In Which EM Loses Her Shit, And I Lose My Cool

EM lost her ipod last night. That’s her Nintendo DS and her ipod gone within just a few weeks of each other.

I’m furious. I’m shocked and disappointed that she should be so careless. But mostly—right now—I’m just plain pissed off.

The rules were she was never to take either gadget out of the house unless we were going to Farmor’s, or Tante Hildegunn’s, or the cabin—somewhere where I could control where they were and what she was doing with them. Never to school. Never to a friend’s house. And certainly, never to a restaurant, or to art class.

They were clear rules. She understood them. She agreed to them. After she lost three Nintendo games at Mathias’s house during a sleep over, I stopped allowing exceptions to the rules—ever—and eventually she stopped asking.

I believed her at first when she told me that—no, she hadn’t taken the Nintendo anywhere, she’d just misplaced it in the house somewhere. I methodically searched for it for two weeks. I literally gutted her room. I tore apart the toy room. I emptied every drawer in the house, twice. I frisked every pocket and handbag I could find. Still no Nintendo.

Up until this morning’s tearful admission about the missing ipod I was willing to say to myself, “How strange! How very vexing!” And assume I’d stumble across the Nintendo under a pile of towels or something sometime in the very near future. I no longer believe this. After this morning, I’d be a fool to believe in such innocence anymore.

I asked several times during my search if it were possible that the Nintendo wasn’t in the house anymore, if she had perhaps taken it somewhere, and forgotten? Maybe? “Oh no, it’s here” she insisted, “It’s here. It must be here.”

Outrageous, bald-faced lies! And I have no idea how to deal with it, address it, punish it constructively, yet thoroughly enough that she finally gets it. You have to take care of your shit!

She took the ipod to her art class yesterday. When I saw it in the car—when she saw that I had seen it—she hastened to explain, “I know. I know. But I’m only going to listen to it in the car. I’m not going to take it to class with me.”

“It stays in the car!” I stressed, wagging my best mommy finger at her.

“It stays in the car,” she dutifully repeated, and I left it at that.  I gave her the bloody benefit of the doubt.

I never saw it again after that, but this morning she swore up and down with splotchy red face, and fat guilty tears streaming down her cheeks that it did, indeed, stay in the car during art class.  That it was in the pizza place after the art class that the damn thing went missing.

“WHY was it even IN the pizza place?”

“I thought I’d listen to it while we waited for the pizza.”

“I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE IT IN THE CAR!”

“I know.”

I sent her out of the house then. Pushed her out in the rain five minutes early so I didn’t start fuckidy fuck fuck fucking stupid idiotic careless thoughtless thankless little wretch-ing her right to her face.

Or maybe I should have let her hear it. Maybe then she’d finally get it. Because she needs to get it, ya’ll. I need her to understand that I’m well beyond piqued at this point. I’m a vengeful, malevolent fury.  And honey, I’m out for payback.

I must have lost things as a kid. Kids lose things. I get that. But I don’t remember ever being this careless with what you might call the pricier items among my various possessions. Then again—did I even have any high ticket toys? I had a Walkman. Everyone had a Walkman. You tell me mom—did I ever lose it? Did I ever lose anything so valuable that you wanted to thrash me senseless with a wire hanger just to teach me a much deserved lesson in the value of a hard earned dollar?

Not that I’m going to do that, of course. Aside from the legal ramifications, I’m not sure I even have a wire hanger anywhere in the house. And, let’s face it, a cheap plastic IKEA hanger just wouldn’t produce a chilling enough THWICK to get my point across.

So I’m wrestling here with legal appropriate punishments to inflict upon her. Certainly I will not be replacing the lost items. EVER. And I already made her go with her class to the China exhibit in town instead of meeting for her scheduled appointment with the orthodontist to have her retainer removed.

HA!

We discovered that little scheduling conflict early yesterday afternoon. She had said she would rather skip the field trip to get the dread retainer taken out, and I was willing to go along with that plan because I know how much she’s been looking forward to getting rid of the thing. But during this morning’s drama I had the great pleasure of sneering, “And you’re going to town today. The retainer stays!”  Much wailing and carrying-on followed this pronouncement. It was great. Very satisfying. But I’m still not convinced that she’s absorbed the full extent of my wrath.

It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that money and things, specifically, things that cost money, mean nothing to any of my children. And I’ve got to do something to fix this sorry state of affairs.

Do you think maybe it's because I don't work?  That because I get money from a machine in the wall for doing ostensibly (in their eyes) nothing, they think it's basically a limitless font from which all things endlessly flow?  Of course we've explained to them that the money comes from all the hard work daddy does, that his job is to earn the money, and my job is to take care of the house and the family.  But maybe they're just not getting it.

Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with money at all.  Maybe I'm expecting too much of them to understand and appreciate in anyway the price of the things we buy them.  Maybe I should just stop buying them things altogether.  Make them buy it all themselves with money they earn and save on their own initiative.  But is that really fair when all of their spoiled rotten friends are drowning in endless piles of things.  And how is it these spoiled rotten friends manage to keep track of all their endless piles of things but my kids manage to lose EVERYTHING?  From whence do these caring for skills come?  How are they taught?

The kids just got home from school a few minutes ago.  EM asked if I had called the pizza place to ask if they had found the ipod.  I had.  They hadn't.  We got into it again.  She started crying again, "So it's gone for ever?"

"Yeah.  Pretty much." 

Boy chimed in:  "Mom, I have two things to say to you."

"What's that Boy."

"One--I once lost something I loved.  Two--and that was my baby scorpie.  Don't be mad."

Princess Bedhead

Here's your eye candy for the day.

Do you see?  Do you see now what I mean about the wear-able sweetness?

That Great Litter Box In The Sky

So we're on the way to Jazz class tonight. All the kids are with me because Mister is "working" in Rio this week so he can't look after the little ones while I escort EM to her dance class, as per our usual arrangement.

We pass a graveyard. The same graveyard we pass every week, every day practically, sometimes twice a day. Often--is what I'm getting at. For some reason, seeing this graveyard on this particular day prompts EM to ask, "Mom, where is Puss actually buried?"

"Yeah Mom," Boy adds, instantly forgetting the loose thread he's been wrapping around his index finger, and seamlessly picking up EM's train of thought like as if they shared a brain, "Puss is dead. Dead people live in graves. Where is Puss buried?"

Damn. Damn, shit, hell, and damn. What does one say? Best to stick to the truth. Right?

"Well," I hedge, "Puss isn't actually buried anywhere. The ground was too frozen when he died to dig a hole. Wow! Lots of traffic today, hm? Hope we're not late. Did you remember to bring your water bottle?"

My clever ruse does not work.

"So where is he then?" Trust EM to refuse to let a sleeping cat lie.

"Well. I left him with the doctor. The doctor took care of him for us."

"How?"

"Ah. Well. The doctor cremated his body. He burned it up. It's how they take care of animals after they die."

"They BURNED him? In a FIRE?" Missy is horrified.

Damn. Damn, shit, hell, and damn.

"But he was already dead. Right Mom?" EM seems to be absorbing this news with sober aplomb. I can't see her face in the rearview mirror. I hope that pause before she asked that last question wasn't the choking back of mortal terror.

"Right. Of course. Cremation is just a very practical way of taking care of a dead body."

"So first they cut a hole to take Puss out. Then there was just a body, and they had to burn it, and what if his eyes went WHAAAAAH! and his skin was all GRXXXXXX! and there was smoke everywhere, and, and then....."

Trust Boy to get everyone off topic with an orgasmic explosion of cartoon-tastic nonsense that will not stop until we've arrived at our destination, and EM has literally slammed the car door in his ridiculously animated face.

That was pretty much the end of it. Or so I thought.

Later this evening, as I was tucking everyone in and kissing them all goodnight, Boy grabbed my face and held it close to his in that way he does when he really needs me to listen to him, "When I die Mom. Can I be buried? Can I live in a grave like the ghosts in Shaggy? Or do I have to be burned like Puss?"

Damn. I mean seriously. Just. Dah-um.

"Of course you can be buried, honey. It's your choice. Of course you don't have to be burned."

"Even if it's winter? Even if the ground is frozen?"

"Even so."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay then."

"Boy?"

"Yes mom?"

"Don't ever die, okay?"

"Okay mom. I promise."

Sugar And Spice

Last week was vinterferie (winter break).  None of you noticed, of course, because all of your kids were off to school, merrily not bugging you.

I survived it.  It came and went without a peep of complaint out of me.  Would I be tarnishing that accomplishment by pointing out that they all went back to school yesterday, and it's been ever so----peaceful----since?

I had some comments on Boy's rhymes.  Wanna hear the best one to come out of vinterferie?  There were several, but this one got the most play:  "How much longer must we eat everything we defeat?"  Followed by a chant:  "We must, we must, we must defeat our meat!  We must, we must, we must defeat our meat!"

He should totally be a cheerleader when he grows up.

Sometimes I find Boy so sickenly sweet that I have this overwhelming urge to decant him into a tiny crystal vile so that I can use him, like peppermint Schnapps, to spike my hot cocoa on a cold, wintery day.

Of course all my kids are chock-full of yummy, sweet goodness.  But I find their sweetness varies by degrees of usage. 

Missy's sweetness, for example, is flashy and stylish, something to be worn.  It's a vintage stole in plum velvet, wrapped around your shoulders, and shown off to all your hoity toity friends over tea and cakes. 

While EM's sweetness is far more subdued, more comfortable.  A flannel quilt, maybe, with which you curl up and fall asleep every night with a feeling of utter peace and safety. 

But Boy now--Boy, like I said, is all pungent and spicy.  Boy's sweetness must be eaten, devoured entirely.

I laugh at first-time mothers who dither and worry about having a second child, because how could they possibly love another like they love their first?  Pfft.  Of course you won't!  You can't!  It's not possible to love a liqueur the same way you love a quilt.  It is not possible to enjoy a cherished quilt the same way you enjoy an expensive wrap.  But you can and will love and enjoy them all--equally, if differently--and sometimes on different days--depending on the phase of the moon--and possibly the weather--vinterferie will have something to do with it too, but anything can be endured given enough Schnapps.

So go forth and multiply people!  Because zse babies, zsey are so sveet!

Namesta

Man am I ever in a rut.

Can't seem to pull myself out of it.

Can't even blame Bergen perma-gloam as the days grow ever longer, and the sun remembers rumors of whispers of warmth it once shared during its brighter hours.

Mister cut down seven trees around our property last weekend. It's helped with the brightness, but it still depresses me to see all those felled trunks and limbs strewn about the yard. I do not approve of the indiscriminate cutting down of trees. I don't care how much bloody evening sun they're stealing. They were here first!

Things keep dying around me. The trees. The cat. The i-pod.

My i-pod, people. My i-pod. The big one. The investment piece. The mother-fucking-ship. Dead. 80 gigs DOA.

I have no way to process this loss other than the sort of short, incoherent stuttering working its way through this post.

Alas.

Boy has taken up the fine art of the random rhyme--like the Great Vizzini only smaller, and with slightly less sense. Recent favorites: Hurry, hurry. Your pants are furry. And: If you have a vagina, you're going to China.

A bright spot in an otherwise bleak, existential storm of self-loathing.

I'm kidding. Mostly. It's not really as bad as all that. I'm still just not much in a writing mood. And this business of the i-pod crashing is truly disturbing. I'm indulging in a wee moment of melodrama. This too shall pass....

As a further excuse for not posting much lately--I've recently taken up knitting. More the fool, I. It's completly absorbed 80% of my free time these past three or four weeks. When I was in Scotland I got all cocky, thinking I knew something about knitting, seeing as I'd been doing it for more then ten days at that point. Plus, I had way mastered the art of the knit and the purl (that's all you really need, right?) So I found myself some pretty, moderately pricey, multi-colored wool, and a lacey shawl pattern. And there I thought I was good to go.

Any guesses on how it's gone with the shawl so far? First off Jilly--you totally LIED to me! I need twice as much yarn as you told me....Twice as much! First blow--the shawl has become yet another scarf. Probably a blessing in disguise, actually. Still, I really liked the look of that shawl......I like the look of the scarf in the picture, as well. Good thing I have the picture to admire, because mine isn't going to look anything at all like it. Whatever! My son is fat full 'a rhymes, yo. If she's sitting. She must be knitting. So I'm still a good person.

Maybe being 36 will make me happy, and once again full of fun, insightful anecdotes to share!

Check in next week to find out. But, don't hold your breath, 'kay?

P.S. I'm thinking my next few posts should be nothing but LOST LOST LOST all the time LOST, because GOD DAMN but how much do I love that show! The next time you see me it will be 1954 and I won't know who you are. We'll all speak Latin, and take turns braiding each other's hair into fetching frulein do's. Your nose will start bleeding, but I'll tell you not to worry because I secretly love you, and my i-pod is still working.....

I've Got Nothing To Say--Allow Me To Throw Some Pictures At You Instead

From a recent skiing trip:
Pictures are all self-explanatory, but you are required to spend two or three extra seconds admiring the one of EM and her dad.  I made her, you know--even if she does sometimes act like she likes him best.

 

From Aberdeen:
In general I liked the architecture in and around Aberdeen--kind of monochrome and blah granite, but all ornate and Victorian, so pretty enough to look at. I loved these brightly colored, mosaic tiled designs that could be seen in many of the entry ways. I don't know if they're unique to Aberdeen (didn't think to ask) but they were rather wonderful, and I found myself wanting one--immediately.

You see, sometimes I do allow myself to be photographed.  Now you know why it's not very often.  I do not feel I'm aging gracefully.  Soon the folds of skin over my eyes will sag and droop so low I'll have to pierce my eyebrows and roll my eyelids up like little roller blinds just to be able to see.

Alternative Lifestyles

Katy Perry's annoying girl kissing song is on the radio....again....

The kids are in the back seat.  EM is singing, "I kissed a girl, and I liked iiiiiit...."

She turns to Boy and says, "You have to sing this song, Boy."

"Why?"

"Because you're a boy, and it's about kissing girls, " and she sings again, tauntingly, "I kissed a girl and I liked iiiiit..."

Boy responds--tauntingly, "But it's a girl singing it."

EM stops short, "Oh.  Wait.....?"

Missy perks up, "I like girls!" and startes singing--ecstatically, "I kissed a girl and I liked iiiiit!"


I'm off to Aberdeen for the weekend.  I wish it were warmer in Aberdeen than it is in Bergen.  It's not.  Jilly tells me to suck it, and come anyway.  The song is in my head now, so I might have to kiss her when I get there....

Husbands Can Be Good

Thank you all so much for your very kind condolences yesterday.

He most certainly was NOT 'just a cat', which is why I had to keep telling myself that just to get through what had to be done.

I sent Mister a text from the parking lot at the clinic. "Puss is gone" it said simply.  He called me within seconds of receiving it, and was so sweet and so understanding it busted me up all over again.  He was so sorry I had to be the one to do it.  He had said he would, but he's too busy, too pre-occupied to have gotten to it before the weekend.  I didn't want the kids to see what shape Puss might have been in by Friday even if he had been strong enough to make it that long.  Plus--he was sick, yo.  He was my cat.  He needed me to take care of him this one last time.  So I did.

And awful it was.

Mister asked me if I wanted him to come home.  If you knew this man, and the way he works, you'd appreciate what a hugely magnanimous and (in his way) gentle gesture that was.  I said no.  There was nothing he could do for me.  I would be fine.  Then he made me promise not to stay home.  "Go for a run.  Go for a walk.  Go get coffee.  Just don't go home.  PROMISE ME."  So I promised.

I called my neighbor--a fellow American who lives half a kilometer away--told her what I'd just done, and asked if I could bum a cup or two of tea off her.  "Oh God.  Give me 15 minutes, " she said, "Then come."  I spent just over an hour listening to her tell me about all the various cats she's had over the years, and the horrid ways most of them have died.  Somehow, I still can't work out exactly how, this was therapeutic for me.

A few hours later I was picking up Little Miss to take her to ballet.  Boy was in the car too, as he has football right after Missy's ballet.  I was standing next to the car, semi-patiently waiting for her to get settled so I could fasten her seatbelt, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Mister stepping off a bus and running towards me. 

"So how are you?  Are you okay?  Do you want me to do the running around with the kids this afternoon?  Do you want me to come with you?  What do you need?"

He'd left work two hours early to play chauffeur to the kids because he knew I'd be sad about my cat dying.  Again, if you knew this man...

He ended up coming with me just to keep me company.  Just as we were pulling into the ballet studio Mister says to me, "So there's this litter of kittens due in March..." and he hands me three pages of pictures he's taken off the breeder's website.  In fact, he's already called the breeder, told her about the situation (she sends her deepest condolences, by the way), and not officially yet reserved one of the kittens for me, but pre-reserved one of them....If I'd like that....Would I like that?

To continue to say..."Geez, if you only knew this guy....This is so unlike him,"  would be to risk giving you the wrong impression of who he really is.  Because it's not that he's heartless, and gruff, and generally uncaring about my feelings.  That's not why he surprised me so much yesterday.  It's just that he's so busy.  And, usually, when he's at work, he's AT WORK, and nothing else much penetrates that concentration bubble he retreats into.  But these pictures, and that phone call, and showing up early to hand it all to me...he basically took the day off to put this band-aid on my broken heart.  And that...well...it just took my breath away.  That's all.

So this is the mother:  her name is White Pearl, and this will be her second litter.

And this is the father: his ridiculous name is Johnny Depp, and he looks so much like my Puss in his prime that I have a bit of a hard time looking at that photo.

I asked for a female.  I think I might be interested in a litter myself--for the kids, for me,  for the money....I also asked, please not solid blue this time.  Something mottled, something spotty, something different.

If all goes well, the kittens should be ready for delivery the first week of June.  Right before we're supposed to leave for Utah for the summer--which is not ideal--but I think we're going to do it anyway.  The kids are already debating names.  I'm wondering how I'm ever going to get used to calling a cat anything other than Pussy Lucy....

It's just a cat.  It's just a cat.  It's just a cat.  It's just a cat. 

Just a smelly, grass-puking, mangy god damn cat.

This has been my mantra all morning.  Just a cat.  Just a cat.  Not a kid.  Just a cat.

And it was working for me.  It kept my voice steady when I called the vet clinic to ask, you know...do I need to make an appointment to kill my dying cat, or can I just drop by?  And it kept right on working for me as I picked up said sad, emaciated cat off the bathroom floor to gently slip him into his travel cage--the same travel cage we used to carry him home for the first time 13 years ago.  Just a cat.  Just a cat.  Not a kid.  Just a cat.

It sort of stopped working for me a bit on the drive over.  The 'not a kid' part led to some pretty gruesome (and, in retrospect, extirely predictable) tangental mindfuckery which my fragile nerves had some trouble processing.

But I choked it back and was in control again as I walked into the clinic.  Just a cat.  Just a cat.  Asshole husband didn't do the dishes last night.  And just a cat.

The receptionist was a huge help.  Cold.  Businesslike.  You're here for termination?  Would you like him examined first?  Will he be going to the common crematorium, or would you like an private urn to take home with you?

Yes.  Sniff.  No.  Ew.  What was that first one?  And are you always such a bitch?

I was kind of getting pissed at her.  I mean, wasn't anyone going to try and stop me from doing this terrible thing?  Shouldn't an exam be...I don't know...obligatory?  And God!  She didn't even ask me why I was doing this!  How I had arrived at this horrible decision!  Didn't she want to know that he hadn't eaten since Sunday night?  Wasn't anyone going to ask me about how he'd fallen down the stairs Monday morning, and never quite got up?

I wasn't crying when she walked back towards the exam rooms, shouting, "I have a termination here.  Where should I put it?"

I couldn't look at the cage.  Couldn't sit next to it.  I kept my mind on the bitch receptionist, and started pacing.

It's just a cat.  Just a cat.  What a bitch.  Just a cat.

When the receptionist came back out.  She walked over to me, stopped me mid-pace, put an arm around my shoulder, gave me the saddest, most understanding look, and said softly, "I'm going to take him now.  You've given him a long life.  This is absolutely the right thing to do."  Then that nice receptionist lady had the great pleasure of watching me come completely unglued.

It's been a shitty day.  A shitty week really.  It should have been done last Friday, but it's taken me this long to be willing to face up to it. 

God what will I tell the kids?

Mixed Messages In A Troubled Economy

Over dinner last night Mister says to me, "So I got a raise today.  If we can keep the company afloat I'll be getting 2,000 extra a month. Soooooooo, that should help.  Right?"

No word yet on how big an "IF" we're talking about here.

Proud Parent Alert

EM was in the newspaper the other day.  Can you spot her?

One of the local papers featured the kulturskole where she takes her art class on the occassion of its 30th anniversary, and she just happened to get in the way of their photographers the day they visited.  Clever girl.

That's EM on the right with her artsy friend Mona, holding blind portraits they did of each other during class that day.  I know you can't see it very well in the picture of the picture of the picture, but there's something very Modigliani in the pointy chin and strong patches of flat, vivid colors.  I totally dig it--parental obligations notwithstanding.

They don't get to take any of their work home with them until the end of the school year.  There's going to be a big student exhibit in June, and the teachers keep everything on hand until they decide which pieces they want to display.  The only other thing she's done for the class that I have to share with you is this Christmas card:

Her teacher tells me that she has a very well developed sense of color and balance. 

Sure.  Sure, I say.  But when are you going to teach her to do hands?

Norway, Death, And Pain

The year is 1988--August. I am 15 years old. Not only is it my first day of high school—the 10th grade—which is stressful enough, but my family moved over the summer, so I’m in a whole new neighborhood, a whole new school district, an entirely new kettle of mostly hostile fish.

I know no one. I’m familiar with nothing. I’m comfortable nowhere.

The hallways of my new high school are made of dark brown brick. All of the lockers and doors are vivid red, yellow, and orange. The floor looks of rusty vomit. It’s intensely ugly. And I want to go home.

Allow me to disspell the suspence, I will managed to get through this day without embarrassing myself in any overtly unforgivable manner—I won’t trip down any stairs, or clumsily park myself at the cool kid’s table for lunch; as far as I know, my zipper will stay up all day, my bra straps will remain in place. Nevertheless, I am a black-clad, moody 15 year old who spends too much time listening to Morrisey and The Cure. I am not a happy bunny. I am hormonally disinclined to have a good day. Despite the total lack of calamity or misfortune, I assure you, I will be miserable at the end of it.

And, indeed, by 7th period Advanced Algebra, I’m boiling over with all the loneliness, awkward angst, and depression my glum teenage heart can muster. The teacher hands out 3x5 index cards and asks us to write down all our contact info: parent’s names and work places, phone numbers, our class schedule, the same shit I’ve been writing on similar cards in six other classes all day long. “When you’re done,” she adds, “Flip it over, and write down three things that you like. Just any three things that will help me get to know you a bit better.”

Dipping deep into my bottomless well of discontent, I sneer prettily, and write: Norway, death, and pain.

A month passes. I make a few friends. I tire of The Cure, and, perhaps inspired by the school’s decorative theme? do a whole retro Billy Joel, classic 70’s Genesis thing. Life grows marginally better.

Every Friday the algebra teacher gives us a quick quiz covering the week’s material. One particular Friday my quiz is handed back to me with a big, red ‘0’ where the ‘100% Well done!’ should have been. It confuses me because there were five problems on the quiz and I know I got all five answers right. After the bell rings, I take my big, red ‘0’ to the teacher, and ask her about it.

“You didn’t show your work,” she says.

“Yes I did. Here. And here. And here,” I say pointing to the numbers, and parenthesis, and mathematical whirligigs which I had been lead to believe amounted to work in the algebraic world.

“But it’s the wrong method. It’s not complete,” she sniffs.

“But the answers are right,” I insist.

“But the purpose of the quiz is to demonstrate mastery of the methods I teach.”

“But the answers are right.”

“But you need to show me that you understand why they’re right.”

“I do understand. I understand so much that my answers are all right!”

“But you didn’t follow my instructions.”

“So give me partial credit.”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, JEDA. It’s disrespectful.”

“I don’t appreciate your ‘0’, teacher. It’s bullshit.”

With that, I storm out of the room. The teacher turns directly to her filing cabinet to retrieve the contact card she collected from me on the first day of school. She wants to talk to my mother about my bad attitude and disrespect. She won’t be having any more of it in her classroom. It’s then that she sees, presumably for the first time, ‘Norway, death, and pain’ scribbled in red like a curse across the back of my card.

I am referred immediately to the school psychologist.

On a disappointingly anti-climatic note, the incident did not go much further than that. I was dragged out of AP European History the next day to be thoroughly probed by the school shrink. When she showed me the card and asked me to explain it, I laughed a genuine, full-throated laugh--rare from a Cure fan, “Dude, I was having a bad day. It was meant to be funny!” Then she asked me why my last name was different than my mother’s last name, and how do I feel about that, then, hmmmm? 

They say you can still hear the sound of my eyes rolling on certain, highly sensative telescopes.

My mother was called, of course. Even in the midst of my darkest teenage fog, she knew me well enough to know that ‘Norway, death, and pain’ really just meant ‘solitude, sarcasm, and hyperbole’ in inscrutable JEDA speak. She wasn’t too worried. All she ever said about it was, “You’ve got a weird sense of humor, my dear. Not everyone is going to get it. You might want to considered holding back every once in a while.”

She was right—on both counts. Unfortunately, I have yet to fully absorb this crutial life's lesson. It seems I might have inadvertently spilled some of my dour humor into Elder Miss’s last homework assignment. There’s a very good chance her teachers aren’t going to get it.

Recently EM has started completing and turning in some of her homework online. Her class has a website where the teachers post links and folders with assignments that open and close according to their due dates. The kids have their own accounts and passwords, so they can log on either at home or at school, complete the assignment, then send it as an e-mail directly to the teacher’s inbox. EM loves these assignments. I don’t blame her. It is pretty cool.

Her assignment this week was to share her three favorite jokes or riddles.

“I don’t get it,” she said after she’d logged on, and read the brief instructions.

“Well, surely you’ve been talking about riddles at school. You’ve heard a few there. Haven’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’? Either you have or you haven’t. Which is it?”

“I think so. But I don’t really understand it.” Ah, language issues, which means she tuned it all out, which means she remembers nothing. “Do you know any?” she asked hopefully.

“Ummmmmm. Uhhhhhhhh. No. Or, wait. There’s the one about what’s black and white and red all over. But it only really works in English.”

“Eh?”

“Black and white….red all over…..It’s a newspaper, EM. A newspaper.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, the pages see. They’re black and white. And they’re read…..sort of?….all over? Not ‘red’ like the color, though it seems like it should be. But ‘read’ like ‘to read’….only yesterday….I…..’read’ the paper..….yesterday………….Oh forget it! Never mind. You’ll just have to tell them that life isn’t funny and you don’t know any jokes.”

So that’s what she did. She wrote “Livet er ikke morsomt”, attached some sort of silly gif of a chicken getting a suntan, then clicked ’send’.

I knew that that’s what she was doing. She even asked, “Should I write that, Mom? Should I say that life isn’t funny?” And I couldn’t stop laughing—cuz’ it’s funny, isn’t it? That an assignment about jokes declares itself to be so tersely unfunny? Isn’t it? So I said, “Yeah, EM. You should totally do it!” And I kept right on laughing—even though EM wasn’t laughing so much—right up until I heard my mother’s voice in my head say, “Not everyone is going to get it.” Then I started to wonder.

EM’s teachers are already worried about her. She spends too many recesses alone with her books. There was an incident right before Christmas where some punk ass kid wrote “EM is dumb” on her desk. Plus, her best friend just moved, and switched schools right after the holidays. The teachers keep me updated. They’re watching her carefully to make sure she doesn’t withdraw any further. What are the chances they see humor in her assignment, rather than signs of increasing introversion?

Mister wasn’t terribly amused either.  He says to expect a call.  Or better yet, that I should call, apologize, and explain.  Pfft.  Like that's going to happen.  I still think it's kind of funny.  But what do I know?  I'm Charlotte sometimes, and the spiderman ate me for dinner long ago.

Sheared

At the risk of sounding like one of those fluttery, domineering mothers who would dress her precious baby boy in sailor suits and knee-highs if they were still readily available, I have to admit--I prefer Boy's towhead impishly long and tousled. I'd keep it that way forever, if only he'd let me. Precious baby boys, however, have a selfish habit of growing rather relentlessly up. And mine has recently been nagging me for a "real" haircut, a "big boy" haircut, one performed by someone with a "degree" or whatever. Pfft! Such insufferable vainity! And in a six year old no less! Where will it end?

Nevertheless, being the selfless loving mother that I am, I took him yesterday, and got him his obscenely overpriced, professional haircut.

Humph. At least we can still call it tousled.

On the way out of the parking lot, for some reason (I forget what) I hit the breaks hard enough to jar everyone forward and back pretty roughly. Boy growled from the backseat, "Careful mom! You're messin' up my spikes!"

A Word About The New Year, And Resolutions--Old And New

So here we are...back at the beginning.

Happy New Year everyone!

I made a resolution last year--a secret one. I vowed to publish at least 52 posts for the year--an average of one post per week. Done. Over done! I'm pretty sure that's the first New Year's Resolution I've ever faithfully fulfilled. This makes me righteous and rather awesome, wouldn't you agree?  I see no need to reissue the resolution.  I'm in the habit now, and a post per week should be the very least you all can expect from me from here on out.

I settled on a new resolution early last month.  I was planning to keep this one hush hush too, thus avoiding the crippling pressure of accountability and expectation.  But I managed to get myself a little tipsy New Year's Eve, and found myself blabbing it to the whole party.

"I've decided to read a book--in Norweeeeegian!" I slurred, with wholly unjustifiable hubris.

Our hostess is quite the enthusiastic reader, and before I could say "suckers, I was only kidding" she was up plucking dusty tome after dusty tome off her well-stocked bookshelves.  Norwegian books, by Norwegian authors, in the Norweeeeeegian vernacular....one of them anyway.  After nixing anything old, or mired in too obscure and annoying a dialect, my one-book commitment had turned into three.  Now anytime Mister sees me with a book in my hands, he feels at liberty to ask, "Is it Norwegian?  Is it?  Is it?"  Damn my loose, drunken tongue!

How about you lot?  Any resolutions you care to share with me?  I promise not to throw them back in your faces until Christmas.  It'll give me something write on your Christmas cards, which I do now solemnly resolve to actually write on next year!  I'm still feeling rather guilty about stuffing this year's into an envelope without so much as a signature. 

I took some pictures New Year's Eve.  None of them very good.  It goes without saying that, in addition to all the reading and writing I will be doing over the course of the new year, mastering the art of digital photography will be high on my to-do list.

This is what Boy and his cousin had to say about the fresh crab served to them for dinner:

This is what Elder Miss had to say about the control top panty hose I struggled to squeeze myself into after three weeks of holiday eating:

And this....I have no idea how I did this:

But how freaking cool would that have been if it had been framed properly, and you could she her face and shit!  Next year, people.  I'll get that shot next year!

Beyond Christmas

I'm guessing you're waiting for pictures, and a report--perhaps?--of the JEDA household's Christmas ado.

In case you hadn't heard, I got a new camera.  It baffles me.  It's taken me this long to work out how to get the pictures from the camera onto the computer. 

I don't really know much about photography, though I'd like to.  I've been thoroughly reading and rereading the instruction manual in hopes that something in it will be magically transformed into lucid sense in my brain.  It helped when I stopped trying to read it in Danish, and downloaded the English version off the internet.  But I'm still pretty lost.  If anyone knows of a decent "Digital Photography For Base Morons" book that can explain to me what ISO means, or how aperture should be related to depth of field, or what any of that has to do with shutter speed and why 90% of what I've taken with the curséd thing comes out looking like a drunk man's blurry epiphany, by all means, let me know.

In the meantime, here's a few pictures of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  All the Christmas Eve ones were taken with my humble point-and-shoot Pentax, and, therefore, should be correspondingly less wonderful than the Christmas Day ones.  Please help me maintain this delusion as it's the only way I can possibly continue to justify the price of the new one.

This year's gingerbread creation:

Being the great designer of seafaring vessels that he is, Mister had his heart set on a boat. So he designed one.  He carefully measured and drew out all the pieces for me to bake.  Then he painstakingly glued them all together with melted sugar.  I know I was supposed to let the kids decorate, but after all that work I just couldn't.  I let them watch though, and the smoke made of Necco chips was EM's idea. 

Mister tells me it's a clipper. A pepperkake clipper. Which gets translated into Missy speak as a peckercocker clitter. Which is, frankly, hysterical, and I refuse to correct her.

Also new this year: decent weather.

No snow, mind you. But no rain either. A welcome improvement indeed. Mister took the kids out on a little hike while I stayed home and slaved away on a turkey dinner.

All dressed up and ready for a dinner I knew they wouldn't eat. My kids have no appreciation whatsoever for the carb-laden beauty of a full turkey dinner. Elder Miss is getting closer. She loves herself a good leg of juicy dark meat, and she nibbled around the edges of the stuffing and declared it...okay. But the other two whined from start to finish. Their loss. I did a superb job on it this year. I hate to say this to all my Thanksgiving dinner attendees, but my Christmas turkey is ALWAYS better than my Thanksgiving turkey. Always.

Christmas Eve is the one night every year that I dust off my cheap white wine glasses and let the kids use them at dinner for their fizzy Christmas soda.  As you can see EM looks forward to this event with much refined and cultivated enthusiasm.

And then it was bedtime:

Some of my fondest memories of Christmas Eve as a child are of spending the night in my step-brothers' room, the three of us keeping each other up into the wee wee hours of the night speculating wildly about what we might find under the tree come morning. As I was reminiscing about this over dinner, the kids eagerly asked if they could all sleep together too. This all being part of my master plan, I poured myself another glass of wine and reluctantly agreed....putty in my hands, my pretties....putty in my hands.

Which brings us to Christmas morning. I plan to upload a full album onto my Picasa site sometime soon, but for now here's three of the better pictures I managed to take with my new toy.

Meh--three good ones out of at least 200. It shouldn't be that difficult.

Everyone left for Rosendal a couple days after Christmas. Everyone, that is, except me. I stayed behind to enjoy a little peace, quiet, and complete lack of responsiblity. I'll catch a ferry and join the others tomorrow.

Happy New Year's everybody! See you on the flip side.

A Christmas Story

When I was eight years old I was baptized as a Mormon. It should go without saying that this was not a faith based initiative.  My parents indulged but did not necessarily support my association with the Saints. My step-father will tell you that the only reason I pursued the baptism was because I coveted some cheesy religious coloring book that Jennifer Murray had gotten when she had been baptized earlier that year. This rather old joke has begun to piss me off because not only does it insult the earnest nature of my youthful heart, but it’s also a God damn lie.

The simple truth is I went to church and got baptized because all my friends were going to church and getting baptized. And I was only invited to play with them so long as I was doing exactly what they were doing in terms of church going and baptized getting. Such is the 'inclusive' nature of the Mormon faithful.

Already I digress—

Before I was baptized I was required to sit through an interview with the ward bishop. I was told the purpose of the interview would be to assess my virginal purity the readiness of my testimony. But I’m reasonably certain that the real reason I was there was for some preliminary indoctrination into the duty of tithing.

My mom was asked to join us. She sat, impatient but quiet, in the back of the room with (I can’t remember precisely, but I’m pretty sure he was there) my step-father.

Like I said, I don’t remember the exact details, but the conversation must have gone something like this: Brother Bishop asked, “Do you know how much money is in your piggy bank, JEDA?”

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe like $5.00?”

“And, JEDA, do you know how much 10% of $5.00 is?”

And I’d have been all like, “Dude, do I look like someone who enjoys math? I, um….I thought there would be more coloring….”

One of the last questions he asked—this part I remember clearly—was, “Can you name any of the Ten Commandments?”

Keep in mind I was only eight years old, and religion was something I did on my own time—my parents wanted no part of it. Up to that point, primary school had been a whole lot of singing about sunbeams, and kicking the chair in front of me while reverently folding my arms and pretending to pray. So I knew the Ten Commandments had something to do with Moses, but specifics beyond that were not exactly etched into the chalky tablets of my instant recall files.

Until—inspiration—possibly the Holy Ghost, though I felt no burning—struck!

“Ooo ooo ooo! I know one!”

“Very good, JEDA. Which one have you remembered?”

“Thou shalt not commit adultery!”

I'm not exactly sure why I said it.  I know that I didn’t know what the word “adultery” meant. At the time, it just sounded like an impressively grown-up word. And I collected such words back then—hoarded them in my pockets like cinnamon bears, waiting for odd moments to pull them out, chew on them a bit, then let their spicy goodness spill over my tongue and into the dull lapses in adult conversation. Such words had power—though I didn’t know why, and I used them frequently as a kid.

Of course, adult me is embarrassed on my mother’s behalf for the broad innuendo her child left hanging in the middle of the room like an unclaimed fart. Adult me can still hear the stiff shh-shh of corduroy as three pairs of adult legs nervously uncrossed and re-crossed waiting for the taint of it to dissipate. Adult me knows how badly my mother must have wanted to stand up, to explain, to clarify, to excuse, “Kids these days! She’s just showing off. Honestly. It means nothing…”

Well, rest easy, poor put-upon mother. It’s been a long time coming, but last week your grandchildren—my own dear babies—conspired to exact your fitting and ironically just revenge upon me.

Heads up, Trace. You’re going to like this part.

Last Thursday night Elder Miss’s art class invited parents and siblings to come in for the last 30 minutes of class to share a piece of cake and a cup of Christmas cheer.  It being an art class, they had decorated the room to the nines with tin foil, candles, and a motley assortment of tinsel scraps. Once everyone had found a seat and a bit of food, the teacher welcomed us and said she thought it might be fun to share some of our favorite memories or ideas about our various Christmas traditions.

“What’s the first thing you think when you think about Christmas?” she prompted as she set the ball rolling around the table.

“Presents! Vacation! Pinnekjøtt*!” came the typical responses, “Pinnekjøtt? No! It has to be lutefisk**!” And thus the conversation found itself focusing around holiday food, and a lively debate ensued amongst the parents.

All was light, all was merry—then came EM’s turn.

“And you, EM? What does Christmas mean to you?”

There was a long pause. So long I thought for sure she had chickened out, so I was about to rescue her by throwing turkey into the mix, when she suddenly found her voice and blurted out, “Jesus.”

"Ah.  Mmmm-hmmmm. Yes,” said the teacher, suddenly sober and careful, “Of course many people think a lot about Jesus this time of year. How about your little sister?” she hunched down and peered expectantly at Missy, “What do you think the best thing about Christmas is?”

Missy, of course, didn't miss a beat, “Jesus is borned!” she exclaimed triumphantly, throwing her arms victoriously overhead.

It should have been cute--funny--but no one seemed terribly amused.  Say what you will about not forgetting the true reason for the season. But Norwegians, by and large, are a secular bunch, and—trust me on this—they don’t want to hear it, especially when the topic of the relative merits of pinnekjøtt vs. lutefisk is on the table.

“Oooo-kay. Of course.” said the teacher, more careful than ever, “How about your brother?" turning to Boy,  "Anything you particularly love about Christmas?”

I found myself silently pleading with Boy, “Say presents. Say Santa. Say ‘jingle bells Batman smells’. Say anything but…..”

“Jesus is king,” said Boy quietly, but firmly.

What is the sound of eyebrows rising?  Of every eye in the room collectively rolling heavenward to find only a tangle of strung fairy lights to bare witness to their mutual exasperation of the overly pious at Christmas time?  It was the only sound in the room just then, yet it was thundering in my head like herd of hunted reindeer.

It was my turn next.  The teacher--she didn’t want to ask.  You could tell.  Little did she know, however, all I wanted to do was stand up, explain, clarify, excuse, “Kids these days!  They’re just showing off.  Honestly.  It means nothing…This has nothing to do with being from Utah.  I SWEAR!”

I let it pass--dissipate, if you will. I talked about how, in America, we open our presents on Christmas Day, not on Christmas Eve as they do in Norway. And about how our family has blended these two traditions, so our lucky kids get two days of (explicitly non-religious) present over-load. Then the guy next to me, whose wife is Russian Orthodox said, “That’s nothing! The orthodox calendar puts Christmas in January, and the Russians give presents on New Year’s Eve, so we go through it three times every year!”

Saved!  By the Russians.  How...unexpected.

Ultimately, I think EM's motives for dragging Christ into the Christmas party were very much the same as mine were lo those many years ago in unleashing adultery into the bishop's office.  She's experimenting with grown-up words and grown-up concepts, about which she has only a rudimentary understanding, in order to appear more grown-up than she actually is.  The other two were just following their big sister's lead, and parroting some lines they've heard at school. 

She wasn't so far off base.  She just hasn't learn to gauge tone or atmosphere yet.  There is a time and a place, dear heart.  Now, please to explain to the nice Bohemian artsy types that I'm really not a crazed Jesus freak.....


*pinnekjøtt (pee-nuh-chut): salted lamb, favorite Christmas Eve dish in this area
**lutefisk (loo-tuh-fisk): vile cod preserved in lye, favorite Christmas Eve dish in other, less civilized areas

From The File Marked 'Want'

I'm not a shoe person.  I have a total of maybe 10 pairs--not including my two pairs of running shoes, which I consider something more like necessary equipment than stylish footwear. 

The black strapy heels that I wore to the million dollar wedding I bought 11 years ago to go with a dress I wore on my honeymoon.  Jillybaby had a very minor stroke when she heard this.  Then she made me buy a pair of black ankle boots to wear to the million dollar cocktail party the night before the million dollar wedding. 

"They're very now," she said, "Very practical.  You'll get loads of use out of them."

So I bought the black ankle boots--even though they looked almost exactly like a pair of black ankle boots I wore when I was in the 7th grade--a place I swore I would never revisit--and in doing so, I fear I may have awoken something primeaval in my nature.  Something carnal.  Something drooling.  Something controlled not by reason or logic, but by pure, unadulterated, craven lust.

'Want' does not even begin to describe my desire for these boots:

I can't explain it.  I just.....I really just.....oh God, I'm not sure I can live without them.

Can someone please explain to me why all the pretty shoes cost more than $200?

The kids came home yesterday with the hand-made presents they've been working on at school this past month.

Boy obviously put a lot of thought into his carefully worded gift tags.

Notes From A Barnehage Christmas Party

I've been going to preschool Christmas parties every year for the past five years.

Pretty much everything I have to say about them can be summed up in a bulletpoint list, along with a handful of pictures, of course, to prove I've been there, and know wherefore I speak.

• They're always the same. Year in, year out. Forever and ever, amen ho-ho.
• The kids are good for three songs. Tops. Any attempts to exceed the three song limit will be met with distracted shuffling, nose picking, inappropriate outbursts, and eventually outright gadding about.
• Barnehage teachers in their, shall we say, optimistic over-zealousness, will always exceed the three song limit.
• Understandable, as kids are pretty damn cute when they sing.

• This will sound like cultural bias, but I assure you it's a quantifiable truth--English language Christmas carols are so much better than Norwegian ones.
• On average there will be two, maybe three, adult sized chairs on the premises reserved always for The Pregnant Mother, The Visiting Grandmother, and The Grossly Overweight Father. Everyone else will be obliged to shift uncomfortably on their miniature wooden stools and stare daggers into the backs of The Chosen Few with proper back support.
• During the eating and mingling portion of the party, at least five glasses of punch or milk will be spilt for every cup of coffee successfully drunk while still warm by a parent.
• There is never enough coffee to go around.
• That coffee which is on offer will be served out of three shabby, stained thermoses that someone--usually The First-Time Foreigner--will have to be shown how to open and pour.
• My kids are always the cutest kids in the room. Weird how that happens....

• Norwegian children give a whole new meaning to the term 'dressy casual'.
• Rice pudding is the traditional food served at Norwegian Christmas parties. A warm bowl of rice pudding with a holiday-generous sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon, and a holiday-large pat of butter melting in the center is a thing of beauty.
• Rice pudding left too long in the pot congeals quickly and becomes little more than a lump of chewy paste.
• Even three songs is too long to leave rice pudding cooling on a paper-draped buffet table.
• Pardon me, but have you seen my seque? I seem to have lost one around here some place...
• One afternoon a few weeks ago when I came to pick Missy up from school, I found her alone in a room with one other girl and this boy:

• She tells me frequently that she loves him because she loves him.
• Anyway, on this particular rainy afternoon, I called her to come and get her stuff together so we could go. When she came out from behind the small partition that seperates the play kitchen area from the Tonka trucks and dinosaur area, she was clearly in the middle of hitching up her pants and tights. "What are you kids up to?" I asked in a cheery, neutral tone. "Playin' doctor," came her equally cheery and neutral responce.
• The crafty boy's mother, whom I sat next to at the Christmas party, tells me he is equally taken with Missy, and has grand plans to marry her someday.
• I should hope so.
• Since this post was really just an excuse to talk about Missy cloaked in some boring Christmas party bullshit, allow me to share one more briefly surreal dialogue I had with her last week:
  

• Again, on the way home from barnehage:

Missy: Ooooo! I love that moon! That moon is so pretty!

I'm going to eat it! I'm going to eat it all! up!

Is there water on the moon?

Me: No.

Missy: What is it then? What is in the moon?

Me: Nothing. It's just dust and rocks.

Missy: Hmmm. I will have to be careful then.

But when I'm done,

I will be able to show you the way home!

Another Crap Ass Christmas

I've gotta admit, the vagrant is growing on me.

We visited him again yesterday, and he was ever so slightly jolly.  He twinkled a bit.  He may have even chortled once or twice in a jovial, non-threatening manner this time around.

Maybe he joined AA.

And look, he got himself a little helper.

How freakin' cute is that?

This is the first time in seven years that we've gone out to get the Christmas tree with sun, and snow, and some semblance of actual Christmas cheer in the air.

Maybe the vagrant snorted some of the snow, and that's why he was so merry and bright.

I know all that crisp, fresh, rainless air went to our heads, and we ended up picking out a tree that was 300 feet tall.

Srsly.

Luckily Mister has been watching The Ax Men with the kids so he knew how to chop the thing down and get it off the mountain with minimal effort. First: burrow a hole to the trunk...

We had company this year.  JEDA's to the left, Vibrant's to the right.

Our combined broods made a predicably unruly bunch.  They were far more interested in snowball fights and sledding than they were in Christmas trees or posing for pictures.  What gall!  And I'm pretty sure one of them--almost certainly Boy--farted in the vagrant's hovel.  But their fresh pink cheeks and infectious smiles told me that they were having the time of their lives (or at least of this December).  And I'm prepared to make the Christmas tree farm at Gimmelland #1 on my new list of Norwegian wonderous-ness. 

Christmas wouldn't quite be Christmas without it anymore.

Merry Christmas Crap-Ass Santa!

A Few Words About The Multi-Million Dollar Wedding

A--It didn't really cost that much.  It's just how much the groom is worth, so I judge it as such.

B--I forgot my camera, so you'll never know how fabulous (or utterly not) I looked.

C--The Christmas potential of this early December date was grossly under utilized.  No lights, no trees, not so much as a single poinsettia in sight.  The only thing she (the bride) did winter-right was a heavy brocade over-coat with a white fur trimmed collar.  No elbow length gloves though, no muff.  And I did dispair.

D--Reindeer was served as the main course.  Rudolph tastes best when seared quickly on all sides, then wrapped in foil to rest in a very low temperature oven for maybe 15 minutes.  The blood should be warm--not cold. 

E--Vixen is looking forward to his chance to lead the team this year.

F--I was not the only American in attendance.  I was, however, the only one who enjoyed dinner.

G--I counted 3 fer-sures, 2 problees, and 4 might-as-welluv-been recycled bride's maid dresses in the crowd.  I spent a good portion of the evening wondering what Jilly would have to say about this phenomenon.

H--The music was live.  Accordians were involved.  The second song out was a soft-rock meets polka rendition of  "I Shot the Sheriff".  And I did dispair.

I--It seems money really doesn't necessarily buy taste.

J--It can buy a damn fine chef though.  Have I mentioned the crab salad?

K--I knew exactly two people at this multi-million dollar wedding:  Mister, and the multi-million dollar groom.   Both of whom I danced with. 

L--One of these men grabbed my ass mid-dip.

M--The crab salad was worth the grope.

N--All in all, it was a fine wedding. 

O--But a Christmas wedding it certainly wasn't.  Which is sad, because I've always wanted to go to one of those.....

Oh hi!

Are you all still here?

Your loyalty, and optimism, frankly, at this point flatter me.

Really.

There's stuff to say. Jilly Baby came for a visit. Thanksgiving last week as a hoot--probably one of those 'best ever' events that will be hard to live up to next year and beyond. There's also the endless to-ing and fro-ing of the Christmas season I could fill you all in on. But I won't. Or at least, I can't right now. I have a wicked posh wedding to attend this weekend.

(Hear that Mom? A CHRISTMAS wedding! It happens. People do it.)

And anyway, there's a fair amount of shaving and plucking to be done in preparation for said wedding, so I can't get into a long catch-up kind of deal here.

But I finally got someone to send me a few pictures from my Thanksgiving feast (I was distracted....also....drunk....and didn't take any of my own). And I just had to take a few minutes to share this one here.

It goes out to a special friend....you know who you are....
(See you next Friday!)

Part Of This Actually Happened. I SWEAR!

So the Mormon missionaries from the library are stalking me.  They found me again today.  And the way I know they're stalking me is the first thing Sister Drew-the-short-straw-so-she-has-to-approach-the-scary-apostate said when she walked up to me was, "We're not stalking you!  I SWEAR!"

Tjeh--way to play it cool there Sister Smooth.  Not at all suspicious.

She invited me and my entire family to Thanksgiving dinner at the ward house.  I politely declined explaining that I do a traditional dinner of my own every year for a big group of friends.  But I told her I had a friend flying in from Scotland next week whose husband has been very curious about her organization in the past,  "Would she be welcome?"

Blink. Blink.

"Um, sssssure.  I guess.  But....won't she?  you know?  be eating with you?"

"Not necessarily.  We'll see what she shows up with.  Last time she came with chocolate eggs for the children and whiskey for Mister.  But no tea.  So I bid my cat kill her first born; he very nearly succeeded.  I doubt she'll forget the tea this time, but look, if there's no shortbread in that bag of hers, she's going to be giving her thanks at someone else's bountiful repast.  That's just the way it is."

Blinkblinkblink.

"All righty then!  Okay!  Buh-bye!"

And that was it.  She turned tail and ran.  Didn't even offer to say a closing prayer before she left.  And it was snowing pretty hard outside too.  If ever there was a night she needed the Lord's blessing for a safe journey home it was tonight.  Hope she made it okay.


Oh, and also......Boy totally read his first book tonight.  Read the shit out of it!  Dove fearlessly into the text, plumbing the lines for hidden complexities and subtle meaning.  He owned that motherfucker.  I SWEAR!

Take that dried up, nay-saying, intellectually immature-labling teacher!  Take it, and shove it!

New This Season: SAD Steals My Writing Chops

Look, I'm sorry, all right.  I've tried.  I've really tried.  I spent three days working on this piece about my run in with Mormon missionaries in the library, then realized I was knee deep in a pile of steaming shit and wisely walked away.  Then I made Norwegian weirdness #7 for dinner and tried to write about that for awhile until it dawned on me that there's really nothing particularly funny to say about stewed lamb and cabbage.  But hey, if anyone needs an artfully framed picture of a pile of steaming shit Fårikål, let me know.  I've got them with and without my sky blue tea kettle in the back ground.

My kids aren't being funny.  My husband isn't being very funny.  My cat is dying a slow miserable death and I can't afford to take him back to the vet, which is so unfunny as to break your heart.  I could tell you all about the three parent-teacher conferences I've attended over the past two weeks, but the basic conclusion would be Boy is intellectually immature and Elder Miss is turning into a moody loner who prefers books to friends, and this strikes me as, well, singularly unfunny.  As would be the long screed of steaming shit righteous invective against Boy's teacher who I'm pretty sure has just written him off as an educational loss because at 6 years and 3 months he's still a bit puppyish and short of attention.  She actually said to me, "I don't even want to talk about anything academic for him until after Easter, but can you tell me why he cries so easily?" 

Um, because you're a cold-hearted bitch? 

Maybe?

See?  Unfunny, and now I'm crying.

I don't do well with the perma-gloam of winter in Mordor Bergen.  Too obvious, right?

I am being smarter about my reading material this year though.  Khaled Hosseini has been banished, and anything revisiting the Holocaust can wait unitl after Easter along with Boy's delayed education.  I'm spending this winter with two of the fattest science fictiony bull shit novels you've ever seen--Pandora's Star and its sequel.  A thousand plus pages of mindless drivel each.  Not exactly the most inspiring prose ever written, but it'll get me through to January in one piece.

So, I'm still here.  I'm just not writing much.

I go through this every year.  I'm fine.  Whatever. 

Tis' the season, right?

#6

Part six in a continuing series exploring the wonderous weirdness of the Norwegian wold.

Tonight's topic: weird footwear.

If you were to take a cultural sensitivity class about how not to be overly offensive during your stay in Norway, one of the first things you'd be told is, do not wear outdoor shoes inside a Norwegian household.

This crucial imparative would come right after the 'avoid eye contact with strangers and innocuous, friendly gestures of greeting in public as locals will think you're soft in the head, and waste precious warming energy being annoyed with you and wondering why the system isn't doing its job in keeping such threatening menaces off the streets' lecture. But sometime before the critical 'fish balls, fish cakes, and fish eggs (no, not those kinds of balls you perverted, ignorant foreigner, you)' appreciation course. It's really that important.

No wet, dirty shoes inside. Period. Invest in some warm, thick, whimsically decorative socks. Or Crocs. Every school child in Norway is required to have a pair of indoor shoes at school which they change into first thing in the morning, and after every recess. It's not uncommon for office workers to do the same. If you're going to a dinner party and wish to wear your fancy dress pumps with your cocktail dress, you carry said dress pumps to the party in a ubiquitous plastic shopping bag, then change out of your wet wellies once you arrive at the party.

Now, if you happen to be taking your daughter to her Tuesday night ballet class and can't be bothered to bring along your favorite pair of indoor Crocs to wear while you wait, do not fret. Look around. There's likely to be a small basket just inside the door holding a ragged collection of blue plastic booties that you can easily slip over your outdoor shoes. Doctor's offices, barnehages, gyms, and dentists all will have the same basket.

And here's the really weird part.....people actually do it........

Could Not Be More Proud Today

I went to bed last night around 2 a.m. 

Kentucky had just been called for McCain.  Vermont had just been called for Obama.  Some analysts were talking smack about Indiana leaning towards McCain.  And I just couldn't take it anymore.

I tossed.  I turned.  I think I got up to pee 4 times.

I woke up drenched in a cold sweat around 5 a.m.  I had just dreamt that Wolf Blitzer had called the election for McCain, then busted into a manic giggle saying, "Heh!  Just kidding!  You shoulda' seen your faces!  Bwah-hahahahahaaaa".  As soon as it settled in my befuddled brain that it had just been a dream, I had to get up.

The headline on CNN's home page said "McCain camp losing hope as Obama's lead widens".  The electoral college count stood at Obama 222, McCain 135.

I found a dry nightie, went back to bed, and slept like a baby for a whole hour and a half before Mister's alarm went off--the news of Obama's victory all over the radio.

And that's the story of election night at JEDA's house.

Elder Miss wanted to know why I was in such a good mood.  "Because it's a happy day my beauties!  America chose a new president last night, and we got it right this time!"

To which Boy asked, "Is it George Washington again?"

"No, Boy.  He's dead," said EM, "It's that man with the brown skin, right mom?"

"Right my darlings!  Only his name is Barack Obama.  Say it with me: BA ROCK O BAM A."

"MUH BOCK O MAMA"

"Whatever!  I'm in too good a mood to let your poor syntax get in the way of my happiness.  We shall work on it tonight!  EM you shall write his name 10 times on a piece of paper and memorize a brief biography to share with your class on Thursday.  Boy you shall aspire to be like him in every way.  Missy you work on clapping and swooning every time I say 'Change has come to America'.  Now go forth.  Today will be a great day!  Today you are Americans!"

Halloween is slowly catching on in Norway. 

Slowly. 

Reluctantly. 

Every year there's an ever wider selection of cheap black and orange tat to be purchased in the cheap seasonal, tat stores.  Every year there are more and more neighborhoods where it is accepted--expected, even--practice for children to dress up and bang on doors demanding free candy.  This year there was even a sort of Haunted House put on by Elder Miss and Boy's school; apparently, one of Elder Miss's teachers was roped into donning a ratty black wig and white robe, and screaming "Help me!  Help me!" while one of the 7th graders chased her around with a plastic ax.  Awesome, I say.  And not the least bit inappropriate.

We celebrated Halloween night with The Vibrant Ms. M's family.

Vlad here seems to think that, contrary to popular wisdom, vampires turn into baby bats when exposed to sunlight.  And also, that no self-respecting vampire would hungrily gulp down the blood of his victim, but rather, gently lap it up with his tongue, you know, like a kitten.

Snow White's dress was two sizes too big.  When I asked her where her dwarves were, she lifted up her skirt and said, "I don't know.  Under here I sink."

Indy couldn't wait to wipe the simpering smile off that damn she-devil's inscrutable face.  I half hoped he'd succeed.

After dark, we sent the whole pack of kids out trick-or-treating supervised by these two fools.  That's Mister Vibrant Ms. M there on the right.  Does he not look ever so slightly like Ozzy Osbourne paying homage to the humble dairy cow?  And if you're a little shocked that my Mister loosened up enough to play along and walk out of the house looking like Shrek in pin curls....Dude, so am I.  Like I said--slowly....reluctantly.....Halloween is starting to catch on in Norway.