The Horror, The Unspeakable Ghastly Horror

Doctor finds spiders in ear of boy with earache

Profanities are the only words that come to mind.

The Non Sequitur As Art

Boy, who did you play with at school today?

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


Boy, have you brushed your teeth yet?

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


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

No.

When did you last go?

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


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

But I have to poop.


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

But the sun makes my head hurt.


Boy, did you eat all your lunch today?

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

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

No. I'm a little bit afraid crocodiles.


__________________________



Honest to God, this is why I drink.

No Gnews Is Good Gnews

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

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

And so it goes. Easy-peasy.

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Grovel, Grovel

Cringe, Bow, Stoop, Faaallllll

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what?

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

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

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

.....the Mountain Lies Ahead.

Mister says I'm ready to mount this monster.

It's called Malmangernuten.

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

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

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

Personal Hygiene

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

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

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

"Yes. Yes, they do."

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

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

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

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

"But I can cut it. Right?"

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

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

NB!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Union Will Stand Afterall

It was my birthday Friday.

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

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

Psst I think he still likes me

More Evidence That I Totally Rule

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

I win!

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

Like a Freshly Fallen Silent Shroud of Snow

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

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

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

Deconstructing Dr. Seuss

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Mister begins out of the clear blue nowhere:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kidding darling. Just a joke."

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

Should I be worried?

In Which Missy Engages in Independent Play

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

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

DOLL 1: I so pretty.

DOLL 2: I pretty too.

DOLL 1: You so pretty.

DOLL 2: You pretty too.

DOLL 1: I so pretty.

DOLL 2: I pretty too.

DOLL 1: I pretty.

DOLL 2: No, I pretty.

DOLL 1: No! I pretty.

DOLL 2: NO! I PRETTY!

Scratching, biting, tearing off of clothes ensues.

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

How proud am I?

Monkey Say, Monkey Do

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

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

The Blahs Have a New Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fickle Friendship

I've had a couple of requests for the finished draft of my great treatise on friendship. But I have a confession to make. My sudden, crippling illness was not the only reason I abandoned the piece. Despite much tweaking and artful metaphor, it was shaping up to be an unwieldy, moralizing mess. Two things I avoid at all costs here at JEDA's House of Blahs, so I binned it.

It started out as a sort of reflection on these vague feelings of....I don't know...obligation?...that I feel every time I use the rice cooker that I received as a gift from the much maligned Princess Z two Christmases ago. Obligation to what I do not know because I neither asked for nor expected such an extravagant gift. Nor do I have any qualms about my part in the drama that ensued last Spring--she's the one who blocked me from her blog, and look, that shit's just petty! So fuck her. But still, it feels odd to me to have this artifact--one that I use often, and am really quite grateful to have been given--of a once vibrant, budding friendship when the friendship itself has degenerated to the point where we avoid eye contact as much as possible when we cross paths.

My reflections on that brief but turbulent relationship naturally led me to expound on the curiosities of some of my deeper, longer lived friendships. La Dragon made an appearance here, for how is it possible to have so much shared history and depth of feeling for a person with whom you only actually shared a city for 9 very brief months?

From there the whole thing really started to fall apart. I bemoaned the fact that I have no childhood friends left, only a handful of high school acquaintances with whom I maintain "Christmas Card Status", but that's about it. Ditto most of my college friends--snooty bitches. Then, after touching briefly on various bruises and scars sustained in a brief tussle with Ms. M a few months back, I ended in a varitable quagmire of existential bullshit about how nobody can ever really know anybody, and we're all ultimately alone, adrift in an unfathomable, hostile universe.

Boo hoo hoo. Then I started my period, and I feel really rather better about everything now. So best to forget it ever happened.

It's a sad fact that there is a wide streak of moody introspection running through my heart and soul. After 34 years of my mother rolling her eyes at me and telling me to knock it off already, I've learned to do my level best to keep a tight lid on it. Got my big-girl panies on, Mom! So God willing, you'll never have to see anything even remotely like the above drivel in either its synopsis or protracted form ever again.

Witty, satirical, self-deprecating--these are the qualities I aim for. Best to leave the metaphysical ruminations on the very nature and essence of human connectivity to Boy. He's much better at it than I am.

To wit--yesterday, I was treated to this monologue on the way to school:

"I love Mommy because she loves me. I love Daddy because he loves me. Missy loves me. EM loves me. And I love them when they're nice. Puss loves me. Puss is soft so I love him. I love my house because my house makes me warm. But the car? The car Mom? I don't love the car because the car can only love itself."

Too true, my darling. All too too true.

Interlude

"Mom? MOM? MOMMY!!!!!"

"Yes, Boy?"

"Life never goes away."

"Well, Boy, yes. Yes it does."

"Mom, look at me. Mom, LOOK!"

"Yes, Boy?"

"NEVER."

__________

Granted, he's had a fever for three days. But still. Kid freaks me out sometimes.

Sexy's Back

So there I was, diligently composing an emotionally charged yet insightful post about the curious nature of friendship with all of its inevitable ebbs and flows, and petty tantrums--when I was struck down by an ague.

That's right. You read right.

An ague. And not some paltry, citified, but-I'd-really-rather-not-go-to-work-today ague either.

No, I'm talking a proper, knock-you-on-your-ass, kick-you-through-the-snow-then-pin-you-over-an-open-fire-til-you-pop-and-boil kind of ague. The sort of ague that befell fey Victorian heroines when they were accidently caught out in the rain. The kind of ague that had them panting and sweating (albeit daintily) in ornate four-poster beds, while their dashing Victorian men paced dark, drafty hallways, brows furrowing, fists clinching as they finally realize their undying love for the stricken lady.

I know, right? That's exactly the kind of ague I'm talking about. That was me last weekend. Dreadful. Pitiful. Grievous. Just plain sad.

I'm mostly over it now, so don't go breaking out your mourning attire just yet. Though I fear I may yet need a good leeching to suck out the infection that seems to lingering in my sinuses.

Elder Miss has it now. She's on day two of the fever and about to do my head in with her endless demands for "more blankets, more water, more Sponge Bob!"

I'm really only here today to call your attention to a bit of a milestone. An anniversary, of sorts. Take a look at the archives. It was exactly one year ago today that I started this two-bit operation. I know, I know. It was one post followed by another one 2 months later. Whatever. Point is I DID start it, see? So......Happy Birthday to my blog. Many happy returns and all that.

Jilly, you left the rum, Love. Tell me you did that on purpose.

8 o'clock New Year's Eve I get a phone call from Jilly who had, just the day before sent her regrets via SMS:  Hogmeny just won't be hogmeny if we can't be in Scotland, so we might as well just have a quiet evening at home. Boo hoo hoo. What.Ever. Jilly Baby. Your loss.

Happily, she thought better of it.

Ring, ring"Hello?"
"Hello, JEDA?"

"Yes?"
"Well, um, I was just out to the garage to get a bottle of Coke. And well, the neighbors, you see, they're all out. And they're all dressed up. Pretty dresses. Pretty hair. Fabulous shoes. Gaity. Hilarity. Drunken revelry. And well, I was just wondering.....could we....? That is to say, would you mind terribly if.....? Can we still come?"
Luckily I had already been coached in proper Hogmeny etiquette, so I knew exactly the right thing to say:

"Sure!!! Of course!!! Yes! Come! Now! Immediately!!!"
They missed out on one hell of a dinner: king crab, tiger prawns and scallops in ginger butter sauce, baguettes, and enough white wine to drown a large cat. They showed up around 10, just in time for the real fun to start. They brought whiskey. And did I mention the rum?

I guess I really can't speak for the others, but I had a glorious time.

Did I drink too much? Yes.

Did I make an ass of myself? A little maybe, yeah.

Did my children witness my shame? Surely they were too preoccupied with the fireworks to notice...much....

Is that real champagne I see Mister opening in that picture above? Pommery, darling. Bought from the cellars, direct. And opened saber-style with my best butcher's knife. Smoooooooth.