Happy Day-After-Your Birthday, Missy!

Please God make it stop calling my name!

Hope Chest

I spent several hours this morning sorting through the kids' toys. It's time. There's 7 years worth of accumulated plastic crap up there.

Most of it I put in a box marked "Salvation Army". But some of it--the nice wooden stuff, the stuff that won't age--I put in another box destined for the attic.

This year my kids will be 7, 5, and 3. Today I put a stash of toys away for my grandkids.

Jesus. What a leap of faith.

Role Play

"Oh, isn't that a splendid idea!"

"What did you just say, Boy?"

"It's such a splendid idea!" This time clapping his hands and hugging them in to his heart for added emphasis.

"Seriously, Boy. That's weird. Why are you saying that?"

"It's something I just say when I'm being a girl."

Life IS Pain, Princess. Anyone Who Tells You Otherwise Is Selling You Something.

Ah, the politics of little girlhood. It has begun. Two weekends ago the weather was gorgeous and the phone was ringing off the hook with Elder Miss's little friends wanting to play. Last weekend the weather was something significantly less than gorgeous and no one called, which was just as well really, since she was sick and feverish and weak as a runty little kitten. But she still asked, "I wonder why anybody hasn't called me."

On Sunday, Mister was playing and giggling with Missy at the kitchen table. They were apparently whispering sweet nothings in each other's ear. Elder Miss muttered from the couch, "It's not nice to whisper. Martine is always whispering in Elin's ear, and it makes me feel bad."

On Monday, for the first time since autumn, she dragged her feet at the door, begged me not to make her go to school because "Elin was my very first best friend, but Martine won't let me play with her anymore." And yet twice last week EM missed the bus home because "Martine didn't want to play with Elin anymore, and she said I should miss the bus and play with her instead. She said it would be okay."

At her parent/teacher conference a few weeks ago, her teacher warned us that the three of them--EM, Martine, and Elin--were quite the turbulent little trio, one minute thick as thieves, the next bickering little ninnies. Natural. Normal. To be expected, I guess. But Christ what a headache!

Then there is the issue of birthday parties. It's a huge class, 66 kids split into 3 smaller groups. The information we were given at the beginning of the year was, of course no one expects you to invite every kid to any given party. It's traditional--recommended even--that you invite all the girls or all the boys, depending, in your group, but please be descreet about how you hand out the invitations.

Early last week, EM came home and matter of factly stated that she saw a whole bunch of party invitations being put in backpacks, but none of them had her name on, so she guessed she wasn't invited. She did not act terribly upset about this at the time. But this morning I went into her room to hurry her along, and found her sitting in her bed with a sad, grumpy pout on her face, so I ask, "What's wrong?"

"Today's Iselin's birthday."

"Ah," say I, Iselin is one of the girls EM has recently spent time with on the weekend. "Is she having a birthday party today?"

Elder Miss shrugs, "I don't know. Why don't the party cards (she means invitations) ever have my name on them?" EM has only received 3 invitations for the entire academic year.

Because people suck, baby. And life stinks. And little girls aren't terribly nice to one another. Get used to it. Of course I don't actually say this, but I want to. I'm certainly thinking it as I put her off saying maybe she's not having a party, maybe the party is this weekend and she'll get an invitation today, maybe Iselin's mom decided to only invite the girls in her I group and since EM isn't in that group there's really nothing I can do about any of it. So quitcher' belly achin' and GET DRESSED already!

Later at breakfast, EM says over a mouthful of Cheerios, "Elin and Martine don't like Iselin. They say mean things about her."

"Like what?"

"Mean things."

I can't get her to be more specific, probably because they say these mean things in Norwegian and she doesn't know how to translate them. So I ask, "What do you do when they say these mean things?"

"Don't know," she shrugs, which I think it's safe to say means nothing. Back-stabbing little bitch.

I'm not complaining. Nor am I terribly worried about her. I remember grade school. I remember playing this game. I remember taking turns being all the relevant characters in the drama. One day I was Martine turning one friend against another. The next day I was Iseline wondering why Elin was being such a bitch. And two days later I was EM, crying because I hadn't been invited to the party where all the cool kids would be.

It's had me thinking an awful lot about my childhood nemisis Jennifer Murray. It makes me want to find Jennifer Murray and give her a great big hug. No, actually, it makes me want to find Jennifery Murray's slightly off-color mother, Carlene, and give her a great big hug and apologize for being so mean to her baby girl.

The Horror, The Unspeakable Ghastly Horror

Doctor finds spiders in ear of boy with earache

Profanities are the only words that come to mind.

The Non Sequitur As Art

Boy, who did you play with at school today?

Andreas. But he thinks all dinosaurs are mean. But they're not. Because I know that some T rexes are nice. But not the ones with the angry eyes. They're mean. Because Axel is a little bit naughty. But I like to wear my blue socks to bed.


Boy, have you brushed your teeth yet?

Yup. Daddy helped me. But he used the green toothpaste. I like the green toothpaste. But the blue one has stars in it. Missy likes the stars. I like the stars too. But I ate oranges for lunch.


Boy, do you need to go to the bathroom before we leave?

No.

When did you last go?

Just when I was just upstairs. And I lifted up the lid. And it was soooo heavy. But I'm strong. And big. But Lightning DeQueen is a boy. Not a girl. So he's a king. Not a queen. You're a queen. But I don't like Woody.


Oh no, Boy! Look at the size of that bruise. That must have hurt. How did you do that?

But I have to poop.


Boy! For the last time, GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR PANTS!

But the sun makes my head hurt.


Boy, did you eat all your lunch today?

I did. But first I make the bread that is together into two. Then I eat all of the peanut butter. Then I make the ends in a line and I eat them too. But Andreas likes my dinosaur lunch box. Andreas is bigger than me. But he's still my friend. But Eefin is bigger than Finn because he is my cousin.

And your milk, Boy. Did you drink your milk?

No. I'm a little bit afraid crocodiles.


__________________________



Honest to God, this is why I drink.

No Gnews Is Good Gnews

Generally speaking, I don't like to spend too much time stewing over the heaping piles of moldering crap I read in the news everyday. I mean, there's only so many times you can say, "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" before you start to sound a little simple and slow on the uptake. They keep repeating themselves day after day after ever-loving day, so clearly, they're quite serious. I get that now. I accept it. I no longer allow myself to get too riled up about any of it.

Everyday, I read the headlines at CNN and The New York Times. I check a few of my favorite leftist-leaning, newsy type blogs for my daily dose of anit-Bush bile, followed by a disproportionate amount of time trolling the celebrity gossip rags for the truly griping news of the day. It's important to be informed, right enough. But knowing how the Supreme Court is positioning itself to reverse Roe v. Wade, or lamenting the lax gun laws that allowed a mentally ill student to purchase weapons that would be used in a senseless, shocking massacre doesn't get the kids fed, or the laundry folded. Alec Baldwin may be an ass, and the students at BYU may have a tougher brand of moxie than I had previously given them credit for, but EM's got homework and Missy hasn't pooped for two days, so best not to dwell on any of it too long.

And so it goes. Easy-peasy.

Until I happened upon this wee item: The Vanishing of the Bees (article).

I can't stop thinking about it. It's seriously freaking me out. I've lost sleep over the where, and the why, and the whatever could it mean of it. It's just not right. It MUST be explained! I mean !PEOPLE! They're just disappearing! Poof! Gone! So long, and thanks for all the pollen. Why?

But I read something today on one of the open threads at The Daily Kos that greatly put my mind at ease. I'd link to it directly, but I can't seem to find it again. I hope it's okay if I paraphrase here, because I don't want any of you to worry, as I have, over this perplexing and troubling apiary mystery. One wise contributor said:

They've been Raptured. We're left with the unbelievers.

Amen.

Grovel, Grovel

Cringe, Bow, Stoop, Faaallllll

So now you know. JEDA 202--I like Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, can quote from pretty much all of them at will, lip sync a mean Jesus Christ Superstar (in its entirety) when drunk, and even found stuff to like about the regrettable Aspects of Love. Not exactly something I advertise, but all too true. Judge me if you must. Whatever. Not what I came here to talk about.

* * * *

As most of you already know, due to some rather bullshit power politics and money mongering, Missy did not get accepted to pre-school at The International School of Bergen next fall. They'll tell you, "No, no. It's just because we're such a damn fine institution, and everybody wants to be us, see...record high number of applicants...record low number of students leaving. Blah, blah blah." It's all a lie. It's all about oil, and they thoroughly screwed me over just because my husband isn't one of their corporate whores.

I'm sorry. Do I sound bitter? Am I not explaining myself very clearly? Allow me to speak more plainly. The school's board of trustees recently decided that they want the student body to be comprised solely of rootless transients and gypsies children of temporarily relocated employees of large oil companies. The tuition for corporate sponsorship is more than twice that which we mere mortals in the private sector are expected to pay. So it makes sense in a greedy, world-gone-money-mad sort of way, that the school would seek out these higher fees to the exclusion of the actual citizens of the community in which the school is located.

The upshot of all of it is that, despite having been loyal to this school for the past 5 years, paid my tuition in full and on time every month; despite even, Boy being currently enrolled there for Kindergarten next year, Missy is persona non grata--wait-listed. And, in case you hadn't picked up on it, I'm pissed.

I know from my many, many conversations with the secretaries in the office that there are, in actuality, still a few places available. Rumor in the hallways has it that these places are most likely being held open for corporate sponsored students who may or may not drift in through the course of the year. Though, from what I can gather of various things the secretaries have told me, whether or not to grant one of these open spots to someone on the waiting list is up to the director's personal discretion. She may yet decide to do it, and I know that Missy is rather high up there on the waiting list--not first, apparently (though she bloody well ought to be), but close enough that she's got a shot if Madam Director is feeling generous.

To this end, in a last ditch, all too blatant, more than likely too little too-late effort to raise my seemingly sub-terranean profile at the school, I showed up at the monthly PTO meeting yesterday. Fucking hell--make that four amendments to JEDA 101! I am shameless in my desperation.

Spring fairs, family outings, collect this, organize that, bake two cakes, and don't forget to courtsey on your way out the door. I HATE COMMITEE WORK! And none of it--NONE OF IT--is going to help get Missy enrolled next year. But I have to do something.

I want to remind someone of the 7 years worth of National Geographics I donated to the library last year, but how do I bring it up?

I've considered offering to pay the entire year's tuition in one lump sum, but we can only afford to do that for Missy (or Boy, but not both), and I've been reliably cautioned that it would be unwise to remind them that this is all really about money.

So what?

I wait, is what. I'm making some calls on the possibility of getting her in somewhere else. But I'm dragging my feet. I don't want her anywhere else. I want her there--with Boy. I want what's right, and it pisses me off that I have to beg for it. But it may literally come to that.

Also--oil is evil! Seek alternative sources of energy NOW!

P.S. Jilly. Baby. No offense, eh? You know I love you even though you're one of them. Right?

.....the Mountain Lies Ahead.

Mister says I'm ready to mount this monster.

It's called Malmangernuten.

In May, as soon as the snow's off it, I'm going up.

12 years ago he told me he'd take me up there some day. I looked at him then, and laughed, "Dude, are you high? Is that some sort of threat? Is this Hell, and is that why it's so fucking cold here?"

I've changed a bit since then. I'm actually looking forward to it.

Personal Hygiene

"Mom, why do boys' voices change and girls get boobs?"

"Ah. Well EM, eh.......well let's see. It's to do with something called hormones. It's just one of the many ways boys and girls are different."

"And boys get hairy too, don't they?"

"Yes. Yes, they do."

"But girls get hairy too, don't they?"

"Well, yes. But boys generally get more hairy than girls."

"But girls get hair down there on their pee pees, right?"

"Ahem. Yes, EM. Both boys and girls get hair there."

"But I can cut it. Right?"

"Well, yes. I suppose you can. Some girls do, I guess."

"Oh good! Because I don't want it hanging down to my knees!"

NB!

I am pleased to announce the following revisions to the curriculum vitae JEDA 101:

7--I can't parallel park. This is no longer true, for I can, and have several times now, in fact, executed flawless such parking maneuvers outside The Boy's school. Yey me!

62--I'm pushing at a size 12 and it's killing me. Also, now, false. All the long, dark winter--through pissing rain, and grueling cold--I busted my ass out there on the pavement. I shaved 4 minutes off my 5K, I added an additional 2.5 kilometers to my overall endurance. I'm back into a comfortable--roomy, even--size 10 with genuine hope of seeing a size 8 once again in my lifetime. I know you already know how much I rock, but I need you to take a moment to really feel it with me.

78--Nothing makes me happier than watching a toddler try to dance. I never much liked this entry. It was hasty filler, sentimental fluff, grossly exaggerated nonsense that, frankly doesn't ring true. There are many, many things that make me happier than watching a toddler dance. Off the top of my head--putting that toddler to bed, for example, never fails to gladden my spirit in a way that the awkward bump and swagger of her diapered derrière simply can't. However, rather than try to pin down and label the one thing which makes me happier than all other things, I wish to amend #78 entirely so that it now reads: I actually kind of like my crappy Kia.

In Which I Resist the Urge To Say, "Long Time No Blog"

For the record, I don't owe you people any excuses! It's my blog. I can abandon it when I want to.

Not that I wanted to. I've actually had things to say. Gripping things about life and the weather, and what a soulless, rancorous bitch Missy is. Really important shit, that you, as my captive, eagar audience, need to know.

But alas, other, more pressing matters got in the way. Hard to say exactly what. Honestly, I forget. But I'm sure it had something to do with that heartless, hard-headed, obstinate mule of a harpy-aping daughter of mine. That surly, uncompromising, head-strong, wilful little I'll-move-when-I-bloody-well-feel-like-it-and-not-a-second-sooner-you-spineless-impotent-old-hag wee whippersnapper with whom I've been engaging in open hostilities for the better part of a month now.

Pfft. The Terrible Two's. As if. Hard-hitting, urban warfare with sippy grenades and minion troops of Fisher Price Little People more like. I've been through this battle twice before, so I've got experience on my side. But Jesus God! She is orders of magnitude scrappier than my other two opponents! Our stand-offs bring to mind the scene in that awful King Arthur movie of a few years back, where the Stellan Skaarsgård character finally meets Arthur before the final battle and walks away muttering, "Finally, a man worth killin'." That's Missy and I. It's do-or-die. We fight to the death.

The Union Will Stand Afterall

It was my birthday Friday.

In an attempt to redress the Valentine's Rose Fiasco of a few weeks ago, Mister conjured these beauties from the dusty ruins of our once romantic past.

Red this time, for passion. There was a shiny diamond and emerald ring involved too.

Psst I think he still likes me

More Evidence That I Totally Rule

This is what my pulse watch does when I meet my exercise goals for the week.

I win!

Sure, it's never happened before. But now that I know, it's so going to happen more often.

Like a Freshly Fallen Silent Shroud of Snow

Mister decided it was high time he strapped a pair of skis on me and took me back country skiing.
I don't mean to brag or anything, but I sort of rocked it.
And God Damn! But does the world ever get pretty when you leave the cities behind.

Norwegian real estate is booming!
We're going to set Alpha Grandma up in one of these sweet cabins for her retirement.
You're Welcome, Mom. Really. It's the least we could do.

For the record--I made those tracks.
And that tiny wee speck of black on the trail behind me--that's Mister.
Eat my dust, Darling!

Deconstructing Dr. Seuss

I know I've mentioned La Dragon before. Nice girl. Enthusiastic drinker. Lives in Seattle. Look her up if you're ever in the area.

The interesting thing about us see, is that the majority of our relationship has been played out over the internet. We met in Florence in '94 where we studied with the same Junior Year Abroad program. She liked it. I did not. But we both liked the Chianti. We bonded over the Chianti.

After that year, we went back to our respective snooty New England colleges. We didn't really keep in touch. I heard about her through various mutual friends. She doubtless heard about me through similar channels. But that was about it.

I moved to Norway right after graduation. She got a job in Connecticut, I think it was. I seem to recall exchanging a few letters here and there--the old fashioned, written kind, which is sweet--but not much more. And then one day, about a year later, I got a phone call from her. She said she was moving across country to be with this guy she'd met, and she was really nervous about it, but he was swell, and her job wasn't that great anyway, and life is too short, and shit I'm probably crazy, but oh well, and by the way, how are you?

That was it. I was smitten all over again. I'm a total sucker for chicks who are willing to drop everything and run off to be with some boy. E-mail addresses were exchanged, and we started writing. Regularly. Daily, for a while there, back when neither one of us had anything better to do.

The point of all this is to say I have, stored on various hard-drives scattered about the house, seven years worth of correspondence between her and me. A handy little record of my life since moving abroad and starting a family. Last night as I was trying to move the bulk of the record off my old hard-drive onto my laptop, I came across the following account of a conversation I had with Mister four years ago. So charmed and amused was I upon rereading it, that I knew I had to resurrect it--clean it, polish it, publish it here.



The Scene: A snowy February morning. We're in the car: Mister is driving, an 18 month old Not-Quite-Yet-Elder Miss sits safely harnessed in the backseat, a moderately pregnant JEDA rides shotgun. We're on the way to a pre-natal appointment. I had just found out 3 weeks earlier that Boy's identical twin had disappeared, and having not yet felt any movement from the remaining fetus, I was visably nervous, preoccupied, and not in the mood for idle chit chat.

Mister begins out of the clear blue nowhere:

"Hey, ya' know that cat with the hat book?"

"Yeah." I'm not really paying attention, but I'm annoyed nonetheless that he got the name wrong.

"It really means something, doesn't it?"

"Waddaya mean?" I snap, not really wanting to encourage further discussion, but feeling like I need to be polite.

"Well, it's about learning to pick up after yourself. Right?"

"Sure, yeah, I guess that's the overall moral of the story." I'm feeling a little smug now because, DUH! Like obviously. How long did it take him to figure that out?

After a thoughtful pause, he adds, "And the cat--he's not really real, right? He's....like, the naughty side of kids.....bad judgement when they're left alone to look after themselves. Maybe?"

"Um, yeah," I say, trying to sound like I've already given this a lot of thought, "That's right."

"So that makes the fish the good conscience," Mister surmises, clearly pleased with his insight.

"Right," I agree, a bit more interested now, "Like Jimminy Cricket!"

"Who?"

"Never mind," I mutter, wondering how I ended up hitched to a cultural simplton who doesn't even know who Jimminy Cricket is.

We stop for a red light. EM sees a dog, "Voff, voff!!" she shouts with glee.

"A doggie!, Yes, EM Good girl!" we say in unison--except his is in Norwegian.

"And that Thing One and Thing Two," Mister probes as the light turns green. This a bit slower, like he's just thought of this now, "They're the kids. Sally and the boy."

Holy shit! I think he's on to something here! I'm totally getting into it now, "Yeah! Yeah! And that big, red, wood box.....that's sort of like Pandora's Box kind of.....and once the id is set free there's really no telling what kind of trouble it can get you into unless you listen to the voice of reason....the fish, right.......and.....and..." Clearly I've lost him, "I'm sorry, dear, you were saying?"

"Nothing." He's pouting now because I stole his thunder.

"Come on. Tell me. This is interesting. What?" Feeling ever so slightly guilty for having interrupted his train of thought.

"No. That's about it. It's just there's so many layers to it. You don't expect it at first," He says, thoughtful again, "And Green Eggs and Ham....that's about not being afraid to try new things, right?"

"Well, sort of," I conceded, my straight face back on, "But it's mostly about S&M."

"Huh?! What?!!!!" He panics, and looks back at Emma to see if she's listening. She's not.

"Kidding darling. Just a joke."

With that, we lapse back into a comfortable silence. After a minute or two he starts singing at EM. And I go back to wondering if the baby died last week or the week before.




P.S. It's wrong of me to continue to mention excessive drinking as one of La Dragon's defining characteristics. It's not. She has many other fine qualities too lofty and rare to cover within the scoop of this meager rag. And she doesn't drink....that much.

P.S.S. You could have told me I had misspelled Seuss, Nan. I mean honestly.

This Means Something. But I'm Not Sure What.

Mister managed to remember not only to come home on Valentine's Day--a significant and noteworthy occasion in its own right, but alas, a story for another day--but also to get me roses to mark the 10th anniversary of the day he proposed to me.

Yellow--the color of friendship, familiar love, and domestic happiness. Not exactly undying love and devotion, but whatever. I'll take what I can get.

This is what they looked like when I got up the next morning.

Should I be worried?

In Which Missy Engages in Independent Play

Ms. M likes to tell stories about how Sanne (age 2) likes to make her Little People talk to each other. Apparently, there's a mom with a high pitched voice and a dad with a low pitched voice, and they call each other "Darling" and tell each other to please hurry up they're late. It's all very cute and good for a laugh, but up until now I've had nothing to contribute to the hilarity, because none of my kids have ever been much for playing with by themselves.

Well, I'm happy to report that Missy now does much the same thing with her Snap n' Style Fisher Price dolls. Only the conversations go something like this:

DOLL 1: I so pretty.

DOLL 2: I pretty too.

DOLL 1: You so pretty.

DOLL 2: You pretty too.

DOLL 1: I so pretty.

DOLL 2: I pretty too.

DOLL 1: I pretty.

DOLL 2: No, I pretty.

DOLL 1: No! I pretty.

DOLL 2: NO! I PRETTY!

Scratching, biting, tearing off of clothes ensues.

Then she puts different clothes on them and starts all over again.

How proud am I?

Monkey Say, Monkey Do

If you ask Missy to please chew with her mouth closed, she'll shut her eyes, squint has hard as she can, cover her ears with her hands, and announce proudly, "I close now, Mommy! I close gooooood."

I've decided not to rate this peculiar behavior as part of her native intelligence, or lack thereof. It's her art, you see. It's an interpretive thing.

The Blahs Have a New Face

I was cursing quite the blue streak last Friday, I tell you what! Fucking Blogger shut me down without so much as a by your leave.

Error. Error. Error. Bunch of nonsense letters and a message to report the problem to Blogger support. But no link. Where the hell is Blogger support? I don't know! Don't bother me now kids, Mommy's up to her elbows in some serious computer hate here. Gunna take all day.

I eventually made my way to a discussion board where a bunch of other users were reporting exactly the same problem with the exact same string of fuckall letters. Oh, and by the way, where the hell is Blogger support?

Nevermind. Some kindly, smarty-pants blogger finally took the time to inform all us floundering rubes that the problem was the old templates had been discontinued, and all we had to do was update our template to get back online. Which I did forthwith, and everything was fine, except the new version of my old template looked stupid. So I spent another 2 hours tweaking a new one.

Dinner was a bit late Friday night. But well worth the wait. There are a few things I'd change if I could, but I don't know enough about html and css blahdyblahdyblah to figure it out. Whatever. T'wil serve.

No other news. Mister is leaving for Singapore in the morning. Going to be gone all week. Elder Miss is not leaving it up to chance this time--she's making a list of possible treasures she'd like from the Orient.