Look, I know. I'm sorry. But, you know, things got really hairy back there in, what was it? April? March month? Something had to give. I'm only one person.
I only had school to talk about anyway. The derivation of logarithmic functions, and how I can't do it very well. That's it. You wouldn't have enjoyed it. I got sick some more too. Really sick, as it turned out. But that was very recent, and, now that I think about it, that episode actually was blog worthy material, fraught as it was with pathos and dispair. Nothing like a fever to unleash the poetic muse lurking in us all, eh?
Ah well, it's over now. I'm finished with classes for the time being. I may yet have oral exams in June to fret about, but for the most part I'm free. Free to blog at will. Blog about the kids. About the pseudo-wet-Norwegian summer, and long runs around the lake. About the dirty floors, and the laundry pile which grows legs and arms, and breathes hoarsely from somewhere deep within its fetid bowels. And eventually maybe, we'll even get to how I've been reading Stephen King lately, and how ever since, my whole house appears to me to breathe hoarsely from somewhere deep within her fetid bowels.
I avoided Stephen King for a long time, because I thought I would find his whole demonic anthropomorphism thing disturbing. But actually, I kind of like it. I could straighten the cupboards and scrub the floors, but frankly, she wouldn't like it. She draws her strength from filth and chaos. She breeds order from our disorder. She is our sentry and our warden. She is the ghost of a dead white whale.
No. I can't take credit for that last one. That was Boy's phrase--not about the house, but about his beloved Bobby. But I can't get it out of my head. There must be a story in there somewhere.....
But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, freedom. Speaking of which--Hooray for Norway Day was just this last Monday. Yey Norway! wOOt! wOOt!
As most of you already know, I'm no big fan of ye ol' syttende mai. Nothing's changed there. It was cloudy and coolish this year. Had to buy the girls capes to go with their bunads. And hey, we even got Boy into a bunad this year. He was not well pleased with it. He kept saying, "But why do I have to look German?"
"You don't look German. A bunad is Norwegian."
"But it looks German. I don't want to look German."
"It's not German! It's nothing but norsk, Boy. Quit it."
"But it's kind of French then, right? I don't want to look French."
"Boy, a bunad is a quintessentially Norwegian thing. People will look at you and say, 'Hey, why does that kid look so Norwegian? I want to look just like that Norwegian kid. Geez what a cool Norwegian outfit. Can I have one?' Get it? Norwegian. Now I mean it. Shut up, and button up those knickers."
"Scottish then. I look Scottish. I don't like it."
Gah! I had my way in the end; he wore the damn thing. It must have been some sort of twisted cultural solidarity thing that prevented him from admitting that what he in fact didn't want to look like was another stuffy Norwegian in yet another stuffy bunad.
A few pictures of the day:
|Random, pretty Norwegian girls leading the parade. You're not meant to recognize anyone here, so don't study it too closely. It's merely a mood piece.|
|I said 'boobies' to make them laugh and to wipe the standard picture grimace off their faces. Then I couldn't get them to stop giggling.|
|Missy's last year marching with the barnehage.|
|Looks Canadian to me......|