Two weeks ago when I was on the phone with dad making final arrangements for his and my step-mother’s upcoming visit, I said,”Look, I’m hoping against hope for at least one nice, sunny day while you’re here. But it’s been cold and rainy for weeks now. So for heaven’s sake bring a sweater, and try to get excited about drizzle and fog.”
He dismissed my warnings with a casual, “No. No. Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do.”
As long as I can remember, see—as long as anyone, apparently, can remember—my sweet daddy has had a bit of a God-complex. He’d like us all to believe that it is perfectly within his power to get Jesus on the horn, call in a favor, thus arranging the weather to his liking for any given week.
He went a long way last week towards proving his point.
A week ago Thursday, just about the time they would have been leaving American airspace, I’ll be damned if the clouds overhead began breaking up, the temperature nudged up a bit, and a mother-fucking rainbow appeared on the western horizon heralding their impending arrival. By the time they landed in Bergen on Friday morning, summer had officially—emphatically—returned to Norway. All week long—‘twas sunny, ‘twas hot, ‘twas glorious. And my daddy ‘twas one smug son of a bitch.
Oh sure, there were a few glitches in his order. Two thunderstorms rolled through mid-week making a God awful racket and hammering the hell out of my new roses. But Camelot-like, they didn’t blow in till after sundown, and by 8 their attending fog had entirely disappeared. Then yesterday evening during our farewell, lakeside barbeque, an almighty freak of a windstorm blew in out of nowhere scattering napkins and empty beer cans thither and yon, and sending me into a bit of a panic about not getting to introduce more initiates into my new cult of the Smorsh. While I was running around trying to gather up all our picnic bits for a hasty retreat once the rain started, dad sat cool as you please, wine glass in hand, saying, “Tut tut, Jamie. Not to worry. It’ll die down any minute now. This is just a little preview of what’s to come once I leave. Besides, we need to get those coals stoked up a bit for premium marshmallow roasting, don’t we now.”
Five minutes later—the wind (no gentle summer zephyr, mind you, nor even a bracing Autumn bluster, but a full out batton-down-the-hatches, tape-up-the-windows, and give-it-an-old-fashioned-antiquated-name-for-emphasis windstorm ) had blown itself out, the lake had regained its preferred reflective properties, and the coals of our little campfire were all aglow—whipped into a radiating frenzy by the wind, they practically begged us to stick a marshmallow within reach of their throbbing, toasty goodness.
And so we did.
And we ate the Smorsh. And the Smorsh was good.
Two or three beers into the party, Anita (my not even remotely wicked step-mother) leaned over and said, “It’s really me, you know. I’m the one who brought the good weather. I just let him think he’s doing it to prop up the old man’s flagging ego.”
This may be so. Not the flagging ego bit. Dad would want me to hasten to assure you all that his ego is in perfect working order. But it’s true that Anita can only speak of rumors of rain in Bergen for she’s never actually seen any. Every time she’s been here the weather has been on its very best behavior. So maybe she really is our lucky charm.
Either way I’m grateful for it, because we really did have a wonderful week. Or, at least I did. I suppose it’s presumptuous to speak for everyone else (obviously nothing wrong with my ego either, winkwink). We were limited in what we could do because we only had the one car and no where near enough room in it to fit everyone. So for the most part we contented ourselves with swimming in the lake, and taking short walks on some of the local trails. Nothing terribly exciting, and yet somehow everything a summer vacation should be.
I’ll post a few pictures tomorrow. Dad got some beauties of the kids. I totally covet his camera. The stingy bastard refused to leave it here for me though. Maybe it was because I kept making him eat fish…..
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Reluctant Teetotaler
It seems I have a drinking problem.
Now before you commence with all your smug mmm-hmming and well-I-might-have-guessed-ing, allow me to clarify: it's not a slurring, drooling, shame your children, wreck your marriage, blight your liver kind of drinking problem I'm talking about. And no Jilly, it's not the Airplane kind either (funny as that would be).
It's to do with my sleep, see. Alcohol is fucking with my sleep. And it's really starting to piss me off.
I don't deserve to be fucked with in this manner. It's not like I drink massive amounts of alcohol. Sure, I'll admit to drinking often. Especially now during summer when Mister is on vacation, and working in the yard building flower beds and wharfs and garden stairs and whatnot; and a cold beer at the end of a long, hard day of physical labor is right and just; and I would be remiss in my wifely duties if I let him drink alone, wouldn't I? Because drinking alone--now, I'm pretty sure that does qualify as a drinking problem, and we wouldn't want that now, would we? That would get the neighbors talking.
But even with this near daily indulgence of a beer here, or a shared bottle of wine there, I hardly ever drink to excess.
Shut up!
I don't!
Holidays notwithstanding, I seriously mean it! My drinking habits are modest----ish.
But I'm figuring out that every evening I do choose to enjoy my trifling bit of alcohol, I'm pretty much guaranteed to spend the night tossing, turning, and drifting in and out of the shallowest of sleeps. Maddening, I tell you. Vexing to the extreme.
Last night, just as a little experiment, I politely declined Mister's kind offer of a glass of port after the kids had gone to bed. Slept like a goddamn baby all night long. Eight straight hours of blissful repose.
It felt so fantastically good, that tonight I refused the cold beer that was proffered over the dinner table. I'll admit, I'm jonesing for that beer a bit right now. The crisp SNAP as the seal on the can cracks open. The glug-gurgle-fizzzzzz as the glass fills. The faint whiff of yeast in the air as foam settles.......JEDA wants......
But no. I shall remain firm. I SHALL SLEEP TONIGHT!
And if I don't, if my little experiment fails--it's going to be Chianti for breakfast, a six-pack over lunch, and a god-damn pitcher of margaritas for dinner because I'm only human, all right!
Now before you commence with all your smug mmm-hmming and well-I-might-have-guessed-ing, allow me to clarify: it's not a slurring, drooling, shame your children, wreck your marriage, blight your liver kind of drinking problem I'm talking about. And no Jilly, it's not the Airplane kind either (funny as that would be).
It's to do with my sleep, see. Alcohol is fucking with my sleep. And it's really starting to piss me off.
I don't deserve to be fucked with in this manner. It's not like I drink massive amounts of alcohol. Sure, I'll admit to drinking often. Especially now during summer when Mister is on vacation, and working in the yard building flower beds and wharfs and garden stairs and whatnot; and a cold beer at the end of a long, hard day of physical labor is right and just; and I would be remiss in my wifely duties if I let him drink alone, wouldn't I? Because drinking alone--now, I'm pretty sure that does qualify as a drinking problem, and we wouldn't want that now, would we? That would get the neighbors talking.
But even with this near daily indulgence of a beer here, or a shared bottle of wine there, I hardly ever drink to excess.
Shut up!
I don't!
Holidays notwithstanding, I seriously mean it! My drinking habits are modest----ish.
But I'm figuring out that every evening I do choose to enjoy my trifling bit of alcohol, I'm pretty much guaranteed to spend the night tossing, turning, and drifting in and out of the shallowest of sleeps. Maddening, I tell you. Vexing to the extreme.
Last night, just as a little experiment, I politely declined Mister's kind offer of a glass of port after the kids had gone to bed. Slept like a goddamn baby all night long. Eight straight hours of blissful repose.
It felt so fantastically good, that tonight I refused the cold beer that was proffered over the dinner table. I'll admit, I'm jonesing for that beer a bit right now. The crisp SNAP as the seal on the can cracks open. The glug-gurgle-fizzzzzz as the glass fills. The faint whiff of yeast in the air as foam settles.......JEDA wants......
But no. I shall remain firm. I SHALL SLEEP TONIGHT!
And if I don't, if my little experiment fails--it's going to be Chianti for breakfast, a six-pack over lunch, and a god-damn pitcher of margaritas for dinner because I'm only human, all right!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Meh
I don't know. Whaddaya' think?
Too pretentious?
Tis', tisn't it?
Alpha Grandma left today, and I'm bored.
And more than a little moody.
Remind me again how I ended up in this situation where I'm forever saying goodbye to people I love very, very dearly indeed; often with no hope of seeing said loved ones for a good year or more.
Don't say for love of Mister, because it just ain't cuttin' it tonight.
It's not that I want to go home with her, because I don't.
And it's not that I desperately want her to stay, because clearly she was ready to go home. She was ready for some peace and quiet. I respect that. We were both ready to have our respective spaces back. She'll respect that.
It's kind of like I have no anchor without my extended family around me. I spend 98% of my life absently adrift, 5,000 miles away from my safe harbor. Then, once a year or so, for this all too brief interlude, I get pulled in and lovingly surrounded by my people--people who've known me forever, and speak my language, and love me because they have to on account of the blood and all. But then, very abruptly, I'm cut loose again. And even though I know this adopted place of mine--I'm comfortable here, reasonably safe, and wildly loved by my own small brood--I can't help but feel miserably alone and completely misunderstood so far away from the people and places who raised me.
I feel this riduclous metphor most keenly immediately after a departure. And let me add this, it's much, much worse to be the one left behind than to be the one leaving. Something I don't always appreciate because it's usually me doing the leave-taking.
In just over a week my dad and step-mom will be coming for a visit. They too will leave me in their turn.
Again, I say MEH!
Self-pitying ennui. I'm a master at it. Pour me onto a sofa in a dimly lit room, and crack open the wine. I may be here awhile.
In the meantime, let me know what you think of my new masthead. I was just futzing around a little. I can give it another whirl, if this one doesn't suit.
Too pretentious?
Tis', tisn't it?
Alpha Grandma left today, and I'm bored.
And more than a little moody.
Remind me again how I ended up in this situation where I'm forever saying goodbye to people I love very, very dearly indeed; often with no hope of seeing said loved ones for a good year or more.
Don't say for love of Mister, because it just ain't cuttin' it tonight.
It's not that I want to go home with her, because I don't.
And it's not that I desperately want her to stay, because clearly she was ready to go home. She was ready for some peace and quiet. I respect that. We were both ready to have our respective spaces back. She'll respect that.
It's kind of like I have no anchor without my extended family around me. I spend 98% of my life absently adrift, 5,000 miles away from my safe harbor. Then, once a year or so, for this all too brief interlude, I get pulled in and lovingly surrounded by my people--people who've known me forever, and speak my language, and love me because they have to on account of the blood and all. But then, very abruptly, I'm cut loose again. And even though I know this adopted place of mine--I'm comfortable here, reasonably safe, and wildly loved by my own small brood--I can't help but feel miserably alone and completely misunderstood so far away from the people and places who raised me.
I feel this riduclous metphor most keenly immediately after a departure. And let me add this, it's much, much worse to be the one left behind than to be the one leaving. Something I don't always appreciate because it's usually me doing the leave-taking.
In just over a week my dad and step-mom will be coming for a visit. They too will leave me in their turn.
Again, I say MEH!
Self-pitying ennui. I'm a master at it. Pour me onto a sofa in a dimly lit room, and crack open the wine. I may be here awhile.
In the meantime, let me know what you think of my new masthead. I was just futzing around a little. I can give it another whirl, if this one doesn't suit.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Heaven On A Stick
Being the fine, upstanding American citizens that we are, Alpha Grandma and I decided to spend our expatriated 4th of July energies getting pleasantly buzzed on French rosé and then inventing new and ever more delectable ways to devour a bag of the Norwegian delicacy that is Smash.
Think Bugles dipped in chocolate, then try not to whince, for while I admit that this combination might sound odd and unpalatable, I assure you that it is not. It is, infact, pure mana sent down from the boisterous bounty of very Valhalla. Pure Viking genius I tell you! Because you know how vexing it is sometimes when you can't decide if you want something salty or something sweet? Well fret no more, friends and neighbors, because Smash has made it so you never have to decided again! Salt and sweet in one glorious, crunchy bite. Perfection. And incidently, one of only 5 material benefits that make life in Norway marginally more sustainable than life in America.
Yet somehow, Alpha Grandma and I have found a way to improve on this already heavenly treat.
So without further ado I give you--the Smorsh--
Think Bugles dipped in chocolate, then try not to whince, for while I admit that this combination might sound odd and unpalatable, I assure you that it is not. It is, infact, pure mana sent down from the boisterous bounty of very Valhalla. Pure Viking genius I tell you! Because you know how vexing it is sometimes when you can't decide if you want something salty or something sweet? Well fret no more, friends and neighbors, because Smash has made it so you never have to decided again! Salt and sweet in one glorious, crunchy bite. Perfection. And incidently, one of only 5 material benefits that make life in Norway marginally more sustainable than life in America.
Yet somehow, Alpha Grandma and I have found a way to improve on this already heavenly treat.
So without further ado I give you--the Smorsh--
The Method:
First off, you poor sods stateside are going to have to ask me to send you a bag of Smash, for as far as I know, it's not available over yonder. You're on your own for the marshmallows and the roasting sticks. Once you've gathered these key raw materials, you'll need to stoke up your campfire, then lay out your coals in the usual fashion. Begin by roasting a single marshmallow on all sides to golden, bubbly goodness. Then remove the marshmallow from the coals, and gently lift what Grandma and I hilariously (and not at all childishly) referred to as its foreskin about halfway up the *snickersnickersnortsnort* shaft. Carefully place a single Smash (coneside down) into the resulting sticky hallow, then gently fold the foreskin over the Smash. Now return the whole thing to the coals, and further roast the sticky underbelly of the marshmallow until you see the chocolate tip of the Smash begin to melt. Behold--the Smorsh!
Here's a magnificent picture of Grandma deep throating one of our creations. Observe the quiet rapture. The private ecstasy. I assure you, the Smorsh is every bit as good as it looks.
I'm going to let Alpha Grandma tell you the rest of the story of our 4th of July campfire barbeque. It was, after all, her grace under pressure that got us into the mess in which we ultimately landed. Suffice it to say, it involved skipping stones and two fully-clothed, semi-sober women dragging their sorry American selves out of the lake. There may have been some screeching and extremely hysterical laughter, as well, but it was largerly drowned out by the children's shouts of, "Do it again! Do it again!" and "Me too! Me too!"
Good times, people. Good times.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
So Far
July? Already? Seriously? I know we've been busy. We've been places and seen stuff. But I can't think what it all was.
Let's see......
And a bit more of this.
Yesterday we nearly killed Grandma doing this.
And at night, of course, we all have to sleep like this on account a' how the bloody sun won't just stay the fuck down long enough to get a decent night's sleep.
Let's see......
We've done a lot of this.
And a bit more of this.
When the rain lets up, we head out for a bit of this.
Yesterday we nearly killed Grandma doing this.
And at night, of course, we all have to sleep like this on account a' how the bloody sun won't just stay the fuck down long enough to get a decent night's sleep.
For the most part, we're enjoying ourselves.
Kind of.
Sort of.
I think.
I find myself fantasizing about day camp and summer school a lot, but then the kids get busy collecting blueberries, or building tents and playing baby crocodiles out by the lake, and I think "Isn't summer just the greatest thing EVER!"
I've read half a dozen books since school let out.
A few days ago I ran a 30 minute 5K (personal record).
And I sit here now with wickedly sunburned chest and shoulders (just reward, no doubt, for the attempted matricide of yesterday's aforementioned 5 hour hike).
So things are pretty much as they should be. Except I don't have nearly enough time for blogging.
Friday, June 20, 2008
How To Unload On The Nearest Available Punching Bag, Or
Why I'm An Unfit Mother
—early this morning—
EM: Mom? Can I play on your computer?
Me: NO! grrrrrrnashgrumblegrrrrrr IT’S LATE! grrrrrrrr BUS COMING! ahrrrrgggggg EAT BREAKFAST! NOW! FASTER! EATEATEAT! grumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrr
room fills with disgusting slurping, sucking, crunching noises as EM warily munches on her Cheerios, earning her several more grumblegrumblepissmoanstinkeye’d grrrrrrrrrs while my tea takes a FUCKING ETERNITY to steep
EM: Um. Mom?
Me: grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. Can you, um. Can you make a different lunch for me today? I’m bored with bologna lately.
Me: AHHHHRRRRRGGGGGG grrrrrrrrrrr NEVER GOOD ENOUGH
grrrrrrrrrrrr ALWAYS COMPLAINING nashgrumblegrrrrrrrrrrrr UNGRATEFUL mumblemumblegrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SPIT IT OUT THEN. WHADDUHYA' WANT! nostrilsflairingunattractivelygrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. I always like peanut butter and honey.
Me: FINE!
grrrrrrrrcupboardsbangingdrawersslammingshouldbloodywellmakeityourselfgrumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Mom?
Me: WHAT! NOW! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: I’m sorry I made you in a bad mood.
room fills with foul smelling vapor as hot air seeps slowly pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff out of my fat head
Me: I woke up in a bad mood, EM. It’s not your fault.
EM: Why are you in a bad mood?
Me: mumblemumblegrrrrrr Dunno
EM: Was it your date with dad last night? Was it Daddy? thoughtful silence Did he embarrass you? I get mad like that when he embarrasses me.
Director's Note: In order to do this piece the dramatic justice it deserves, you will need to study any of the brilliantly rendered battle scenes from the Power Rangers television series. Pure theatrical genius, those.
—early this morning—
EM: Mom? Can I play on your computer?
Me: NO! grrrrrrnashgrumblegrrrrrr IT’S LATE! grrrrrrrr BUS COMING! ahrrrrgggggg EAT BREAKFAST! NOW! FASTER! EATEATEAT! grumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrr
room fills with disgusting slurping, sucking, crunching noises as EM warily munches on her Cheerios, earning her several more grumblegrumblepissmoanstinkeye’d grrrrrrrrrs while my tea takes a FUCKING ETERNITY to steep
EM: Um. Mom?
Me: grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. Can you, um. Can you make a different lunch for me today? I’m bored with bologna lately.
Me: AHHHHRRRRRGGGGGG grrrrrrrrrrr NEVER GOOD ENOUGH
grrrrrrrrrrrr ALWAYS COMPLAINING nashgrumblegrrrrrrrrrrrr UNGRATEFUL mumblemumblegrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SPIT IT OUT THEN. WHADDUHYA' WANT! nostrilsflairingunattractivelygrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Um. I always like peanut butter and honey.
Me: FINE!
grrrrrrrrcupboardsbangingdrawersslammingshouldbloodywellmakeityourselfgrumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrrr
EM: Mom?
Me: WHAT! NOW! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
EM: I’m sorry I made you in a bad mood.
room fills with foul smelling vapor as hot air seeps slowly pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff out of my fat head
Me: I woke up in a bad mood, EM. It’s not your fault.
EM: Why are you in a bad mood?
Me: mumblemumblegrrrrrr Dunno
EM: Was it your date with dad last night? Was it Daddy? thoughtful silence Did he embarrass you? I get mad like that when he embarrasses me.
Director's Note: In order to do this piece the dramatic justice it deserves, you will need to study any of the brilliantly rendered battle scenes from the Power Rangers television series. Pure theatrical genius, those.
P.S.
Just after I finished writing that little drama about all the grrrr-ing and the argggg-ing over breakfast this morning, EM came home from school with a backpack full of this past year's notebooks, workbooks, and art projects. On the very last page of the very last notebook, I found this little drawing:
Has she not captured my very essence? The very pith and marrow of my soul?
On the one hand, I feel terrible that she was so vexed by my rage this morning she felt the need to draw a picture about it. On the other hand, I'm utterly delighted that she felt the need to draw a picture because she was so vexed by my rage this morning.
I just found out a few days ago that I finally succeeded in getting her into art classes at the Kulturskole starting in the Fall. I was sort of dreading the hassle of having to get her into the city once every damn week for a 2 hour class that she may or may not give a shit about. But having seen this, I'm more convinced than ever that it's the right thing to do by her. Drawing/art is clearly her preferred mode of expression. It's the one thing her teachers are always sure to rave about: "EM's doing fine in school, a delight to have in class, and her drawings are aMAzing!"
I can't wait to see where she'll go with it once she's got someone who can offer her a little technical support. Hands, for example. Let us hope that they tackle the fine art of hands early on in the program.
Has she not captured my very essence? The very pith and marrow of my soul?On the one hand, I feel terrible that she was so vexed by my rage this morning she felt the need to draw a picture about it. On the other hand, I'm utterly delighted that she felt the need to draw a picture because she was so vexed by my rage this morning.
I just found out a few days ago that I finally succeeded in getting her into art classes at the Kulturskole starting in the Fall. I was sort of dreading the hassle of having to get her into the city once every damn week for a 2 hour class that she may or may not give a shit about. But having seen this, I'm more convinced than ever that it's the right thing to do by her. Drawing/art is clearly her preferred mode of expression. It's the one thing her teachers are always sure to rave about: "EM's doing fine in school, a delight to have in class, and her drawings are aMAzing!"
I can't wait to see where she'll go with it once she's got someone who can offer her a little technical support. Hands, for example. Let us hope that they tackle the fine art of hands early on in the program.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I Promise There Is A Perfectly Reasonable Explanation For What You Are About To See
Here's a summer challenge for all of ya'll while you're waiting for something more substantial to read.
A little game of Caption This Photo!
A little game of Caption This Photo!
Writer of the most amusing, plausible, and/or enchanting caption gets to name my next cat. Extra credit given for entries submitted in limerick form (haiku is also acceptable, but not recommended).
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Begging Your Pardon, But
You're all going to have to cut me a bit of slack for the next week, or six--or eight--or ten maybe...
Look, the first day of school is August 18. I should be able to resume regular posting then.
In the meantime, my dear ol' ma' is here visiting, and while I can assure you we're having a great time, and the kids are all over her like cute on kittens, I can't seem to get her to hush up long enough to finish a half-way decent post. I do have a few things in the works, but clearly it's going to take more time than usual for me to pull them into decent enough shape to publish.
Please be patient.
Cym--I'll be in touch with you about this illicit memory chip business. Shhhhh--makes me feel all dirty inside and stuff....
Look, the first day of school is August 18. I should be able to resume regular posting then.
In the meantime, my dear ol' ma' is here visiting, and while I can assure you we're having a great time, and the kids are all over her like cute on kittens, I can't seem to get her to hush up long enough to finish a half-way decent post. I do have a few things in the works, but clearly it's going to take more time than usual for me to pull them into decent enough shape to publish.
Please be patient.
Cym--I'll be in touch with you about this illicit memory chip business. Shhhhh--makes me feel all dirty inside and stuff....
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Dread Retainer
Nine months.
That’s how long the orthodontist said he expected EM to have to wear The Dread Retainer.
Nine months.
Give or take a few weeks, of course.
But still—nine months.
I could make a whole other baby in nine months, the prospect of which—even given the long term consequences incumbent on said baby—is not nearly as distasteful to me as the thought of making The Dread Retainer feel welcome and comfortable in my home for nine full months.
I’ve spent some time online searching for a picture of The Dread Retainer. But I couldn’t find anything that looks even remotely like it. Sufficed to say, it’s all twisted, looping wires, and bulging, mesh cages; more crude instrument of Medieval torture than sophisticated device of modern dentistry. And it’s been permanently glued to EM’s back molars for the next—did I mention?—nine months.
Of course, on some remote level, I’m aware that it’s wrong of me to make The Dread Retainer sound like my cross to bear, rather than EM’s. After all, it was her gums that were scraped all to hell Friday afternoon while it was being fit into place. And she’s the one who hasn’t been able to eat much more than yogurt and runny oatmeal all weekend because her teeth are too tender to bite down on anything more substantial. But, gentle reader, please consider that I’m the one who has to listen to her suck and gurgle excess saliva until her mouth grows accustomed to the alien metal. I’m the one who has to endure the lisped and slurred speech as her tongue learns to speak around all that hardware. And I’m the one who has to hand pluck stringy bits of fruit and goo out from underneath the wires until she relearns how to chew and swallow.
The orthodontist tells me the excess saliva shouldn’t last more than 3 or 4 days. Same goes for the tender, aching gums and teeth. The more she talks, of course, the faster her tongue will learn to work around the metal. The swallowing, however, is likely to take some time, apparently. It is, after all, half the reason she has to have The Dread Retainer in the first place—to teach her tongue where it needs to be (roof of her mouth) when she swallows.
In case you missed the bit where I explained the story behind The Dread Retainer, here’s a quick synopsis: EM sucked her thumb a bit longer than she should have, ergo EM’s tongue has learned the bad habit of lazing sluggishly on her lower palette like a baby’s, rather than pressing firmly against her upper palette where it’s supposed to be. This, in turn, has led to a series of apparently untenable alignment issues that The Dread Retainer is meant to correct. Never mind that her teeth were neither crooked nor disfigured in anyway prior to treatment. Never mind that everything appeared to be in perfect working order—minus the trivial fact that she has been unable to use her front teeth to bite into a sandwich or apple or any other such food for that matter ever since her permanent teeth grew in. Is this an important ability? I seem to have lost my perspective somewhere between the drool and the lisp.
*sigh*
At least she didn’t embarrass me in front of the orthodontist again. Other than a bit of gratuitous whimpering before he’d even touched her, she behaved more or less decently. And I only had to threaten her Nintendo once to elicit such compliance! I consider this progress, no?
That’s how long the orthodontist said he expected EM to have to wear The Dread Retainer.
Nine months.
Give or take a few weeks, of course.
But still—nine months.
I could make a whole other baby in nine months, the prospect of which—even given the long term consequences incumbent on said baby—is not nearly as distasteful to me as the thought of making The Dread Retainer feel welcome and comfortable in my home for nine full months.
I’ve spent some time online searching for a picture of The Dread Retainer. But I couldn’t find anything that looks even remotely like it. Sufficed to say, it’s all twisted, looping wires, and bulging, mesh cages; more crude instrument of Medieval torture than sophisticated device of modern dentistry. And it’s been permanently glued to EM’s back molars for the next—did I mention?—nine months.
Of course, on some remote level, I’m aware that it’s wrong of me to make The Dread Retainer sound like my cross to bear, rather than EM’s. After all, it was her gums that were scraped all to hell Friday afternoon while it was being fit into place. And she’s the one who hasn’t been able to eat much more than yogurt and runny oatmeal all weekend because her teeth are too tender to bite down on anything more substantial. But, gentle reader, please consider that I’m the one who has to listen to her suck and gurgle excess saliva until her mouth grows accustomed to the alien metal. I’m the one who has to endure the lisped and slurred speech as her tongue learns to speak around all that hardware. And I’m the one who has to hand pluck stringy bits of fruit and goo out from underneath the wires until she relearns how to chew and swallow.
The orthodontist tells me the excess saliva shouldn’t last more than 3 or 4 days. Same goes for the tender, aching gums and teeth. The more she talks, of course, the faster her tongue will learn to work around the metal. The swallowing, however, is likely to take some time, apparently. It is, after all, half the reason she has to have The Dread Retainer in the first place—to teach her tongue where it needs to be (roof of her mouth) when she swallows.
In case you missed the bit where I explained the story behind The Dread Retainer, here’s a quick synopsis: EM sucked her thumb a bit longer than she should have, ergo EM’s tongue has learned the bad habit of lazing sluggishly on her lower palette like a baby’s, rather than pressing firmly against her upper palette where it’s supposed to be. This, in turn, has led to a series of apparently untenable alignment issues that The Dread Retainer is meant to correct. Never mind that her teeth were neither crooked nor disfigured in anyway prior to treatment. Never mind that everything appeared to be in perfect working order—minus the trivial fact that she has been unable to use her front teeth to bite into a sandwich or apple or any other such food for that matter ever since her permanent teeth grew in. Is this an important ability? I seem to have lost my perspective somewhere between the drool and the lisp.
*sigh*
At least she didn’t embarrass me in front of the orthodontist again. Other than a bit of gratuitous whimpering before he’d even touched her, she behaved more or less decently. And I only had to threaten her Nintendo once to elicit such compliance! I consider this progress, no?
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Two Things
Thing the First: I saw the season finale of Lost last night, and great glorious God on a hot dog was it ever good! But two ancillary things:
A) Why Jack’s dad? As far as I’m concerned the back story they built up around him doesn’t nearly justify his suddenly showing up everywhere to run the show. Speaking for Jacob? Showing up to tell Michael he can go now? I mean, didn’t Charlie and Jin deserve at least that much courtesy? Though, it has occurred to me that maybe Charlie and Jin aren’t all dead (only kinda/sorta island dead) which, I guess, would account for the difference, but still…Meh—the whole ‘Jack’s dad’ element confuses and annoys me.
B) Move the island by turning a great big icy cog? Seriously? That’s the best they can come up with? After turning us around to homicidal smoke clouds, time travel, and the freely roaming dead you’d think they would have put a bit more thought into it than that. I mean, come on! Here’s my disbelief willingly--wantonly--suspended for the next hour. At the very least light a fire with your eyes and chant some ancient Polynesian verse before you turn that cog!
Otherwise—brilliant! Desmond and Penny--swoon. How sweet was that?
Oh, and C) I hope Daniel Faraday isn’t dead, cuz’ I found myself kind of liking the dude. That new Asian guy, Whatshisname, too—he’s just pretty to look at.
Thing the Second: Boy had the open house at his new school today. He met his new teachers (all 4 of them) and his classmates (all 49 of them). He even got his first lesson book with 8 math problems he’s supposed to master by the first day of school in August (hint: the answer is always 10). God was he ever cute! And so excited! And so unbelievably ready! And I was so overcome by emotion, and pride, and excitement for him that I…
Shit! What did I just do? Did I really just agree to sit on the PTA committee?
Oh hell. I really just did. Sucker!
A) Why Jack’s dad? As far as I’m concerned the back story they built up around him doesn’t nearly justify his suddenly showing up everywhere to run the show. Speaking for Jacob? Showing up to tell Michael he can go now? I mean, didn’t Charlie and Jin deserve at least that much courtesy? Though, it has occurred to me that maybe Charlie and Jin aren’t all dead (only kinda/sorta island dead) which, I guess, would account for the difference, but still…Meh—the whole ‘Jack’s dad’ element confuses and annoys me.
B) Move the island by turning a great big icy cog? Seriously? That’s the best they can come up with? After turning us around to homicidal smoke clouds, time travel, and the freely roaming dead you’d think they would have put a bit more thought into it than that. I mean, come on! Here’s my disbelief willingly--wantonly--suspended for the next hour. At the very least light a fire with your eyes and chant some ancient Polynesian verse before you turn that cog!
Otherwise—brilliant! Desmond and Penny--swoon. How sweet was that?
Oh, and C) I hope Daniel Faraday isn’t dead, cuz’ I found myself kind of liking the dude. That new Asian guy, Whatshisname, too—he’s just pretty to look at.
Thing the Second: Boy had the open house at his new school today. He met his new teachers (all 4 of them) and his classmates (all 49 of them). He even got his first lesson book with 8 math problems he’s supposed to master by the first day of school in August (hint: the answer is always 10). God was he ever cute! And so excited! And so unbelievably ready! And I was so overcome by emotion, and pride, and excitement for him that I…
Shit! What did I just do? Did I really just agree to sit on the PTA committee?
Oh hell. I really just did. Sucker!
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Saturday, May 31, 2008
I spent WAY too much time on these stupid things. WAY WAY WAY too much time.
Then I discovered the music library, and proceeded to waste ever more ill considered hours on them. Housewifery is a blast, man. A fucking hoot, I tell ya'!
Heh heh--it occurs to me upon proof-reading, that that first sentence could be misconstrued as having spent way too much time on the kids--which is all too true. But, as I'm sure you must realize, I meant the futzy picture dealies.
Then I discovered the music library, and proceeded to waste ever more ill considered hours on them. Housewifery is a blast, man. A fucking hoot, I tell ya'!
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Heh heh--it occurs to me upon proof-reading, that that first sentence could be misconstrued as having spent way too much time on the kids--which is all too true. But, as I'm sure you must realize, I meant the futzy picture dealies.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sticky
Missy's birthday party with all her little friends from barnehage was yesterday. Details and pictures later--for now I have a bit of a poser for you all.
For reasons entirely too lame to dwell on, I ended up inviting ALL the girls--not just the girls Missy's age, not just the ones she plays with regularly, but ALL the girls at the barnehage--and in so doing, managed to invite 2 little ones that have never been to a birthday party before. Their mothers (in one case, a foster mother) were so pleased, yet nervous about the prospect, that they both called to ask if it would be okay if they stayed for the party--just to be on the safe side.
Fine. Fine. Whatever. I had no problem with that. More adult supervision is always a bonus at these events.
The one mother (the non-foster one) is a foreigner like me. From the Philippines. Been here nearly 10 years. Very quiet. Even more tortured than me by small talk, it would seem. Anyway, she didn't bring a gift, just a card with money. While I think it's a little chicken shit to give a 4 year old cash for her birthday, it's not unheard of here, and that's not my problem. My problem is the amount of cash she gave: 350 kroner (about $70).
It's too much--crazy too much--and I don't feel good about keeping it. Do I approach her about returning some of it? Or, would that just embarrass the hell out of everyone, and insult her entire family and 6 generations of ancestors? Keep in mind that even though she's been here nearly 10 years and one would think that she would have learned by now that the accept norm for a birthday gift in these parts is closer to 100 kroner: a) this is her only child, b) this was said only child's first birthday party, so no etiquette setting precedent to go on, c) she made several comments while she was here that led both Mister and me to believe that her family's contact with other Norwegians is limited, so it stands to reason that she had no one to ask "Hey what would be considered appropriate here?"
I would feel differently--like maybe she meant to give us that much, rather than she just didn't know how much to give--if both her and her husband where high earning professionals. But they're not--he's a farmer, she's a checker at a grocery store. Surely, they don't have this kind of money to throw around. I know we don't. Also, by approaching her, awkward as it would be, we would be letting her know the local standard for the next party they're invited to. So, you know....civil service, and all that?
I honestly don't know. Do I say something or not?
For reasons entirely too lame to dwell on, I ended up inviting ALL the girls--not just the girls Missy's age, not just the ones she plays with regularly, but ALL the girls at the barnehage--and in so doing, managed to invite 2 little ones that have never been to a birthday party before. Their mothers (in one case, a foster mother) were so pleased, yet nervous about the prospect, that they both called to ask if it would be okay if they stayed for the party--just to be on the safe side.
Fine. Fine. Whatever. I had no problem with that. More adult supervision is always a bonus at these events.
The one mother (the non-foster one) is a foreigner like me. From the Philippines. Been here nearly 10 years. Very quiet. Even more tortured than me by small talk, it would seem. Anyway, she didn't bring a gift, just a card with money. While I think it's a little chicken shit to give a 4 year old cash for her birthday, it's not unheard of here, and that's not my problem. My problem is the amount of cash she gave: 350 kroner (about $70).
It's too much--crazy too much--and I don't feel good about keeping it. Do I approach her about returning some of it? Or, would that just embarrass the hell out of everyone, and insult her entire family and 6 generations of ancestors? Keep in mind that even though she's been here nearly 10 years and one would think that she would have learned by now that the accept norm for a birthday gift in these parts is closer to 100 kroner: a) this is her only child, b) this was said only child's first birthday party, so no etiquette setting precedent to go on, c) she made several comments while she was here that led both Mister and me to believe that her family's contact with other Norwegians is limited, so it stands to reason that she had no one to ask "Hey what would be considered appropriate here?"
I would feel differently--like maybe she meant to give us that much, rather than she just didn't know how much to give--if both her and her husband where high earning professionals. But they're not--he's a farmer, she's a checker at a grocery store. Surely, they don't have this kind of money to throw around. I know we don't. Also, by approaching her, awkward as it would be, we would be letting her know the local standard for the next party they're invited to. So, you know....civil service, and all that?
I honestly don't know. Do I say something or not?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
This is terribly silly, and hopelessly sentimental. But I get that way--kind of, sort of, a little bit--around the kids' birthdays.
What.Ever.
Just click play, and deal with it. Oh, and by all means, click on the full screen link when you see it. It helps.
Edited to add: Mark's Jenn's Oldest Younger Sister makes a valid point--you have to turn the pages yourself people. Point and click, point and click.
Also, you'll be singing that stupid song all day. You're welcome.
What.Ever.
Just click play, and deal with it. Oh, and by all means, click on the full screen link when you see it. It helps.
Edited to add: Mark's Jenn's Oldest Younger Sister makes a valid point--you have to turn the pages yourself people. Point and click, point and click.
Also, you'll be singing that stupid song all day. You're welcome.
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Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Reading, Writing, And A Smattering Of Arithmatic
I had a meeting with Elder Miss’s math teacher today.
Gøril.
How’s that for a name? Think ‘good reel’ only without the ‘d’.
It says something about how long I’ve lived here that that kind of name no longer even fazes me. Hell—I kind of like it. And Vigdis has grown on me to the point where I’d even consider bestowing it on a treasured cat. Not Ragnhild though; never Ragnhild. And Gaute is still something contagious, and spoken of only in furtive whispers. But Gøril I like. Gøril is sporty and fun; Gøril would buy you a round of Jello shots on your birthday—‘course, she’d call them géle shots and order ‘em full of aquavit instead of vodka, but the night out itself would be a riot.
Hold up. Where was I?
Oh yeah, math. My Elder Miss, she struggles mightily with the arithmetic.
Okay, not mightily, but I suspect there are issues which I wanted to address while they’re still young and largely imagined. So I requested a conference.
Right away Gøril assured me that in her opinion EM is fine—right on track with her progress. She showed me the standardized test that EM and her entire class took last week. EM scored a 56 out of a total of 74 possible points. A solid middle pack performance according to Gøril, and far, far from the panic threshold of 36 or lower. So what the fuck are you doing here? You pushy, demanding, critical, harping tart of a mother you.
I jest. She was really very pleasant. And, truth be told, she gave me a fair amount of kudos for being so engaged and interested in my daughter’s schooling—rare in these parts, apparently.
I will admit to being relieved to hear that EM is not the dumbest kid in the class. I will even admit that that very reassurance was 50% of the reason I asked for the meeting in the first place. The difficulty EM is having understanding and finishing her assignments is common and shared with a good half of her classmates.
But. But but…..
56 out of 74? I’m being patted on the head with 56 out of 74? That’s pretty crap, isn’t it? She showed me the actual test too. This was basic, basic stuff: greater than/less than, find the number on the number line, count by twos, count by threes, fill in the missing numbers in the equation 21+__ =30, 15-__ =8, and so on. Easy, easy stuff. 8 problems per page, and the only page where she was able to finish every problem in the allotted time was the one where she had to find the number on the number line.
She’s in the 2nd grade. Shouldn’t there be more to a 2nd grader’s understanding of basic arithmetic than this?
There was one page where she managed to miss every single problem. The instructions were to finish the equation by finding the 10’s and the 1’s. So something like this: 34=__ +4. The answer EM wrote was 38. Gøril told me not to worry. Many of the kids were unable to do this page. She felt it was because they don’t have any real understanding of what the ‘=’ sign actually means.
Why? How? What the everloving fuck? How does a kid, let alone ‘many’ kids, get to the 2nd grade without knowing what the ‘=’ sign means?
I do not mean to malign the teacher. I really don’t. I have every reason to believe this Gøril’s as competent and caring a teacher as I could hope for for EM. It’s the method and the book from which she teaches that I hate—the convoluted, wordy, theoretical, mumbo-jumbo, concept driven bullshit that bathes these kids in a gentle sprinkle of mathematical ideas without ever teaching them any actual skillz yo.
Grumble, grumble.
In the end we agreed that EM could use some linguistic reinforcement. So for the next month or so, until the end of the school year, she’s going take the time to go over some of these concepts with EM in English after she’s instructed the rest of the class in Norwegian. And I’m supposed to encourage EM to learn how to speak up and admit when she really doesn’t get it. EM is a master at nodding and feigning interest when really she’s just counting freckles on her arms and biding her time until all the tiresome yapping from the grown-ups ceases. It would be helpful, says Gøril, if she quit that.
Yeah. So, so much for my proactive meeting of the minds. Wish I could say I felt better about everything now, but I don’t. She’s average. Fine. I neither expect nor require genius from my kids. I just wish I didn’t feel like the standard she’s being held to was so woefully low. Even after seeing that bungled test of hers, I can’t help but feel she’s capable of so much more, if only someone would issue the challenge and teach her the necessary skills.
I feel utterly trapped by this laissez-faire school system, but see absolutely no viable alternatives.
Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m going to bed now.
Gøril.
How’s that for a name? Think ‘good reel’ only without the ‘d’.
It says something about how long I’ve lived here that that kind of name no longer even fazes me. Hell—I kind of like it. And Vigdis has grown on me to the point where I’d even consider bestowing it on a treasured cat. Not Ragnhild though; never Ragnhild. And Gaute is still something contagious, and spoken of only in furtive whispers. But Gøril I like. Gøril is sporty and fun; Gøril would buy you a round of Jello shots on your birthday—‘course, she’d call them géle shots and order ‘em full of aquavit instead of vodka, but the night out itself would be a riot.
Hold up. Where was I?
Oh yeah, math. My Elder Miss, she struggles mightily with the arithmetic.
Okay, not mightily, but I suspect there are issues which I wanted to address while they’re still young and largely imagined. So I requested a conference.
Right away Gøril assured me that in her opinion EM is fine—right on track with her progress. She showed me the standardized test that EM and her entire class took last week. EM scored a 56 out of a total of 74 possible points. A solid middle pack performance according to Gøril, and far, far from the panic threshold of 36 or lower. So what the fuck are you doing here? You pushy, demanding, critical, harping tart of a mother you.
I jest. She was really very pleasant. And, truth be told, she gave me a fair amount of kudos for being so engaged and interested in my daughter’s schooling—rare in these parts, apparently.
I will admit to being relieved to hear that EM is not the dumbest kid in the class. I will even admit that that very reassurance was 50% of the reason I asked for the meeting in the first place. The difficulty EM is having understanding and finishing her assignments is common and shared with a good half of her classmates.
But. But but…..
56 out of 74? I’m being patted on the head with 56 out of 74? That’s pretty crap, isn’t it? She showed me the actual test too. This was basic, basic stuff: greater than/less than, find the number on the number line, count by twos, count by threes, fill in the missing numbers in the equation 21+__ =30, 15-__ =8, and so on. Easy, easy stuff. 8 problems per page, and the only page where she was able to finish every problem in the allotted time was the one where she had to find the number on the number line.
She’s in the 2nd grade. Shouldn’t there be more to a 2nd grader’s understanding of basic arithmetic than this?
There was one page where she managed to miss every single problem. The instructions were to finish the equation by finding the 10’s and the 1’s. So something like this: 34=__ +4. The answer EM wrote was 38. Gøril told me not to worry. Many of the kids were unable to do this page. She felt it was because they don’t have any real understanding of what the ‘=’ sign actually means.
Why? How? What the everloving fuck? How does a kid, let alone ‘many’ kids, get to the 2nd grade without knowing what the ‘=’ sign means?
I do not mean to malign the teacher. I really don’t. I have every reason to believe this Gøril’s as competent and caring a teacher as I could hope for for EM. It’s the method and the book from which she teaches that I hate—the convoluted, wordy, theoretical, mumbo-jumbo, concept driven bullshit that bathes these kids in a gentle sprinkle of mathematical ideas without ever teaching them any actual skillz yo.
Grumble, grumble.
In the end we agreed that EM could use some linguistic reinforcement. So for the next month or so, until the end of the school year, she’s going take the time to go over some of these concepts with EM in English after she’s instructed the rest of the class in Norwegian. And I’m supposed to encourage EM to learn how to speak up and admit when she really doesn’t get it. EM is a master at nodding and feigning interest when really she’s just counting freckles on her arms and biding her time until all the tiresome yapping from the grown-ups ceases. It would be helpful, says Gøril, if she quit that.
Yeah. So, so much for my proactive meeting of the minds. Wish I could say I felt better about everything now, but I don’t. She’s average. Fine. I neither expect nor require genius from my kids. I just wish I didn’t feel like the standard she’s being held to was so woefully low. Even after seeing that bungled test of hers, I can’t help but feel she’s capable of so much more, if only someone would issue the challenge and teach her the necessary skills.
I feel utterly trapped by this laissez-faire school system, but see absolutely no viable alternatives.
Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m going to bed now.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Who-ray For Norway Day
Tomorrow it will be my singular pleasure to celebrate yet another 17th of May, Constitution Day with my adopted countrymen and women.
Woo Fucking Hoo
I’ve never much liked 17. Mai (pronounced soot-en-eh my), except for the bunads. I like the bunads; they’re fun to gawk at. Truth be told, I kind of want one for myself because I think they make chicks look hot—hot in a repressed yet buxom, puritanical sort of way, but still hot. Other than that, 17. Mai =big, fat yawn in my book.
We, like every other family with school-aged children, will be contenting ourselves with passing the business end of 17.Mai—the parade (they call it a parade, but I assure you, it’s nothing like; it’s really just a drab procession of bunad clad families walking down the street waving flags and congratulating one another on being Norwegians), the speeches, the carnival games, the over priced helium balloons and cotton candy—at the kids’ school. Again I say, Woo Fucking Hoo.
If you don’t have kids, or your kids are all old and grown, according to the standard issue The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry, you’re expected to head into the nearest city center, where you will spend your day jostling enormous crowds for a glimpse of the parade (same sort of procession seen at the local schools only bigger, and therefore longer, and infinitely more dull), and searching (largely in vain) for the tiniest of café tables and the chance to ease your bloodied and blistered feet out of your dress shoes. Then, if you’ve been doubly lucky enough to have caught the attention of one of the two working waiters on duty, you may hunker down in this prized spot with a pint of beer and a plate of fenalår, and observe (in a good-humored, non-judgmental fashion) the loud antics of the hordes of drunken teenagers. For it is further noted in The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry that if you are a child you are expected to spend the day gorging yourself silly on bowel shaking quantities of ice cream and cotton candy, and if you are a teenager you are expected to spend it drunk off your ass. It’s a patriotism thing. Apparently, it’s how you express love of country in Norwegian.
And speaking of patriotism, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of how much effort good Norwegian citizens put into their 17. Mai preparations. Yesterday Boy and Missy’s barnehage spent two hours of their afternoon marching around the soccer field shouting “Hurra for 17. Mai! Hurra for 17. Mai!” Then the teachers would go “Hip hip!” and the kids would go, “Hurra!” Teachers, “Hip hip!” Kids, “Hurra!” And so on and so forth. Apparently it took them two hours to get this liturgy down pat.
Today Elder Miss’s entire school dedicated their entire morning to much the same thing: marching about the school grounds, shouting socialist propaganda at one another, and working hard to get just the right amount of snap in the flip of their waving flags. All morning they worked on this.
And I’m thinking, “Lookit citizens—a lawn chair, a bucket of chicken, and a cooler full of ice and beer. Keep one semi-intelligent adult semi-sober enough to light the sparklers after dark. And that’s your Independence Day. Done.”
All this fuss and bother over a constitution that only granted them partial sovereignty anyway. Woo Fucking Hoo.
Oh well, at least the girls are going to look fabulous in their bunads. I’ve had Farmor ironing them all evening while I swill beer and type at you fine people.
Gratulerer med dagen!
Woo Fucking Hoo
I’ve never much liked 17. Mai (pronounced soot-en-eh my), except for the bunads. I like the bunads; they’re fun to gawk at. Truth be told, I kind of want one for myself because I think they make chicks look hot—hot in a repressed yet buxom, puritanical sort of way, but still hot. Other than that, 17. Mai =big, fat yawn in my book.
We, like every other family with school-aged children, will be contenting ourselves with passing the business end of 17.Mai—the parade (they call it a parade, but I assure you, it’s nothing like; it’s really just a drab procession of bunad clad families walking down the street waving flags and congratulating one another on being Norwegians), the speeches, the carnival games, the over priced helium balloons and cotton candy—at the kids’ school. Again I say, Woo Fucking Hoo.
If you don’t have kids, or your kids are all old and grown, according to the standard issue The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry, you’re expected to head into the nearest city center, where you will spend your day jostling enormous crowds for a glimpse of the parade (same sort of procession seen at the local schools only bigger, and therefore longer, and infinitely more dull), and searching (largely in vain) for the tiniest of café tables and the chance to ease your bloodied and blistered feet out of your dress shoes. Then, if you’ve been doubly lucky enough to have caught the attention of one of the two working waiters on duty, you may hunker down in this prized spot with a pint of beer and a plate of fenalår, and observe (in a good-humored, non-judgmental fashion) the loud antics of the hordes of drunken teenagers. For it is further noted in The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry that if you are a child you are expected to spend the day gorging yourself silly on bowel shaking quantities of ice cream and cotton candy, and if you are a teenager you are expected to spend it drunk off your ass. It’s a patriotism thing. Apparently, it’s how you express love of country in Norwegian.
And speaking of patriotism, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of how much effort good Norwegian citizens put into their 17. Mai preparations. Yesterday Boy and Missy’s barnehage spent two hours of their afternoon marching around the soccer field shouting “Hurra for 17. Mai! Hurra for 17. Mai!” Then the teachers would go “Hip hip!” and the kids would go, “Hurra!” Teachers, “Hip hip!” Kids, “Hurra!” And so on and so forth. Apparently it took them two hours to get this liturgy down pat.
Today Elder Miss’s entire school dedicated their entire morning to much the same thing: marching about the school grounds, shouting socialist propaganda at one another, and working hard to get just the right amount of snap in the flip of their waving flags. All morning they worked on this.
And I’m thinking, “Lookit citizens—a lawn chair, a bucket of chicken, and a cooler full of ice and beer. Keep one semi-intelligent adult semi-sober enough to light the sparklers after dark. And that’s your Independence Day. Done.”
All this fuss and bother over a constitution that only granted them partial sovereignty anyway. Woo Fucking Hoo.
Oh well, at least the girls are going to look fabulous in their bunads. I’ve had Farmor ironing them all evening while I swill beer and type at you fine people.
Gratulerer med dagen!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Legs, Meet Hills. Hills, Meet The Relentless Churning Power Of My Mighty Hams.
I recently added hills to my running regimen. Gruesome, but oh. so. satisfying.
If you had told me even just this past Christmas that, come May, I'd be running up the mountain roads I've been running these past two weeks, I'd have listened politely with mock-stern interest, then I'd have had you burned as a heretic.
I freely admit to occasionally underestimating myself and my modest potential.
If you had told me even just this past Christmas that, come May, I'd be running up the mountain roads I've been running these past two weeks, I'd have listened politely with mock-stern interest, then I'd have had you burned as a heretic.
I freely admit to occasionally underestimating myself and my modest potential.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
The Couple Who Drinks Together, Stays Together
The Scene:
Friday night. 9-ish. Kids are in bed. So far no one has come out puking. Looks to be a quiet night.
Explanatory note:
We have one TV in the house located in the upstairs living room; we spend most of our time in the downstairs living room where there’s nothing but each other and the fire by way of entertainment—and the ipod of course, which is on low, rotating through a playlist of late 80’s-era Sting, U2, and Springsteen, with an occasional dash of REM, which may or may not be contributing to Mister’s brooding.
One last thing:
“underholdning” is Norwegian—means “entertainment”
Him: So. You didn’t like your birthday present very much, did you?
Me: 50” wide-screen TV? What every girl dreams of. Why?
Him: We never watch it. Not together anyway.
Me: We’ve talked about this before, dearest. You and I have a conflict of interests where our TV viewing is concerned.
Him: So? You know I’m not picky. I’ll watch whatever.
Me: You say that now. You might even mean it. But when we're sitting up there together, I feel obligated to watch something you’ll like.
Him: Nobutno. But seriously. I’m fine with whatever. You always get the remote anyway. Do whatever you want with it. Except flip channels. I hate that.
Me: But that’s what I do.
Him: Why? Why do you do that? How can you know whether or not a program is worth watching unless you sit still and watch it?
Me: Look. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not going enjoy anything with the words “norsk” or “underholdning” in the description. Ditto the words “dance”, “idol”, “reality” and/or “contestant”. So why wouldn’t I quickly flip past any and all of that crap?
Him: But some of those Norwegian talk shows can be kind of funny sometimes.
Me: To you maybe. Not to me.
Him: I’m sure you’d like them if you’d just give them a chance.
Me: *heavy sigh* So what are you trying to tell me here? Would you like to go upstairs and watch the Friday night talk shows? Cuz’ you can. You’re certainly free to do that if that’s what you want to do.
Him: Not necessarily.
Me: But you want to watch TV?
Him: I don’t know. Maybe.
Me: And the talk shows are what you’d be watching if it were up to you?
Him: Well. That’s really hard to say when I’m not sitting right there in front of the TV. How am I supposed to know what I’ll be in the mood for.
Me: *heavy, heavy sigh* Honey. Help me out. What are we talking about right now?
Him: Just wondering what it says about us as a couple if we can’t even watch TV together. That’s all.
Me: Not much! I mean, honestly! I don’t get my mother’s TV viewing pleasures either, and I still like her a lot, and consider us quite close.
Him: *silent pout*
Me: And besides, every pop psychologist’s guide on how to build a stronger relationship with your partner begins and ends with TURN THE TV OFF! According to their logic, we’re like the healthiest couple we know.
*thoughtful pause*
Him: So, I’ll open another bottle then?
Me: Christ, I thought you’d never ask!
Friday night. 9-ish. Kids are in bed. So far no one has come out puking. Looks to be a quiet night.
Explanatory note:
We have one TV in the house located in the upstairs living room; we spend most of our time in the downstairs living room where there’s nothing but each other and the fire by way of entertainment—and the ipod of course, which is on low, rotating through a playlist of late 80’s-era Sting, U2, and Springsteen, with an occasional dash of REM, which may or may not be contributing to Mister’s brooding.
One last thing:
“underholdning” is Norwegian—means “entertainment”
Him: So. You didn’t like your birthday present very much, did you?
Me: 50” wide-screen TV? What every girl dreams of. Why?
Him: We never watch it. Not together anyway.
Me: We’ve talked about this before, dearest. You and I have a conflict of interests where our TV viewing is concerned.
Him: So? You know I’m not picky. I’ll watch whatever.
Me: You say that now. You might even mean it. But when we're sitting up there together, I feel obligated to watch something you’ll like.
Him: Nobutno. But seriously. I’m fine with whatever. You always get the remote anyway. Do whatever you want with it. Except flip channels. I hate that.
Me: But that’s what I do.
Him: Why? Why do you do that? How can you know whether or not a program is worth watching unless you sit still and watch it?
Me: Look. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not going enjoy anything with the words “norsk” or “underholdning” in the description. Ditto the words “dance”, “idol”, “reality” and/or “contestant”. So why wouldn’t I quickly flip past any and all of that crap?
Him: But some of those Norwegian talk shows can be kind of funny sometimes.
Me: To you maybe. Not to me.
Him: I’m sure you’d like them if you’d just give them a chance.
Me: *heavy sigh* So what are you trying to tell me here? Would you like to go upstairs and watch the Friday night talk shows? Cuz’ you can. You’re certainly free to do that if that’s what you want to do.
Him: Not necessarily.
Me: But you want to watch TV?
Him: I don’t know. Maybe.
Me: And the talk shows are what you’d be watching if it were up to you?
Him: Well. That’s really hard to say when I’m not sitting right there in front of the TV. How am I supposed to know what I’ll be in the mood for.
Me: *heavy, heavy sigh* Honey. Help me out. What are we talking about right now?
Him: Just wondering what it says about us as a couple if we can’t even watch TV together. That’s all.
Me: Not much! I mean, honestly! I don’t get my mother’s TV viewing pleasures either, and I still like her a lot, and consider us quite close.
Him: *silent pout*
Me: And besides, every pop psychologist’s guide on how to build a stronger relationship with your partner begins and ends with TURN THE TV OFF! According to their logic, we’re like the healthiest couple we know.
*thoughtful pause*
Him: So, I’ll open another bottle then?
Me: Christ, I thought you’d never ask!
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