Gassy, And Furthermore, Jejune

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

Banal, yes.

Insipid, maybe.

Inane, most definitely.

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

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

Because Grandma Asked For It

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

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

Thirdly, it's Norwegian. Deal with it.

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

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

Before

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

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


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


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


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


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

After

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

A Quickie In Honor Of Leap Day

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

“Boy, be quiet.”

“Okay.”

“Are you being quiet?”

Silence

“Are you being quiet?”

Nary a peep

“ARE YOU BEING QUIET?”

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

“ARE! YOU! BE! ING! QUI! ET!”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What could I do but laugh?

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

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

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

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

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

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


Act I: Scenes I and II

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

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

Act II: Scene I

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

Act III: Scene I

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

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

Boy: (defiant) Me too.

Elder Miss: Maybe there is.

Boy: Nah. Let’s make one up!

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

Missy: (giggle) That rhymes.

Boy: Yeah, and he has a jet pack.

Missy: And a monkey!

Elder Miss: And he can control the weather.

Boy: Bob-nob sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So here it is: The Naughty Mice

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

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

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

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

Mummy says:
--Where are our cats?

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

They hear a snap.

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

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

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

Mary and Steven are going to sleep.

Steven says:
--How many mice got trapped?

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

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

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

New Year's Resolution: Resolved

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

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

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

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

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

"3."

"I think 4."

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Ndugu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helpful. Not.

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

Making The Cut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! Exactly.”

“They don’t know much about undercuts.”

“No! Nothing at all!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sick Leave

My apologies for not checking in sooner.

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

I have a thing for ferry boats.

No I don't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harumph.

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

Merry Christmas!

The True Meaning Of Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Santa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Three.”

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

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

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

B-O-Y

“You live with your sister?”

DUH-UH

“And how old are you this year?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone blinks.

Santa grunts, “Eh?”

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

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

“Say it again EM. Say it again!”

So she does, “LittlestPetShopRoundAndRoundPetTownPlaySet.”

And we laugh again. Harder this time.

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

What to do? What to do?

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

Advent

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

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

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

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

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

So off we went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This And That

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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