Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans

A Short Story about Manners

2011-03-02T00:55:00.000+01:00

I loathe it when the short people* try to order me around.

I was a babysitter for years before I had children and the little screams of "MILK!!" or "Give me _____!" drove me bananas. So pretty much from birth, we've worked on "please," "thank you" and "wait your turn."

Elliot is pretty good about it all and is starting to have nice little manners.

But for the past few months, he's been saying "How are you doing?", which sounds an awful lot like "How you doin'?"

I'll say "Fine, thank you," then ask him how he's doing and he'll say "Yeh."

It drives me bananas.**

So we talked about how a much nicer answer is "Fine, thank you." And he's been pretty good with it.

He gets the reasoning and the appropriate time to use the phrase, but lately he's been a little off in his elocution. *** And it's fine with me because I talk to him all the time and understand almost everything that he says. It all sounds pretty normal to my ears.

This morning, as I'm making Elliot's breakfast,**** Husband is walking through the kitchen as he's getting ready to leave for work.

Elliot says, "Mama, how you doing?"

I reply, "Fine, thank you," then I ask him how he's doing and he replies.

Husband starts laughing and asks if I am listening.

Apparently, to the untrained ear, Elliot's reply doesn't sound so much like "Fine, thank you" as it does "F@#@ you."

Oh well.

*By this I mean children, not midgets with bad manners.

**Not only for the "Yeh," but also for the Jersey Shore-ness of it all.

***He's still little, not quite two. So he still has a little trouble with some of the pronunciations.

****Putting waffles in the toaster.

This is not Daisy

2010-10-29T19:17:00.000+02:00

This is not me and that is not my new baby, Daisy.

This is a gorilla in the London Zoo and her new baby.

Image via AP and Jezebel.com

But we're both a bit tired and a bit busy, so please be patient for a few more days because unlike this mama gorilla, I'll be back here soon...

And my sweet Daisy is cuter than this baby gorilla, if you can believe it....

The Culinary Habits of Elves

2010-09-16T03:40:00.001+02:00

Once upon a time I had an elfin grandmother.

She was not an actual magical creature like a dwarf* or a woodland sprite, but she was short and round and mischievous.

Also that is not some cropped out ex-boyfriend. It's one-half of my brother, but he is not germane to this story, so he didn't make the cut. He won't mind.

Seriously, look at the photo. I am short-ish person, but I am hunched over and folded up on the sofa. She is sitting up straight and tall. And her feet were so small, that I always wondered how she didn't topple over.

My point is, I've been thinking about her lately, for a variety of reasons, but also because she could cook.**

She did "farm to table" when it was just called "dinner."

She was such a good cook that the day before her funeral, we gathered in the minister's office to talk about her, so he would have stories to tell from us to use in his sermon. The first thing any of us said was, "She sure could cook." And we talked about her fried chicken and her lemon pies. About how she would always want us to eat. And how most of the time*** it was so good that if you had one bite, you would eat every single bit.

I should have written down more of her recipes or at least learned the name of what I loved.****

For years I have been looking for little green peas or purple butterbeans. And a about a month ago, I found small tubs of what they called "cream peas" in the Whole Foods.*****

So I bought the entire stock and came home and started googling for recipes. I found this one, which is not exactly how I remember Meme's (I highly doubt she would use garlic, for instance), but it's sort of close. So I've been playing with it and modifying it and below is what I've come up with. It's not exactly Meme's peas, but it's close and it's good.

Elfin Cream Peas
Buy what you can, then you'll need the following for each pound of peas. (I highly recommend starting with at least two pounds. They only get better each day.)

- 4 slices bacon
-1 small onion
- 1 clove garlic
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 1/2 tsp pepper
- 1 cup water

Chop the bacon, onion and garlic. Rinse the peas.

Toss the bacon, garlic and onions in a big pot. The bacon will provide enough fat to cook the onions and garlic.

Stir around until the onions are translucent and the bacon is cooked.

Then add the peas, salt and pepper.

Then add water, which should just cover the peas. (Below is probably just a little too much.) And don't be shy with the salt and pepper. Taste it all occasionally and add more. The amount of salt and pepper is just a starting point.

Bring it to a rolicking***** boil for about 15 or 20 minutes. Then let it simmer for at least an hour. Good stuff, I promise.

Meme would make you eat at least two helpings.

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*Not to be confused with dwarves, woodland sprites or any other actual magical creatures.

Bonus points for recognizing one of the dwarves.

Though, on the subject of woodland sprites....Would you know one if you saw one? Googling comes up with this. But for years, I've always thought of one as more like this. No joke. Then shrink him down just a little bit so he's about as tall as I am, shave his mustache, put him in loose overalls, douse him in pachouli, take away his shoes, make him a mega-fan of the Grateful Dead and "natural substances," circa 1995 or so. Then make sure when he gets hyper or excited, he hops sideways from foot to foot. I know this because I am 98% certain that I met an actual woodland sprite once at a friend's mountain cabin. We had sneaked off after exams to take a day off before holidays with our families. And our own personal woodland sprite showed up for a little visit. Trust me on this. It freaked me out.

**I am still pregnant and hungry. And along with Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, chocolate milk and peanut better sandwiches, I want Meme's cooking. Elliot was made almost entirely of pickled vegetables, chocolate popsicles and mandarin orange slices. This baby girl has a serious sweet tooth.

***Her skills did not extend to all foods, though. You could always trust anything fried, vegetable based or if it had Cool Whip or frosting as a component. But with any baked goods, it was wise to check twice before eating. Based on her brownie making skills alone, I was in my early twenties before I realized that "from scratch" was not "synonymous with 'tastes like shite." No joke. But really, as long as you remembered to stay away from the brick-like brownies, you'd be all good.

****Let this be a lesson to write it all down...also, to snag the cast iron skillet while the snaggin's good. I don't know where her skillet ended up, but I hope whoever has it, appreciates that it is seasoned with six or more decades of goodness.

*****Another Southern raised friend of mine says they are called young field peas and I think she may be right, but cream peas was printed on the sticker, so that's what I am going with today. She stared at me blankly when I said purple butterbeans. But I know they exist out there somewhere.

Here's what's been going on...

2010-05-07T15:48:00.001+02:00

Lots has been happening over the past few months since my last regular posts.*

But before I get started again, I want to keep things a bit in order, here's the catch-up on the past few months----you can either read the bits or scroll through like a sort of flip book. Some of the topics I've been thinking on and will revisit in the future, others are just bits....

-----------------------------------------------

I've been culling.**

One of the items in the photo below went to Goodwill, the other stayed, just in case of emergencies. Can you guess which one? It all depends on whether or not you think it is more likely that my future self may one day:

a) work in a suited up corporate environment

b) stay out all night dancing

I also went through boxes and boxes of papers, letters and one menu from a restaurant I frequented in college. I even found a handful of notes from my sixth grade bully.***

Elliot learned lots of things, like drinking from a cup,****

Escape...

And all about fish...

We took family photos.

Elliot turned one.

Husband and I went on our first trip away. He can drive with his eyes closed. Yes, he is that good.

We flew to Key West where I was appalled by some of the sights, but enjoyed the chocolate covered Key Lime Pie anyway.

Husband stuck mainly to the more conventional seafood.

Elliot and I went to the beach with the Jackalope and his mom.

We went to the Easter Beer Hunt.

Elliot scored three pieces of chocolate and three beers.

We went to a birthday luau pig roast. It was awesome. Seriously awesome.

I got to try a bit from each section of the pig. Even the brain.***** I have a new appreciation for pork.

And somewhere along the way, I got pregnant.****** Two will arrive in late October.

See you next week...

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*And I want to get back to it. It's good for me---it gives me a few minutes of amusement and creativity for myself, much like I imagine it is for a non-professional ballerina. They may still work out just to keep their muscles in shape and to revisit their skills, but it's not what they do anymore. That's probably the most concrete way I can explain it. I like to write. I used to be a journalist and probably one day I will be again, but in the meantime, I like to try to keep it all a little bit in shape...

**Everything happened so quickly when Husband and I got married and moved that I didn't go through anything. It either went with us or went into storage here. So I've had LOTS to cull through, including giving more than half my clothes to the Goodwill.

***I don't know why I kept them, but I'm glad I did. Twenty-five years past, I have a much better perspective on the whole experience.

****This is a big deal.

*****It tastes a bit like savory marshmallow.

****** This is a big part of the reason for my absence. We're really, really excited. (Well Husband and I are. I'm not sure Elliot gets it yet.) But overall, we've been busy and I've been TIRED. I feel better now. And by Two, I mean that's its name in the meantime, not the actual number of babies.

A Short Story Involving Magic

2010-04-27T19:25:00.001+02:00

Yes, I have been absent for a long, long time, but it’s been busy in these parts, with lots going on. I'm making new plans and I will rectify it all soon, but today I saw a little news item and it reminded me of this little short story…..

Once upon a time I was covering one of my very first events.

A swanky four wheel drive kind of car company created an obstacle course on the top of a building in the lower west side of town, so semi-industrial, I am pretty sure it didn’t have a cutesy name yet.

So, if you were one of the UES elite invited to the party, you had to navigate through a car showroom and then ride a cargo elevator to the rooftop.

Then the guests had to wait an excruciatingly long time in an excruciatingly long line for quite possibly the stiffest free drinks ever poured on the island of Manhattan.

Once they made their way to the bar, they would make their way over to the test drive area, crank up and fly over fake hills and giant puddles.*

It was a pretty beat event as those things go, celebrity-wise. There was an aging actress/model type who had once been ultra famous, with her much younger actor boyfriend.** I was working on a story about them and that was who I was there to interview.

But there was also a middle-aged magic-type. He was a “name” but also he showed up to everything. Every single event, ever.

And in the beginning, when I was pretty new to it all, I often got assigned the lower priority events,*** so he and I knew each other a little bit. This was mainly because he would talk to me incessantly, clearly hoping to get some sort of quote in the magazine.

And on this particular evening, as I was waiting for my five minutes with the couple, he sidled up as he did. And I gamely asked him a few questions, then waited for him to start telling me all about his next big trick.

But on this night, he decided to take another tactic.

He asked about me.

And then started on that faux-deep sort of soul-searching sort of nonsense.

He wanted to know if I believed in alternate planes. Could there be things out there that ordinary humans did not understand?*****

After several long minutes of politely trying to deflect the conversation, he wasn’t letting me scoot past it at all.

Pressing on, finally he said, “Just tell me, do you believe in magic? What would it take for me to make you believe?”

“Well,” I said, “I would absolutely believe in magic, if you could make a drink appear.”

He disappeared****** soon afterward.

THE END

**************************************************************************

*Yep, but that is not the point of my story.

**She was a cougar before it was hip.

***It was excellent practice and fun, too.

****Now, it’s not that I don’t believe in magic, that is also not the point of my story. What I do not believe in are phony deep conversations that include equally phony soul-searching looks when I am in the middle of working at an event. Also, I did not want to insult his business or hurt his feelings. He has been hugely successful at what he does, but do I believe that it is attributed to his connection with a higher plane or some special psychic talent? I just didn’t know.

*****I am pretty sure that he did not count himself as the ordinary human variety. This is someone who has made major, major giant things disappear.

******Via his feet.

A story about The Olds, an Anniversary and Supermodels

2010-02-16T17:07:00.000+01:00

It's been a bit since I've blogged.

It has been a bit overwhelmingly overwhelming in these parts lately with the moving and settling in, so I haven't had time to sit down and think on things.

But everything is shaking out and getting in place, so I will be back much more frequently.

On another note, a few weeks ago, I read a news story the blogging is for The Olds.**

**********************************

This morning I took our wedding cake out of the freezer.

In non-shocking news, we are a little late to the game.

Today is our second wedding anniversary and I am hoping we haven't missed all the good luck.

It's super pretty.

And if I remember correctly, on the inside are both vanilla and chocolate layers.

This was the one bite I got.

And, also, if I remember correctly it was really good.

This is the way it looks today.

For the past two years while we were on our first big adventure, it sat cooling in BigD's refrigerator** freezer.

You're probably aware that most couple eat the top layer of their wedding cake on their first anniversary, but we couldn't work all of the logistics out in time.

But I just learned that the practice of saving the top layer comes from the 19th century when all cakes were mega, mega expensive. And cakes were needed for both weddings and for christenings.

So, since christenings tended to come relatively soon after the wedding, they would just freeze the top layer and use it about a year later for their baby's christening.

This was from our first anniversary.***

Who knew we were so old fashioned?

In any case, as much as I tried to convince Husband to wear our wedding garb**** our to dinner tonight, he sweetly refused, but he did agree to our fancy rehearsal party get-ups.

Happy anniversary, sweet Husband. It's been a big two years and there's only more goodness to come.

____________________________________________________________

*This is not a deterrence, but this morning when I sat down to type, Andy Rooney and his eyebrows popped in my head. He does not blog, but he does pontificate on things in a particular manner that seems (to me) to be a precursor to blogging. (Also, he does not even know exactly what a blog is, and he kind of hates what he does know about it, so by that logic it must be for The Youngs. Score.) If you are following this, that might mean you are one of The Olds, too. If you are too young to get it, then "google" it like all the other young'uns.

**I can NEVER spell this word. No joke, I think it's one of the hardest ones in the entire English language. Why isn't there a "d" in it? I think there should be.

***Yeah it's a pretty horrid photo of me. But in my defense, it was a rotten angle. Even skinny people look gross from that angle. Also I was 38 weeks pregnant. Only celebrities and supermodels are cute then, and then only a few of them. The rest of them go into hiding on their compounds only to emerge a few months later super fit and gorgeous to make everyone feel inferior.

****I loved my dress and think the whole wedding event happened so quickly that I didn't get to wear it long enough. I wore it the next day in our hotel until we had to change to get to the plane. Then when we got back from our honeymoon, I wore it again to eat a breakfast of boiled eggs with Husband and my sister. I do not think this is weird. On our tenth anniversary, we're going to do it all again. Only eight more to go...

A Short Story Involving Cake*

2010-01-25T22:06:00.000+01:00

Today is Husband's birthday.

He is now a number that I cannot tell you, but it's a good round one.

Husband is not an easy birthday boy.

He half-heartedly pretends that he would rather than we skip it all together, but really does like it when we celebrate just a little bit.

Four years ago today was the first time that we celebrated together. He and I had a been dating about four months and we were pretty serious about each other, so of course I was going to do something to celebrate the day.**

I started with asking about what kind of cake he would like. I am firm believer that it is massively important to blow out candles on the actual day, for luck, one to grow on, etc...

He said it didn't matter. And of course it did, so I asked what I thought were questions that would lead to the correct answer:

What is your favorite cake?
What is your favorite dessert?
What did your mom make for you every single year for your birthday party?
If you were starving and the only place to eat within a thousand miles only served sweets and all kinds of them, what would you order?
If you were famous and I was a reporter for Teen Beat magazine tasked with writing your fan page, what would go into the blank space next to "On my birthday, I like...?"

All of these were met with blank stares, but he was thinking.

Finally he said, "I'd really like a chocolate loaf."***

Of course, having gleaned this bit of information, I was not going to comment on it at all. I just promised that on the appropriate day, I would deliver a chocolate loaf.

But the thing is, there is no such thing***.

So I called Kathleen, who knows everything. She cooks and bakes and really, foodwise, her only fault is that she is a vegetarian.****

And we thought and thought and poured through her myriad cookbooks and scrawled notes and recipes lying about her kitchen.

There was not one loaf cake anywhere.

And no, I wasn't going to call (One Day Would Be) Husband and ask. He made his request with such authority, that clearly it was a thing and we couldn't find it.

So we kept looking.

Finally, we decided that it must be another name for Chocolate Pound Cake, which is much more challenging to make than you would suspect. And we didn't have all the exact ingredients nor did we have an exact recipe, but because dear Kathleen is a pro, we just decided to dump some chocolate into the mix.

In retrospect that may have not been the best idea because by the next evening, the chocolate loaf had hardened to a consistency closer to a rock than a cake.

But dear (One Day Would Be) Husband chomped through several pieces and (pretended) to love every bite of it.

It turns out that Chocolate Loaf Cake was another name for a familiar kind of cake. What he really meant was a chocolate cake sans frosting, which, I suppose if you look at it in the strictest definition, that is exactly what it is.

So the next year and every year since, that is exactly what he gets.

Tonight, we're going to have a little tiny family birthday party, which is exactly what Husband wanted.

But this weekend, we were at the BigD's house picking up some things. And she loves birthdays, so she planned a little birthday breakfast brunch for Husband and it went just like this...

Elliot and I played...

While Claudia rapped cooking instructions to BigD...

Elliot showed his toys to Bill...

Then it was time to eat...

Claudia sat across from me...

And Elliot and I sat across from Claudia...

Then we all sang and BigD cut the (cheese)cake...

And then we had a family picture...

Then Elliot and I took turns eating cake...

Mmmmm Mmmmm Good....

The end.

__________________________________________________________

*This weekend, I ran into a regular reader of this blog...And she said, "So when are you going to be blogging again." I started to explain that I had been blogging, a little. She interrupted and said, "I know, I know, your stuff hasn't arrived, but that's not why I read you. I read you for the funny stories, when will you post more of those?" I was a bit stung and didn't even bother to explain while I've been feeling a bit funny lately, I hadn't been feeling all that amusing. I told Husband about it and of course he made me feel better and got me thinking about things. And along with a few other thoughts, I decided that today I would try to post a funny story, because she's been one of my longest readers. And she's not the only reader. There is actually a pretty respectable number of people just like you who click here every single day. And if you are one of the ones who comes around for the funny stories, I'm working on it. This is my best effort for the day and they'll be back again soon.

**I've found that birthdays can be fraught with danger. There is always a history of how things should or should not be done and that coupled with new(ish) dating can equal all sorts of conundrum-like situations.

***Oh my gosh! I promise you that four years ago, these were not the answers I got from google. There must have been a chocolate loaf trend since then. No joke. This would have made my life soooooo much easier.

****I kid, I kid. I do love some steak though.

Naw

2010-01-22T02:13:00.000+01:00

We've been back in the United States for about six weeks now and (almost*) every single conversation I've had has started with, "So are you guys settled into your house yet?"

And the answer is, "No. Thanks so much for asking, but we are not."

See this photo?

This photo was taken in the guest/man room in our apartment in Stavanger the day before the movers came to load everything into the giant container, which would then be put onto a cargo ship. And then, one day, four to six weeks afterward, that ship would pull into a port in Savannah, Georgia, where then it would clear customs and then be put onto a truck and one day show up at our house in Atlanta.

That should have happened last week.

That did not.

Not one of those boxes in the photo in are in our house. Neither are any of the other boxes, filled with all our things that we thought were vital enough to send over to Norway and then send back to the United States. Those boxes are in the country, still stuffed into the giant container that transported them across Europe and then the Atlantic Ocean.

But they are stuck in Savannah.

We've been flagged by the US Customs Authority for a random search. Of. Every. Single. Box. And. Every. Single. Item. In. Every. Single. Box. In. Our. Container.

Much like the random searches going through airport security, we've been pulled aside.

And I am not against searches. I was in New York when all of that happened, so (within reason) I am all for doing what needs to be done to keep everyone safe.

But, along with the annoyance of it all, pulling us for a random search does not make good sense.

Seriously.

First of all, Husband and I have been wracking our brains to think of what could have caused an alarm to the security force. There's no contraband in the shipment. We did not smuggle any explosives, pickled herring, dirt from a potato field or a live sheep from the meadows near the beach. We claimed every piece of baby furniture and the vast majority of the clothes we bought over the two years.

Also, we did not pack it ourselves. The goods were packed by a company, hired by Husband's employer, whose sole job was to pack our possessions securely while making sure all the international import/export/customs laws were followed.

And Husband called our relocation handler yesterday who said, "I have no information about why your container was flagged. I also don't know when it will show up, as it might be a queue. And we shouldn't ask any questions. Not only do they not have to give us any information, they don't like to be asked."

And again, I am not against any searches. I really do believe that, within reason, the government should do what is necessary to keep us all safe.

I do question whether or not it is the best use of time and resources, man and financial to search a family consisting of a couple and an infant**, relocating from Norway***, completing an expat contract****, packed by a vetted moving company*****.

And no matter how I go over it, I am thinking, "Nope."

But that's how it is. So, until the U.S. Customs Authority is done pawing through our stuff, we'll just be hanging out, with our six suitcases and giant new television.******

_____________________________________________

*My mom (BigD), my sister and my sister-in-law, along with a few others, do not ask this question anymore. Also, I talk to the three of them almost every day. So there's that.

**None of whom have any sort of negative record, credit, criminal or otherwise.

***Not known to be a hotbed of insurgency.

****With one of the world's largest companies.

*****This is their bidness.

******Which is slightly trashy, if you think about it. We have practically no furniture(don't worry, we have some things from my old apartment, toys and several boxes random things) but we have a television, not as giant as Wendy's who happens to have the largest television I've ever seen outside of a sports bar, but I love it all. Really, it could only be tackier if we took the wheels off the cars and parked them in the front yard.

We're back and no H is not my middle name

2010-01-11T01:38:00.004+01:00

It's been more than three weeks* since my last blog post, and to be fair that one was pretty weak.**

(This is currently how we eat dinner. We have no table yet and the pizza is frozen. We are hobos. Hobos with wine*** and nice chairs, but hobos nonetheless.)

Yesterday the plumber came and finished the repairs. Over the past few days, we've had most of the cast iron pipes replaced as well as all the piping in the kitchen replaced, the damage which was found by the crew replacing our furnace and all the dusty dusty ductwork underneath the house.

I mention that because while it sounds boring (and it is) those pipes and ductwork, I suspect, are our anniversary trip. Yep, a first-time-traveling-sans-the-little-man trip to somewhere that does not allow children**** may now be stuffed underneath the floorboards in the crawlspace.

But things are getting done, but it's been a transition.

Right now, as I type this, I am sitting in what most likely (in the not too distant future) will be the man-room*****/office.

I am surrounded by boxes, many of which are labeled "BOOKS/PAPERS."

When we got engaged, things started moving ultra-fast, so we could get all hitched up and move overseas.

In the process, (almost)Husband went to Norway to start work for a few weeks.

I packed up my apartment and moved things. We were in such a hurry (packing, wedding planning, etc...) that, instead of sorting through much of it, I just tossed it into boxes and put it all into storage, intending to deal with it when we moved back.

In retrospect this may not have been the best idea, at least not completely.

I really don't need all those paperbacks including that unread copy of The Tao of Pooh, given to me by suitor whose name has long been forgotten, mainly because after that gift, there were no further dates. But also because I abhor the vast majority of cartoon characters and especially loathe ones that lisp.******

But I do have every single one of my reporter's notebooks******* as well.

And on the top of the pile in one of the boxes was one of them with the notes from one of my favorite moments, in which I was confused with a major deity.

It was late in the evening in a nightclub in New York, after an award show. My intended interviewee was a southern rapper redneck type, who is not actually one bit Southern, but has perfected the redneck act to a tee. At the time, he was rumored to be engaged to a large bosomed actress, who once favored red swimsuits and had always favored musician types. My orders were to ask him about the wedding plans, to get any detail at all.

The club was dark and smoky. The music was at top volume and every conversation varied between shouting and speaking close into each other's ear. My target interviewee was well into his bottle and had commanded the deejay booth.********

I walked up and it went something like this:

ECD: Hi

SouthernRapperRedneck: Hey darlin.' What's your name?

ECD: I'm Elizabeth from NameOfMagazine. I just wanted to come over and say congratulations about your engagement.

SRR: Uh. Thanks.

ECD: (I am not quite sure exactly what I said here, I scribbled "Chatter about wedding, etc...")

SRR: That's none of your f***in' business. Get the f*** out of here.

ECD: Well, alright, thanks so much.

And I turn to leave. I asked the questions. He declined to comment. So at that point I consider that part of the evening done. Oddly enough, SRR does not. He grabs my upper arm, holding me tightly enough that I cannot move.

SRR: Seriously, get the f*** out of here.

ECD: I would sir, but you're holding onto me.

SRR: Who do you think you are!!?!! Jesus H. Christ!!?!!

ECD: No sir, I don't.

SRR: Smartass! Seriously, get the f*** out of here.

ECD: I would sir, but you're holding onto me.

SRR: Who do you think you are!!?!! Jesus H. Christ!!?!!

ECD: No sir, I don't.

SRR: Smartass! Seriously, get the f*** out of here.

This went on for a few minutes, in varying forms.

He got more irate, I got calmer and more amused.

Then his manager pried his fingers off me.

And while I did not get the details of the upcoming nuptials, I did have a hand shaped bruise on my upper arm for the next week or so.

And I had forgotten that until I just read it again and I still think it's funny.

So that's something.

_____________________________________

*Or thereabouts. I could figure out the exact number of days but that would require me to find a calendar, count the days, etc... and I just don't care enough to do that, and really, I'll bet you don't care enough either...

**Hilarious, but weak.

***Dear PC Police, Let me explain. First of all, I think most hobos tend to have wine, so that's apropos. But I do not mean to be insensitive to the plight of legitimate hobos, both past and perhaps present, I merely mean to identify somewhat with the act of carrying around all of one's possessions on one's back, or in one's suitcase, if you will. Sincerely, Elizabeth

****Listen, there's no offense meant and we adore our little guy (and also many of the children we know), but to be clear, we adore our little guy. If we're going to spend some cash to go traveling without him for a few days, we don't really want to hang out with strangers' children.

*****I suspect that if you are married and are reading this post, the term "man room" needs no explanation.

******Yeah, yeah, yeah...but even in light of this shocking fact, it's pretty likely that Elliot will have a pretty alright childhood anyway.

*******Except for the drawerful from my last semi-fulltime job. One morning I came in, sat at my desk, opened my drawer and found it completely empty. The mail clerk, misunderstanding a request to clean out some old file cabinets, dumped out three of my key drawers, including files, notes, tapes, a calendar from that current month and all of my personal items. I spent the rest of that day, not reporting, but climbing through the three dumpsters in the bowels of the AJC building. No kidding. It was two years' worth of notes and ideas, including loads of interviews I had conducted for upcoming stories. It was a BIG deal. And so I dumpster dove, all in vain. I did not find one of my own things, but I did find really interesting unshredded expense reports. These did not make the experience worthwhile, but did make for some interesting reading.

********Hey, don't judge. This was a publicity event. The famous people who were there were mainly B-list and below and were clamoring for ink. Every single one of their publicists knew exactly which magazines were sending reporters and to a certain extent, what the content of the questions could be...And also, to be fair, I saw SRR perform at another magazine's celebration about a year later. He killed. No joke, it was an awesome show. I did not interview him that time, so I cannot say for sure if he was still confusing reporters with deities or if it was just a one-time event.

Happy Holidays

2009-12-23T06:20:00.001+01:00

May whomever bring you whatever you deserve!

Happy holidays from all of us...

We'll be back in the New Year...

We're here...

2009-12-20T17:23:00.000+01:00

We've had a big few weeks.

We've changed continents; negotiated baby* jet lag; knocked out an entire list of Christmas presents armed with 90 minutes, the magic of the internets and a highly abused credit card; and sampled the fine cuisines of more than eleven different countries, all of which can be found within three miles of our swanky** Atlanta digs.

And the overall change has been extreme in the weirdest ways. Once the jet-lag shook out, settling back into the US has been easier than expected. Really, it's just like we're back from a two year vacation. It was great in so many different ways, but we're back home now. There are lots of transitions to come, but right now, it's all good.

The biggest culture shock thus far has been in driving.*** For instance, in Norway, the speed limits are much much lower--90kph (55mph) on the highway--and they are firm, with giant fines, almost impossible to contest. Here, I had forgotten that the speed limits are much more "suggestions" rather than actual laws.****

And in the city, it's worse.

I follow the speed limit laws there, too.

And there's more to come, but we've been overwhelmed with it all, but slowly but surely, we're getting settled in...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*As in "experienced by an actual baby," not as in "a small amount of." There is a big difference between the two. Trust.

**And I use the word "swanky" in the most ironic way possible, which really is pretty close to the opposite of swanky. To be accurate, I mean the two bedroom suite at the resident inn where the three of us are headquartered.

***Other than the smiley people.

****They are laws, but no one follows them.

Babies and Goats

2009-12-02T19:29:00.000+01:00

I just showed this clip* to Elliot.

Now he wants a pet goat for Christmas, which really I am sort of okay with...

________________________
*It's "Babies: A Documentary" and no, he doesn't watch tv all the time.

Milo and Lillie are on their way

2009-11-30T18:28:00.001+01:00

We've been in the moving process for a while, but until this morning, it's been all paperwork and electronic plans.

We've filled out custom forms and picked up Elliot's medical records and made hotel and airline reservations, but today it really feels like it's all really started.

Today Milo and Lillie were picked up. Milo is about 100 pounds and Lilie is about 60 pounds, so their airline crates are too big for any plane that flies in and out of the Stavanger airport.

So, in the exact opposite way they arrived, they left this morning.

Yesterday, a man drove from Oslo, spent the night at a hotel here, then came by this morning to drive them around the country today. And tomorrow morning he will put them on a plane to Atlanta.

They will arrive sometime on December 2nd and will be taken to what I like to call "sleep away camp" where they will stay until about early January or so when we are somewhat settled in our house.

It's kind of odd that our dogs will be back in the United States before we are.

I have really mixed feelings* about leaving, but just today, Elliot and I had been in town for his last check-up and a great leaving lunch with some friends. We were walking back to our car and we ran into some of our dearest friends.

Instead of just heading home, we sat and visited for much of the rest of the afternoon.

I'm not sure how often that will happen back in Atlanta.

So if you happen to be anywhere near a kennel in Southwest Atlanta over the next month or so, stop by if you have a minute and say hello.

I'd hate for our dear hunds to be lonely.

*In the ideal world, we would have stayed another year. Our friends are fantastic and the travel has been wonderful, but I miss the US and most of what that entails. And we miss family like crazy, plus dear Elliot needs to know his cousins...

Happy Thanksgiving, Peoples!

2009-11-26T18:30:00.004+01:00

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.*

(This is Husband's Turkey Day card.)

I love Thanksgiving. It's a day of good food eaten with people you love unemcumbered by present pressure. There is usually some kind of drama, as there is when people are in big groups, but that drama almost always gets worked out and becomes a funny memory. Mainly, to me, it's all about taking a minute to be grateful for all the good things.

Also, I LOVE the fried turkey**, next to key lime pie, it's my very favorite food in the world. Seriously.

But in years when I haven't made it Georgia for the holiday, I've had some great ones as well.

My sister and I were guests of LisaD's family Thanksgiving in Brooklyn the morning after we spent happy, chilly hours watching the Macy's balloons getting blown up next to the Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side. I hosted a friends' Thanksgiving in my tiny apartment in the West Village complete with a champage fountain. And this year is going to be great, too.

Husband, Elliot and I have been invited to have Thanksgiving at our best friends' home here in Stavanger. It's happening tomorrow night and there will be the requisite turkey*** and ham and best of all, assorted goodies and important ingredients imported all the way from Denver, smuggled**** in a suitcase carried by an American who has come all the thousands of miles for a real Norwegian-style holiday.

We couldn't be more excited about it.

But tonight, we're having our own little family Thanksgiving---not with turkey, but with Asian BBQ'd pork and cheesy potatoes. The dishes may not be the "appropriate" ones, but the thankfulness for our good things and happiness is all there.

____________________________________________________

*That, and other peoples' birthdays.

**If you're not familiar with it, imagine this:
Take a thawed turkey and a special turkey hypodermic needle. Then shoot the turkey full of buttery cajun goodness all underneath its turkey skin. Then drop it into boiling peanut oil. Remove it from the oil about 45 minutes later and enjoy its cajun, buttery goodness. And also enjoy the fact that it's less calories and more healthy than the turkeys cooked in the oven for hours and hours. Seriously. (AMENDED---I actually looked it up. According to the American Dietetic Association, with the skin on, fried turkey has two more fat grams than the same serving size of conventionally prepared turkey. Take the skin off and it's less because very little of the peanut oil soaks in...Of course there are lots of mitigating factors...ie the amount of butter you inject but that is often a wash because a conventional turkey is rubbed with it and then soaks in it for hours. Also fried turkey is not dry and is extra tasty, so there's that....)

***Not fried, but prepared by an Englishman who knows what he's doing. Don't be sad for me, I'll get the fried goodness at Christmas, so all is well in my world.

****If you are the custom authorities reading this, don't believe a word. I made it all up. So pass along, nothing to see here.

Do these socks make my feet look fat?*

2009-11-21T10:04:00.001+01:00

Over the past few weeks, I've also been asked:

"Now that you're heading back does this mean you're going to be shutting down or renaming your blog?"

The short answer:
No and no.

The long answer:
Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans was never really about stripes, socks, skinny and/or jeans.**

It's always been about figuring out how to navigate where I am---which right now has been Stavanger, Norway and soon will be Atlanta, Georgia.

I've written about gettting hitched up, being newly married, traveling and having a baby, as well as other weighty topics such as wombats, how not to be burgled, glitter and tobacco.

I've even had contributors.

None of this will change.

So I'm just going to keep on with what I'm doing.

Please feel free to stop back by anytime. You're always welcome.

_________________
*Horizontal stripes are often not considered a great idea on most body parts unless you are very very brave. I am not. But stripes on feet? I kind of like them. They just seem friendly.

**The name came from my very first trip to Stavanger, which was not Husband's first trip. (He's American, but had lived here before, moved back to the US. Then we got hitched up and moved back to Stavanger for a few years.)

It was early in 2008 and as it often is in these parts, Stavanger was cold and rainy. But being the optimistic sort that I am, I immediately tried to figure out how to make the dampness less annoying. And I began with my feet, which if you've ever had really wet and cold feet, you may know that often that makes all the difference.

If you every happen to drop into Stavanger, and really most of Scandinavia, you'll notice that women tend to wear close-fitting pants or leggings, often jeans, tucked into knee high boots. I am convinced that it is less (or at least equal) a fashion statement and more of a practical one.

On dark, dank days, the last thing you want to do is get the hemline of your pants wet. Then not only will it eventually creep up your pants, but also will track into your home.

Which brings me to the next bit, the striped socks. Unless it's a place of business, shoes are never worn inside. Once you step over the threshold into your home, the shoes are removed. And really, no one wants to see holey socks.

Also, I just like stripes.

Things I Will Miss, Part One

2009-11-17T19:35:00.003+01:00

There have been a few common questions I've gotten when I've told people we're heading back to the US.

The most frequent one is "Aren't you so glad to be going back?"

And I am, mostly.

I want Elliot to grow up close to his cousins and I want him to spend lots of quality time with his NeeNee (BigD)*. My career has been on hold for the past two years and while** Husband and I are excited for me to be fully hands on for the next few years, I'd like to start dabbling in the freelance again when I can. I miss great museums and we're going to spend lots of time at the High Museum of Art and at the Georgia Aquarium. I love going to matinee movies*** in the middle of the day. The mani/pedis are $20 and Elliot will have a backyard where I'm hoping we can clear out a space for a swing.

But we've had a great two years here. It has been the best place for Husband and me to start off our adventure. And other than the initial business about the car, which passed, we've been really happy.

And there are going to be lots of things, I'm really going to miss. Below aren't all, but just what popped into my head at this minute....

Girlfriends
No matter how much I love Husband,**** I always need at least one good girlfriend. And in my time here, I've been so so lucky to have had several. Some who have moved on to their next location and one in particular who is here on a semi-permanent basis. It's going to be no fun to be six time zones away, but there's Skype and also a pile of airline miles, some of which are going to be used to pop over to Atlanta. So there's that.

The language
I am no good at the speaking, but I've gotten fairly okay about understanding a little bit when I am listening.***** Norwegian is a challenging language, especially for me and especially because it's Germanic-based. The rules can simple, but the exceptions are tough. And the cadences are fun to hear, but they are so hard to emulate...But I still love it. My favorite part is that many of the words are just what they are. For instance, hospital is "sykehus" (sick house) and kennel is "hundepensjonat" (dog hotel). It's straightforward and great, which is akin to how the Norwegian people are in general.

Baby Cakes

Pre-Elliot, Husband and I took a childbirth class with nine other couples. And those moms, along with one mom we adopted from a pre-natal yoga class, have met every week since with our sweet babies. Those weekly meet-ups saved me in the beginning when I was so tired and recovering. And as the months have passed, it's been one of the major highlights of our week. We visit and compare notes on everything. And Elliot LOVES his friends.

Roundabouts

This is a pretty rotten photo, but you know what roundabout are. Traffic merges, comes together, then splits off into all the different individual ways. Sometimes there is just one lane, but often there are as many as three or four, but it all works. Navigating them in the beginning was nothing less than a giant, pain-in-the-caboose challenge, but as the months have passed, I kind of love them. Seriously. It's much like walking on the streets of New York. No matter how many people there are, if you know what you're doing, people just move and make it work and it does.

The airport

Ahh the airport. I've always loved the airport.****** And I love this one, too. Husband (and now Elliot, too) have had so so many great adventures that (for the most part) started right here. Europeans know how to live. No joke. They work to live, not live to work. And while Husband has worked so so hard, we have also been traveling. And, once we're back in the States, that kind of adventure will be over, at least for a while. We'll still go places and do things, but it won't be quite the same.

This sandwich

I LOVE this sandwich. I kid you not. It's chicken breast, with hummus and lettuce and tomato on sourdough bread. If you're in Stavanger, go to either of the Ostehuset locations, go immediately and eat it. Look on the menu under "Sanwich på dansk rugbød." And it's called exactly what it is...Hummus, kylling, ruccula og tomater.******* Have them put it on their sandwichbrød ("sandwich bread,") which is this light, fluffy sourdough-ish bread. Then ask for an extra side of the hummus. It's an awesome mix of chunky hummus, with just a tad of curry, but they are a little stingy with it. Good stuff. Trust.

____________________________________________________

*Hopefully a few of which are overnighters, once the little man can handle it. I am not worried about NeeNee's skill in this, she's a pro and I have already scheduled a weekend with her in Spring 2010 so Husband and I can have a weekend away. I love the little man like crazy, but I love his daddy like crazy, too.

**If all things go well...

***This ship may have sailed.

****And it's alot.

*****Which really means that I could have a small little conversation with a toddler and could gather the subject of a conversation being had by grow-up. It's hard.

******Seriously. In most of my jobs, I've always had to travel. And in a few of them, alot. And, especially in the years before the things happened in New York, I loved going to the airport early just to watch the travelers. You can see the entire range of human emotions within the walls of any airport. Everybody is going on some kind of an adventure. It's amazing.

*******Which shockingly enough is the "Hummus, chicken, lettuce and tomato" sandwich. It is, what it is.

Homeward Bound

2009-11-12T15:12:00.000+01:00

So it's been in the works for a while, but we've just gotten the final final details...we're packing* up and heading back to the United States.

We're going back to Atlanta, so I guess it's a good thing that the house we own there has never sold.

We have about thirty days left and will touch down in Atlanta the first week of December.

So there's lots to do and lots to report, but right now, that's what I have for you.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*And by "we're packing" I mean "the nice people hired by Husband's company." Thank you nice people. Thank you Husband's company.

Beware...if you're a fan of Twizzlers....

2009-11-09T15:49:00.002+01:00

My sister Claudia is an artist. And a good one.

She made odd, geometric mobiles in elementary school and won art contests in high school.

In college, she got even better. For Christmas and birthdays, if I was lucky, she would give me some of her work as a present. And we have some of it in our house today.

This one is my favorite. It's a screen print in my favorite colors.

This is from her senior show. It's not just a portrait, it's a process. She took individual photos, then transferred them onto cloth. Then created colors and dyed thread. Then embroidered each one.

And those are just a few.

BigD snagged some of the best ones. If you ever go over to my mom's house, check out the nude in the guest bathroom. That's a Claudia original as well.

And I still think about a an oil/chalk vegetable still life she gave to an old friend of mine.*

Over the years, Claud has moved a bit away from creating art. Instead she's been focusing on the son she created, which is understandable.

But just a few months ago, she decided to go back to school. Before she starts her actual program, she's been filling in a few of the prerequisites.** And of course, she's doing extra credit.

This is the photo that appeared in my email in-box a few days ago.

What is it, you may wonder? I'll let Claudia explain in her own words...***

"I knew you wanted to see. The bottom is yellow and represents the hypodermis (the fatty adipose part that binds the skin to the muscle), then the red dermis part (highly vascular), then there is whipped cream-the epidermis (it blows away just like your skin cells).

Just think, when you look at Husband it is all just dead cells protecting his insides.

Anyway, there is the twizzler, obviously the hair and a grape and marshmellow representing various secretion glands.

I made 100.

Go me."

I love it.

Though I may never eat a Twizzler again.

And dang it, I loved Twizzlers.

_____________________________________________

*If you're reading this, you know who you are. Though I suspect it's hanging in your house, pretty close to the last place I saw it, we're not really friends anymore. I asked for it back all those years ago, but you refused. Will you think about it now? I'll buy it. No joke.

**Human A&P was not on her art school course list.

***I asked her permission and she said it was fine.

A Short Story About Hats

2009-11-08T11:44:00.000+01:00

Every single year, the International School in Stavanger celebrates Guy Fawkes Night* by building a bonfire and burning the poor guy in effigy.

We had a plan to meet up with several other families from our babies group. We were going to visit, watch the bonfire and stay for the fireworks.

Elliot hated it.

And we're not quite sure if it's because of the darkness, the fire, the wind or AS's hat.** But after a bit, it just seemed the nicer thing to scoot out early.

At least we missed the traffic.

___________________________________________

*In 1605, Fawkes was one of the leaders in a plot to blow up the Brit's Houses of Parliament. It failed. So depending on how you feel about that, you can feel a bit sorry for him...or not.

**It was a furry one, kind of like a cartoon hunter's. (I'm not cracking on it, really...It suited him.) And every time he leaned into Elliot's face to talk to him, Elliot wailed. So I'm going with the hat.

Norway is safe, but...

2009-11-05T19:42:00.001+01:00

Let’s be clear. Norway is a safe country with really low crime rates.*

(This is our dear Lillie. She sweet and friendly and looks much much scarier than she is actually is...unless she senses some sort of danger to her people. Then, if you are the dangerous one, trust me, she is too.)

When we went to Spain, we forgot and left some accessible windows open. A few weeks earlier, our car, filled with baby stuff and our stroller, was left unlocked and parked on the street in front of our house the entire six weeks we were in the United States this summer.

Husband has lived in Stavanger a total of almost six years and other than one incident with his wallet has never experienced any sort of incident.**

In the almost two years, I’ve lived here, other than some parking tickets and working on immigration papers, I’ve only had two incidents with the police.

The first was when I was about 14 months*** pregnant. At the time we lived across the street from a mosque and on the holy days, dozens of cars would illegally park, many directly in front of our house. It was cold and snowy and I worried about not only where to park, but then tromping up our hill, big and pregnant and wearing slippery shoes.

I pulled up next to the police car parked at the bottom of the hill, explained how pregnant I was in case he couldn’t see. Then I asked if he could do something about all the cars, particularly the ones parked in front of my house.

He said, “I don’t do that.”

And I replied, “Well what do you do?”****

The second time was yesterday when Husband and I went to the police. We intended to either make a complaint or report a crime.

It all started on Tuesday morning. I was running up and down the stairs straightening up before the cleaners arrived.***** Elliot was safely deposited in his playpen and the dogs were laying about downstairs. All of a sudden, on a run upstairs, the dogs went NUTS, barking their heads off.

I went downstairs to check on it and told them both to sit down. Milo went to his corner, but Lillie got even more agitated, placed herself in front of the door, kept barking and bared her teeth.

That when I noticed the big man-shaped shape through the frosted glass in the door.

I stood there for a moment intending to open the door and ask if I could help him or what he was doing just lurking about on the doorstep. But then I thought that it might be the wild boys who live in one apartment downstairs wanting to talk to Husband about the trashcans or maybe the Mormons in the other apartment. Both are kind and harmless, but I didn’t have time for either, so I ignored it.

Also, the shape never rang the doorbell or knocked, so it really made me a bit nervous. What if something happened to me and Elliot was in the house? And a host of other sorts of bad thoughts, etc…. crossed my mind.

And while I was standing there, pondering these things, the shape receded and footsteps thumped down the stairs. I leaned out the front window to see who it was. It wasn’t one man, there were three men, all dressed in jeans and ski-ish jackets and they were big. And I couldn't understand the language except for one bit: “Hun er americansk”******

And then I forgot about it. The cleaner arrived. I put the dogs up and out of the way and Elliot and I went to meet our friend Jenny at a baby store. She is pregnant and Elliot was helping her peruse the merchandise, by sitting in things like baby cages and strollers when my phone rang.

It was the cleaner coordinator who said that that police had just come into our house. The woman cleaning was startled, but also worried because they were looking for me.

The door was left unlocked because the cleaner was going in and out. And the cleaner had gone around the corner to the kitchen to get something.

When she walked back around, there were two big men standing there, in our living room.

Everyone involved jumped.

And the men asked if she was the woman who lived there. They flashed some sort of badge, said they were the police and were looking for me.

Standing in the baby store, I panicked a bit and called Husband to make sure he was okay.

Once that was established I told him what happened. We catalogued my list of offenses and determined that other than a parking ticket that isn’t even due yet, I’m pretty much in the clear.

He called the police to figure out why the officers came to our house.

Also why they walked right into our house.*******

They had no record of it. At all. But asked us to check back.

So overnight, the more we thought about it, the more we were worried about it.

If those men weren’t police, that’s one scary thing.

If those men were police, what were they doing just walking in our house?

So Husband, Elliot and I went to the police. And as Husband put it, “We are here to either register a complaint or a crime.”********

And they had no record of any police coming by our house for any reason at all.

So people, lock your doors.

________________________

*According to NationMaster, if you look at just burglaries per capita, Norway has just 1.15 per 1000 people, which ranks 38 out of 40. As a comparison, the United States is 7 times higher per capita… In case you are interested, you can find more Norwegian crime stats here

and here and here.

**He left a door unlocked in our first apartment when he was walking the dogs. The next morning his wallet was gone from the table beside the door. He canceled the credit cards and was in the process of reapplying for a passport. A few days later, a man knocked on the door and returned it with everything intact and in place save the 200NOK cash that was inside. We’re pretty sure it was the thief, but really, that’s what you get for living next door to a drug house. We didn’t realize it when we moved in and moved out soon after.

***It felt that way, trust.

****Perhaps I was a bit snippy, but really it’s so safe here, you rarely see police anywhere. No joke.

*****Don’t judge. The thought of cleaning bathrooms grosses me out beyond belief and we are not even dirty people.

******She is American.

*******This is a whole other issue. No one should just walk into my house, ever, unless I know you and think it’s okay, even if you’re a police officer. The very thought just is WRONG.

********Related to the point above, if it had been the police, we would have also would have wanted to report a complaint AND a crime.

Trick or treaters: Then and Now

2009-11-01T09:16:00.001+01:00

So I spoke too soon on the Halloween evening...

I was hoping for trick or treaters. I hadn't had any in years. The last time trick or treaters came to my door, I was a sophomore in college and my roommate and I weren't going out until later, so we stocked up on the candy.

Right after the sun went down, our doorbell rang.

Standing at the door were two giant people both of whom were probably linebackers on their high school football team. They had painted their faces with white and black makeup to look like ghosts.

When we opened the door, they held out their bags, which were not so much trick or treat bags as wadded up grocery bags from the local A&P that probably had held their illegally bought 40s of beer a few minutes before.

While my roommate and I considered the sight, in unison, they said, "Trick or treat," in these deep Barry White baritones.

So of course, we gave them every single bit of chocolate we had.

And that was it for the evening.

I've never had trick or treaters since. My apartment buildings always had security doors. And trick or treating isn't big in our neighborhood in Atlanta where our house is.

But I love Halloween and seeing all the children* dressed up and running about, so I was hoping for at least a few, even though Halloween is not big in these parts.

And I am pretty sure that it's not well understood in any case, but I still hoped.

And sure enough, while Husband, Elliot and the dogs were out walking, our doorbell rang. While I frantically ran around the hour looking for our bag of candy, I heard the little footsteps going down the stairs. So I threw open the door and said, "I'm here. And I have candy."

Two little American girls, twins about eight years old, dressed in their ski gear ran back up the stairs, said, "Trick or treat," showed me their outfits and then said, "Thank you" before heading back down the stairs and on to the next house.**

About 30 minutes later, the doorbell rang again, so I grabbed the bag of chocolates and went to the door. Standing in front of me were two little Asian girls, about seven and five.**

The older had on a witch's hat and the younger was carrying a devil's pitchfork.

They looked at each other, held out their bags, took a deep breath and yelled, "HALLOWEEN."

I was the funniest thing I had ever seen, so I gave them the rest of the candy.

______________________________

*And Elliot is a little too young to drag him all around the town on the slight chance for a photo-op, but for a 7.5 month old, that's all it is, really.

**Both the moms were standing at the street level watching.

Happy Halloween, peoples

2009-10-31T18:00:00.000+01:00

There's not much in the way of festivals or trick or treating in these parts, and I haven't seen one carved pumpkin.*

But Elliot's cousin Jack gave him a great costume.

And it's Elliot's very first Halloween, so we stuffed him in it.

And he loved it.

But today we didn't really have anywhere to go Halloween-y**, but we did have to go to the grocery store***, so we dressed the little man up and went there.

I'm pretty sure he didn't know the difference.

----------------------------------------------------------
*At least not in our neighborhood, dang it. There probably are somewhere else in the country, just not around where I am sitting right now.

**Husband and I were invited to a party. This is us last year. We couldn't top it, so we're staying home. Also, it's hard (and expensive) to get babysitters.

***This was also a lesson on why I will never ever let him eat candy given out in a public place. Not only was it not wrapped, there was one kid who ran his fingers through the whole pile (and I am pretty sure he licked them, too.)

Countryside, Wild People and a Lack of High Chairs

2009-10-30T11:15:00.001+01:00

All sorts of things have been happening these days, but there are very few of them I can talk about just yet, so in the meantime, here are a few things I've been thinking about...

1) Norway's countryside can be incredibly beautiful.

Every week, Elliot and I go to meet with our moms and babies group. This week we went out to a place called Kvernaland, which is about 30-45 minutes from where we live. The first time we went there, we were about two hours late because I couldn't find our way there.*

This time, I couldn't find our way back. I took a left when I should have taken a right or maybe the other way around.

In any case, we ended up in a place called Tu, which is so small that it only gets two letters and most likely you will never go there either unless of course you are lost as well.

So we just enjoyed the view for a bit....

(These photos do not do justice at all. Imagine that you can actually see the rich blues and clear whites and strong greens. Also, please imagine my car windows are clean. That would be great, too.)

2) Sometimes I pretend to lament that Elliot is so mobile and energetic and wild, but I don't mean it at all.

I love the fact that he is curious and funny and looks like he's growing into a sweet, slightly headstrong little person.

I also love that he is starting to understand "No."

But all that said....

3) We will never again go for a family lunch at a place that doesn't have high chairs.

*The first time out, the problem was that I wasn't going far enough. And on this second time, we got home by trusting that eventually there would be a sign for the highway. There are probably some life lessons in those two sentences. I will leave that to you.

Every single day

2009-10-27T10:32:00.002+01:00

I plan things.

So does Elliot.

Those two plans do not necessarily mesh.

Asian fast food

2009-10-24T19:17:00.001+02:00

Pre-Elliot, I would try a million different recipes. I would tear them out of magazines, borrow them from websites and hound BigD for directions of how to make whatever it was that I remembered from the dinner table when I was eight.

These days, while I will try new things occasionally, I have gotten into a bit of a rut. Along with a few surprises every now and again, our staples are Husband's favorite tacos, the BigD classic*, Jenny's wok recipe and crispy chicken wraps. Most of these are not created from scratch.**

But even as my head is still clouded with Elliot-things: like getting to know each other and helping him learn important skills, I am slowly trying to get back to cooking meals that are a little more fun than what can be found on the packet aisle at the grocery store.

Last week, we ate lunch with a friend from Singapore. She served us soup that was so good and so pretty that I asked for the recipe. She said that it was "just Asian fast food." That it was nothing special and that in Asia you could buy it on the street for just a few dollars, but it was special and a few nights later, I made it for Husband.

And it was good...

Here's what you need...adjust the amount of each ingredient for the amount of soup you'd like to make. Keep reading...I think it will make sense...***

And, depending on your level of skill and time, you can create every single bit from scratch or cheat a bit and get it from cans and jars.****

Pork filet

Cha sui marinade, which is kind of like Asian BBQ sauce, sweet and a little tangy

Kernels of corn

Chopped green onions

Cooked udon Noodles

Medium boiled egg sliced in half

Miso soup

Marinate a pork fillet in Cha Sui sauce for a few hours.

Bake it in the oven at about 250 degrees C until it's done (flipping and spooning the sauce over it about every ten minutes or so). Make sure it's still a little bit rare in the middle...the timing depends on the size of the piece of meat.

In the meantime chop the vegetables or pour them out of a can.

Boil an egg to medium (about 8 minutes)

When the meat is cooked, set it out and when it is slightly cooled, slice in disks.

Cook the miso soup to boiling.

Put noodles in bowl about 1/2 way, then pour boiling soup over top.

Add in slice of egg, disks of pork, onions and corn.

______________________________

*Awesome pasta with zucchini and squash. If you've ever eaten dinner at my house, you probably have had it. It's one of my absolute favorites and no one cooks it better than the BigD herself. But I try.

**I didn't know that "from scratch" was a good thing until I was about 25. My elfin grandmother, who was not an elf, but was about the same size as an elf, was a fantastic cook (Her fried chicken is unparalleled to this day). But she was sadly lacking in baking skills---with the exception of pound cake and chocolate cake...those were TASTY. She was not aware of this and often would proudly present her brownies, proclaiming that they were "from scratch." We would take a bite, praying not to chip a tooth. For years afterward, I was certain "from scratch" was polite code for "tasted horrible" and would avoid it at all costs.

***There is a talent to writing recipes. I am pretty sure I don't have it, but hopefully you'll understand it anyway.

****Guess what I did? And really, it's Asian fast food. Also, I'm not in the business of judging.

Yesterday's yoga

2009-10-23T10:05:00.001+02:00

So how did Baby Yoga go you may wonder?

In case you didn't read yesterday, Elliot had been running amuck. All the other babies were calm and good. I thought it was stressful and tried to turn in my classes to no avail.

So we went back.

And it was better, mainly because Elliot had an entire room to himself. Seriously. The yoga room is giant and L-shaped. The class happens in one end of the "L" and the other part is supposed to be sort of off limits because the footfalls disturb a doctor who works underneath.

Apparently the yoga people were willing to make an exception for Elliot. And it's not like he's all that noisy other than a few thuds and the occasionally LOUD babble.

They had even baby-proofed. The electrical sockets were filled in, the heating coils were off.

I did have to go through the room and move all the giant loops of rope hanging from the wall. Other classes use them when the students lie on the floor, then grab the loops to pull for leverage. They were right at Elliot's neck level, but were easy enough to loop higher than his little hands.

And this time, I only had to get up five times during the class, which split over an hour, averages about once every 20 minutes and that may not seem like much, but if you consider that about 15 minutes was spent working with Elliot. And also that the teacher took him and carried him with her for the last ten minutes, that's alot of popping up and down.

But we've (really meaning "me") has switched my attitude about it all. I have given up any hope of yoga-ing myself and have decided to look at it as Elliot's play time.

Because Elliot loves it.

One of our friends and her daughter comes and he loves to see them.

He thinks the massages are the best thing ever and he laughs and laughs.

When I pop up to save him, it's big fun for me to come and play with him.

Sometimes, the teacher will pick him up and let him sit with her, so he gets a different view of the class.

And really, Elliot is my funny little love and any mischief he causes in only in the spirit of curiosity and having fun. And I cannot blame him a bit for it* and overall, think it is the best thing ever.

And, this time, the "worst" thing I caught him doing was leaning over another baby blowing raspberries in her face. And, she loved it too.

Only five more classes to go.

_________________________________

*He cannot help his gene pool.

Baby yoga would be less stressful without the baby

2009-10-22T11:07:00.004+02:00

Baby yoga is the most stressful activity we do all week.

(Also the room is absolutely not baby-proofed, but why would it be? But, check the hazards in the photo. No joke.)

Bar none.

This is counting:

- Stopping at the grocery store when Elliot should be napping.
- Changing a dirty diaper in the back seat of a car.
- Looking for a place to feed Elliot where we will not be in complete plain sight.

So when I say it’s stressful, I mean it.

Several months ago I ran into a local yoga instructor at an event.

She had just had a baby.

Elliot was about ten weeks old and we got to chatting.

I asked about Baby Yoga because, several years ago, I loved going to yoga. I felt fit and relaxed and the good kind of “yoga high.” And on this studio’s website were many photos of babies perched on their mothers while in the warrior pose.

It looked like fun.

But because I had only known Elliot a short while, I asked all about the class...By the time we started he would be seven months, is that too old? What was the skill level, etc….

We chatted for a long time about how her own children went until they were about a year and loved it still. And at the time, Elliot while always sweet, was loud* and demanding and I thought that maybe a little yoga could calm the little man down.

But over the ensuing months, Elliot and I have gotten to know each other better. I can handle him much more effectively and he’s not so demanding because he doesn’t have to be.**

He also has gotten completely mobile. He has a funny way of getting around which is a combination of conventional crawling, rolling, military crawling and hurling himself into space.

So when we got to our first Baby Yoga class, I was excited. Elliot would be into it. I’d get a little stretch. All would be well.

Clearly I was nuts.

Baby Yoga is not yoga for mothers and babies. It is yoga for mothers and immobile babies.***

The mothers gather their equipment…mats, blocks and such, while the babies lies on their blankets with a soft toy. Then the babies play quietly for the first 45 minutes while the mothers stretch and do poses.

Most babies. Not my baby. My baby runs amuck.

Seriously.

Amuck.

I close my eyes for a second and he’s four mats down “borrowing” another baby’s toy.

So I pop up, gather him and make apologies.

I close my eyes for another second and he’s on the instructor’s mat cramming her class plan into his mouth.

So I pop up, gather him and make apologies.

I after that, I never close my eyes again.

I save him from the heating coils lining the walls. I save another baby from his rolling. I save the yoga blocks from his spit up. I save his head from thumping the floor too hard and when I can’t, I comfort him, which means…

I pop up, gather him and make apologies.

When we finally get to the last fifteen minutes of class, we pick up the babies, massage them and do a few yoga poses with them. It’s supposed to be relaxing and calming. Elliot will have none of it. He thinks the massage is HILARIOUS which makes him laugh his head off.

And holding him during the poses? Forget it.

It’s the most stressful hour of the week.

I tried to trade in the classes for a few of the yoga classes. The plain yoga classes. The ones where sweet Elliot stays at home with Husband and I head off for a basic class, alone.

I wrote an email explaining my case, praising the teacher (who is seriously good, but is the teacher, not the baby minder). I hoped for mercy.

There was none.

I got shamed for not practicing with Elliot every day to get him more used to it. I was instructed to move to the back of the room so he would have more space to wiggle about where I could control him better. And also she reminded me that her babies loved it until they were a year old.****

But the number one reason why I can’t trade in the class for other classes?

It is not fair to all the people who couldn’t get into it in the first place.

So we’re going to try it one more time.*****

Today.

_____________________________________

*He is still loud. I don’t mind that.
**Yeah, he may be the daytime boss of me, but that boss sleeps for 10 hours every single night and another two during the day, so while I work hard during the on-time, I have off-time as well. Plus he’s funny and easy on the eyes…pretty much the best boss I’ve had thus far.

***He is also not the oldest baby there.
****I should have taken the gene pool into consideration. She probably had serene, calm yoga babies. I have unruly, loud wild babies.

*****Why don't I just quit? We already paid for it and I am ridiculously optimistic. Maybe this time will be different...

Think Pink

2009-10-21T19:37:00.000+02:00

There are almost 2,600,000 million people in the United States who are survivors of breast cancer. Depending on what statistics you follow, that’s roughly one in ten.

One in ten.

Just based on probability, you know someone who has survived the second most common cancer.

The first most common cancer is non-melonoma skin cancer. You probably know someone who has had that too, and I am not discounting the trauma of it, but clipping off a mole is not the same as removing a breast. It’s just not.

And it’s not epidemic just in the United States, it’s worldwide. Breast cancer is the most common cancer in the United Kingdom.

And in Norway it’s the most common as well.

One in ten women can expect to get it, which is slightly less than the one in eight that can expect to get it in the United States.

And this is not even considering the statistics about the people who die from it.

I say "people" because men get it, too. Not as frequently, but they do as well.

So do something about it.*

Support a walker.

Save second base.**

Or, if you'd rather spend corporate dollars and not your own, just click.

*Also, if you have a favorite breast cancer site, put the link in the comments and I'll add it to the post.

**Thanks Cherie.

Kind of Blue

2009-10-17T20:18:00.001+02:00

One hearty bug

2009-10-12T12:52:00.000+02:00

In almost two years in Norway, I've only seen one other bug. This is the second.

May the Force be with You

2009-10-06T11:04:00.010+02:00

Every single morning, at least for the last month or so, I wake up at about 5:30am when Elliot does. I feed him, put him back down and then go downstairs to make sure that he has enough milk to mix with his cereal and various food stuffs for the day.

This may sound super early and it is, but it's not so bad.

Not when you consider that he's been in bed since 7:30 or 8pm the night before.

Also when you consider it's a tiny bit of complete quiet time, all by myself, while I take care of the business at hand.

So of course, I do not spend it improving my mind reading classic novels or even watching CNN. I browse my favorite websites* for editor-selected chunks of goodness.

And this morning, I saw a quote on Jezebel.com about what Carrie Fisher had to say about what she writes.**

I love Carrie Fisher. I think she is funny and smart and honest and doesn't have any phobias about embarrassment, either. ***

When I was little, we lived in Southwest Georgia on a farm**** about 20 miles outside of an 800-person town (Or thereabouts...). And every summer, BigD would drive us to North Georgia (where I grew up the rest of the time) to Nana and Papa's where we would stay for a good chunk of the summer.

We would spend the days swimming at the local pool with our cousins and eating the very best fresh sliced tomato and Durkee's sandwiches, ever.

Every now and again, Nana would hand each one of us a sandwich baggie filled with multicolored popcorn, a few of the small individual Hershey's chocolate bars and a can of Coke. Then she would load all of the cousins into her giant yellow Cadillac and take us to a matinee.

Sometimes it would be Pippi Longstocking or maybe The Apple Dumpling Gang, but one summer it was Star Wars. Like the vast majority of theatergoers that summer, we LOVED it. We begged and begged to go again and again.

And that summer, we must have seen it about three times.*****

When we got back to school that fall, playing Star Wars was all the rage. The Middle County Elementary School had a playground with some swings and a concrete area for Four Square and lots of room to run, but occasionally we'd have recess or PE across the street on the baseball field. They'd just let us loose.

As you may guess, I was not one of the ultra-popular kids. I was usually hanging out with one of my best friends or maybe over in the corner, reading a book. But this fall, every now and again, BigD would roll my hair up into those giant buns and when we all played outside at recess, I would get to be Princess Leia.******

And really, who wouldn't want to be? She was a awesome princess. Yeah, she needed a little assistance rescuing herself, but she shot a gun and smack-talked and figured out how to send R2D2 and C3Po out for help.

Cut to almost three decades later:

I'm back in Atlanta, at the Georgia Aquarium and I'm on assignment. Jane Fonda is being roasted for her charity, the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention. And the room is full of the celebrity types, all looking swanky.

Early in the evening, before I started to work, I found a place and perched at the top of the staircase, surveying the crowd of pretty people. After a few minutes, the crowd shifted, and I felt a touch on my shoulder and a woman said "Excuse me."

I turned around to face Carrie Fisher.*******

I had collided with the ex-Princess Leia, and now, even cooler, a hilarious writer.

We both offered apologies and then chit-chatted for a moment about the night.

After a moment, she stared at me up and down and said, "You look great, but I think you need one thing."

Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a little spray bottle, said, "May I?"

She reached into my hair, poofed it out just a bit and sprayed.

"It's glitter spray," she said and tilted her head down. "See, I'm wearing it, too. And, really, everything is better with a little bit of glitter."

THE END

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*Most of them are in the lists to the right. Good stuff, really.

**Scroll down to the bottom of the list for the quote and if you want to read the full Vanity Fair piece, click here.

***I am well aware I am no Carrie Fisher, for a variety of reasons. But if you count the good ones, she's a pretty good, even great example to have.

****Not a "momma go outside and pick up the eggs from the chickenhouse farm." It was/is a commercial farm where, back then, my dad grew peanuts and soybeans and corn. There was even some livestock in the back corner of the main field. (The livestock was really a bunch of pigs, but doesn't livestock sound less muddy?)

*****This was a VERY big deal. No joke. My grandparents grew up without much money and did not believe in wasting anything, not Christmas wrapping, not the crusts from the sandwich bread and certainly not money to see a movie more than once. But this summer, we did.

******They would also play Dallas. I wasn't allowed to watch soap operas, plus we couldn't get all channels on the tv at the farm because Big D thought satellite dishes were tacky.

*******No joke...she's not that tall. Neither am I.

Spanish Holiday

2009-10-02T06:46:00.011+02:00

Last Saturday morning as we drove the 82 kilometers between the villa we rented and the Alicante airport, I counted 14 double decker buses roaring down the roads heading to the area we just left.

The windows on the fronts and the sides were almost full glass.*And every seat was filled with enthusiastic visitors of the geriatric sort.

Apparently, in the non-summer months**, the Costa Blanca region of Spain, where we took a little holiday last week is the European version of Palm Springs and most of Florida all wrapped into one.

And, in this area, if you weren't a local or an imported retiree snowbirding, you were a family with small, younger than school-age children who were doing the exact same thing we were.

This is not a bad thing, if you are us. We wanted a bit of a break, in the sunshine and because we travel in a pack of three, it was important that Elliot was welcomed in places that Husband and I wanted to be, like restaurants that served tasty local food and once a pub.

And without a doubt, he was. We couldn't walk down the street without being stopped with a "Guapo bebé."*** And when he occasionally made a little noise when we were out eating, that was completely fine.***** Someone would say, "Oh oh that is what babies do. Guapo, guapo."

And it was a great week, full of good things like fish:

Two headed fish

Two fish that turned into

This:

(I promise you, one day, you should come over and eat what Husband cooks. When he has the time, he's good. And when I say time, I mean time. He is also slow. But that's okay. We like to visit.)

We had lots of good food out as well...here we will soon have paella***** on our plate for lunch. Elliot started out asleep, but when he heard the main course arrive...

He woke up.

Who could blame him really? So eventually, everyone ate.

We spent a happy afternoon at a place called Munda Mar, which is no kidding, awesome. It's a small-ish zoo with great exhibits and hilarious access to the animals. Elliot loved the fish, especially. When we go back to the US, whether it's for good or for a visit, we're going to hang out at The Georgia Aquarium.

And it was just right. There was just enough sunshine. So we'd sit out every single day.

And eat out in the sunshine.

And then visit all day.

And visit all evening.

And that was our holiday. It was just exactly right.

_____________________________________

*Once, when my brother and I were little (in the pre-dear sister days), the BigD and our dad took us to Florida to ride the glass bottomed boats. These buses were like that, but different. Not boats, not bottoms, but still noses pressed against glass, totally excited about the view.

**In the summer months, it is more akin to Panama City and Myrtle Beach, all wrapped into one.

***Also, in a pottery shop, when the owner admired Elliot, she also told me in great detail that he needed to have some time on the beach because he was too white. That it was okay to be worried about the sun in July, but not in September, that we should leave immediately and go to the water. He would be fine. I'm pretty sure that's what it all meant because I know blanco, bebe, la playa, julio, septiembre, various verbage of tengo, tiene, guapo, etc... This went on a long time, then she shooed up out, all the way to the door and pointed up to the sun. But never once stopped clucking and smiling at Elliot. The Spanish are multi-taskers.

****Not grumpy noise, he rarely makes those. The noises are squeals or laughing or just general babbling. He likes to visit. Shockingly enough, my son is social.

*****For which we were mocked when Husband pronounced it (paella) on an installment of HKS a few days ago...I cleared it up with a Spanish friend of mine who is from the Basque region and apparently there are five (maybe more??) regions of Spain, each with a slightly different accent, which in over-simplified terms translates into different stresses and uses of the "ll" and "c." Trust.

Norway, please

2009-09-29T22:14:00.009+02:00

Today was an Alexander* day.

It began with rushing about to get to Elliot's Heath Station appointment, which led to a crabbiness with Husband. The house was a giant "just-got-home-sort-of-from vacation" mess and I couldn't find what I needed.

Then it started raining.

All in all a bad way to start out a day.

Once Elliot and I left the house, it got incrementally worse:

A car darted out at a roundabout when it wasn't the driver's turn, narrowly missing us.

A group of people crowded the sidewalk in front of a bus stop (there was no bus there) and the vast majority, who were non-Norwegians, parted ways. Two teenagers, facing a bit away, stood their ground and there was no way for me to pass.

There was no way they didn't see the rest of the people move, yet they didn't.

I said "Unnskyld" ("excuse me") several times, each time with a bit more volumne. Then loudly cleared my throat. Finally, I reached way over and poked one in the shoulder and said, in English, "Excuse me!" Both of them gave me a rotten looks and laconically ambled out of my way.

Then, six men, all ranging from about mid-20's to mid-40's, all seemingly healthy, pulled together and fit, went past me as I was struggling to get Elliot's stroller through the swinging door and up the five stairs into the elevator lobby.

Not one held the door and not one offered to give me a hand to lift the stroller up the stairs. These were not the neighborhood crackheads or even unkempt. These were businessmen who should have better manners.

But that's the problem, I'm not sure they did.

As I've written before, I have been warned that I am too polite.

I say "please" and "thank you" on a regular basis. I open door for people and have been known to offer assistance to women and their strollers. And a few weeks ago, I let two people cut in line at the grocery. Each had one item and I had fifty.

These are not commendable acts. They are just the right things to do.

Or so I have been raised.

Also this is not a trait unique to the Southern US where I grew up. I lived in New York City for almost a decade. It happens there, too.

And, while I am not terribly well-traveled, I have been a few places and have noticed these stranger-to-stranger kindnesses all over, even in France. Even when they knew I was an American in France.

Here not so much.

This is not to say that there are no kindnesses.

There are and there are many.

Just in recent history, Elliot's pediatrician kept the office open after hours to see us when I called and said I was worried about his cough. Colleagues of Husband's have made an effort to befriend me and make me feel welcome and acclimated. A fellow customer at Ultra about my age, bagged my groceries so I could pick up a howling Elliot and pay the cashier.

And, just a few days ago when Elliot decided to be rambunctious on the plane home from Alicante, a group of Norwegian grandmotherly sorts talked to himand the oldest one of them all, who had a smiling face akin to a dried up apple, made him laugh until he lost his mind.

But on the streets, no one will hold a door. And at the airline gate, the crowd of ticketed passengers will press to get to the front. And be warned, you should watch the hell out in the IKEA corridors.

Most of the time, I just accept it as a cultural difference and go along my merry(ish) way.

But today, on a grey yuck day, it just made everything worse.

After Elliot's visits with the nurse and the doctor, which was fun and hilarious, I was still feeling out of sorts (and it was only 10am).

Back in the waiting room, I was getting Elliot back into his warm clothes and was standing next to another mother, a Norwegian woman about my age, who was unbundling her young daughter. We started chatting a bit and it turned out that her baby was one day older and that we lived in the same neighborhood. She asked how I was doing and if I was a member of a baby group. And I had just enough time to say "yes" before she and her baby were called to their appointment. They headed off in the direction of the nurses room, but turned around long enough to say "Ha Det Bra," which is a salutation which means, "Have it Good."

And it made me cry.

*The star of "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." Fantastic classic children's book. No joke. If you don't know it, read it. If you do know it, read it again. His day wasn't so bad and neither was mine, really, in the big scheme of things, relatively speaking and all of that...but also, that doesn't make it good.

In the Meantime

2009-09-29T14:07:00.000+02:00

HKS: Why You Should Go to Spain*

2009-09-27T07:11:00.003+02:00

We got back late Saturday afternoon...and while we sort through photos and swim through the mounds of laundry, please enjoy the latest installment of "Husband Knows Stuff..."

More to come...

*You're welcome, Spain Tourism Board (or Turismo de España, if you are so inclined...)

Buckshot Traveling

2009-09-17T11:49:00.009+02:00

Tomorrow we're leaving for the Spanish sunshine and what could possibly be our last European vacation.

While our trip this summer was great fun and so good to see so many of our friends and family, it wasn't calm and it wasn't so relaxing. We criss-crossed the country thinking about maybe coming home and what and where that even means. And between luggage, time zones and sweet baby Elliot, it was a journey. A great journey, but a journey nonetheless.

So when we got back, as we all got sick, we decided that some quiet time in the sunshine would cure it all. And for the first time we're going to leave laptops at home to completely tune out.

The coming months are going to be big ones full of major decisions and this could be the last family vacation for a while.*

So, as we do, on any vacation that requires calm and not much at all**, we employ The Buckshot*** Method of Travel.

First we set out the constants, the factors that will not change. And for this trip they were:

1) A certain budget

2) Sunshine and warmth

3) Within a six-hour window of travel, which is about as long as we want to travel with a six-month old.

4) A direct flight

5) The one-week window Husband has between projects

6) Nothing nearby that we would feel guilty for not going to see.

7) Good food.

So with a few internet searches and a map of Europe, we came up with a flight to the Alicante airport in Spain, which is on the southeastern coast of the country.

Then we did another few searches and came up with a villa in Moraira, Spain, which is a little town about 82km up the highway. Apparently, it is a small fishing village that is not even listed in the Fodor's Spain guide.

We looked at the photographs of the villa and sent an email. We settled on a price with the owner and wired the money to an account in England. And just yesterday the keys came in the mail.****

It's near the beach, a tapas bar and has its own pool.

Best of all, September is the off-season so it's cheap cheap cheap.

We're going to go to the grocery store and sleep late and take Elliot to the beach.

And when he's had enough, we're going to go home and sit by the pool while he naps inside. In the evenings we may go to dinner a few times, but that's pretty much it.*****

Until the past few days, I hadn't done much research on it at all, because really, who cares?

I'll be hanging with my two best people close to good Spanish food and the ocean.

But, while the little man was napping this morning, I started looking at some traveler's notes online...apparently the Costa Blanca (the area of Spain where we are headed) is about a 50/50 split of Spanish and British expats.

And most of the beaches are topless, often populated by portly British grandmother types.

I love it.

Seriously, if this is true, I think it sounds even more awesome. I love grandmothers.****** Grandmotherly types love babies, so they will be friendly Elliot. And the more portly they are, the less portly I will seem.

Perfect.

_____________________________

*And really, this is our first family vacation of just the three of us--Unless of course you count the places we went before he was an actual person...

**The Buckshot Method got us to Jade Mountain for our honeymoon, Nice for Christmas and Portugal for last summer's holiday. It works. Trust.

***For those not familiar with Southern Culture, meaning the Southern Culture of the United States, hunting is big. And, buckshot is a type of ammunition. When you shoot buckshot, it sprays out and unless you're very unlucky, you'll probably hit something. The Buckshot Method, as I call it, works for lots of things, but you have to be enthusiastic. That helps.

****Yeah, I thought it was a little risky, too, but I did an internet search on the owner and he seemed normal. Plus, he apparently lodged a complaint with his township in England about unpicked-up dog poo on his street. So by logic, if he's particular about his street, he's probably particular about the house. I'm sure it will be fine.

*****We may also play lots of Scrabble. I am also hoping to read a book.

******Well, most of them.

Swabbing Our Brains

2009-09-13T18:58:00.004+02:00

Last week, on yet another visit to the doctor's office to check on the state of Elliot, we both took a test for the swine flu. We were both handed masks...

(Elliot's didn't fit. Also, face masks are hot. Not "hot" as in "looks great," clearly, but "hot" as in 9000 degrees and sweaty. Dang it.)

And put into a little room, sequestered from the rest of the patients.

(Look closely at the left end of the table. There are two glasses that look like party glasses...Maybe too celebrate if it's all okay?)

Then our dear doctor, who we love, came in and put instruments like this into each of our noses. And swabbed our brains.

(These are really bottle cleaners, but I promise they are pretty close to what did swab our brains.)

The tests came back and we're both fine, but Elliot is still not 100%, but he's getting better.

Mornings

2009-09-12T14:02:00.008+02:00

From the beginning, Husband and I have had very different schedules.

Much like our personalities, his is much more regimented and mine is much more loosey-goosey.

When we first met, I was a journalist.

I spent half my time as a part-time reporter at a newspaper and the other half as a freelance reporter, which means that at any time I could be scooting off, then would go underground until the deadline was met. Then on to the next assignment or maybe a few days at the dog park training Lillie.* Or even an entire day at the movie theater watching three in a row.**

In any case, every week was different, but unless there was no way around it, I did my best to make sure I never had to be anywhere, dressed and ready before about 10am.

I am not a morning person.

Husband worked for a big company doing big company things on normal big company hours.

But there were several constants. Whenever we could, we'd always meet up in the evenings and every morning, unless I had been working overnight*** I'd pack breakfast for Husband.****

While the fanciness of it all has varied from time to time, it is always the same. Always a food. Always a little pack of vitamins and always a cartoon, not one that found somewhere, but a cartoon, starring us that I draw.*****

In the beginning these breakfasts were a little bit elaborate. I packed protein shakes in special plastic cooled mugs with straws so it wouldn't spill, with egg and cheese sandwiches and little cartons of orange juice. Then over the past year or so, it has settled into a menu: a toasted PB&J, a container of orange juice, a napkin and a cartoon.

But over the past few months, it's been sporadic at best. Occasionally when Elliot has had a late night, I sleep through it all. When I have been awake there have been times that I have sleptwalked to the coffee and that was the best I could do. And, worst of all, there has been more than one occasion when I have opened the bread and it's been moldy. Not a little bit moldy, but enough that I should be ashamed.******

So I resolved to resolve this.

And, for anyone who looks to the left side of the page you may have noticed that I follow my dear friend Anne's blog A Good American Wife. She writes and cooks and a few months or so ago,******* she posted a recipe for the Unstoppable Bacon Egg and Cheese Muffins.

When I read it, I thought, "This only has five ingredients. I can DO this." I even got a little fancy and switched out the bacon and scallions for sauteed ham and onions.

(If you are making the bigger muffins like I did, it takes it a bit longer to get brown on the top.)

And they were good. But I spent so much time watching them to make sure I didn't burn them that I lost track of time. So we had them for dinner, too.

Mmmmmm muffins. And there were still ones left for breakfast for the next few days.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*This did not go well.

**I LOVED these days. Wherever we go next has to be a town with a matinee movie showing. That was one of the hardest transitions when we moved here. No more afternoon movies.

***This happened occasionally, but even then sometimes I would stay up to visit for breakfast.

****Okay, for those who are counting, Husband was not technically Husband at that time. Sorry BigD, but I was 99% certain that he would be eventually, so hopefully that counts.

*****We have hundreds around. Some in a book from the first year we were together. Some in drawers around the house and always a few tucked in his wallet. Those are probably good luck.

******And I am.

*******Oh my gosh! Has it been this long ago?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was thinking all day about what to write, wondering if I should say something about yesterday, but I couldn't. Even eight years later, it's a little too vivid to talk about it all. I can't even say the name that people use to refer to it...it just doesn't seem big enough. And more than that, if I feel this way from my own personal experience of being there and seeing and watching it all from my West Village vantage point, it's really too much to consider the people who were really really there. So not this year and maybe not next year either. I do think about every detail like it was yesterday.

Burning up at Midnight (Or How I Disappoint Trekkies When They Google)

2009-09-07T10:56:00.006+02:00

A few weeks after we told BigD I was pregnant, I opened our mailbox to a slip of paper informing me that there was a package waiting for me at the post office.

Inside the package was a copy of Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare, a copy of What to Expect When You are Expecting and a note that said, "These two are the only books you'll need. Love, Mom."

In the days before Elliot (AKA Pickle) arrived, I read them cover to cover. I underlined things, scrawled notes in the margins and highlighted key bits for Husband to scan.

I thought I was a bit prepared.

But last night, Husband and I were downstairs visiting, with the baby moniter on low. Elliot, who has had a little sniffle for days, had been in bed for a few hours.

Around eleven, we heard him whimpering a bit, which was odd. Elliot is a LOUD baby. He rarely whimpers. He does babble and often call out, all of which usually happen at top volume.*

So I went to check on him and he was burning up, like I have never felt a baby. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks were red and he was damp all over.

This may not be frightening to more seasoned mothers, but as I am not one of those mothers**, it was frightening to me.

We took his temperature and it was right on the borderline of all the measures. Our farenheit thermometer read 101.4. Our celcius one read 38.3. He is four days shy of the six month mark.

If you believe Dr. Spock,*** "If your baby is three months old or younger, call right away for a temperature of 100.5 or higher."

And a few lines down..."As a rule, consult your doctor if your baby has a temperature of 101 or more."

Therein lies the rub.****

We have no one to call.***** We don't have a pediatrician. Not really.

We sort of do. There are very few pediatricians in the Stavanger area. There are a few on staff at the hospital and another small number that work privately. Seriously. That is it.

Early on, Elliot and I went to meet one, so we could be all acquainted when and if we needed to come and see him. And I wish I could describe this person here, but the person is a character and you might recognize this person.

Suffice to say, this person is great and Elliot loved him. And I thought this person was really nice and seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. I'd heard great things about this particular one from other expat moms who had used this person, so there you have it.

(And I wish I could tell you some of the statistics about how many pediatricians there are in the enormously wide swath of southern and western Norway where we're located. But I won't.)

But all that said, the pediatricians don't seem all that busy.

On our first visit, as we were chatting, this person said that he/she'd been to Atlanta once, to meet some business people, because he/she's come upon a business that was exactly what Norway was missing.

The second time we went to the office, was when Elliot wasn't feeling well after our travels. (After thousands of miles, he apparently caught a bug of sorts on the way home.) As we were sitting in the waiting room, a friend of ours walked through the lobby. She, who is about 30 or so years past childhood, has been seeing this person for nutrition and dietary needs.

So, as you might note, being a pediatrician is not big business in these parts.******

Most babies go to the family doctor for illnesses and to the health station for shots and growth checks, etc...

Baby health care in these parts is a tricky business. At least it is for me.

And, to make it more complicated, while we are eligible for the public healthcare, we also have private insurance through Husband's contract. So, in many case, we are fortunate to be able to pick and choose what we'd like from the many private doctors in the area. Then we pay for it, submit the bill and get reimbursed for most of it from the insurance company.

Except when it's something big and then the only choices are public.*******

My doctor, who I loved and handled all my prenatal care, was nowhere in the vincinity, most certainly not in the room or even the hospital when I gave birth.

When Elliot was just a few months old, he had a high fever in the middle of the night, so we took him to the urgent care at the hospital. He had a fever of 102, which according to Dr. Spock is a big deal. He wasn't eating, his breathing was labored and he was not his usual self, in the early early morning.

We took him the urgent care and waited and waited for about two hours. When the check-in nurse finally called us up, she took a look at our forms, where we had marked that we had a private doctor. She asked why we didn't go see her and said we should go there even if she didn't open for another 90 minutes.

Then when we asked if someone could please just help us, they put us in a back room with a thermometer and said to check it ourselves. Finally a doctor came in and said he didn't have baby sized instruments, so they sent us to the pediatric wing of the hospital, where a pediatrician did the basic tests and chalked it up to nothing, but an unexplained fever.

It was a less than satisfactory experience, so this time, because all the factors were borderline, we skipped it.

And this is not to say that the healthcare is bad or that the Norwegians are weak. Quite the contrary. No one pays much attention to the "borderline" fevers and antibiotics are not handed out unless it's extreme, but when it rains, which it does often, the children put on their weather gear and get outside to play. They sleep in their prams in the fresh air in practically any temperature. They are a hearty lot, so it just stands to reason that they are doing something right.

But still, I'd love to have my own doctor who follows Elliot through it all. Not just the shots and the growth scale,******** but one who knew every single detail and could put the whole picture together.

And one who had a nice nurse or a 24 hour help line I could call when my son is burning up at midnight.*********

________________________

*Seriously. If I were writing a book and Elliot was in it, I would write all of his dialogue in capital letters.

**I am the other kind.

***Page 699

****In a bit of etomological service-y-ness, did you know this phrase is really a bit of slightly paraphrased Shakespeare? I knew that it meant a conundrum of sorts, but who knew that it's all thanks to Wills? You're welcome.

*****I mean to say professionally. I do have the Big D, my sister, my sister-in-law and a smattering of friends, but just in a coincidence, I only got my mom for a second and then answering machines for all the rest. We're on our own in these parts.

******My friend looks fantastic, though. And, to this person's point, there is a distinct lack of eating establishments that serve awesome wings and foamy beers on platters carried by bosomy women wearing orange short shorts and nude tights.

*******PS This is not the forum to debate Obama's healthcare plan, in case you are thinking on that. I am not making any sort of statement pro or con'ing it or any nuances et. all. I haven't done enough research on it to make an informed statement. I will say that I was uninsured for many years because though I was making a really good living in New York, I couldn't afford it. That was scary and not right.

********Which is a whole other post. Norwegians are tall people. Americans are medium sized. So Elliot's numbers on the two scales are very different. I'll post about that in a few weeks after his next check up.

*********He's much much better now. Still a little hot and sniffly, but not scary.

And one for my mom, too, please.

2009-09-04T18:03:00.001+02:00

(Photo and champagne courtesy of Erin.)

Back to the Lessons

2009-08-28T15:36:00.007+02:00

I took a break from my Norwegian language lessons a few weeks before Elliot arrived, so it's been a while since I've had any formal training.

Husband is fluent* and really wants Elliot to have at least the beginnings of the language, as do I.

So we've been working on it.

And by "we" I mean Elliot and me.

Especially now, as we figure out where we will be for the next few years, I think it's really important to work on our Norwegian language skills.

If we're going to continue to be here, I need to up my game from the basic I know now.

If we're going to be head off to parts unknown, then I need to have a little bit more so Husband and I can have a "secret" language in public situations.**

And there are all sorts of theories about language and infant brains, so it can only be good.

We have been working on it together, with Husband's guidance.

Husband speaks to Elliot in Norwegian on a regular basis and we all read books together.***

In Leksikon for de aller minste (Lexicon for the smallest), we've been learning word order, vocabulary and the the seasons.

Snow

In the winter, it snows.

The snow is cold and white.

Robin****thinks it's fun with snow.

In Æsj! Det er Ekkelt, Bert (Ugh! It's Disgusting, Bert) we've been learning about appropriate behavior.

If Bert saw that the cat tee-tee'd in the flower-bed, Bert also tee-tee'd in the flower-bed.

Then all cried: Ugh! It's Disgusting, Bert!

In Min Store Dyrebok, (My Big Animal Book), we've been working on our animals.*****

You can guess the animals, but the non-animal words are:

On the farm.

I love to eat and mess. Who am I?

I say kykeliky! Who am I?

But just to get some extra practice, we stopped by the local library and perused the children's books.

There were the usual English translations of familiar classics, which are helpful to compare the English to the Norwegian copies. In most of them even the cadence is the same, which must be a challenge for the translator.

Then there are the ones that are a bit service-y******..."Thomas Goes to the Doctor," which is exactly as you might imagine it is.

And even a bit more service-y..."A Mother and Father to Gabriel," which explains how adopted children come to Norway, specifically a little boy named Gabriel.

Then I saw one that takes service-y to an even higher level, called When Momma and Pappa Drink. I picked it up out of a bit of morbid curiosity, but also thinking there would be good words. And really, as I flipped through the pictures, I just wanted to know what happened. Surely there must be a bit of redemption somewhere in it.

So I went home and Husband read it to me, and I will tell it to you....

There are two children, Mette and Mads. Their mom works in a bakery and their dad is a mechanic. Sometimes the family comes home and he is passed out on the sofa.
Or they have to go pick him up at the bar.
The kids often don't do well in school because they are tired.
In the summer they go to their cabin.
Their dad's buddies come over with coolers of booze and the adults stay up late and are loud.

The kids try to think of nice things, but really they'd like to go back to school.
The end.

I'm not sure the little man is ready for that one quite yet.

_________________________________________________

*He would say he's not, but that is only because he's modest and may have a little bit of a hard time reading classic novels. But he can conduct business and fool servers in restaurants. Then I blow his cover.

**And by "public", I mean places like the mall and family dinners. In either case, sometimes it is unavoidably necessary to comment on the situation at hand, though often I would prefer the conversation to stay between Husband and me. Also, we would never be overt about it. Not only would that be exclusive and rude, you never know who may understand.

***By read together, I mean Husband reads to us. Elliot and I listen.

****Robin is the fox. He's the star of the book.

*****When Husband reads, I make the animal sounds. It's big fun.

******This is not to say there are not other kinds of children's book in Norway. There are. This post is not about those kinds of books.

Mmmmm Mmmmm

2009-08-20T18:28:00.008+02:00

I hate being told what to do.

I am all for solicited advice and I regularly look to competent people for ideas, but in the end, I am fairly confident in my own intelligence, reasoning and research skills.

So usually, after a bit, I can figure out exactly what I would like to do.

Norway and I have butted heads on more than one occasion regarding this issue.

It and I had difference of opinion on how I would like to deliver our baby. I lost (and miserably).*

I would’ve liked a bit more choice on whether or not I intended to breastfeed.**

And now Norway is forcing me to make Elliot’s baby food.

I am annoyed.

Not that I wouldn’t have wanted to whip up all of his meals,*** but it’s just another thing I do not have much choice about and it bugs me.

I knew that eventually I would have to figure out how to feed the little man "real food."

So I read up on the first foods, which are the simple ones (carrots, sweet potatoes, green beans, etc…), which tend to be the least likely to cause allergies. I learned that you give them one at a time for several days in a row to make sure that if there is an allergic reaction you can pinpoint the culprit. Also that there are several things that no baby should have until at least the first year (strawberries, nuts, honey, etc…) because they can cause major allergies later on…

So then I went to the store, a large grocery store called Ultra, particularly popular with the expat community because it imports American goods.****

This is what I found when I went looking for the baby food.

I've cruised down that aisle before, of course--that's where the diapers are, too. But I've never paid much attention other than, "Yep, there's some food."

But that's it. In a town full of babies.

No joke.

You cannot swing cat without hitting a baby.

Promise.

And in the first foods...

That was it. Look closely. There is one single food. The rest are a mix, some of which include strawberries, too.

For a country that is occasionally called a Nanny State*****, they are putting a lot of trust in me.

Given a choice, I would eat a diet that consisted solely of appetizers culled from the left side of restaurant menus and the Whole Foods prepared food section, key lime pie, cheese, chocolate popsicles and the occasional steak.

To trust me to adequately prepare and serve my baby nutritious food is asking alot.

Clearly I can barely feed the adults in the house.******

I am trying though.

I started with a sweet potato.

Baked it in the oven.

Whirled it in the blender with some milk.
Froze the concoction into cubes.
And served it up.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*Seriously folks. There is no need to discuss, but suffice to say…No matter how long we live here, I will NEVER have a baby in this entire country again. And just head off any extraneous comments...this is not a comment on socialized medicine, by the way. This is a comment on my lady parts and how I would like for them to be treated---with drugs if you must know. It's just my choice. If anyone reading this has a different opinion on ladyparts, that's all good. I have no opinions on anyone else's ladyparts but my own.

**I probably would have anyway, but the societal pressure is enormous. Also there are exactly three kinds of formula, which are fairly expensive. Again, I am so glad I am breastfeeding (health, convenience, etc…) but would have liked much, much less pressure.

***I kid. I would have been all about the Gerber. No joke. I read the labels. It’s just the ingredients and water. That’s good enough for me. (And it was good enough for me. I ate it. My sister ate it. Everyone I know ate it, including several healthy little niece and nephew people who were running all around BigD’s house a few weeks ago.)

****Most of which are clustered on one-half of an aisle. The shelves are crammed with all sorts of goods, most of which change weekly. On any given week, you can find six-packs of Cherry Coke, Twizzlers, generic brand stuffing and cans of pumpkin. It's random, as if it just fell off the back of a truck.

*****Without going into too much detail, Norway taxes the hell out of certain things (along with all of the rest of the things) like alcohol and cigarettes to discourage their use. And recently a bill was put forth to add an extra tax to fatty food. This is not real discouragement. It is in fact encouragement to pack ones suitcase full of booze and smokes whenever traveling cross-borders.

******This is a slight exaggeration. I actually do cook, often using recipes. And the results are usually pretty good. And as the BigD said once, "Of course you can cook. You can read, can't you?" The difference is that it is food for fully grown adults. It is also by choice.

Not a Picture of Husband: Time Traveler

2009-08-14T18:45:00.005+02:00

This may seem like a photo of Husband about to step on the train between terminals in the Chicago airport.

It's not.*

Look closely and you'll realize that it is really a photo of one of a species of people called "Time Travelers."**

During our time in the US, we saw many of these clustered in the Sacramento area, usually hailing from the year 1984. You can tell these by their crimped hair, acid washed jeans and electric blue eyeshadow. This specimen was on our plane from Sacramento to Chicago.

I don't know what happened to her after this.***

Into the wilds of the Midwest, I suppose.

___________________

*Though I often blog in this manner (to wit: Strollers and Nice), I've never named it, but have now decided it's going to be a feature. Keep your eyes peeled for it....

**Also, this is not mean, in case you were thinking that it was. This Time Traveler was owning it. She did not care what year it was, her bangs were high and she was working it. It was really borderline awesome. Or, I suppose, "Rad."

***I do know what happened to us. We got home and have been sick and jet-lagged and generally discombobulated since. And by "we" I mean mainly Elliot, so that affects all of us. It's been quiet awhile around here, but there will be more posts, soon.

Traveling and Coming Home

2009-08-07T14:51:00.012+02:00

Before I begin, let's be clear on a few things.

Overall, Elliot was a great traveler on the big trip.

He chilled in airports from Stavanger...

to Copenhagen...
to Sacramento...

(And all parts in between...)

And while, occasionally he'd rather play underneath the plane's bassinet than sleep in it, other than one minor incident*, he was calm and sweet during every single one of the nine plane trips.

And for the most part he played or slept in his car seat.**

(Though often it was because he had good company on the way.)

(Big D/Nee Nee may not have the chops or a full command of the lyrics, but she has the enthusiasm. You've gotta love it. We all did, especially Elliot.)

And, when necessary he chilled so we could have dinners.

As long as we made sure he had lots of wiggle time, he slept pretty much anywhere...

If there were no cribs, we made him soft beds on the floor beside us...

Or underneath tables out of the way...***
He chilled in various strollers...Awake...
And asleep.

He spent hours strapped to my chest.

And helped with the luggage...
And he loved it.****

Husband and I planned for weeks how we could make the travel easy on Elliot and manageable for us. We (probably over)packed toys and clothes for every climate. We brought his familiar blankets and did the math of the time zones. We thought of almost every single thing, except one...

Jet lag.

For Husband and me, jet lag is merely an inconvenience. We just add in a day or two for readjusting sleep when we get home, but the trip to/from California***** is particularly difficult due to the nine-hour time difference.

But for Elliot, it's been brutal. He's pretty confused about whether it's day or night. We can't keep him up for very long because if he wants to sleep, he'll just slump over and at a certain point, it just gets to feel like we are being mean.******

So during the night, he thinks it's time to hang out. We do not. This difference in opinion has made for some challenging overnights thus far.

Also, he has a cold. Not a big cold. And not the swine flu. Just a bit of traveling funk that has settled in his little nose. This does not help.

So to answer the question: Yep, Elliot is an awesome traveler.

Coming home'r?

Not so much.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*In retrospect, the incident was much more minor than it felt at the time.

On the last long haul flight, going from Chicago to Copenhagen, Elliot was cooked. It was 10pm--in that time zone--he had been dozing, the plane was hot and as we were loading up, he decided he had HAD it.

For about ten minutes (Husband says seven) he screamed. And when I say screamed, I mean a world class Elliot scream, with just enough breaks inbetween to catch his breath. Within close enough range, eardrum can bleed, dogs howl and small children cower. And if you didn't know him, you may think a life threatening aneurysm is imminent.

Also, we were sitting in Economy Extra, which for those unfamiliar with SAS, are the sweet seats, just a wee bit smaller than in Business (which is really First Class). So everyone around us, including us of course had shelled out extra dough (or kroner) for a nice comfy ride.

And let me tell you, a few of them were not so kind, which I can sort of understand.

But we (Husband and I) were apologetic and doing everything we could to calm him.

(Elliot could not have cared less. Rude baby.)

But then he calmed. The moment passed and he slept for most of rest of the nine hours.

And the one especially assy couple who glared at me for the entire ten/seven minutes spent the rest of the nine hours talking loudly, flipping their lights on and off and making snarky comments. Nine hours. Seriously.

I hate them.

________

**Once he cried for about two hours on a drive in Sonoma, but it was windy and cold when he got out of the car, he'd been in the car a LONG time and the view was not great from where he was sitting. Really, I felt almost the same way.

The second time he cried in the car seat was on a lightless stretch of road called 985 which is the highway leading from the north side of Atlanta on the way to Big D's house. He had been asleep and woke up in pitch black dark and he screamed.

Husband thinks it was because he was cooked from a day of traveling (Sacramento to Atlanta, then a drive to BigD's),

I think it was because he'd never been in the full darkness. His entire life, up until that point, had been in spring/summer Scandinavia, during the time of 23 hour sunlight. And even in California where we'd been for the first ten days of his American tour were much like home...he'd been sleeping in rooms with either a nightlight or sunshine creeping underneath the shades. Then one day he wakes up in pitch black full darkness.

Scary.

________

***This photo was taken from Andrea and Deena's apartment in San Francisco. There are earthquakes there. So sleeping under a table=comfort and safety.

________

****More strangers than I can count, commented, "Ohhhhhhh That's a happy baby." And he is.

________

*****To/from Georgia is not nearly as bad because it's only six time zones, which makes more difference than you would think.

________

******This is Stavanger, not Guantanamo Bay.

We're Back

2009-08-05T20:19:00.003+02:00

As a friend of mine said "One of these people is very tired. And one of these people has no plans to let her sleep."

I'll be posting about Elliot's Debut World Tour in a day or so. Suffice to say, it was full of good visits, fried foods and not one bit of rain.

And now that we're back, I realize that I planned for everything except how to deal with a jet-lagged baby.

More to come...

Packing

2009-08-03T21:09:00.002+02:00

On the way home...

How We Travel AND Husband Knows Stuff #5: Roadtrip

2009-07-12T17:35:00.012+02:00

This is what Husband handles.*

This is what I handle.**

Also, it's been a while since an installment of Husband Knows Stuff...***

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*If the whole "job in an office" thing doesn't work out, sweet Husband may have a future as a sherpa.

**To be fair, I have the baby.

***There hasn't been a lot of computer time lately, but rest assured, I am taking photos and notes...

Dear 21B (Or an argument for a no-child-allowed flight)

2009-07-04T20:26:00.010+02:00

(This is from our long haul flight from Copenhagen to Seattle. Elliot preferred to play underneath the bassinet instead of sleeping in the bassinet. Oh well, at least he was quiet.)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dear 21B,

You may not remember me, but you have been stuck in my mind all week, or at least since Monday night.

Just to refresh your memory, you and your son, Sean Michael sat directly behind Husband, Elliot and me. It was the 8pm flight from Seattle to Sacramento. We were the family with the four month old. You were the middle aged man with the four year old.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you then what I'd like to tell you now.

You are that apple. And by "apple," I mean the bad kind, the kind that ruins it for all of the rest of us.

It was a packed flight, including about 25 children ranging from Elliot's age to about twelve or so. And other than a few moments of crying from Elliot, the only children anyone heard from the entire time was Sean Michael and your twins across the aisle.

Normally, I wouldn't care so much or even expect you to remember us, except part of Sean Michael's antics involved him slamming his feet into the back of my seat on irregular*, yet frequent intervals.

And with every single slam, Elliot would wake up long enough to whimper and shift and occasionally bump his head just a bit. And every single time, I shifted, turned as much as I could and said, "Please!"

It was not that you were oblivious to this. You gently chided him and bargained with him and threatened him with "If you don't stop, that lady with the baby is going to stand up and ask you herself to stop."

And you were just as loud and twice as cloying as your son. I am not a violent person but I was having an overwhelming desire to punch you in the nose.

And I would have** except I was too crunched in and didn't want to move and disturb Elliot any more than I had to. By this point we had been traveling for more than 20 hours and we were all fried. Husband's glares were no good. And so this went on for more than two hours.

Your son is clearly intelligent. He spotted planes and asked questions.*** If either of you sounded like a dope, it was not him.****

You were loud and whiny and ineffective.

And you, not your son, made both Elliot and me cry a bit.

But the worst part of all is that you and Sean Michael are going to be what everyone remembers.***** And you will be the case in point for all the misanthropes who occasionally like to declare that children should not be allowed to travel.

I hate this because while I am only four months into the whole parenting thing and realize that while I cannot control every bit of his behavior and mood---I am going to do my best to try to help him manage his actions especially in public.

While we hope to go on some vacations alone, Husband and I intend to take Elliot with us when we travel. We want him to gather experiences, navigate situations and learn to behave in public without infringing on his fellow travelers. Plus he's our family and in lots of cases, where we go, he goes.

So thanks for giving the anti-child travelers a wealth of munition.

And when I say wealth, I mean it because, as I cradled Elliot in my arms, I was calculating just how much extra I would pay for a no-child-allowed flight.

And at that moment, the number was crawling up.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*It felt much like one of those experiments with the rats. The experiment where the rats are slowly driven mad because they know the pellet of food is coming, they just don't know when and in what quantity.

**Maybe not really, but I was thinking mean thoughts and lots of them.

***The questions ranged from "How do planes fly?" to "What would happen if two planes rammed into each other in the air?"

****That said, no one thinks your child is charmingly precocious other than you. His obnoxious behavior coupled with your impotence in controlling him canceled out every single bit of good will.

*****The reason I know this is because several people stopped me at the baggage claim and as we were waiting on Husband to pull around. They complimented me on calming Elliot quickly and derided you. And when I mentioned that we were the people right in front of you, they offered their sympathy. It was so nice, I got teary more than once.

We're Off

2009-06-29T07:41:00.001+02:00

Today is the day!

The Governor Wins

2009-06-26T11:50:00.011+02:00

Not to debate the Michael Jackson vs. Farrah Fawcett* newscycle, the real winner is that governor from South Carolina. When pop icons die, it makes politics even that less interesting and front page worthy. Even if it is some rambling guy who not only cheated, but also may have used state money to fund some of the travel. Has he not learned anything from the cheats of the past?

But, from thousands of miles away, all this news makes me miss my old jobs more than I have in months. While it's pretty unlikely that I would have gotten an assignment out of either death** covering celebrity news was what I did for the vast majority of my journalism career.

(This is the one photo I have from those years. It was my last interview in New York before moving to Atlanta. Check the striped hair. It was 2004. Also note who is holding my recorder.)

And this morning felt like old times a bit. Elliot and I sat on the stairs and visited with Husband as he got ready for work. And we had our usual debate.

We were talking about how I missed working.

I spent years covering celebrities in New York and then in Atlanta. Along with the regular assignments of party coverage, movie premieres, ten-day festivals and usual interviews, if there was breaking news, I'd get a call and would be off as soon as I could get out the door...sometimes to the airport to catch the next flight to a starlet's hometown to interview her middle school dance teacher. Other times to the courthouse to search for papers in a legal dispute. Other times to go to a town somewhere and find my own sources.

Husband who always supports my work, indulges me and loves my stories more than he lets on, was giving his familiar high brow refrain, which is a variation of "Why does anyone care about this?"

And then I defend it all, which is a mixture of "it's driven by the public need for 24 hours news"and "when you are a public figure who makes money from every press hit, it lowers your threshold of privacy, plus often they like it""*** and "people like escapism."

Then I point out that it's just another faction of news, much like the financial pages he loves to peruse.

Then I blame it on MTV,**** Jerry Springer and his ilk.****

Also, it's fun.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*In case you are wondering, I am all in Farrah's camp. On Charlie's Angels she was a roundhouse-kicking, perfect-hair wearing, sports car driving badass. In retrospect perhaps it was all a little sexist (to wit: nipples) but at the time they were like real life superheros (as real as it could be in Aaron Spellings tv world). Afterward she did some fine acting, picking up an Emmy along the way. Her exploits with the loony Letterman interview and that weird stint of rolling around in gold paint, were a little bit endearing and little bit more sad. And then there was her firey relationship with Ryan O'Neal, again a little bit endearing and a little bit more sad. And then when she was sick, she did everything she could to live and publicized her struggles to raise awareness.

As for MJ, yep he was inarguably a megastar of the highest wattage who left a catalogue of timeless hits, but I still can't get past the Jesus juice and slumber parties with little boys.

**Usually celebrities are assigned to offices based on locations and both Fawcett and Jackson are LA based and also long-term stories. So they would most likely use West Coast reporters unless there was an East Coast angle.

***I explained it here months ago. Click, then scroll down to the bottom.

****i.e. shortened attention span in the general public, especially in people our age; the opening of celebrity lives...suddenly everyone feels like they "know" them more so than ever; plus more sexual images.

*****schadenfreude as an afternoon pastime.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T16:03:00.004+02:00

I've always pretty much ignored Father's Day, not because I am against the idea of the day, but because my own father has been less than involved*. I've always had stand-ins when needed in the forms of my Papa (Big D's dad) or Bill or various friends' fathers, so it hasn't been tragic, just occasionally disappointing.

But this year, there is great cause for celebration. Exactly as I suspected he would be, not only is Husband great at the various husbandly duties and my favorite companion, but he's a stellar dad.

From the very beginning, Husband prepared for Elliot's arrival. He read** a few "expectant dad" books, indulged my need for ridiculous gear*** and painted the nursery.

Then when Elliot was born, he stepped up in a big way. The birth was difficult for a variety of reasons and Big D couldn't arrive to help for several weeks.

Singlehandedly, Husband juggled the dogs and the house and me. And other than actually feeding Elliot, Husband handled much of his care for several weeks until I felt better. He's a killer diaper changer and even now, Husband gets up in the middle of the night at least once every single night to help with him.

He listens thoughtfully to all my concerns, both insane**** and logical,***** thinks about them, discusses it and then helps me execute the plan.

And (almost) best of all, he takes Elliot and the dogs for long, long walks so I can have a little quiet time.*******

And of course Elliot adores him.

It may be easy to say that all of this is exactly what Husband "should" do and it probably is, but it's far and away from what I am used to, so I don't know how we could be any luckier.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*Without putting too fine a point in it, this is putting it mildly.

**And made great fun of...

***The swing, the sling, the two tubes of nipple cream (now used as lip balm) and the matching cover for the nursing pillow just to name a few that I can remember.

****"If Elliot cries for more than 5 minutes in a row, do you think it will fry the little neuron connections in his brain and make him a defective and insecure adult person?"

*****"If we don't teach him to fall asleep on his own, we'll be doing him a disservice. Plus it will make both of us crazy people."

*******Like right now...

In Which I Am Sleep Deprived and Husband Saves the Day

2009-06-16T12:36:00.004+02:00

Right after we got engaged, BigD pulled Husband aside and said "When Elizabeth gets cranky, tell her to go take a nap. She'll be better when she wakes up."*

I've never needed that much sleep.

In high school and college I would routinely pull all-nighters. In graduate school, I did my best work between midnight and 4am when things all around were quiet and all there was to hear were the soothing city sounds and the click click of typing.

And when I covered red-carpet and parties, I would have to scurry home afterwards to transcribe and write to make my 8am deadline. After the long nights, I'd nap for a few hours, then go on with the rest of my day.

But I can only do it so many days in a row. After five or six days, maximum, it starts to affect my mood. I get teary for no real reason and my patience dissapates.** In the olden days, I would just spend an entire day in bed to catch up.***

Life is a little bit different these days.

Elliot is a sweet baby and sometimes when I hear stories of babies that are much more challenging, I feel extra lucky. He has been sleeping in five hour shifts at night. During the day, we play, he eats, then naps. (Repeat) He's cheery and babbles funny things. He doesn't complain when I drag him all over town on errands or walks. And he doesn't fuss when I put him down in the bouncy seat or in his play gym for me to have a few moments of hands-off time.

Until recently.

For the past four or five days, he's been ultra fussy. He doesn't want to play, go anywhere, sit alone or sleep longer than about two to three hours. He does want to be held while I walk around the house while we discuss what we are seeing. He does want to eat every two or so hours and spit lots of it up, always on himself, often on me if he can aim it just right. And he only wants to play, if I am playing with him.

I don't resent him for it.

First of all, he's a baby and he's only been around for about 14 weeks. One day he will be big and may not let me hold him as much as I want to, so it's really a little bit nice. And he's clearly having a bit of a hard time right now, so of course I'm going to do what he needs to help him work it out. Also, it's not that it's difficult, it's just constant. Plus, he's my dear baby, so I love him no matter what.

But I have asked for some advice.

The nurse says "He's a baby. They do this."

Big D says, "If he's upset, clearly it is something you did. Tell him I will always be on his side."****

The internets say "It's a growth spurt and he may be teething., but it will pass."*****

So this will all be fine. But, in the meantime, I am exhausted.

Usually in the mornings, after I feed him at 6:30 or 7, I hop into the shower while Husband listens out for him. Then the day starts.

This morning, I couldn't do it. He had been up every two or three hours, each time for about an hour. So I had dozed in one hour increments and when I staggered out of bed, Elliot woke up as well. So I picked him up, crabbed a little at Husband, felt a little teary and we went downstairs as I plotted the day.

This was my plan:

"It's Tuesday. I'll head to my mother's group. Then I'll ask someone to keep an eye on him while I run to the bathroom. Then I'll wander a bit around the house until I find a bed. I will get in it and take a nap. Elliot will be fine and no one will come looking for a while. Also they are all nice, so probably they will let me sleep a bit."

Husband came down a few minutes later. This was Husband's plan:

"Elliot will eat again in a bit. Then he will sleep. When you put him down, get in the bed, too. Do not turn on your computer. Sleep. Do not read Gawker. Sleep. Do not fold the clothes. Sleep. I will come home at lunch, eat here and watch Elliot while you shower."

And that is what he did.

Elliot and I both slept for a full 90 minutes. He is clearly still tired because when Husband got home for lunch, he fussed a bit more, then fell back asleep.

As for me, we're still going to our group in a bit. And while I'm feeling almost back to normal, I need just a little bit more, so I still haven't ruled out my plan.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*On that same day, my Nana also had some advice for Husband. "If she ever gets out of line, bear down on her." We don't know what this means. I asked her a few days afterward and she never really answered. She just laughed. She was also 93. I'm thinking that had something to do with it.

**With adult people, not with babies.

***Don't judge. In busy times, I would work four or five 15-hour days in a row. Even on the slow weeks, it would be three or four 15-hour days. It was much much fun and I never felt one bit guilty about spending an entire Wednesday in bed watching reruns or not showering, but rolling out to catch an afternoon matinee. Those were great years.

****She kids.

*****I love the internets.

Baby BBQ*

2009-06-14T11:53:00.010+02:00

In preparation for Elliot's birth, Husband and I signed up for a ten-week class on childbirth and what goes along with it. It was the only English-language class in town and overall, I would recommend to any one. Not for the advice**, but for the fellow classmates.

From almost the beginning, the mothers have had weekly get-togethers. Every Tuesday afternoon we have "Tea and Cakes"*** at one of our homes. The babies play and we all visit. It's made a world of difference in getting adjusted to things with Elliot.

Not only are all the women good company--each is smart, accomplished, kind and funny---but it's been fantastic to have a group going through all the same things, at almost the same time. Recovering from childbirth and all the culture shock that follows, changing relationships and roles, working through baby sleep issues and figuring out how to fit into our clothes again. But, the pregnancy and baby things are giving way to the beginnings of good friendships.

And as we're getting to be friends, naturally what follows is having a party. It is summer, after all. But this time, we decided to add in the whole family, because other than a few moments in passing, we haven't all visited since one of the last classes.

So of course this included the dads.

Husband and I picked a date that worked for everyone**** and organized a cookout.

And everyone showed up. And by everyone, I mean nine families. Nine moms, nine dads, nine babies and one grandmother. Between all of us, there were ten nationalities.***** We are geologists, journalists, human resource managers, financial service people, engineers, primary teachers, musicians, quality managers and other things I am forgetting. It's a diverse group and a lively one, too.

We parked the baby seats by the door and set up a play area with toys and soft blankets.

Husband manned the grill on the back porch.

And then he had some help.

Husband, Elliot and I provided the main course of all sorts of pølse as well as brownies and key lime pie.****** Everyone else brought side dishes. We had glutenous rice, which is not just rice stuck together, but a savory concoction of rice and vegetables. There was lentil salad and apple cake, a recipe from the chef's hometown in France. We had stuffed baked potatoes with fancy sour cream, which was a mix of oniony, herby goodness. Then chicken on a stick covered with a satay sort of goodness. The table was covered with all sorts of culinary yumminess. If Husband and Elliot weren't blocking the table below you could see it, too.

A grandmother who was in town for a visit came along. Since she clearly had much more experience than any of us do, she shared advice.

We passed around our babies.

And I learned that whipped cream doesn't just exist in Cool Whip cartons or fancy restaurants. It can be made in regular people's houses as well.

We also had a Magic Cleaning Fairy. Well before I could even make any protests, the kitchen was straightened and I could see the counters again. It was not necessary, but so so appreciated. (And isn't her hair fabulous?)

Everyone was casual and hung out exactly as they wished. Occasionally, babies and a parent or two would take a break for a nap or an attempt at pacifying.

And little by little, families trickled off home...Most of them anyway. A few stayed on and after a while, we reheated leftovers for dinner.

Overall, it was a really good day.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

* I am referring to the guest list, not the menu.

**Though I was promised a balanced agenda, it was heavily skewed to the all natural, a perfectly acceptable method for many people, one of which I am not.

***I suggested "Knocked Up Meet Up." It never really caught on.

****We are missing one couple, but we're hoping that they show up again in the fall. Also one couple in the group did not attend the class. We adopted the mom from a yoga class.

*****American, British, Scottish, Irish, French, Norwegian, Dutch, German, Singaporean, Australian

******I LOVE key lime pie. Every year, I have it instead of birthday cake. I have specific opinions on when it is appropriate to add a dollop of whipped cream to the top of a slice. (Never) And if I could have found someone to make a GIANT one for our wedding, we would have. I was explaining this one of our guests yesterday. She told me that it's traditional at Dutch weddings to have pies instead of cake. And at their's a few years ago, they had tables of all varieties of pies...chocolate and fruit and butterscotch. If it had been my wedding it would have been all key lime. Mmmmmm key lime.