Double Standards: The Musical

My younger child is dramatic -- and I say that not only because he feels ALL THE FEELINGS so deeply all the time, but also because he loves to perform on the actual stage, preferably with an English accent. He recently turned 10, which is the birthday of the iPod Touch in our house. So on the big day, Nick and I brought him to the mall and into the Apple Store, where we were the only three people not there to try bending an iPhone 6+. Ten minutes later we were on our way home with a new favorite gadget.  Sorry Kindle.

Since then it's been all showtunes all the time.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

However, I did pause a moment when he came downstairs the other day singing, "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" from A Chorus Line. For those of you who aren't intimately familiar with the lyrics, "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" is more commonly known as "T!ts and A$$."

I looked around furtively and decided to hide my Mom of the Year tiara before someone from the committee could come take it away.

Nick says I have a terrible double standard when it comes to musical theatre. Mature themes that would give me pause on television, in popular music, or at the movies are all fair game when presented in musicals. Or movies based on musicals.  Case in point: On Christmas Day 2013 we sat with our then third and sixth graders and watched Fantine be molested in a coffin... and then sing about it.

It's amazing how clearly you can detect your spouse's raised eyebrows and pointed look in a darkened theater.

Of course, that was nothing compared to the discomfort that oozed from his pores when we all went to see the national tour of Pippin a few weeks ago and watched the protagonist learn the hard way that a whole lot of meaningless sex is not the answer to a fulfilling life. And when I say the hard way, I mean trapped in a cage with two women, a man, and a whip. Yep, this with two kids who still say "ICK!" aloud when they see kissing on TV.

In my defense, I find it much easier to have the hard conversations with kids when the subject of said conversation is set to a Tony-winning tune. For example:

• "Lovely Ladies" from Les Miz gave me the vehicle to explain sex work and the lack of options for countless women who are turned out on the street, not only in the 19th century but also present day.

• 

  IMHO, suitable for children

  "Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen" from A Chorus Line helped me explain wet dreams to my pre-pubescent kids. It's like the Judy Blume of musical numbers.
• "As Long as He Needs Me" from Oliver has come in handy lately with the subject of domestic violence and the NFL. I've used it as a cautionary tale to explain the difference between a man who says he loves you and a man who acts like he loves you. The dramatic one and I agree that this song, along with the final 4 lines of "It's a Fine Life," are some of the most tragic lyrics in all of theater. (For contrast, see "Suddenly, Seymour" from Little Shop of Horrors.)
• "Everything Else" from Next to Normal is a particular favorite of my daughter, because she loves catching me listening to music with profanity. But I love it for giving me the opportunity to talk to my type-A, horse-obsessed overachiever about what it means to find balance in life, to explain that pursuing a passion is good if it creates a healthy outlet for your emotions but not if you use it to ignore and suppress the pain and problems that come with adolescence. Where was Next to Normal when I was a teen?
  
• And the finale of Pippin is a great reminder that no matter what they try in life or where they go to find themselves, my kids can always come back to our family. We may not be glamorous or famous or even extraordinary, but we love them and will be there to hold their hands.

I believe wholeheartedly that these lessons can begin for the youngest of kids with the most innocent of musicals. In Enchanted, Amy Adams reminds us all that a long walk (or run or skip or dance) through Central Park is a great way to put things in perspective. (Of course, we children of the 70s already knew that from Godspell. I dare you to watch the "Prepare Ye" scene from the 1973 movie and not think of it every time you see Bethesda Fountain… or the "Friends" opening credits.)

And how many of today's kids will one day read about fractal theory in physics class and automatically hear Elsa sing "Let It Go" in their minds?

So, please forgive me when you hear my child burst out with a few NSFW/NSFS lyrics. I feel I must continue to embrace my inner Gleek, for she's got a lot to teach my children along the way. 

Of course, it doesn't always have to be be profound and pedagogic. Sometimes it's just fun to have a good old-fashioned sing-along, and musicals are also splendid for those improvised silly moments.  Our current favorite, also from A Chorus Line, is "Nothing." When else in life do you get to be an ice cream cone?

…frozen fractals all around!

O Captain, My Captain

Last month, Susan Schneider, wife of Robin Williams, released a brief statement about her husband's tragic death. In the statement, Schneider revealed that Williams was struggling against depression, anxiety, and the early stages of Parkinson's Disease when his life was cut short.

Many of us were moved to tears remembering truths revealed to us through the art of Williams's career.  For me, it was Dead Poets Society. A close friend recommended the movie to me in a letter she mailed two days before she was hit by a car and killed. We were fifteen. I will forever associate Williams's performance as a teacher attempting to wake his students from the haze of conformity and complacency with the legacy of her innocence preserved and mine lost. "Carpe Diem" became my reminder that not everyone has the luxury of procrastination when it comes to living.

Robin Williams, Dead Poets Society (1989)
www.thefancarpet.com

The news flow and social media torrent that followed Williams's death carried with it supportive messages for those held in the grip of the most insidious of diseases, depression and anxiety. But it was the Parkinson's revelation that most filled my heart with empathy for a man I never met but admired from afar. And for his family. Who knew we had so much in common?

Our family, too, is watching someone struggle against depression, anxiety, and the early stages of Parkinson's Disease. My father-in-law.  Before Parkinson's, he was an incredibly skilled wood carver (see samples of his work in a previous post), so let's call him Gepetto. And while I started this blog in the hopes that it would help me sort through the emotions his condition stirs up and perhaps even gain enough perspective to laugh about some of the resulting baloney, it hasn't really worked out that way. While laughter may be one of the best ways for members of the Sandwich Generation to keep perspective on a day-to-day basis, the jokes--when printed in black and white--seem cruel and self-serving. As a result, I'm not posting as much on this topic as I thought I would.

Sometimes, I'm not even tempted to try humor because there is too much at stake. Since Gepetto was diagnosed a little more than a year ago, I've thought about all the preceding physical diagnoses that, with the wisdom of hindsight, should have given us a clue about what was coming down the pipeline: peripheral neuropathy, chronic light-headedness and imbalance, constant dry mouth and hoarseness, and an increasing stiffness in his legs. All signs of PD. But it wasn't until Schneider's statement that I made the connection between Parkinson's and his preexisting depression and anxiety (to which we attributed the dry mouth). These conditions, which he had battled for years, could have also been precursors.

It turns out there are studies on the subject. One case-control study published in 2000 found a significant association with anxiety disorders 5, 10, or 20 years before the onset of Parkinson's motor symptoms. And a more recent article notes that these psychological disorders "occur at a high frequency" in Parkinson's patients. Accompanying factors, definitely. Causal factors, possibly. No matter which is the chicken and which is the egg, the correlation exists.

If we are all made of mind, body, and soul, it is only natural that an illness that ravages the first two would wreak havoc on the third as well.  It also follows that the soul, because it is sometimes ignored in both mental and physical health regimens, may even suffer more.

These days, Gepetto can no longer hold his hands steady enough to carve--or even draw--and struggles to remember how to play messages on the answering machine.  My husband and I feel somewhat helpless on these fronts.

The only thing left for us to do is to try and help soothe his soul.

I'm not gonna lie to you.  It's hard.  It's hard when Gepetto comes to my daughter's birthday dinner and doesn't speak for the entire meal.  It's hard when he calls in a panic at 7am on a Sunday because he's down to one box of raisin bran.  It's hard when I have to remind him what to write on which line of a check and then watch him struggle to hold the pen in place.

Thank goodness they have free coffee in the lobby of his building or I'd never bring myself to go. (See what I mean? The jokes just don't work.)

Jesus's apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians that we are more easily taken down by darkness than anything of the flesh… right after reminding them to maintain honor, peace, goodwill, and sincerity in both familial and societal relationships. I don't believe it is coincidental that the instructions on bringing together parents and children are juxtaposed with those on battling spiritual gloom.

So my family and I focus on treating Gepetto honorably and with sincere goodwill, and we attempt to light small candles in the dark of his gloom -- by calling as often as possible to say we're thinking about him, dropping by with groceries before he calls to ask, encouraging him to attend events within his retirement community and with us in the greater community, and reminding him that he is still a priority in our lives.

Not because of who he used to be but because of who he is today.

It isn't a perfect solution. I'm sure Robin Williams's family and friends did the same. But it is the best we know how to do.

And I'll be the first to admit I'm no saint.  Sometimes it drives me to sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. (That one was for you, Robin.) But sometimes it reminds me of the fleeting nature of life itself and the fact that in the end, we may no longer have use of talents, resumes, the minds we work so hard to fill, or the bodies we work so hard to maintain. But we will have our relationships. We will have our souls. And, if we're lucky, we will find truths and peace within both.

The wisdom of the Dead Poets

Time to think

If anyone was paying attention, which was doubtful at that stage of the game (OK, Mom, I know you were paying attention -- I was really referring to my other two readers), the number of posts on this then-three-post blog decreased by 33% shortly after I started. Why? Because I was multitasking.

While addressing and stamping Christmas cards on top of the desk, and soothing my crazy, beside-herself-with-pent-up-energy-13-days-after-surgery-but-still-not-cleared-to-run-off-leash puppy under the desk, I decided it would also be a good time to go back and add an illustration to my post on procrastination and creative endeavors. After all, we are a visual people, are we not, fellow-Pinterest-junkies?  Somehow, in doing all of the above, I pasted an in-the-works post over the previously published post and hit save, thereby undoing countless hours worth of work and erasing it forever. (And no, I didn't have a back up copy. #rookiemistake)

For what it's worth, here is the offending illustration:

Via @Quotes4Writers

Not that anyone now remembers my Gen. McClellan anecdote, but if you did, I'm sure you would agree that this would have been the perfect visual accompaniment to the now-banished-to-cyber-oblivion post.

But I couldn't help but think about this little snafu while I was sitting at Costco waiting to speak with the pharmacy technician about my father-in-law's prescriptions. (He has nine that he takes daily and no prescription drug coverage. The saints who work at the Costco pharmacy are constantly trying to help me find ways to make it less expensive.) I had left my phone in the car, and since I didn't have the energy to navigate the land of wholesale milk and honey, nor did I want to admit that I couldn't go fifteen minutes without my phone, I was left on a bench with nothing but my thoughts.

My thumbs began to twitch.

I spent the first three minutes working on a grocery list for the smaller-portions store I hoped to hit next. Literally on the back of an envelope. Then, I spent a moment pondering whether I should actually purchase the three-pack of giant Band-Aid boxes staring at me from across the aisle. (You can never have too many Band-Aids, especially when your children have inherited your klutziness. Three trips to the ER for stitches before age seven for my daughter, but that's another story.) And then, perhaps because I'm currently taking an online writing class and words are on my mind, my thoughts turned to this blog, the post that once was, and what I had lost forever.

Nothing like a little quiet time to dwell on six-month-old regrets that don't really matter anymore.

At first I was just annoyed with myself that in multitasking, I had lost something I enjoyed writing and spent time editing, not to mention a few pithy turns of phrase. And then I thought about the fact that I was just kidding myself by using the term "multitasking." Research shows there is no such thing. Just a quick sequence of starts-and-stops of multiple tasks that divide one's attention and diminish one's returns. And one's number of blog posts.

Sitting there on the metal bench, I didn't have the option of multitasking. This didn't stop my mind from jumping from one topic to the next, trying to keep from losing track of any of the myriad things I feel I need to remember on a minute-by-minute basis, but at least I was cycling through all these topics using only one source of information -- my own brain. Not the Siri-powered brain that lives in my pocket. Just my God-given brain… That used to be enough.

Yes, this is the second time I've used this same meme.

I'm out of practice on how to quiet that brain down. It didn't come with a "Sleep" option on the menu bar.

Gene, who cuts my hair, is an ordained Episcopal priest, a second degree reiki student, and a small business owner with an MSW, two rescue dogs, a two-acre garden, and a wicked sense of humor. Last week (yes, I made time for a haircut -- thank you for your applause), while I was stuck in a chair holding perfectly still with my hands literally tucked under my legs and a nylon cape velcroed around my neck, he said something to me that rang a little more true than I would have liked.  He was quoting his reiki master but, in typical Gene fashion, added that "anyone who has really read Matthew 5-6 should know the same thing." He said, "There is no moment but the present one."

Needless to say, his salon is a cell-phone-free zone.

No moment like the present isn't enough. We're working toward no moment other than the present.  If that's true, then I can let go of my six-month-old regrets and tomorrow's shopping list. (That doesn't seem possible, but like I said, I'm out of practice.) I can sit on that bench and ponder my father-in-law's prescriptions, his well-being, and our relationship without worrying about what I haven't done or have yet to do. Maybe then I'd be a little less likely to be annoyed at what I've lost along the way or what the current moment is keeping me from doing next. After all, aren't the times when my patience wears the thinnest those times when I wish I were somewhere else, with someone else, or doing something else?  I'm thinking about that in this present moment.

My kids are currently at sleep-away camp in a "no electronics" environment. When we went to visit my middle schooler after her first two weeks, she asked me, "Did you bring my phone?" Bracing myself for some serious whining, I managed a hesitant but firm "No," to which she responded, "Thank goodness." What?!? I managed not to say aloud. Who are you and what have you done with my daughter who texts as if her life depends on it?  Don't you love how just when you think you have them figured out, kids manage to surprise you?

The fact of the matter is that she was -- as usual -- one step ahead of me.  She was content with the present moment, where she was, and whom she was with. The school year FOMO (fear of missing out) had disippated.

Summer is a good time to see what happens when we revert to our God-given brains. So I've decided to follow her lead. When trying to figure out how to get somewhere, I think about it first before automatically plugging it into my car's navigation system. When trying to remember a fact I once read, I try to figure out the article title and/or publication before just plugging what I can remember into Google. When waking up, I try not to check email before I brush my teeth. Maybe I'll even learn my daughter's mobile phone number by heart before she gets home.

Nah.

The real test, of course, will be when summer comes to a close and we are suddenly back in the routine.  When my God-given brain is over-committed and under-slept. How many moments will I consider to be real then? Will I remain a lily of the field or will I revert to being a Siri-fueled laborer and spinner yet again? Wish me luck. However, I'm not going to think about that right now. It doesn't matter in this present moment.

The campfire site at Camp Crestridge for Girls

Sorry, Mom

There have been a number of times in my life when I felt compelled to pick up the phone, dial my mom, and just say, "I'm sorry." Not because I wronged her in some way (although there have been plenty of those instances as well), but because I had some sort of epiphanal experience that illuminated how remarkable my mom was during the most difficult -- or perhaps the most banal -- periods of parenthood and how I never properly appreciated it at the time.

This happened once after I spent a long, rainy weekend in Blowing Rock, NC, with my best friend, my 24-month-old godson (who called it Uh-Oh Rock), and my 23-month-old daughter.  In planning, we had envisioned a weekend of wandering around the lake, climbing on rocks, and enjoying the Main Street playground.  In reality, trapped indoors by a late-spring monsoon that turned the paths around our condo into raging rivers and mudslides, we exhausted our Duplo building possibilities, drove to nearby Boone and camped out in a used bookstore with a children's section just large enough to house a train table, and finally, in desperation, dashed into the local fire station and begged them to let us touch the trucks.  On the last evening, I remember turning around from plating dinner in the kitchen to find the two kids playing chase on top of the dining room table and telling my friend, who had until that point resisted introducing her son to television, that it was time to corrupt her first-born with a DVD.  The next day, during the two-hour drive home, I called my mom, who had survived not only my but also my boy-girl twin siblings' terrible twos.

"I'm sorry, Mom" I told her.  "I never realized…"

Thanks, Mom. No matter life's twists and turns,
you always hang in there.

It happened again when my daughter, now a middle schooler but sometimes still acting like a 23-month-old, decided to dedicate herself heart-and-soul to horseback riding.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I love that she has a passion and that her passion requires equal parts athleticism, humility, self-confidence, and manual labor. (Yep, she shovels her own $#!+.)  But her passion also requires a daily 50-mile round-trip and the planting of a new money tree in our backyard every spring.  Still waiting for those suckers to sprout.  My daughter would give up anything for riding, just like I would have given up anything for theater when I was her age. [Cue the aha moment music.] Just like I would have given up anything for theater, and the emotional ups-and-downs of auditions, and the daily practices, and the late-night tech rehearsals, and the performance schedule that conflicted with my 7th grade class trip to Williamsburg.

Ring, ring, ring.  "Hi, Mom. It's me. I just realized something..."

The latest in this series of events involves a book.  Now, when it comes to books, I'll be the first to admit that I tend to be somewhat pretentious.  It's obnoxious, I know, but when you major in comparative literature, they make you swear an oath on Jacques Derrida that you will never again crack the spine of a David Baldacci.  This pomposity manifests itself in a number of ways.  I avoid most tomes with the "Oprah recommends" sticker on the front (even though I would have given my eye teeth to get one of those stickers for one of my authors when I worked in publishing).  My book club groans when I recommend something on the esoteric side. ("Should we read Eugenides's The Marriage Plot in conjunction with a Victorian novel so we can compare and contrast?" was the comment that almost got me kicked out of the group.)  I voluntarily joined a Facebook group rereading Ulysses during the month of February.  Admittedly, I'm somewhat masochistic on this front, so if it's heavy--and particularly if it's Russian--well, then, I'm your girl.

Gift from my Mom

So when my mom, who is on the waiting list for every new Janet Evanovich and Dorothea Benton Frank novel, sends me something to read, I admit that I'm sometimes a bit cynical a total snob.  For instance, years ago when she sent me Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea (her go-to gift for anyone facing one of life's major turning points) with a lovely bookmark and handwritten note, I shelved the slender volume, unopened, in my guest bathroom.

Last month, however, when my book club finished The Aviator's Wife by Melanie Benjamin, I stood in the doorway of the guest bath and looked at the book I had exiled there. Was it true that Anne Morrow Lindbergh had run away from what the public thought was a charmed life in order to sort through and write down down her feelings about balancing the demands of marriage and motherhood with her own desires for intellectual stimulation, satisfying relationships, and self-fulfillment?  Was it true there were essays inside by a well-read, career-minded woman who, mid-life and mid-marriage, had trouble defining her place in the world?  How prescient.  How modern.  How… perfect for me.

My mom probably knew that all along.

I read chapter one and it knocked my socks off.  I read it again, barely able to digest all the lessons it contained, not sure if I had the capacity to absorb any additional truths recorded on the subsequent pages.  For someone whose daily spiral typically ends with has this prayer/mantra -- "Help me be satisfied with where I am, if I am where I'm supposed to be" -- this was indeed a gift.  For someone whose life in a landlocked state had become a little too metaphorical, Lindbergh's coastal reflections were both as penetrating and as stimulating as the salt air itself.

"Perhaps this is the most important thing
for me to take back from beach-living:
simply the memory that each cycle of the tide is valid; 
each cycle of the wave is valid;
each cycle of a relationship is valid."

I'm not sure I actually recognized how badly my pride desired validation -- for my choices, for the matters in which I feel I have no choice, and for the place I find myself as a result of the ebb and flow of those forces -- until that validation was proffered in a book that pride itself almost kept me from opening. As Alanis Morissette might write, "Isn't it ironic?"  Sometimes one has to be humble and patient and faithful in order to understand how remarkable the most difficult -- or perhaps the most banal -- moments of life can be.

"Hello, Mom?  It's me.  I just wanted to say I'm sorry… and thanks… again."

#SochiProblems

Even Nick, who is on neither Facebook nor Twitter, has heard about #SochiProblems. Unlike Justin Bieber's ill-advised use of eggs, I think journalists' living conditions in the Black Sea resort town for the next 17 days has evolved from humor to real news (or at least a good post-Superbowl topic for ESPN Radio). Nick's appalled. The ESPN commentators are appalled. Stephen Colbert is appalled.

Пансионат Солнечный (from all-hotels.ru)
I'm pretty sure this was my exact room,
minus the TV, rug, and throw pillows.

But here's the thing, folks. All this shock and awe inspired by your temporary Russian living conditions could have been avoided if you had just called me before your trip. I would have prepped you, or at least helped you reset your expectations.  Admittedly, it has been almost two decades since I lived in the "Sunny Holiday Hotel" in Zvenigorod and commuted into Moscow to do thesis research, but I'm sure some of the lessons still apply.

Rule #1: Stop being disappointed when things don't work. Instead, learn to be happy when things do.

Bathrooms -- Yes, the side-by-side toilet pics are hilarious, especially when the athletes bring their skis into the loo with them, but is that really such a big deal? There used to be a Pizza Hut in Charlotte, North Carolina, that had the same setup.  (It's now a sushi restaurant that I just cannot bring myself to try, but I digress.) Rule #2: Before going to Russia, rid your mind of any Platonic Ideal of a bathroom. The airplane lavatory on your flight over should help.

In our Sunny Holiday Hotel bathroom, there was no need for superfluous curtains or doors since the sink and shower both ran from the same water source. You toggled the flow to one or the other. Even better, the toilet had a lid, convenient if you wanted sit on it while under the shower, which rained down right over the potty and drained into a hole in the floor. Upon arrival, my roommate and I were a bit surprised by this arrangement, but before the end of our stay we declared the accommodations luxurious. The hotel was, after all, built by the communist party as a place to send their best workers on pre-appointed vacations.

Российская государственная библиотека
(from www.tripadvisor.com)

Other, grander places had different standards, of course. I spent many a day in the Russian State Library (formerly the V.I. Lenin Library), which houses one of the most dignified card catalogs in which I have ever had the pleasure of losing myself.  But a young woman can only spend so many hours in a reading room before she has to avail herself of the facilities. That same young woman should not be surprised when she opens the stall door (a stall door!) to find a simple hole in the floor, perhaps flanked by footpads.

Looking back, I can pinpoint the day my attitude about Russian bathrooms changed. My journal entry for that day reads, "It was a great day! There was toilet paper in the library WC!"

Oh, and one final word about the john. I'm sure you've seen the poster of disallowed toilet activities that has been making its way around cyberspace. While most people have commented on the "No Fishing" icon, it was the puking prohibition that caught my eye. If you feel nauseated, find another place to toss your cookies. My roommate chose the middle of Red Square. (Sorry, Nadya Blondinka. I couldn't resist.)

Water -- OK, so no one wants to see yellow (or any color for that matter) liquid flowing from the tap, but the warning not to drink Russian water existed long before Sochi got the Olympic bid. Here in the States we spend almost $12 billion dollars on bottled water annually.  I live at the foot of the  Rockies (which, according to Coors ads, means my water should be mountain-spring fresh) and still have two Brita pitchers in my fridge.  But suddenly you arrive in Sochi and are bummed you can drink from the faucet? Some of the pipes in St. Petersburg are actually as old as the city itself. Even in Zvenigorod, nestled in the countryside along the idyllic banks of the Moscow River, you follow Rule #3: Brush your teeth with bottled water and, if you run out, always boil or use water purifying tablets… or both. Or skip a brushing. My guess is that all five dentists would be OK with that.

Lack of curtain rods -- It's winter in Russia. Rule #4: Be thankful for all the Vitamin D you can get. Besides, it's not as if you were expecting blackout curtains, were you? See the picture of the room in Solnechny, above? In June, the light coming in through the window was just like that at both 5am and 10pm.  If you ever travel to Sochi in the summer, just be thankful it is almost 1,000 miles south of Moscow.

On a related note, for insomniacs, I highly recommend White Nights festival in St. Petersburg.

Project management -- "But NC," you may be thinking, "these people spent $51 billion and had seven years to get these hotels ready for us!" True, but remember Rule #5: Time flows at a different rate in Russia. Early one morning, in the Russian State Library, I took a stack of books to the copy desk and filled out a form to get duplicates made of chapters I would need once returning to the U.S. The young man behind the desk looked over my forms, held up one finger, and told me "час" (one hour). That seemed very reasonable, so I went back to my desk and read for a little while. When I again stepped up to the copy desk, the same librarian looked rather confused at my return. "час?" I asked him. "час," he corrected me. Ah yes, I reminded myself, час also means one o'clock. Which gave me plenty of time to take a deep breath, gather my belongings, and head over to The Shamrock Pub to watch a soccer match with some expat friends. I know you're there on assignment, but try to leave the maintenance problems behind and go enjoy some sports.

Empty Coca-Cola vending machines -- I'm pretty sure this just means Atlanta is no longer hosting the Olympics.

Mistranslated menus -- Yes, the dessert item "Cakes in ass." would be upsetting if you were hoping for "Assorted pastries."  Just as I'm sure you can understand my distress when I assumed that "Chocolate butter" was a mistranslation of "Fudge," purchased a sizable chunk, and took a large bite right out of the bag... only to find that it was indeed chocolate butter.

Rule #6: Don't eat large bites of plain chocolate butter.

Unpaved sidewalks / Open manholes -- Repeat after me: os-to-RO-zhno. Once again. Now shout it urgently: OSTOROZHNO! Rule #7: Learn this word. A "watch out" warning not only helps if someone is in danger of getting mauled by a bear, but it also comes in very handy if your fellow journo is about to step into the abyss because of walking while tweeting about #SochiProblems.