Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans

Happy Thanksgiving, Peoples!

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 17:30:00 +0000

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.

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*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.

***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?*

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 09:04:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 18:35:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:12:00 +0000

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.

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*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....

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 14:49:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 10:44:00 +0000

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.

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*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...

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 18:42:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 08:16:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 17:00:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 10:15:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 09:32:00 +0000

I plan things.

So does Elliot.

Those two plans do not necessarily mesh.

Asian fast food

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 17:17:00 +0000

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.

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*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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 08:05:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 09:07:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 17:37:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 18:18:00 +0000

One hearty bug

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 10:52:00 +0000

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

May the Force be with You

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 09:04:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 04:46:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 20:14:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 12:07:00 +0000

HKS: Why You Should Go to Spain*

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 05:11:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 09:49:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 16:58:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Cobb Durel) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 12:02:00 +0000

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.