Would I be the villain in the book???

 

Well, my kids are all grown-up now. Our son has added a wonderful daughter-in-love and two precious grandchildren to our family. Our daughter will be marrying in a month, and adding a son-in-love to the family. I have to say, my kids are almost normal.

 

There are a few eccentricities that pop up from time to time. My kids may not recognize the musical hits that most of their American peers know, but they can sing along with every Jim Croce, John Denver, Wayne Watson and Sandi Patti song you play. (iTunes didn’t exist, and updating our tunes wasn’t easy.)

 

They also don’t recognize jokes about popular TV shows. We relied on my Mom to send VHS tapes of American shows and her tastes ran to Dr. Quinn and Little House on the Prairie. Fortunately, the guy upstairs had a complete set of Star Trek Voyager tapes, so we were able to expand their horizons and “to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

 

Sometimes this gap in their knowledge of American culture may be a little embarrassing. They’ve learned to cover well, most of the time. Fortunately, they learned more important lessons during their years overseas.

 

My kids learned to love and appreciate other cultures. For them, comfort food is as likely to be a bowl of borscht, as an American hamburger. They learned that there are more important things than having brand name sneakers and jeans. My kids saw poverty and suffering and learned to discern the difference between want and need.

 

Most importantly, they learned that love could cross all cultures and barriers. Relationships are more important than time or money. They saw God’s miracles on a daily basis as He transformed lives, provided protection, and lavished love upon our family.

 

Recently, I ran across a poem that was written by a TCK (third culture kid). This poem expresses the heart of a TCK.

 

Colors 

I grew up in Yellow Country.

But my parents are Blue.

I’m Blue.

Or at least, that is what they told me.

 

But I played with the Yellows.

I went to school with the Yellows.

I spoke the Yellow language.

I even dressed and appeared to be Yellow.

 

Then I moved to the Blue Land.

Now I go to school with the Blues.

I speak the Blue language.

I even dress and look Blue.

 

But deep down inside me,

something’s Yellow.

I love the Blue Country,

but my ways are tinted with Yellow.

 

When I am in Blue Land,

I want to be Yellow.

When I’m in Yellow Land,

I want to be Blue.

 

Why can’t I find a place,

where I can be both?

A place where I can be me.

A place where I can be Green.

 

I just want to be Green.

 

~By Whitni Thomas, TCK (1991)

 

I’ve known a lot of TCKs through the years, many who call me “Aunt.” My prayer for each of them is that God will help them blend the Blue and Yellow in their lives into a beautiful Green.

 

For parents of TKCs, yes, your children may be different than the average American kid. Living overseas will immeasurably enrich their lives. I pray for wisdom as you help your TCK follow God’s plan for his or her life of being Green.

 

And for my kids: Ya’ll are as Green as they come! I love you for it.

 

And please, if you promise not to write an exposé of my faults as a parent, I promise not to tell all your secrets.

 

Only the funny ones!

 

 

Half as Hard, Twice as Good

 

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

I love spending time with my girlfriends. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we cry, and sometimes we just act stupid. Mostly, we enjoy being together.

 

Through the years, God has brought many special women into my life that I am blessed to call girlfriend. These girlfriends span the years; some have been my forever friends, and some are new. There are stateside friends, ex-pat friends, and national friends. Each group has filled a particular niche in my life.

 

I have girlfriends back in the states that have served as surrogate mothers when my kids returned stateside to attend college. They have thrown graduation parties, wedding showers, and baby showers in my stead. A couple of weeks ago, I was back in the states to meet my new grandson and help my daughter plan a wedding. Even though the wedding was still a few months away, two special friends threw a wedding shower so that I would be able to attend. They have loved me from near and far away.

 

Then there is the special group of girlfriends who have followed God’s call to live in a new country and culture. We commiserate together about the lack of Wal-marts, missing family, and raising children in a new culture. But, we also spend a lot of time laughing at our language blunders, cultural faux paux, and our blessed, yet crazy life.

 

God has also blessed my life with national girlfriends. They loved me through the process of learning language and taught me how to live in their culture. We walked side by side in hard places and I am blessed by their willingness to befriend a lonely American in a strange place.

 

So Girlfriends, I dedicate this song to you. You are the ones I have laughed, cried, and prayed with through the years. You have truly made my life “half as hard and twice as good.” I love you.

   

A friend knows the song in my heart and sings it to me when my memory fails.  ~Donna Roberts