Reading, Writing, And A Smattering Of Arithmatic

I had a meeting with Elder Miss’s math teacher today.

Gøril.

How’s that for a name? Think ‘good reel’ only without the ‘d’.

It says something about how long I’ve lived here that that kind of name no longer even fazes me. Hell—I kind of like it. And Vigdis has grown on me to the point where I’d even consider bestowing it on a treasured cat. Not Ragnhild though; never Ragnhild. And Gaute is still something contagious, and spoken of only in furtive whispers. But Gøril I like. Gøril is sporty and fun; Gøril would buy you a round of Jello shots on your birthday—‘course, she’d call them géle shots and order ‘em full of aquavit instead of vodka, but the night out itself would be a riot.

Hold up. Where was I?

Oh yeah, math. My Elder Miss, she struggles mightily with the arithmetic.

Okay, not mightily, but I suspect there are issues which I wanted to address while they’re still young and largely imagined. So I requested a conference.

Right away Gøril assured me that in her opinion EM is fine—right on track with her progress. She showed me the standardized test that EM and her entire class took last week. EM scored a 56 out of a total of 74 possible points. A solid middle pack performance according to Gøril, and far, far from the panic threshold of 36 or lower. So what the fuck are you doing here? You pushy, demanding, critical, harping tart of a mother you.

I jest. She was really very pleasant. And, truth be told, she gave me a fair amount of kudos for being so engaged and interested in my daughter’s schooling—rare in these parts, apparently.

I will admit to being relieved to hear that EM is not the dumbest kid in the class. I will even admit that that very reassurance was 50% of the reason I asked for the meeting in the first place. The difficulty EM is having understanding and finishing her assignments is common and shared with a good half of her classmates.

But. But but…..

56 out of 74? I’m being patted on the head with 56 out of 74? That’s pretty crap, isn’t it? She showed me the actual test too. This was basic, basic stuff: greater than/less than, find the number on the number line, count by twos, count by threes, fill in the missing numbers in the equation 21+__ =30, 15-__ =8, and so on. Easy, easy stuff. 8 problems per page, and the only page where she was able to finish every problem in the allotted time was the one where she had to find the number on the number line.

She’s in the 2nd grade. Shouldn’t there be more to a 2nd grader’s understanding of basic arithmetic than this?

There was one page where she managed to miss every single problem. The instructions were to finish the equation by finding the 10’s and the 1’s. So something like this: 34=__ +4. The answer EM wrote was 38. Gøril told me not to worry. Many of the kids were unable to do this page. She felt it was because they don’t have any real understanding of what the ‘=’ sign actually means.

Why? How? What the everloving fuck? How does a kid, let alone ‘many’ kids, get to the 2nd grade without knowing what the ‘=’ sign means?

I do not mean to malign the teacher. I really don’t. I have every reason to believe this Gøril’s as competent and caring a teacher as I could hope for for EM. It’s the method and the book from which she teaches that I hate—the convoluted, wordy, theoretical, mumbo-jumbo, concept driven bullshit that bathes these kids in a gentle sprinkle of mathematical ideas without ever teaching them any actual skillz yo.

Grumble, grumble.

In the end we agreed that EM could use some linguistic reinforcement. So for the next month or so, until the end of the school year, she’s going take the time to go over some of these concepts with EM in English after she’s instructed the rest of the class in Norwegian. And I’m supposed to encourage EM to learn how to speak up and admit when she really doesn’t get it. EM is a master at nodding and feigning interest when really she’s just counting freckles on her arms and biding her time until all the tiresome yapping from the grown-ups ceases. It would be helpful, says Gøril, if she quit that.

Yeah. So, so much for my proactive meeting of the minds. Wish I could say I felt better about everything now, but I don’t. She’s average. Fine. I neither expect nor require genius from my kids. I just wish I didn’t feel like the standard she’s being held to was so woefully low. Even after seeing that bungled test of hers, I can’t help but feel she’s capable of so much more, if only someone would issue the challenge and teach her the necessary skills.

I feel utterly trapped by this laissez-faire school system, but see absolutely no viable alternatives.

Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m going to bed now.

Who-ray For Norway Day

Tomorrow it will be my singular pleasure to celebrate yet another 17th of May, Constitution Day with my adopted countrymen and women.

Woo Fucking Hoo

I’ve never much liked 17. Mai (pronounced soot-en-eh my), except for the bunads. I like the bunads; they’re fun to gawk at. Truth be told, I kind of want one for myself because I think they make chicks look hot—hot in a repressed yet buxom, puritanical sort of way, but still hot. Other than that, 17. Mai =big, fat yawn in my book.

We, like every other family with school-aged children, will be contenting ourselves with passing the business end of 17.Mai—the parade (they call it a parade, but I assure you, it’s nothing like; it’s really just a drab procession of bunad clad families walking down the street waving flags and congratulating one another on being Norwegians), the speeches, the carnival games, the over priced helium balloons and cotton candy—at the kids’ school. Again I say, Woo Fucking Hoo.

If you don’t have kids, or your kids are all old and grown, according to the standard issue The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry, you’re expected to head into the nearest city center, where you will spend your day jostling enormous crowds for a glimpse of the parade (same sort of procession seen at the local schools only bigger, and therefore longer, and infinitely more dull), and searching (largely in vain) for the tiniest of café tables and the chance to ease your bloodied and blistered feet out of your dress shoes. Then, if you’ve been doubly lucky enough to have caught the attention of one of the two working waiters on duty, you may hunker down in this prized spot with a pint of beer and a plate of fenalår, and observe (in a good-humored, non-judgmental fashion) the loud antics of the hordes of drunken teenagers. For it is further noted in The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry that if you are a child you are expected to spend the day gorging yourself silly on bowel shaking quantities of ice cream and cotton candy, and if you are a teenager you are expected to spend it drunk off your ass. It’s a patriotism thing. Apparently, it’s how you express love of country in Norwegian.

And speaking of patriotism, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of how much effort good Norwegian citizens put into their 17. Mai preparations. Yesterday Boy and Missy’s barnehage spent two hours of their afternoon marching around the soccer field shouting “Hurra for 17. Mai! Hurra for 17. Mai!” Then the teachers would go “Hip hip!” and the kids would go, “Hurra!” Teachers, “Hip hip!” Kids, “Hurra!” And so on and so forth. Apparently it took them two hours to get this liturgy down pat.

Today Elder Miss’s entire school dedicated their entire morning to much the same thing: marching about the school grounds, shouting socialist propaganda at one another, and working hard to get just the right amount of snap in the flip of their waving flags. All morning they worked on this.

And I’m thinking, “Lookit citizens—a lawn chair, a bucket of chicken, and a cooler full of ice and beer. Keep one semi-intelligent adult semi-sober enough to light the sparklers after dark. And that’s your Independence Day. Done.”

All this fuss and bother over a constitution that only granted them partial sovereignty anyway. Woo Fucking Hoo.

Oh well, at least the girls are going to look fabulous in their bunads. I’ve had Farmor ironing them all evening while I swill beer and type at you fine people.

Gratulerer med dagen!

Legs, Meet Hills. Hills, Meet The Relentless Churning Power Of My Mighty Hams.

I recently added hills to my running regimen. Gruesome, but oh. so. satisfying.

If you had told me even just this past Christmas that, come May, I'd be running up the mountain roads I've been running these past two weeks, I'd have listened politely with mock-stern interest, then I'd have had you burned as a heretic.

I freely admit to occasionally underestimating myself and my modest potential.

The Couple Who Drinks Together, Stays Together

The Scene:
Friday night. 9-ish. Kids are in bed. So far no one has come out puking. Looks to be a quiet night.

Explanatory note:
We have one TV in the house located in the upstairs living room; we spend most of our time in the downstairs living room where there’s nothing but each other and the fire by way of entertainment—and the ipod of course, which is on low, rotating through a playlist of late 80’s-era Sting, U2, and Springsteen, with an occasional dash of REM, which may or may not be contributing to Mister’s brooding.

One last thing:
“underholdning” is Norwegian—means “entertainment”


Him: So. You didn’t like your birthday present very much, did you?

Me: 50” wide-screen TV? What every girl dreams of. Why?

Him: We never watch it. Not together anyway.

Me: We’ve talked about this before, dearest. You and I have a conflict of interests where our TV viewing is concerned.

Him: So? You know I’m not picky. I’ll watch whatever.

Me: You say that now. You might even mean it. But when we're sitting up there together, I feel obligated to watch something you’ll like.

Him: Nobutno. But seriously. I’m fine with whatever. You always get the remote anyway. Do whatever you want with it. Except flip channels. I hate that.

Me: But that’s what I do.

Him: Why? Why do you do that? How can you know whether or not a program is worth watching unless you sit still and watch it?

Me: Look. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not going enjoy anything with the words “norsk” or “underholdning” in the description. Ditto the words “dance”, “idol”, “reality” and/or “contestant”. So why wouldn’t I quickly flip past any and all of that crap?

Him: But some of those Norwegian talk shows can be kind of funny sometimes.

Me: To you maybe. Not to me.

Him: I’m sure you’d like them if you’d just give them a chance.

Me: *heavy sigh* So what are you trying to tell me here? Would you like to go upstairs and watch the Friday night talk shows? Cuz’ you can. You’re certainly free to do that if that’s what you want to do.

Him: Not necessarily.

Me: But you want to watch TV?

Him: I don’t know. Maybe.

Me: And the talk shows are what you’d be watching if it were up to you?

Him: Well. That’s really hard to say when I’m not sitting right there in front of the TV. How am I supposed to know what I’ll be in the mood for.

Me: *heavy, heavy sigh* Honey. Help me out. What are we talking about right now?

Him: Just wondering what it says about us as a couple if we can’t even watch TV together. That’s all.

Me: Not much! I mean, honestly! I don’t get my mother’s TV viewing pleasures either, and I still like her a lot, and consider us quite close.

Him: *silent pout*

Me: And besides, every pop psychologist’s guide on how to build a stronger relationship with your partner begins and ends with TURN THE TV OFF! According to their logic, we’re like the healthiest couple we know.

*thoughtful pause*

Him: So, I’ll open another bottle then?

Me: Christ, I thought you’d never ask!

Things You Don't Want To Hear From Your Career Counselor

Boy: Mom? Is EM going to be a doctor?

Me: That’s what she says. Yes.

Boy: And I’m going to be a paramedic?

Me: That’s been the plan for awhile now. Have you changed your mind?

Boy: No.

Missy: What should I be then?

Me: What do you want to be?

Missy: I want to be a princess.

Boy: Oh come! on! Where are we going to find a prince who’ll take you?

English Lessons

Remember EM's English book? That intellectually jarring, spiritually jolting, psycologically altering work of developmental genius I shared with you a while back about dead mice and hungry cats?

When we eventually returned it to her classroom, I added a note in which, rather than question the suitability of the subject matter or the accessibility of the overarching theme of spiritual struggle between grace and sin it clearly symbolizes, I simply suggested that perhaps the text was a bit simplistic for EM. Have you got anything more challenging?

Her teachers responded by skipping two levels. We then endured three more editions in the same series--slightly less weird, yet infintely more dull: Mary and Steven Go to a Birthday Party, Mary and Steven Find a Snake in the Grass, Mary and Steven Love Each Other Like the Osmonds (or something, I might have misremembered that third one).

Finally I sent another note: Still too easy! Lace us up with all you've got ma'am. We can take it.

This is what she came home with:

That kindly blond man posing as her doctor ends up pimping her out to drug lords and arms dealers in the inner city. Meanwhile Steven, seeing his sister's sad fate, seeks redemption for them both by joining a seminary, but tragically winds up as the senior priest's favorite little bitch.

It is the 9th and highest level to be sure, so obviously it is intended for a slightly older reader than EM. But I don't know. Just seems to me like they've gone a bit too far with the hard-hitting morality bit. I'm considering a strongly worded letter to the superindendent.

Figuratively Speaking

The following is a snippet of a conversation Elder Miss and I had a few nights ago. We had just finished the first book in the American Girls series about Kaya, a Nez Perce girl living during the late 18th century. I had asked her what she thought had been the most interesting part of the book. She talked for a minute about an exciting river rescue scene, then asked me the same question. I responded that I thought the part about all the village children being punished by the Whipwoman for Kaya’s mistake was interesting.

EM: Why?

Me: I just think it’s interesting that all the kids had to be punished because one kid did something wrong.

EM: Why?

Me: Well, how would you feel if I whipped all three of you kids every time Boy pushes the cushions off the couch. (something he does every other God damn day, and it pisses me off)

EM: We would cry.

Me: But would you let him do it over and over again if you knew you were going to get whipped for it?

EM: I’m glad there are no Whipwomen in Norway.

Me: I’m sure you are. But you didn’t answer my question.

EM: In Norway, tree branches are for roasting hot dogs, not for whipping children.

Me: Yes, but focus darling. What would happen if, for example, all the kids in your class were punished because one boy was teasing a 1st grader and stealing his lunch?

EM: That’s bullying! Bullying isn’t allowed.

Me: I know. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Would you be more or less willing to let a classmate bully a 1st grader if you knew you might be punished for it?

EM: Punished how?

Me: A whip, EM. Remember the Whipwoman?

EM: There are no Whipwomen in Norway.


Literal much?

Her father is exactly the same way. Try playing the ‘what would you do if you won a million dollars?’ or ‘were granted three wishes?’ game with him, and you’ll soon find yourself casting about for the nearest large, preferably jagged object with which to knock him over his pee-brained head, and put him out of his pee-brained misery.

Willing suspension of disbelief, and unnecessary expeditions into the realm of the hypothetical are not things that either one of them do willingly. I do not have a million dollars, so why would I pretend that I do? There are no Whipwomen in Norway, so why are we talking about being beaten by one? If you can’t say something sensible, please don’t say anything at all.

Which is not to say that they are so starkly dull in all aspects of their lives. You’d think, for example, someone so married to the literal truth as EM would approach her clothing choices with a bit more sobriety. But no. Elder Miss mixes colors and patterns, in improbable layer after improbable layer with the fanciful whimsy of a kindergarten teacher. I have no idea why she’s so blind to the ghastly wrongness of most of her fashion combinations. I guess because in her very literal world blue is blue, pink is pink, and the tedious parsing of all the clashing tones and hues in between is for artsy–fartsy types like myself who waste their time finding beauty in moonscapes and poetry in waterfalls.

Boy, by the way, is shaping up to be the polar opposite of EM in the cloudy intangibles department. Boy, it seems, is my spiritual apprentice in all things artsy-fartsy.

Last year I posted some examples of the random, illogical leaps conversations with him would often take. He doesn’t do that anymore—thank God—but it seems obvious to me that those loopy rejoinders were early indications of the looser, more abstract way his mind works.

You can see the natural progression of that conceptual freewheeling when he’s trying to tell a story and can’t remember some simple word in English. Rather than simply use the Norwegian word as EM would have done, he manages to throw in the most wonderful descriptive substitutes like chocolate water for mud, or wiggly stick lights for candles, or, my personal favorite, rock-sky day to describe dark, overcast weather.

He’s also always been better at pretend play than EM; since they were of an age to start playing together, EM has had to follow Boy’s lead. It was Boy who taught EM that it was okay for her Polly Pockets to live in the castle next door to his Transformers, that they could even gasp talk to one another. And when the two–headed dragons came to attack, it was Boy who showed EM what effective missiles Duplo Legos made against them. EM was scandalized that Legos should be used for anything other than building the officially sanctioned figures that came illustrated with the factory instructions. She actually came to ask me if it was okay.

EM: Boy is making the Duplos act like bombs.

Me: Say what?

EM: He’s using the Duplos to kill the dragons. He’s throwing them.

Me: Is he throwing them at you?

EM: No.

Me: Sounds like fun EM. Death to the dragons!

EM: But what if we want to build something with them later?

Me: Then you’ll pick them up off the floor and build something.

EM: Oh.


I know that all of this must sound like I’m pitting one kid against the other and saying, “Look how dumb that one is compared to this one.” I swear that’s not what I’m driving at. In fact, I don’t think any of this has anything to do with intelligence at all. I’d be remiss at this point if I didn’t mention that EM has a remarkable aptitude for practical problem solving—there is no obstacle you could put in front of that kid for which she couldn’t come up with at least 3 different alternatives inside a minute. Boy would just stare slack-jawed at the very same obstacle and cry, then later he’d describe that bleak moment as unto a journey into the very foothills of darkest Purgatory (or maybe just the dentist’s office, he is only five after all).

All I’m really trying to say (and I’m ashamed and humiliated that it’s taken me this long to say it) is that it is becoming ever more apparent that EM thinks like her father and Boy thinks like me.

One last story to illustrate my point, then I’ll shut up.

I’ve been reading the Magic Tree House series to Boy and Missy every night at bedtime. About a week ago we were in the middle of an adventure set in the Wild West, and a cowboy character said something like “I’m going to round up all them thur’ horses, then split the wind over that thur’ ridge.” It’s a phrase I’d never heard before, so I paused to ask Boy what he thought “split the wind” might mean. He didn’t stop to think even a second before he shot his hand out in a half karate chop and shouted, “GO FAST!”

Almost a week later we were all in the car when we hit a long, straight stretch of road (very rare in these parts) and Mister laid on the gas--revving the engine, and noticeably speeding up. From the back seat Boy cried out, “This car is splitting the wind!” I laughed out loud, and so would have high-fived him if we had been face to face. EM and Mister, on the other hand, snorted simultaneously with intellectual distain, “You can’t cut air, Boy."

"And besides,” EM added helpfully, “Air is a gas. Didn’t you know?”

A Clever Title Eludes Me--Suck On This For A While, Then Volunteer One Of Your Own

I spoke to Alpha Grandma on the phone on Friday. She tells me I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread and that she misses me. Of course, I already knew this, but it’s nice to hear it out loud like that. She also told me a delightful story about my 3 year old niece calling her to boast, “I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.”

“Isn’t that cute,” said I, “How terribly adorable of her to want to share that with you. Which reminds me, did I happen to mention what happened the last time I took Elder Miss to the dentist? Or more specifically, the orthodontist? No? Oh well then, prepare to be enchanted and enthralled all over again. Because my daughter? Why my eldest daughter never fails to charm and delight.”

Some background information—however disruptive it may be to the narrative flow of my tale, is rather necessary. Especially for those of you who are not privy to the same weekly updates regarding the everyday minutia of our lives that Alpha Grandma endures.

Early last fall a routine dental check-up revealed no cavities (huzzah!) but a potential problem with EM’s bite. I wasn’t clear at the time on the specifics—something about upper/lower palette alignment blah blah blah. Frankly, I was more absorbed by the fact that times had changed so drastically that dentists were now routinely referring children as young as 7 years old to orthodontists to pay too much attention to anything else the woman had to say.

Of course the waiting list for a first time appointment with any of the orthodontists in the area was eternal, so we didn’t get in to see one until just after Christmas. But when we finally did, our guy wasn’t two minutes into his examination before he pulled his fingers out of EM’s mouth, peered at me over those ridiculous goggles dentists sport, and asked, “So does she still suck her thumb?” And that, friends, is the exact moment I discovered that crow feathers don’t tickle so much as chaff going down, and egg will cause a rash if left on the face too long.

EM was an ardent thumb sucker from 7-8 months of age to about 5 ½ years. Yes, I had heard all the dire warnings about allowing children to continue this habit into their later years, but naturally, I assumed that “later years” meant something more like “marriageable age”. And besides, I had also heard all the dire warnings about allowing your child to fuss and cry for more than 5 seconds at a time, or feeding them whole grapes and peanut butter before the onset of puberty—alarmist bullshit, obviously—so I ignored the thumb sucking admonitions, just like I ignored nearly every other piece of parenting advice I ever read in a magazine.

EM’s orthodontist—a large and imposing Greek man who reminds me very much of my own beloved D.D.S Dr. Floyd Tanner, so I’m inclined to like him otherwise—tells me this was probably a mistake.

Because she sucked her thumb for so long, her tongue, rather than resting in its natural position against the roof of her mouth, has developed the habit of protruding slightly to rest always on her lower teeth. The absence of her tongue’s pressure pushing against the upper teeth has made her entire upper palette too narrow, causing not only the misalignment that the dentist noticed, but also a glaring gap between her upper and lower front teeth. Or, to be fair, maybe not so glaring since I never noticed it until it was pointed out to me. But now I can’t seem to stop looking at it. Ditto the tip of her tongue which I suddenly can’t not notice sticking out from between her teeth all the time.

Happily, all of this is easily correctable with a dread retainer. But before he committed us to this costly apparatus, he wanted to try filing down a few of her molars, wait three or four months, then come back in and see if anything shifted into place. So that’s what we did. Last Wednesday was the follow-up to that protocol.

Background complete. Now pay attention. We’re getting to the charming bit.

Recall again little Zoe, my niece, strapped into her car seat in the back of her mother’s car. Tracy speed dials Alpha Grandma on her cell, tells her Zoe has some important news she wants to share, then passes the phone back. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, Zoe’s got a kick ass pair of miniature pink sunglasses on when she announces, in that deadly serious toddler lisp of hers, “Grandma, I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.” EM was still grunting and gesturing like a well trained monkey at 3 years old, but whatever. That’s not the funny part.

Wednesday afternoon, it was the assistant who got EM settled, and bibbed, and stretched out in the exam chair. When the orthodontist came in, we exchanged a few pleasantries, as you do, then he turned to EM and asked her to open up. And what does EM do in response to this simple request?

My very nearly 8 year old daughter flips over on her side, and sticks her thumb in her mouth. I assure you, I’ve never been so proud.

Of course, the whole appointment went down hill from there. She refused to speak, just sort of whimpered and moaned to all his questions and proddings. More than once he asked me, “What is wrong? I am not hurting her.”

“I know. I know,” I assured him, “She’s just a god-awful idiot sometimes. I’m open to a series of shots and drills if you think it would straighten her out. That’s a killer set of pliers you’ve got over there. Let’s attach them to her fingers and toes and start twisting until she promises to act her age.”

In the end x-rays were shot, molds were made, and the dread retainer was ordered—all by the assistant, as the orthodontist clearly didn’t want to deal with her. Sadly, I don’t think I ever managed to convince him that she really isn’t retarded, and she really doesn’t suck her thumb anymore.

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.