The Hardest Kept Secret

Little Miss threw up last night. I sort of lost count, but I’m pretty sure it was 7, maybe 8 times at least. She kept me awake with her sobbing and dry heaving from 11:30 to 3:50 a.m.

She knew exactly when she was done though. After one last gagging spasm, she wiped her pale, puckered lips on her ruffled sleeve and said, “I want to go to my bed now.”

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Leaving me, at long last, to fall onto the couch and sleep for all of 3 hours before Mister poked me in the ribs to ask, “Dude. What was going on last night? Is something wrong with Missy?”

Up until last night I was certain that my trip home to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday was well worth every penny, every hassle, every miserable minute spent in transit from here to there and back again. But something about last night—the stealth speed of the attack—its sheer volume and intensity—how does a 3 year old even produce that much vomit anyway?—the comical overkill of each successive assault—“Again? Surely not. There’s nothing left. Surely you must be mistaken. No? Well. Okay then….”—felt like payback, like some sort of cosmic comeuppance for my foolish notions of independence and autonomy.

Welcome home, Mom! Glad you had a nice trip. Now kindly set your bags down, cuz’ we’ve got some shit for you to clean up.

Nice. How very nice it is to be home.

As for the trip itself—the secret—well, after seven long months, the cat is very much out of the bag now, isn’t it?

I’m happy to report that Operation Make Them Pee Their Pants was orchestrated, executed, and fulfilled to absolute perfection, thanks—in no small part—to my two accomplices Skinny Bitch Stace and my brother, The Partial Godfather.

I’m not exactly sure what my eager audience expects of me at this point. A blow by blow account of the week—even just that first weekend of surprises—would be time consuming. Frankly, I’m not sure I’m up to the task—you know?—given my crippling jet-lag, and sickly child, and all like that.

And yet, there are so many moments that should be documented lest they ever be forgotten. La Dragon being puked on by a total stranger during our final descent into Salt Lake, for example. Or the blank nods and terse smiles from the many members of the service industry that first day whom my mother insisted on telling that is was her birthday, and that her daughter, that one there, right! there! flew all the way from Norway to surprise her—ME!—Today! And I had NO idea. NONE! And ohmygod, I’m overwrought. Fetch me another drink! So we did.

Ohohoh! And remember that time during dinner when I was thanking Stace for all the work she did booking limos and making dinner reservations and stuff? And Stace grabbed my hand? And she said, “No no no. It was nothing. Ever since I was the Matron of Honor at your wedding….” And it was about to be a beautiful moment, because my wedding? it really was lovely, and we were about to bond over it or some shit like that. But then a light went on in Nan’s wine befuddled brain, and she pointed a finger at Stace and shouted, “AH! I remember you now! I do know you!” And it was so fucking funny, see? Hilarious. Because they had already spent the entire day together, and it was only just then that she recognized….Nah. Forget it. You probably had to be there. Or at least be drunk like we were.

I’ll tell you what wasn’t funny though. Being dumped out of a rented limo at 1 in the morning, in front of a house which no one had the key to, with a garage door which refused to open, and a bladder full to (I shit you not) BURSTING! That moment? That is a moment I would just as soon forget. But I peed on the neighbor’s lawn, so probably no one will let me. Assholes.

And the next day I got to surprise everyone on my dad’s side of the family. Even after an accidental phone call to Norway (way to drop the ball there Sparky) allowed Elder Miss to tell everyone I was there, they still managed to be utterly dumbfounded to see me standing at the door. A most excellent moment by any standard.

Alas, it is a sad truth that all good things must eventually come to an end. And to that end, it occurs to me that I have washing that needs to be put in the drier. Missy should be roused from her nap. Boy needs fetching from school. And Elder Miss needs help with her homework.

Welcome home.

Filing For An Extension

I'm assuming everyone's anxiously awaiting an update. Some sort of accounting for my actions and whereabouts (as if you all didn't already know!) these past few weeks.

Turns out, I have a migrain. So ya'll are just going to have to sit tight.

In the mean time, here's what I've got by way of pictures of the big surprise:

Pictures-a-go-go

Gassy, And Furthermore, Jejune

I was looking for synonyms to help me describe the video you're about to watch.

Banal, yes.

Insipid, maybe.

Inane, most definitely.

Believe it or not, quotidian was the word I entered into my trusty online thesaurus. Quotidian was a favorite of mine in high school. Thought it made me sound wicked smaht n' shit. Never in a million years would I have believed that it managed little more than branding me a stuck-up douche bag. Twenty years later, I'm beginning to see where I might have been a little off-base on that one. Especially since, you know, my trusty online thesaurus didn't even recognize it as a word.

So it's a boring video. I know that. I'm confident that those of my readers who are grandparents won't care, and will watch it 2 or 3 dozen times anyway. The thing I want the rest of you to concentrate on is the manic chatter in the background. That's Boy. And you'll notice, you never see him, but he never shuts the fuck up.

Because Grandma Asked For It

Firstly, I want you all to know that I already know I am a complete idiot. I certainly wouldn't want any of you to feel you had to break your current record for "most posts read without leaving a comment" to point out to me the zen-like totality of my idiocy. I am aware. I am at peace.

Secondly, although I am willing to stipulate that the mistake was entirely mine, and that a smarter person would have automatically intuited that a humble digital camera, in its handy-dandy movie mode, will not record from anything other than a horizontal angle, I would like to point out--in my defense--that the view on the preview screen did change. She was upright and vertical when I was watching her on the camera. But I'm an idiot, see, and it is beyond my puny intellect to understand why the camera would record something entirely different from what I was seeing on the preview screen. This is the way, apparently, of techonolgy and the world of dunces in which I roam free.

Thirdly, it's Norwegian. Deal with it.

Ya'll better enjoy this little photo essay. I spent over four miserable hours last night wrangling pictures out of Picasa and into Blogger, only to have Google crap its ethereal pants and lose them all(again and again and again) at the very last minute. Did I mention again and again and again? I have never had that much trouble posting pictures before. And I don't know what was going on last night. But I've got myself a serious hate on for Blogger right now.

So look long and lovingly at every single one of those silly little pictures. I sweat blood to bring them to you!

Before

So this is what I've been working on for the past two weeks. The big project that's kept me off-line all this time. As soon as I finished the mudroom, I started clearing out Elder Miss's room to be repainted, remodeled and reinvented as Boy and Missy's shared room. It's much bigger than the one they've been sharing up until now. It just doesn't seem right having Elder Miss all alone in this great big room, while the two little ones are cramped together in the small room. Plus, as you can see, it's well over due for a bit of a make over. That patch in the ceiling represents the last vestiges of the old house the way it was before we lifted the roof and added the second floor. It was a hatch that held a hidden ladder that led up into the attic where 612 bats used to sleep and shit in blissful harmony--to say nothing of the mice. How much do I love living in the country?

Anyway, the ceiling has looked like this for four years because we're lazy. And also, I thought maybe the way it looked kind of like piano keys would seep into her subconscience while she slept, and somehow make her into a wildly gifted, if lazy, musician. Or something.


I actually kind of choked up a little as I pulled this wallpaper off. I mean, I picked out this Bear Express border at Babies R' Us when I was but 6 months pregnant with EM. I drove Mister mad with my dithering and fretting and worrying over paint colors. Colors? What colors, you ask. Those are like two of the seven differnt shades of taupe you're allowed to color your stucco in the Utah suburbs. Nevertheless, Mister was ready to strangle me by the time I finally settled on them. And now *sigh* she's all grown up and asking for green walls with pink glittery curtains and Bratz sheets on the bed.


Rather than try to find exactly the right gender neutral shade of gender neutrality, I decided to split this wall down the middle and let the kids pick their own colors. Blue for Boy, purple for Missy. Done.


At this point, I still didn't have any clear idea of what I was going to do with the three remaining walls. I admit, while I was picking out blues that would go with purples, and purples that wouldn't overwhelm blues, I was also playing both against yellowy beiges and hoping to just leave well enough alone. But as soon as I got all that other color into the room, that yellowy beige became just plain yellow. And the whole thing felt like a faulty Easter Egg. I ultimately struck upon the solution to my dilemma from the old sheets I was using as drop cloths.


Grey! Of course. All that and gender neutral too. Just so you know, Elder Miss lobbied hard to keep the blue painter's tape on the door. She thought it was really classy looking that way.

After

There's still a few things that need doing--lights need to be hung and rewired, rugs need to be found, and I bought two awesome mirrors at IKEA that need to be put up, but I need the lights up first so I know exactly where to put them. But, for the most part, this is it.

I think I'm pleased. Mostly. I hope.


This is the view from the doorway towards Boy's side of the room. That dark shadow on the left there is not the door frame. It's the closet that was meant to cleverly seperate the room into distinct 'boy' and 'girl' spaces. But I fear all that it really ends up doing is looking like a great hulking closet RIGHT in the MIDDLE of the FREAKIN' ROOM!


This is the view towards Missy's side. I let them pick out the posters themselves. Well--mostly. Kind of.....sort of. Maybe. Boy was adamant about wanting Superman and a dragon. Missy wanted princesses. So I found a series of dragon pictures that got gradually more princessy-ish (it's hard to see it, but that's a Pegasus in the center of that last frame). The ballerina was Missy's choice. She seems to think anything in a skirt is a princess, and I allow her to think this as it gets me out of having to put nails in my freshly painted walls for Disney's finest.


And here's that closet I was talking about. See. It really is RIGHT in the MIDDLE of the FREAKIN' ROOM! There were several reasons for the choice to place it where we did. I forget them now. Something about neat-o, and cool, and oh yeah, this way Mister wouldn't have to saw off and repolish the shelf above the window. I'm still not sure it wasn't a HUGE mistake, but it's growing on me. We found a cool wall light that will go on that back wall, as will the mirrors eventually. Neat-o. And also, cool. Right? RIGHT?


This is the other side of the closet. You wouldn't believe the deal I got on those curtains. Well, maybe you would, on account of them being so ugly and all, but the colors are perfect match, and the kids call them "firework window sheets" so I love them. Mister thinks they need to be hemmed up 12 or so inches. I hate that I might agree with him, but for now I'm choosing to ignore him.

And now onwards and upwards to Elder Miss's new room. I have until March 26th to get it done. Shit.

A Quickie In Honor Of Leap Day

Here’s a little game that Missy and Boy like to play in the mornings when Elder Miss isn’t around to referee. Missy starts:

“Boy, be quiet.”

“Okay.”

“Are you being quiet?”

Silence

“Are you being quiet?”

Nary a peep

“ARE YOU BEING QUIET?”

A stillness so profound you’d swear you’d slipped into a deep, velvety sleep where dreams of thick, fog-filled glens and mossy meadows await you

“ARE! YOU! BE! ING! QUI! ET!”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

Having Learned That If She Doesn't Ask, I Can't Say No...

I finally picked up a late Valentine’s Day package from Alpha Grandma this afternoon. In it were three boxes of chocolates (which I quickly confiscated until Friday), a heart red sweater for me (awww, she really shouldn’t have), two shirts each for the kids, Spiderman socks for Boy, and three pairs of undies each for the girls.

Boy looked this gift horse directly in the mouth and asked, “Where are the toys?” Elder Miss coolly informed me that the brown shirt was pretty but I’d have to buy her a pair of pants to match them. Missy simply swooned.

Dora panties and a bright pink shirt featuring Dora in a pair of sparkly fairy wings? The haute-est of haute couture in Missy’s world, I tell you what. She quickly gathered these rare treasures unto her bosom and ran upstairs shouting, “I want to cuddle whiss ‘zem, that’s because I want to!” Elder Miss and Boy followed her up saying something about catching the last episode of Power Rangers or whatever. And there they all stayed, blessedly out-of-sight/out-of-mind for the next hour and a half. Giving me ample time to—I know I should say ‘do the dishes, wash the floors, fold the laundry, and pour my husband a second martini’—but I was, in fact, trying to break through to the next, and final level, of Over the Hedge on EM’s Nintendo. Ninety freakin’ minutes, and I still couldn’t find all twenty of those GOD DAMN light bulbs! I’m tellin’ ya’, there’s only nineteen of them. 19. Not 20. Just 19. So LET ME PASS ALREADY! Stupid fucking game. GRRRRRRRR!

Anyway, so 7:30 rolls around, and I call the kids down to brush their teeth and get ready for bed, as per our usual arrangement. Only tonight, instead of Missy barreling down the stairs first shouting that she wants to brush her teeth ‘self’, EM and Boy come a-sauntering in their typical distracted fashion and are half-way done with their nightly ablutions before I hear Missy even make a move in the direction of the stairs.

“Missy, you need to hurry a bit,” I warn in my semi-stern, you’re-okay-for-another-thirty-seconds-but-then-I’m-really-going-to-lose-my-shit voice, “It’s getting late. We’ll miss reading time if you don’t slap a rush on it.”

“Oh-kaaay. I coming,” she mutters, with more than a touch of reluctance in her voice.

When she finally gets into the bathroom—head hung, eyes averted, feet shuffling in the slow, measured way of the guilty—I see that, not only is she wearing her new Dora shirt, but also the pink-ruffled shirt from the package under it. And the hot-pink sweatshirt I sent her to barnehage in under that, as well as the wool undershirt I sent her to barnehage in under that. And, as I start to undress the bottom half of her, I note the jeans and tights she had on earlier—only I’m pretty sure that they weren’t backwards when I put them on her—under those, she’s got all three pairs of new Dora underwear, plus two of the pairs of Dora undies she got for Christmas, plus the faded pair of My Little Pony panties she put on this morning.

What could I do but laugh?

“It’s a bit much, don’t you think, honey?” I chuckle.

Missy’s eyes go from guilty to defiant in a flash, “I has to has Dora on! That’s because I LOVE HER!”

All of which is to say, thanks for the new clothes Grandma, much appreciated.

Heresy: A Short Play Of Profound Meaning, In Three Acts

The Scene: Wednesday evening. The living room. It is half way through Winter Break. The children have been off school for three days; they are restless, they are bored, they are playing chicken with their mother’s last nerve. This impartial narrator’s money is on The Mother.

The floor is cluttered with piles of neatly folded clothes and open suitcases. Five sets of skis and poles make a precarious lean-to against one wall. The Mother has been packing all afternoon. The Father has been on an out of town meeting all day, but has planned to take an early flight home so he can start his vacation too. The children are waiting anxiously for him to walk through the door. When he does, they are finally going to Rosendal, to Farmor, to the slopes, at the very least to different walls than the ones they’ve been climbing for the past five unstructured, unproductive, uneventful days.


Act I: Scenes I and II

In which the phone rings, it is The Father. Fog has him socked in at the airport. The children's raucous energy quiets to a twitchy buzz as they listen to the one-sided conversation. It is decided to postpone the trip. The family will leave first thing tomorrow morning. Bitter disappointment and tears ensue.

The Mother resorts to much tutting and shushing to calm her frustrated children. Peace is eventually restored with the promise of some Pepsi Max and a bath after dinner.

Act II: Scene I

In which panic once again grips the hearts of the children when The Mother casually mentions she hadn’t planned on making dinner tonight. The pantry is searched. The freezer is raided. The refrigerator scoured. The exhaustive search turns up frozen chicken, pesto, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, and half a red onion. The children are skeptical, but The Mother promises to work a culinary miracle.

Act III: Scene I

Finally seated around the dinner table, the children slump heavily in their seats and pick suspiciously at the sticky green chunks of pesto-soaked poultry on their plates.

Elder Miss: (pouting) I wish there was a God to blame.

Boy: (defiant) Me too.

Elder Miss: Maybe there is.

Boy: Nah. Let’s make one up!

Elder Miss: Okay. His name is Bob-nob.

Missy: (giggle) That rhymes.

Boy: Yeah, and he has a jet pack.

Missy: And a monkey!

Elder Miss: And he can control the weather.

Boy: Bob-nob sucks.

Dr. Seuss Might Have Worded It Differently, But Otherwise It's Just The Same

So a few weeks ago I wrote a strongly worded letter to EM’s teachers asking, among other things, whatever happened to the reading books you used to send home every Monday? And, are you fer’ real with these spelling words? “Jeg”? “Meg”? “Av”? You are aware, I hope, that she is nearly 8 years old and has been reading with ever increasing fluency for nearly 3 years now? Oh, and while I’ve got your ear for a minute here, why is it exactly that no one has yet bothered to teach her how to carry her ones and take away from her tens? I mention her age again (8 in May) only because it seems from the contents of her homework folder that you all seem to be operating under the impression that she is still 5. Or, mentally challenged. Or, even—I grudgingly admit it is within the realm of possibility—just plain stupid. So, like, what gives?

Her teachers (all three of them), whom I have always liked by the way, were quick to respond that: No, EM is most definitely not stupid. She is rather, a very bright, eager, and easy student. As far as the work level is concerned, we are simply following national curriculum guidelines for her age level. However, if I want her to have a bit of extra work, why all I had to do was ask.

Splendid. They sent her home with two extra reading books that very day. One in Norwegian, and they were pleased to announce the school had just purchased a set of early English readers which would be perfect for EM. So, here you are—the first in the series. Enjoy! Oh but please, they were quick to add, don’t push her too hard. EM likes to learn, but she’s still just a child and she likes to play too.

Pfft. What.Ever. Put that bloody Nintendo down EM, and read this. Yes! NOW!

When I first read the phrase ‘early English reader’, I was thinking cool, they’ve purchased the Oxford Reading Tree series, or possibly the Jolly Phonics books that I’m told are all the rage over in merry old England. At any rate, English books written by English speaking persons for English speaking children.

But, no. Being Norwegian, they naturally figured a Norwegian writer was better equipped to teach a Norwegian child to speak and read English for heaven’s sake. So what I’ve got here is a series of books written in halting, tortured English by, what I can only assume from the subject matter of these books to be, halting, tortured Norwegians.

I’m sure this violates all kinds of copyright laws, but I just have to share with you the text of the second book, in its entirety. There’s no way I can do this stuff justice in a brief synopsis.

So here it is: The Naughty Mice

It is evening.
They are eating.
(The illustration shows a family of four seated at a dinner table in the fuzzy background, and a cute little mouse drinking a drop of water from a faucet in the foreground.)

Mary says:
--Look.
There is a mouse on the table.
(According to the illustration, the mouse is, in fact, on the countertop. But whatever.)

Steven points.
He says:
--There are two mice.

Daddy says:
--Are they walking on the table?
They are naughty mice.
I am going to fetch a trap.

Mummy says:
--Where are our cats?

--They are sitting by the door.
They are waiting for food.

They hear a snap.

A mouse has been trapped.
Daddy gives it to the cat.
(The illustration for this one shows a disembodied hand dangling a dead mouse in front of two cats. A dead mouse, for God’s sake! The hell?)

Daddy says:
--I will put the trap out again.

Yes, says mummy.
--Catch the other mouse.

Mary and Steven are going to sleep.

Steven says:
--How many mice got trapped?

--20 naughty mice, said Mary.
--And that is just tonight.

Personally, I think the story ends rather abruptly here, and I’m considering sending a suggestion to the publisher to add a tiny little epilogue:

The cats grew fat.
And they lived in continued squalor ever after.

New Year's Resolution: Resolved

Two years ago when we gutted 2/3 of the ground floor of our house to build a new kitchen and living room, I had found a picture in one of those fancy home decor magazines of a mudroom set-up that I thought was THE coolest thing since indoor plumbing. I just had to have it. Had to. I tore the page out of the magazine, handed it over into the roughened, care-worn hands of my father-in-law, who has been known to work miracles with wood in the past and who, conveniently enough, would be here doing the bulk of the heavy work on the remodel anyway. I told him there was a bottle of cognac in it for him if he could make my old kitchen look like that before the summer was out.

The kids and I spent the next nearly 3 months in Salt Lake while Mister and his dad worked their asses off to build me my dream kitchen in the space which used to be the living room, and a cozy new living room in the space which used to be Boy's bedroom. I hardly dared ask what was to become of the narrow galley space which used to be my kitchen. Whenever I did, Mister was very noncommittal, "We'll see," he'd grumble, "Now how deep do you want the shelves in the pantry?"

Then I'd tell him, and he'd say, "No, no, no. That'll never do. It needs to be thus, thus, and thus."

Then I'd say, "So why did you even ask? But hey, has your dad said anything about the mudroom? Is he going to have time to do it?"

"Don't know, we'll see. Do you want 3" or 4" crown moldings?"

"3."

"I think 4."

Good times. Good times. That was the summer Missy broke her leg. That was the summer of "Where's my rain pants?"

Long story short though, by the time the kids and I had flown back into town, he'd done it. My father-in-law had taken that one crumpled little picture of the perfect mudroom, and basically built the shit out it. He owned that motherfucker. It was perfect! Marvelous! Wonderful! And the kitchen wasn't half bad either.

Sadly, that was pretty much the end of the story of the mudroom. I gushed, and preened, and danced a happy jig at the reality of it. But then I had to set to work finishing up the painting in the kitchen, finding a suitable sofa for the living room, unpacking the boxes and boxes of crap I had stored out of the way of the construction. You know how it is. What with one thing and another, it just kept getting pushed futher and further down on my list of things I wanted to tackle. So there it sat--unpainted, unfurnished, unloved--collecting dust and clutter and piles upon piles of shoes.

Until now.

It was my New Year's Resolution. My promise to Mister. Empty it. Clean it. Spackle it. Sand it. Prime it. Paint it. Hang it with hooks. And finally, use it in the manner in which it was meant to be used.

Check, check, check, check, check, and check!

It was nearly impossible to get a decent picture of the space, but hopefully you'll get an idea of how utterly ingenious it is from these few awkward angles.

I wish I had thought to take a true before shot of the chaos that reigned before I cleaned it out. Without any hooks to hang their stuff on, the kids would just chuck their coats and things in a pile. Mister and I had coats on hangers just sort of hooked over the edge of the lower shelf. Once I got everything taken out, I was amazed at how roomy and orderly it really was.
So there are six spaces, or cubbies as the kids have come to call them, three on either side. Each kid has their own little cubby and drawer for hats and gloves. The two back cubbies are for Mister and me, they're the only two with rods for hangers. The kids' cubbies have nothing but hooks. No hangers. No excuses. Get your damn coat OFF THE FLOOR!
We found the hooks at IKEA. My original idea was just a row of standard peg hooks on all three walls of each cubby. But I like these so much more. In addition to being just plain funky and fun to look at, I think it utilizes the space so much better.

The mirror I found in an abandoned corner of a local furniture store. It was filthy and covered with dust. When I asked the sales clerk if it was really for sale, she sort of blinked twice at it like where the hell did that come from? Then said, "Yes, yes. Of course. Everything here is."

"Really?" I asked, "Because it doesn't look like you're very interested in getting rid of it."

So she cleaned it up, wrapped it in bubble wrap, and gave me 30% off. It is, if you ask me, perfect. I'm ever so pleased with myself for finding it.

And now, Dear Lord, a word about the linoleum: I have a natural affinity for things which manage to be both dreadful and wonderful at the same time. This is why I listen to Nick Cave albums and secretly crave Fruity Pebbles. It's why I allow myself to watch Access Hollywood. I think it's why I continue to run. And it's exactly how I feel about this linoleum. I can't believe Mister allowed me to order it, but I'm glad he did. It's the first and only outrageous thing about my home decor--that, and the brick red wall to go with it. You're allowed to hate it. Sometimes I'm horrified by it. But mostly, I love it.

So that's done then. As you can see from the reflection in the mirror, the windows still need dressing. I'm dragging my feet because I don't have a clue how I want to do it. Ideas, anyone?

My next big project, which I've already half started, is to empty out Elder Miss's bedroom and redo it into a boy/girl room for Boy and Little Miss to share, then redo the little bedroom upstairs all pre-teentastic for Elder Miss. I'm pretty excited about this. Truth be told, it's why I rushed to get the mudroom done as quickly as I did. The kids have been needing these rooms sorted for years now, and I couldn't, in good conscience, start that project before I finished this one.

Dear Ndugu

Remember back in early December, or was it late November? It’s all such a blur. I had that really dark moment where I whined about the weather, and the darkness, and my poor choice of reading material? Honestly, I think a good 70% of that funk had to do with the books I was reading. A Thousand Splendid Suns ripped through me like a tarnished silver spoon, and left me feeling fat, vapid, and inexcusably comfortable.

Shortly after I posted that unsung piece of drivel, I stumbled upon a link to a site dedicated to humanitarian aid in Afghanistan. From there I followed a link to this organization—Women for Women—where I was swallowed in whole. I signed up immediately.

I’ve never been much of the charitable donation type. I have no excuse for this other than a vague sense of distrust for organizations that come grubbing after my money. I’ll give used clothes, and buy extra toys at Christmas for the homeless. Hell, I’m more than happy to give a pint or two of blood to whomever will take it despite my garishly tattooed ass. But actual money I’ve been more than a little bit reluctant to part with. Shame on me.

I liked the philosophy behind this group though—teach women in war torn countries a marketable trade, give them a small amount of cash each month to see them through while they’re in the program, and then hopefully set them up with a bit of investment capital so they can eventually support themselves and their children with whatever skills the organization has taught them.

There is a one time $30 administration fee—this bothers me, but is a necessary evil I suppose—and then I give $27 per month after that, $18 of which goes directly as cash in hand to which ever woman (or sister, as I’m meant to think of her) I’m matched with. The rest of the monthly payment goes towards teaching and education opportunities for women in the program. Pretty reasonable, right? Plus Oprah featured them on her show twice, so they must be legit, right? Right? What is wrong with me that I’m such a suspicious person?

After I signed up, Christmas fell upon us all and then I got sick, and I sort of forgot all about it until a week or so ago when I got an e-mail notifying me that I had been matched with a ‘sister’ in the program and the first month’s donation had been charged to my credit card. A few days later I received a packet in the mail with the name and a few (very, very few) personal details of said sister. Oh, and a picture. A dark, unflattering, miserable little picture of a guarded, weary, grim looking woman.

Kabara is her name, and I’m supposed to write a letter to her. But Jesus! What do you say? What could I possibly write to this woman about my shallow, pampered, pre-packaged, Western life that won’t, with every clumsily worded sentence, remind her of everything she doesn’t have, or worse—has possibly lost?

The instruction booklet that came with the packet says, “Oh hey, don’t worry about it. Everyone feels that way. And also, we’ll sure try to get your sister to write back but most of them are suffering from depression, or post-traumatic stress, or both, or worse, not to mention the giant hurdles of language and illiteracy we must surmount. So, like, don’t count on it. But please do write anyway. M’kay?”

Helpful. Not.

So……friends…..family……come on…..help a girl out. Write this damn letter for me!

Making The Cut

This morning I woke up and, sort of spur-of-the-moment like, decided to get my hair cut.

I hate having my hair done here. Everyone knows this. I’ve never, ever, never-not-once been totally happy with the results. The cuts are always too short, too chopped, too harsh somehow to suit me. Plus I find the manners and professionalism of Norwegian stylists sort of appalling: brusque, rushed, and utterly disinterested. And the price of such cursory service? Inflated beyond belief. Too many times I’ve walked out of a Norwegian salon feeling vaguely butch and thoroughly taken advantage of. So I tend to put off going back as long as possible.

Nevertheless, my current do had reached a certain level of intolerable shagginess. It needed doing, and I was determined to see it done. So I took a bit of extra care with my clothing choices; I put some make-up on, groomed back my unibrow a bit. One wants to look one’s best while sitting under those harsh lights in front of acres of mirrors with little else to look at for a good 30 minute stretch but one’s humble self. Or is that just me?

I’ve found a place nearby where my reaction to the finished cut is generally more “Meh, it’ll do” than “Sweet Christ in heaven! Are you drunk?” And the outrageous prices are tempered by the fact that the staff all wear the same colored, fitted t-shirts (a different color for each day of the week), so you feel like your money is really going towards something worthwhile and good. Or something.

I didn’t have an appointment. By and large, it’s just not the done thing over here. Appointments are not usually made more than 2 or 3 days in advance, and as long as you’re not fussy about whom you want doing your do, walk-ins are common and welcomed everywhere. And this morning, at 30 minutes past 9, I was just such a walk-in.

Right away I sensed something different about the woman to whom I had been assigned. She was courteous. Polite. Formal, even. She asked was I ready? Would I like to have a seat? Instead of the belligerent grunts and gestures—you sit, I cut—I’ve come to expect. When she asked what I’d like done, she actually touched my hair, looked at my face, considered the task at hand, before saying, “It seems a little heavy on top. I’d like to see it stacked a bit more. Is that okay with you?”

Flustered and embarrassed by such attention, I blushed a little and said, “Yesyes I think so,” all in a breathy rush. Who was this fey blond creature with the funky, asymmetrical bob and the chunky granny glasses? I was mesmerized.

I tend to be pretty tone deaf when it comes to Norwegian accents and dialects. I’ve lived here for 12 and a half years now and still the only dialects I can identify with any certainty are Mister’s and the one spoken here in Bergen. Everything else gets labeled in my mind as either ‘not from around here but intelligible’ or ‘not from around here and completely unintelligible’ then processed accordingly (Meaning, I either pay attention, or I tune them out but continue to grin and nod my head politely. You might be surprised at the amount of time I spend vacantly nodding and bobbing my head like an asshole when I’m out in public. Mister would be horrified, though he must suspect by now.)

I knew from the way she was talking that she wasn’t a local, but she spoke so clearly and so slowly that I had no problem understanding her, and we chatted easily back and forth while she washed and rinsed and combed out. It wasn’t until she was ready to start cutting that she mentioned that she was German and had only been living in Norway for just over a year.

Duh! How dumb am I? She’s not even Norwegian. No wonder she’s so nice! Ah, and she’s German. No wonder she’s so professional!

At one point she asked me, very gently in case it was a sensitive subject, if I’d ever considered some color to cover up the flourishing crop of grey at my right temple. I explained to her that I sometimes have it done when I’m home for the summers, but I refuse to pay the price of the upkeep over here, so I kind of gave it up altogether. This led us to talking about other difference between here and there. At one point she asked point blank, “So are they better at cutting hair over there?”

I looked around the salon—two other stylists, three other customers, all Norwegians as far as I could tell. I didn’t want to get either myself blacklisted or her fired, so I said diplomatically, “Well, I don’t want say ‘better’. But there are some pretty big differences. They just have another sense of style over there. It suits me better.”

“Right. I see,” she nodded, “They’re very fond of the blunt cut here.” She looked at me pointedly through the mirror.

“Yes! Exactly.”

“They don’t know much about undercuts.”

“No! Nothing at all!”

“And,” she pinched two strands of hair on either side of my forehead, leaned down, and squinted into the mirror to check for evenness, “They’re very lazy about styling,” she finished quietly into my ear.

And just there. Just in that moment. I wanted to kiss her. With tongue.

Her name is Marianne. And she’s my new best friend. She’s “looking forward to seeing me again soon.” And she hopes that I’ll “be satisfied, but please to understand that it will take at least two more cuts to really get to know my hair.”

She wants to get to know my hair. Gulp. Flutter. Swirl. I’m the luckiest girl in the whole world!

Idiot American That I Am, I Always Thought It Was Pronounced GANG-GUS

I know. I know. It's been awhile. Again.

We lost our wireless router during the big storm on Christmas Eve, and it's taken us this long to get it sorted out.

I'm celebrating my return by trying something new. The video below is of the dance number that EM performed at her big show last week. The quality is terrible. It gets a bit better, then it gets a whole lot worse, then it gets a bit better again before it gets even worse. Sorry about that. I was taking it with my little Pentax point n' shoot, and I don't think it was meant to record video from such distances. Oh hey, but at least the awfulness of the music comes through loud and clear. Dschinghis Khan by none other than Dschinghis Khan ca. 1980.

What's that you say? Never heard of it? Not big fans of the Grand Prix Eurovision song contest then, I take it. Jilly Baby will disagree, but I say you're all a whole lot better off for your ignorance. A good 80% of the recital highlighted Eurovision contest winners and popular losers from the past 30 years or so, and oh God but was it ever a chore to endure. This Dschinghis Khan number is very much representative of the level of pop horror I'm talking about. And Waterloo by ABBA--that one also came out of the Eurovision franchise as well.

Anyway--I'm too lazy to bother with any editing. So just ignore the first group of dancers, go delete some spam or something. You'll need to start paying attention again about a minute and a half into the song. Keep you eye on the crouching figure to the far right. That's EM, and she's every bit as brilliant as you'd expect her to be. Pay particular attention to the emphatic umph of her kicks about half way through there. She told me she was pretending to be a boy. That's why it looked so real and interesting, she said.

EDIT: Having just reviewed the video as it's posted, I see that it's even more impossible to see than it is with a full screen. Sorry about that. Oh well, enjoy the music anway.

Sick Leave

My apologies for not checking in sooner.

I've been sick. Very sick. Sicker than sick. Miserable, awful, dreadful sick.

I admit it. I didn't give any of you much of any thought at all in the midst of my malaise. Except my mommy. I thought a lot about her. Where was she? Didn't she care how wretchedly I suffered? Didn't she love me anymore? Why doesn't she come? Why am I ALL ALONE? MOOOOOMMMMMMEEEEEEE!!!!!!

The terrible head cold that I had going into Christmas Eve turned into a general infection of nearly everything: ears, nose, chest, throat, mind, and spirit. I swear to God, I didn't know my face could hurt that bad and not explode. It just didn't seem physiologically possible.

Anyway, this is my 4th day of antibiotics, and I'm feeling better. Not ready to run a marathon better, but willing to brush my teeth and put some clean underwear on better. It's a start.

Mister gathered up the kids and took them off to his mother's on Friday. I've been convalescing alone since then. I watched both seasons 1 and 2 of Grey's Anatomy in their entirty in just three days. It was a little much, I must admit, even for me. I couldn't even bring myself to cry when Denny died. Am I the only one who thinks it's a little implausible that Izzy didn't do any jail time for what she did, let alone that she was eventually allowed to practice medicine again? It's just silly. Honestly.

Anyway.

Apparently I'm still a little weak and distracted. I can't seem to pull coherent thoughts together. And my ears don't work properly. Makes me feel a little clausterphobic, actually. I still want my mommy. And the antibiotics have fucked up my stomach. Soon they will fuck up my cooter....and not in the good way......(that one was for you Dad, try not to visualize)

I have to go. A taxi is picking me up in an hour to take me to the ferry. I'm going to Rosendal to spend New Year's with my family.

I have a thing for ferry boats.

No I don't.

But I know a guy who does......

Happy New Year's everyone. Hope you all feel better than I do.

It's After 12 Noon On Christmas Eve. Can I Start Drinking Yet?

Seriously, it's darker than dark out there today. Forecast is for full storm (a term which looks like English, but is in fact full-blooded Norwegian and means 'mini-sort-of-hurricane-thingy-during-which-it-will-be-dark-and-windy-and-generally-miserable-out'). So once again all our dreams of a white Christmas have been crushed and broken on account of pissing rain. How utterly predictable. Enjoy your snow American family. You have no idea how lucky you are.

I don't have much to say. Just wanted to wish everyone a merry Christmas. Hope you all have a wonderful couple of days.

Personally I'm having a bit of a hard time getting into the spirit this year. In addition to the wretched weather, I've got a terrible head cold and have been temporarily robbed of all sense of taste and smell. It's weird and more than a little disconcerting to have a mouthful of say coffee or pepperkake, and know full well what these things should taste like, and yet have only the sensation of warm water or gritty mush in my mouth. Makes it hard to get excited about all the cooking I'm about to do when I know I'm not going to be able to taste anything at the end of it.

Harumph.

On the other hand, the kids are happy and healthy, and perfectly delighted with everything. Boy thinks he hears sleigh bells everywhere. Missy won't leave the ornaments on the tree alone. And Elder Miss has her pretty party dress all laid out on her bed and keeps caressing it lovingly. They haven't much noticed the weather, and they could care less about how moist the turkey may or may not turn out. This is their night, and they can hardly wait for all the fun to start.

Merry Christmas!

The True Meaning Of Christmas

There is a song; a carol, actually; a Christmas carol, to be absolutely precise, called “Et Barn Er Født I Betlehem". I thought it was a uniquely Norwegian piece, but a quick search on iTunes revealed versions in several Nordic languages, including an attempt in English by one Garrison Keillor. So 'Scandinavian', I think, is as narrow a label as we can put on it.

Whatever its origins, it’s fairly awful. So don’t feel too bad about having never heard of it before.

A child is born in Bethlehem
In Bethlehem
In Bethlehem
Something about rejoicing Jerusalem
Hallelujah

I see no point in attempting a full translation. A good quarter of the words are archaic enough that they don’t make any sense to me anyway. Suffice it to say, it goes on and on about virgins, cribs, visitors from the East, something about a star, and blahdy blahdy blah for about 10 verses, each verse ending in a paradoxically mournful “hall-ehhh-luuu-jahhhhhh”.

So it’s your fairly standard Christian carol. Fair enough. God knows I love a good carol. Only this one is so mind-numbingly plodding and slow, with none of the soaring beauty of say “O Holy Night”, or the gentle lullaby hush of “Away in a Manger”, that it's damn near impossible to endure, let alone love. Nothing but lackluster and dull. Honestly, I can’t say enough about how much I hate this song.

Did I mention my kids know it? Would you believe me if I told you they like it, and sing it often?

Monday morning I’m in the kitchen making lunches for the smaller two before I send them off to barnehage. Elder Miss has long since left for school on the bus. Boy is sitting at the table rifling for the two thousand and first time through the Toys R’ Us Christmas catalog. Missy the Younger is sitting next to him, happily coloring in her Hello Kitty coloring book, mindlessly humming something decidedly atonal (thank you Grandma Gae). All is relatively quiet and peaceful. My mind has drifted past Christmas, past New Year’s, side-stepped January and February altogether, and is mulling over possible ways to wrangle together enough money to buy Mister the kayak he so desperately wants for his 40th birthday in March. Suddenly, Boy lets out a great, jubilant gasp. His chair, which he’s been teasing out on its back two legs whilst he browses, falls heavily forward and lands on all fours with a loud thud. He triumphantly plants a finger in the middle of the page he’s been looking at as if he’s just now, right here in this very spot, located the precise center and meaning of the entire universe, “Missy! Missy! Looklooklook! Et barn er født i Betlehem Right! Here! In the magazine!” And with out further ado, he launches into the song.

Missy, whose attention was caught with Boy’s gleeful snort of discovery, has dropped her crayon, leaned over the table to get a closer look, and is now droning a long, slow accompaniment to Boy’s song, “Hall-ehhhh-luuuu-jahhhhh, halllll-eh-luuuuuuu-jah, hall-ehhhhh-lu-jahhhh, hallelujahhallelujahhalleluuuuu-jahhhhh….”

Both continue to stare in transfixed wonder at the image on the page as they sing on and on…and on.

I had told the kids when we got them that these catalogues were sent out by Santa as a sort of preview of what his elves are working on. “These are the things you can choose from this year,” I said, “Santa says this is what’s available.” And I’ve flipped through them half a dozen times or so time myself. So I know, in that extra-special, extra-sensory way that mothers just know these things, that this is the item that has got Boy so excited.

I know they have a small Nativity set up at the pre-school. Since I’ve spent exactly zero time explaining the whole birth-of-Jesus, true-meaning-of-Christmas thing to my kids, I assume it’s the teachers at the school who have either used the Nativity to explain the song, or the song to explain the Nativity to them. Either way, I think it’s mildly interesting that the song and a random picture are so closely linked in their minds. It’s like one is the other to them. And I’m pondering this curiosity when Boy abruptly stops singing mid-verse to ask, “But Mom, why would Santa’s elves make a toy Jesus? Is it even allowed to play with the baby Jesus?”

What do you say to that? How do you even begin to answer that question? It’s a fantasy, wrapped inside a myth, cloaked in commercialism so profane it’s almost sacred. But how to you tell that to a 5 year old?

Bad Santa

You’ll all be happy to know that the same crap-ass vagrant that was staggering around the Christmas tree farm posing as Santa last year was there again this year.

EM and Boy were still too chicken to knock on the door of his little shack, so naturally they sent Missy. She marched right to the front of the queue (which, to be fair, was little more that a loosely assembled group of 2 or 3 other families with parents trying to coax their equally timid children into knocking on the door) and demanded an immediate audience, which she was granted forthwith. Her newly emboldened siblings climbed shamelessly onto her coattails, and followed her in, as did her dorky parents.

So there we stand—the entire family—in a dimly lit, dusty hovel, before a shaggy bum of questionable sobriety who, in turn, is seated behind a wobbly, makeshift desk. Christmas in Norway folks. Ain’t it a gas! Our host wastes no time in fixing his rheumy eyes on Missy—my precious baby angel—and asks, “Well now. And what might your name be?”

Suddenly shy, Missy bows her head and mumbles, “Mithy.”

“Eh! What’s that now?” His gaze darts from me, back to Missy, then over to EM, “Whudd’ she say?” he barks thickly.

“Missy. She’s Missy,” EM answers. Like DUH-UH.

“Missy. Riiiight.” He picks up his greasy quill and carefully writes her name in the large ledger lying open in front of him. M-I-S-S-Y. “And where does Missy live then?” He directs this question at EM whose shyness apparently only applies to knocking on doors; grizzly old geezers she’s all bright shiny sunshine for.

EM doesn’t miss a beat as she mechanically recites the address that she’s only recently memorized. My grip tightens a little over Missy’s hand as I watch this shoddy, second-rate Santa write our address next to her name, and I wonder, “Um, is this such a good idea?” Too late.

EM has even kindly corrected him where he’s written a 3 where there should have been a 4 for our house number. Then he asks, “How old is Missy?”

“Three.”

“Very good,” he mutters, as he scrawls a 3 in the age column, “Now,” turning back to Little Miss, “What would Missy like for Christmas?”

Silence. Apparently, not even EM has the answer to this one. The silence drags on as we all look at each other and shrug. Boy pokes Missy in the cheek. Missy sticks two fingers in her mouth.

“Humph,” grumbles the old man, “How ‘bout I just surprise you then?” he says, and writes the word ‘present’ in the last column. “Best to put a little reminder here see. Just so I know you’ve been good. Heh heh heh. Right. Next?” He shifts his attention over to Boy, “And what’s your name?”

B-O-Y

“You live with your sister?”

DUH-UH

“And how old are you this year?”

Santa’s hand trembles a little as he writes the 5, and I think if he asks if he’d like to sit on his lap we’ll just run. I’ll grab the book, and we’ll just run.

“So then. Do you know what you’d like for Christmas?”

Boy thinks for a minute, steals a quick glance at his dad for a bit of encouragement I suppose, then says quietly, but clearly, “An X-Wing Fighter.”

“I’m sorry?” Santa leans forward, “What was that?”

“An X-Wing Fighter,” Boy says again, louder this time.

Santa looks up at Mister with a blank, Dude help-me-out-here kind of look.

“X. Wing. Fighter.” Mister says slowly, “It’s from Star Wars.”

“Star Wars. Riiiiight.” He mutters something droll about santas needing to take an English course to do the job these days while he’s doing his best to spell ‘fighter’ in his ledger. From where I stand, it looks something more like ‘feiter’, but I let it go.

“And finally we come to big sister,” says Santa, sitting up straight again, confident that the articulate, intelligent young lady who’d just been so helpful with that address business wouldn’t have anymore surprises for him, “What’s this pretty lady’s name?”

She spells it for him, then adds helpfully, “I’m 7 years old.”

“Of course you are. A very big girl, indeed. Ho ho hoooo!”

And again I’m thinking: grab the book, run, grab the book, run, grab the book, run….

“Do you know what you’d like for Christmas?” he asks with what I think is meant to be a jolly wink and a grin, but succeeds in being little more than a drunken leer.

EM takes a deep breath, then lets it rip, “ALittlestPetShopRoundAndRoundPetTownPlaySet,”

Everyone blinks.

Santa grunts, “Eh?”

EM takes another deep breath, “ALittlestPetShopRoundAndRoundPetTownPlaySet,” then, ever helpful and eager to please, she adds, “Like on TV.”

Santa looks to Mister and I for help, but we can’t stop laughing.

“Say it again EM. Say it again!”

So she does, “LittlestPetShopRoundAndRoundPetTownPlaySet.”

And we laugh again. Harder this time.

I don’t know what he eventually wrote in his book. He might have settled on just “pet shop”, but I’m not sure. Doesn’t really matter, as I later explained to the kids. Clearly that skinny, rumpled degenerate was not Santa. He was just one of Santa’s many Norwegian helpers come to make sure there aren’t any last minute changes to be made to the master list. And a good thing too. As I know for a fact that Santa had indeed set aside one brand spanking new LittlestPetShopRoundAndRoundPetTownPlaySet with our address on it. Only trouble is, he had put Missy’s name on it. Elder Miss was only supposed to get the pretty pink Nintendo DS.

What to do? What to do?

Santa went shopping again. And Elder Miss is, without question, the most spoiled child on the entire planet. But clearly with good reason.

Advent

I'm already regretting having suggested this Christmas picture deal. It's not like I'm a good enough photographer to pull it off with any sort of panache. But I wanted to show this one off anyway. It's the kids' advent calendar. I bought the 24 velvet bags from IKEA last year, spent Friday night filling them and sewing the gold ornaments on, and am ever so pleased with the results now. I make them share one calendar--a crime of parsimony so despicable my sisters-in-law are still talking about it like I cancelled Christmas altogether--so each kid gets to open a bag every third day and will receive 8 presents total. That's more than enough, if you ask me. And EM has only spent 10 or 12 hours total whining about it since Saturday, so I think she's coming around to the idea too. Especially since she realized that she gets to open the last present on Christmas Eve this year. Shhhhh! It's a red watch with slutty silver studs on the arm band. She's going to love it.

This Is All Well And Good, But Where's My Lawn Chair And The Cooler Full Of Shasta?

The city of Bergen does this quaint little thing every year on the 1st of December. All its good citizens make a collective decision to ignore the pissing rain, the perpetually falling dark and oppressive gloom, to throw a great, big, lighting-of-the-lights party in the center of town. Lysefestivalen they call it—The Light Festival. Clever, isn’t it?

Mister and I have never been. Mostly because we’re both about 87 years old at heart, and frankly, we worry that we can’t handle that much festive good cheer, but also because it sounds like a lot of work, what with all the layering of the clothes, and the finding of the gloves and the hats, and the dragging of reluctant toddlers through crowded city streets. And Christ, what if one of them has to pee in the middle of it all? A logistical nightmare best left untried.

But the kids are getting older, more mobile, increasingly continent. And with EM in school now, she hears about these things, and isn’t shy about asking why we never get to do anything fun like that? So when she asked us last week couldn’t we please, please, please go to Lysefestivalen this year, neither Mister nor I could think of a single good reason why not. And, indeed, both of us kind of harrumphed and thought, “Yeah, we really should do that. Might be kind of fun. Yes, EM. Let’s do it!”

So off we went.

We started the day (yesterday) off early at a local arts and crafts market. Similar, I’d guess, to local arts and crafts markets the world over—small town artists hawking their small town hobbies at—shall we say—optimistic prices. There were soap makers, glass makers, pottery makers, jewelry makers, quilt makers, cheaply repainted ceramic tat makers. Lots of rosemåling, for local flavor. Along with a hefty number of stands selling small knitted doll clothes, and seemingly the same collection of hats, gloves, and knickers that the naked ladies at my gym were so agog over.

It was a nice little market, and personally, I would have been happy to spend a few hours there, milling about and fingering the merchandise. I happened upon the perfect gift for Grandma ‘Nita. I swear, the very thing. It practically screamed at me, “Buy me and send me to that good woman NOW, you stingy, ungrateful daughter, you!” And I would have done it too, if I had been about a billionaire. Nor did I have a chance to talk Mister into ponying up the ridiculously inflated price, because the kids had decided just 47 seconds after entering the building that this was absolutely the most boring place in the whole world and they demanded, rather persistently, that we leave immediately. Eventually they won, and we headed into town before I’d had a chance to see everything.

We weren’t exactly sure what to expect once we got there. We knew there would be an outdoor concert of some sort. Some speeches. Some rallying together of public spirit. And fireworks at the end. So a little like the 4th of July, right? We were stumped as to what any of that had to do with Christmas, but we were game to find out.

As it turns out, Lysefestivalen isn’t just a little like the 4th of July, it’s a whole heck of a lot like it, only with hats, and gloves, and rain boots instead of tank tops and cutoffs. And the rather than having to languish all day waiting for the fireworks to start--drinking beer and eating snow cones--the whole shebang is over and done with by quarter to 5 in the evening cuz’ that’s when it’s dark. Hard to say if that’s a bad thing or not—less beer is nothing to cheer about, but I was mighty glad to be heading home before bedtime.

There were other differences, of course, both for better and for worse. The cold, wet, city pavement, for example, wasn’t nearly as cozy as a sun warmed grassy knoll. But instead of sparklers, we were all given open flame torches, which, let’s face it, pretty much kick all kinds of sparkler ass—fire hazard notwithstanding. There was indeed a stage where local choirs and bands performed carols and other seasonal favorites. A minister was forced on us at one point. She was kind enough to remind us all of the true meaning of Christmas. We, in turn, were kind enough not to boo her off the stage. And at the end of it all—fireworks! A reasonably awesome display of fireworks. After which, 5,000 people headed, en masse, for their cars, where we all sat in a parking lot for 40 minutes waiting to move a single car length.

Happy 4th everyone! And furthermore—Season’s Greetings!

I’m so glad we went. It turned out to be exactly what I needed to shake me—however briefly—out of my funk.

I’m toying with an idea to do a daily post from now until Christmas featuring a picture of some holiday scene or other from my home to yours. I don’t know. Might be a bit of a strain to come up with that many pictures. But I like the idea….so stay tuned.

This And That

Otherwise known as various and sundry items of little or no interest to anyone, least of all myself.

Here’s a little known factoid that you might want to file away as I’m sure it will eventually appear on The Great Blogger edition of Trivial Pursuit in 20 or 30 years time when I’m, you know, famous and stuff. The very first incarnation of this blog was published under the title Various and Sundry. I thought it was so clever. Unique even. Until a quick Google search pulled up approximately 15,000 other blogs titled the same. At which point, I logged out of Blogger and didn’t return for nearly a year.

Whatever. Not important. Back to this and that. Where are my bullets? Ah yes, here they are --

--Thanksgiving. Was okay. It was fine. Food was neither spectacular nor revolting. Company was what it was. They were all gracious and pleasant. But, I can never quite shake the sneaking suspicion that they’re only here and eating to be polite. I realize that this is probably a stupid and irrational way to feel as they’ve been coming year after year now for going on 10 years. But I can’t help myself. My cooking, at its best, would be charitably characterized as ‘adequate’, and sometimes it feels like they gush a little too effusively over the moistness of the breast meat, rave a little too hyperbolically over the sticky-sweet goodness of the yams to be taken seriously. Know what I mean? Eh—ignore me. I’m just being moody and precious over a less than wonderful meal that I nevertheless worked very hard on, and some friends who have recently turned out to be—I don’t know? less close? than I had previously thought they were. I’ll get over it eventually. I always do. Moving on.

--Growing pains. Literal, in this case. A couple of times this week, Missy spent the evening huddled on the kitchen floor moaning about pain in her “feets and legs”. I must admit, it took me a while to figure out exactly what was going on. Neither EM nor The Boy has ever complained about this sort of thing, and I don’t really remember experiencing it as a child myself. But Mister has told me that he has vivid memories of some very miserable nights during his childhood spent with bones that throbbed and ached for no apparent reason at all. I was annoyed with her at first. I mean God! You’re right in the middle of the bloody floor! And lookit’ kid! No scratch. No rash. No blood. No protruding bone. THERE’S! NOTHING! WRONG! Then I put two and two together and felt like a total shit, because clearly she was in some pretty serious pain. I joked with Mister that after all that writhing and carrying on, by all rights she should wake up a good 5 centimeters taller. I was more than a little disappointed when I got her dressed the next morning to see that her Raggedy Ann overalls still fit just like they did last time she wore them. But then this morning while I was brushing her teeth, I noticed for the first time she didn’t need to stand on her tippy-toes to spit. She still needs the stool right enough-but then, so does Boy. But last week she could barely reach over of the porcelain lip of the sink and invariably ended up spitting down the front of the cupboards instead. Today, suddenly, she can just sort of tip forward, aim, and spit. Easy peasy. So there ya’ go—that whole pain/gain principle at work right here in my very house. And to think, last year at this time we were queuing up at the hospital to have her tested for low growth hormone. How silly were we?

--Book report. First The Kite Runner. Then The Book Thief. And just this afternoon: A Thousand Splendid Suns. A perfect literary trifecta of grief, despair, and tragedy on a massive humanitarian scale. And just in time for the holidays too! You’re right mom. It’s too much. I was so emotionally raw after finishing A Thousand Splendid Suns this afternoon; I was forced—compelled—to inhale half a box of pepperkake and polish off an entire liter of milk just to feel like life was worth living again. Then I made the mistake of reading the latest in this ‘Baby Grace’ case. “Because she wouldn’t say ‘please’ and ‘yes sir’”? Words fail. The next time somebody asks me why I don’t believe in God anymore, I’m simply going to refer them to Riley Ann Sawyers. I defy anyone—anyone at all—to place what happened to that child—or any other child, for that matter, whose mother sat idly by and watched as she was beaten to death—in the hands of Almighty God, and then tell me that that is a being worth worshipping. You will tell me that it wasn’t God who beat the child; it was a weak and evil man who did the killing. And I’ll tell you that if God had any sort of decency whatsoever he would have struck that evil man down of a heart attack after the first blow. Or, at the very least, let the baby die after the first blow. But no. Apparently God’s plan was scheduled to take up most of an afternoon. Hmm, seems words didn’t fail me after all. Afghanistan will be Exhibit B. Thank you Khaled Hosseini.

--SAD. In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m a bit on edge. We’ve entered the perma-dusk portion of the year. Mørketiden they call it here. About a three month period from November through January where you swear you’re camped out on the foothills of Mordor so dark and bleak and grey is the world every time you look out your window. The lack of light gets to me every year, but it seems to have set in a bit early this time around. I’m usually fine through Christmas, and then by January I’m a prickly, snappish lump of raw nerves. Not so, this year. Sleep is elusive. Starch my only solace—it was all full-fat carbonara and French bread for dinner tonight, and I’m not even a little bit sorry. I’ve been crying like, a lot, lately. And I’m finding it very hard to shake the bad thoughts loose once they’ve settled in. Your fairly classic case of SAD. This too shall pass. But in the meantime—no more fucking tomes of woe and misery! It’s going to be all Wodehouse and Pratchett from now through March. And clearly I should steer clear of CNN for a while too. It doesn’t help that I’ve cut way back on the running lately either. I need to get back to that. Exercise saved me last year. I need to let it save me again this year. But ugh! So seriously not in the mood. Know what I mean?




Dude. Hope I didn’t bring anyone down, or anything like that. And sorry about the God rant, but He was way outta’ line on that one

So I'm At The Gym The Other Day

First I should say, by way of explanation, that my particular gym is very popular with the retired, “golden age of living” crowd. In fact, I’d venture a guess that 60 and over’s make up a good 40% or more of the total membership. Which, don’t get me wrong, I think is great. I’m all for the pursuit of continued physical fitness into the twilight years. Good on ‘em! Plus, you know, the muffled chorus of tooting and squishing they tend to produce during some of the more strenuous Pilates maneuvers adds a certain element of, shall we say, ‘whimsy’ to an otherwise now routine class for me. No complaints. I love how they’re never too busy, too engrossed in a task to stop and chat with whomever about the weather, their grandchildren, the good old days when a cup of coffee cost less then one kroner and anyone suggesting they try some yoga in the living room would have been run out of the village as a heretic and a pervert. Doesn’t matter about what really, they just love to talk. And it doesn’t matter where or when either. Could be in the lobby right in front of the check in. Could be in a cluster near the treadmills where the noise of the machines makes it necessary to talk extra loud in order to be understood. Could be, as we shall see, in the locker rooms.

So there I am Monday morning—post workout—sweaty, vile, and ready for a shower. I slink into the dressing room all limber and lithe after an hour of Pilates, round the corner to where my locker is, and bump smack into a clutch of 10 or 12 of the cluckiest old hens you’d ever hope to meet—all in various stages of undress. Charming, think I, all selfless good cheer and forbearance, a clothing optional bee of some sort, how cute. It only takes a couple “ahem’s” and an “excuse me” to get to my locker. After that, it’s a few mumbled “oops, sorry’s” and “no really, I’ll just step over here maybe’s” to retrieve my bag and towels, and squeeze past them into the shower room. Honestly, they barely registered my clumsy intrusion, so engrossed were they in their congress.

One of them, it seems, is a knitter. Who am I kidding, more than likely ALL of them are knitters of at least some ability, this is Norway after all. But one of them has brought her entire cache of knitted hats, scarves, gloves and knickers for all I know, and is using the bench right in front of my locker as a display table to show them off. She could not have found a more enthusiastic and appreciative audience in a Dickens novel. They manage to ooh and ah and haggle over prices for the entire time it took me to shower, sauna, dress, dry my hair, and slap on a bit of make-up—a good 30 minutes at least.

But here’s the thing—the hitch, the crux, the reason I’m bothering to mention it at all—in all that time, not one of them bothered to, you know, get dressed. Some had bras and panties on, some had panties but no bras, some just had a ratty old towel slung absently over a shoulder.

Now, is it just me? Or is that odd? I mean, I’m not an overly prudish or shy sort in the locker room. I understand that a certain amount of nudity is to be expected in such a setting. I myself am perfectly comfortable doing what needs to be done in terms of showering and changing in front of other women. But this business of standing around chit chatting—at length even—in your bare nothings is just weird to me.

For God’s sake ladies, there’s complimentary coffee out in the lobby! Put some clothes on and do this OUT THERE!

Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like to address a few additional newsy type items in Nan’s favored bullet format.

--Happy Thanksgiving everyone! My own turkey feast will be on Saturday, as per usual. Very small and intimate group this year, which is good. It has been my feeling that my guest list has gotten a little out of hand these past few years, so I’m glad to trim it back to just the most regular of the regulars. More left-overs this way too.

--Having finally given up all hope for last minute Christmas guests from the States, I gave Mister the okay to go ahead and invite his sainted mother to spend the holiday with us this year. And I’ll be God damned (which I know I probably shouldn’t be on Christmas, but I am anyway) if she accepted. She’s never spent Christmas with us. I just assumed that she’d rather be with one or the other of her daughters, both of whom celebrate with very traditional Norwegian food and customs. But she didn’t hesitate to say yes—one might even say ‘jumped at the chance’—which makes me think maybe—just maybe—we should have invited her sooner. The kids, especially EM, are thrilled. I’m ambivalent, but mostly okay with it. Should be MY mother here, but whatever….

--And speaking of Christmas, I’m a total loser and started listening to Christmas music last week. Yesterday, at EM’s behest, I downloaded 5 different versions of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”. Personally, I like the Cyndi Lauper version best, but EM’s a sentimental sap and claims the LeAnn Rimes ditty is the prettiest thing she’s ever heard.

--Oh, and furthermore on the subject of Christmas music, if I may. The little nuggets of awfulness that Jilly fed into my iPod before she left continue to reveal themselves. Mariah Carey, Jilly? Are you kidding me? Mariah why-sing-it-if you-can-screech-it-in-key Carey? Even at Christmas, there’s just no excuse.

--Missy’s sick again. And The Boy experienced the greatest trauma of his young life so far last night when he touched Crocky’s nose to the fire place glass. It took all of about 2 seconds to melt and start burning. The mix of shock, fear, and sadness on that dear boy’s face was priceless, absolutely fucking priceless. Mom’s going to be pissed, but CROCKY’S NOSE IS ON FIRE! WHAAAAAAA! I didn’t have the heart to be mad. We all gave Crocky a cuddle and put him to bed to rest after his ordeal. Sadly, I don’t think there’s room in Boy’s heart for a damaged crocodile. He told Missy this morning that she could have him. If he’s willing to let Missy touch a thing of his, it’s more or less dead to him.

--Done for now. Eat yourselves sick tomorrow! Wish I could be there with you! All of you! Where ever you may be

Sometimes A Little Neglect Can Be A Good Thing

I’ve recently been accused of neglect. I’d defend myself, but, eh, she may have had a point.

What can I say? My writers are on strike. Bah-dum-bum.

Seriously though folks….

The blog stoppage this time around has had mostly to do with sickness. The kids kept getting sick—each in their turn, thank God. Then I’d be sick for a while. Then one or the other of the kids again. Then me—with a series of exercise induced migraines this time. Then finally even Mister succumbed to the trend, and very nearly died—or rather, gave a pitch perfect performance of a man on the verge of death. Please believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more galling, more offensive to regrettably lucid eyes and stubbornly functioning ears, than a husband with a head cold. How is it exactly that these delicate creatures—namely the white male of the species—have managed to rule the world as long as they have when they are so completely undone by a mild headache and a little phlegm? I suppose the experience of coming thiiiisssss close the hand of God two or three times a year, and miraculously living (barely) to tell the tale (hallelujah) would tend to induce a sort of CHOSEN ONE delusion in anyone. Silly gits. Get over yourselves already!

But I digress.

There has been very little in the way of inspiring subject matter happening anyway, so you really haven’t missed much. There was a brilliant, utterly silent battle of wills played out between Mister and me last week. I’m not sure who ultimately won, but I believe the prize for Most Inspired Salvo goes to moi. Monday night, after a full 24 hours of cold, stony silence, I chose to exact my revenge by whipping up a pork loin stew so good, so lip smackingly delicious that the eyes of said Sir popped spontaneously out of his head and fell aghast to the floor after a single spoonful.

I waited—tweezed brow arched coolly in an expression of smug self-satisfaction—while he fished his fallen oculi out from under the table. I was curious to see if he’d break his self-imposed vow of silence to compliment me on the rich, yet subtle blend of meaty perfection I had created.

Alas, he did not. But he wanted to, I could tell. It damn near killed him not to. And I believe he knew a moment of regret for his chosen method of warfare, so I counted the victory on my side. He finally broke his silence the next night to ask me, however grudgingly, if I’d like a cup of tea, but got only a tart, “No. And furthermore go fuck yourself,” from me. I jest. I didn’t really say all that, but he understood that it was ever implied.

Fear not! Peace reigns supreme here at Chez JEDA. Since then we’ve talked, we’ve joked, we’ve even fooled around a little. So once again, it seems the union will stand. I still say it’s a moronic way to have a fight, but it does get him out of my hair and leave me blissfully alone with the remote control while it lasts. So I guess it’s not all bad.

It occurs to me that this is shaping up to be a sort of crap-all-over-Mister kind of post, but I didn’t mean for it to be. In fact, my heart is brimming over with goodwill for the grizzly old Viking at the moment because, not 40 minutes ago, he packed my babies up in the car and took them away to my sainted mother-in-law’s for the weekend.

THE! WHOLE! WEEKEND!

I’ve got wine. I’ve got pizza. I've got 3 new DVD’s and 2 new books.

And listen……

Can you hear that?

No. Neither can I.

BECAUSE THERE’S NO! ONE! THERE!

Ahhhhh. Life is good. Now where’s that bloody cork screw?

Menagerie

I’m not sure exactly when or how it all started, but at some point during the last year The Boy became an avid collector of stuffed animals. Of course, he’s a connoisseur of some discernment; his tastes running to the more exotic end of the spectrum—as you can see, not a teddy bear in sight.

Sadly, he’s not very imaginative with naming these treasures. There’s Draggy and Crocky, the first proud members of the troupe; Rexxie, Steggie, and the awkwardly handled Tri-ee; Baby Dog, Brother Dog, and Big Sister Dog (always in that order, naturally); Turdy, whom I can’t bring myself to address by name, but I’m constantly looking for him and dragging him out from under couches, beds, and piles of quilts because he’s a fast favorite, and he just can’t seem to stay put; and finally, there to the left, Finey—the big crocodile. If you ask Boy why Finey is called Finey, he’ll tell you with all the little boy bravado he can muster, “Because he’s FUNNY!”

Every night The Boy gathers this motley crew of cuddly beasties in and around his bed according to some gentle, fluid hierarchy that only he understands. Draggy is always draped across the foot of the bed, the Dog siblings curled snuggly in his tail. Sometimes he graciously allows Crocky or Finey, and Big Sister Dog to sleep with EM. But I know he prefers at least one of the crocodiles on the floor next to his bed, under the heater. The rest he gathers in a furry mass on his pillow. One lucky soul, usually Turdy, gets to sleep under Bobby, his still and ever constant blankie—a crutch which, by the by, he feels more justified than ever in clinging to because “he’s seen that boy on Charlie Brown has a Bobby too, only his is bigger, and that mean girl always locks it in a closet, and that’s not nice, because then that other Charlie Brown boy can’t sleep, right Mom?” And if it’s on TV? It’s legit man—it’s ‘fer real.

I’ve told Boy that when we’re gone, Draggy comes to life and flies around the house taunting and playing with Puss like the naughty, great magpie he is. “And,” I’ve told him, “When you’re asleep? Both Draggy and I fly around the house together, chasing away bats and eating spiders.”

At first, he scoffed and refused to even discuss it.

Draggy isn’t REAL! And MOMS CAN’T FLY!

But so adamant and steadfast was I in my rebuttal, that I now believe he’s at least open to the possibility.

It occurs to me that it’s wrong to fuck with him this way. But I ask you. What’s the point in harboring and so carefully tending such a colorful band of brothers if you’re not going to apply at least some imagination to the practice? And besides, how is a flying mother any worse a fantasy than all that Santa crap we shove down their throats?

Somebody Should Write A Song About This One

The lofty subject of MY LIFE and what I’m eventually going to make of it has come up rather a lot lately. After all, as most of you know, my Littlest Miss started pre-school full time in August, and with no kids at home to look after, what—the world would know—do you do with yourself all day? And Jesus! But don’t you get bored with that?

Now I’m not naming names, or anything like that (aaaa-ahNanMisterMarkMomsnootybrother-in-lawJillychoo), but over the past month or so I’ve found myself in the middle of several heated (albeit, solely from my end) conversations where they’re all like, “You’re young/smart/talented/wonderful enough blah blah blah you can do anything you want blah blah.” And I’m all like, “Yeah but.” And they’re all like, “What?” Then I’m like, “Well, but, see.” Then them, all impatient-like, “But what?” Finally shaken out of my stupor, I come at them like, “The kids, the language, the cost of day care, my age, the war in Iraq, melting glaciers in Greenland, and the recently explained, but still troubling loss of the honey bees blah blah blah. Plus, when would I run?” Which is generally an excellent opportunity to segue the discussion into, “No, my calves aren’t bothering me anymore. But yes, my left knee is still rather twitchy, especially when I run more than 10 kilometers.” And, “Oh? Had I not mentioned that I passed the 10K mark? Last month sometime. Actually it’s more like 12 now. Yes, I am rather fabulous, aren’t I? Blah blah blahddy blah blah.” Then I congratulate myself on another touchy subject well thwarted.

In all seriousness though, I’m not saying there’s pressure, pressure, everywhere pressure, from all sides pressure. But I do have—whether imagined or not—the uncomfortable feeling that everyone’s sort of waiting with baited breath to see what I’m going to do next.

I have said, and I genuinely mean it, that the only thing I’m interested enough in and care enough about to go back to school for is midwifery. It’s a five year commitment that would, sure enough, be a right worthy accomplishment, and finally give me something interesting to say when asked that nettling, ubiquitous question, “Yes but, what do you do?” Plus, you know, with such a career tucked smugly under my belt, I might finally consider looking into attending a college reunion. Because, let’s face it, I’m pretty sure Smith doesn’t accept reservations from SAHM/blogger alumna. Unless they happen to be married to wealthy corporate bankers who have recently contributed thousands to the construction of the new campus center. Which, eh, I’m not.

But that’s neither here not there. Stick with me for a minute. I promise, I’m going somewhere with all this.

One of the perks of having all three kids in some form of school during the day, is FINALLY, after seven years, I’m free to sneak in a bit of recreational daytime television. The luxury! The decadence! The shear perversion! I’m all over the various Discovery Channels and National Geographic, even Animal Planet when they’re not showing episode after episode of that boring Pet Rescue crap.

Also for the first time in seven years, I’m caught up on all the ironing. Because let’s face it, a two foot deep pile of Mister’s pants and shirts is nowhere near as onerous a chore without farking Sponge Bob or those tedious Winx chicks yapping at me in the background. Give me an hour of that Dirty Jobs guy, followed by another hour of Lonely Planet, and I’ll give you a closet full of stiff collars and crisp-ish pleats. (There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, but that would take me even further off course than I already am, so let’s just leave it. Shall we?)

Just over a week or so ago, I happened upon a program on the History Channel about the Mayan calendar—Doomsday Prophecy or some such thing. It wasn’t all that good. Light on the archeological/historical significance of the calendar itself; heavy on the sensationalized, innuendo-laden conjectures of some stoned-out Mayan shaman somewhere along the line; the dramatic, crescendo driven soundtrack and steady stream of morbid, death-and-destruction video montages left no doubt that the only message the producers wanted the viewer to take away from the program was that we’re all going to die violent, ugly deaths on December 21, 2012—the precise last day of the Mayan Long Count.

Yeah. Believe it? Not so much. But it did engage my imagination long enough to make me think some darkly profound thoughts.

Hang in there! We’re as close to the point as we’ve ever been! Two, maybe three more circuitous tangents at the most! Promise.

December 21, 2012. That would really suck, would it not? That’s just a little over 4 years away. EM would probably have started her period by then, but would she have come as far as that singularly disconcerting muddle of pleasure and embarrassment over her very first kiss? The Boy would only be 10, and I would never get to hear how his voice—his REAL voice—deepened and filled out. And Missy, granted it might be seen as a small mercy to have escaped her teen years, but all that fire and grit lost? She would have made one splendid woman, but if those pesky Mayans are right, I would never get to meet her.

Shit. It wouldn’t suck just a little bit. It would suck a whole lot! Oh eh, and not to mention all that Christmas shopping, and wrapping, and decorating, and baking I would have done by the 21st. Talk about a waste! Perhaps that’s the year we should pack up and go to Thailand for the holidays. Just in case.

But what about me, I mused. If the world were to come to a screeching, shrieking halt in 4 years, would I regret that I hadn’t made more of an effort with my life? Would I regret not having put the time and energy into mastering Norwegian well enough to go to nursing school, and bust my ass building that career everyone keeps telling me I’m so capable of? A career that, as my Smith sisters would have me believe, my very pride should compel me to pursue? Or would I be able to stare down the bitter end, content with my place in my home at the very center of my family’s well-being?

I wish I could say that the answer that came to me was exactly clear-cut and easily broken down in pie-graph form. There are certain things I would regret. The language, for one. My stubborn, inexplicable laziness with regards to fully absorbing and mastering the primary language of my family after nearly 13 years of living here is a guilty thorn that I have nursed for far too long now. And perhaps I should have written more, as I have always wanted to do. But writing is hard work! And I’m nowhere near convinced I have enough of the word mojo to move beyond the self-indulgent journaling stage. Still, the end of the world is no time for excuses. It would be a regret that I hadn’t tried, plain and simple. But of all the theoretical events and accomplishments I could think of that I might bemoan the loss of on December 21, 2012, a career—be it in teaching, or nursing, or midwifing, or cataloging books in a library—was not one of them.

Home then. I choose home. For now anyway. And for the foreseeable future.

I wish I knew if I’ll look back at that sentence 4 years from now and regret it. But how could I? I don’t even have any real sense of how I’ll feel about it a year from now. Perhaps because my kids are still so young, and their wants and needs are still so tangible and immediate, I have a hard time imagining myself with enough freedom to think beyond dinner tomorrow, dance class on Wednesday, and perhaps swimming next weekend.

Of course, something tells me that I should be planning for, and moving towards that level of autonomy now. But I can’t. For whatever reason, I don’t want to. I want to get EM finally reading at grade level. I want to teach The Boy all the sounds of the alphabet, and get him excited about some sight words. I want to help poor, befuddled Missy sort out her colors. And I want to run a half-marathon by early summer. These are my immediate goals. Because I don’t seem capable of planning for the long term, I’ll set my sights on shorter, more manageable chunks of time. You may talk to me again about MY LIFE after Missy starts school.

Oh hey, and if the world really does end on December 21, 2012—I win because I’ve got the cutest kids!

Her Father's Daughter

I don't know why I find this so amusing, but I do.

EM is still drawing the same stiff-haired fairies and princesses that she's always favored. But this year, instead of squiggly lined jibberish, the dialogue bubbles are filled with math equations.