Naw

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.

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

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.

Some days, my life is a poorly written SNL skit

I love Gawker for a variety of reasons and have spent much too many hours happy hours perusing the site for years.  

I saw this a few days ago and it reminded of Norwegian hospitals.* 

If you're going to have a baby in Norway, you get a letter from your local hospital about 3 or 4 weeks before your due.  That letter instructs you to come in to the birthward to pre-register, which should be a great thing.  

You meet with one of the midwives who will take your info and confirm your details (name, address, etc....).  This midwife is also supposed to make notes about your wishes (all natural vs drugs, language requirements for caregivers, would you like a window, etc....) 

So on the day (or evening) when you came in for the birth, whoever is on duty can pull out your file and be good to go.

This is especially important because the person giving birth (in this case, me) will not have ever met or have ever seen whoever is on duty at that moment.  

The person delivering the baby (in this case, Pickle) will be a complete stranger and just whoever happens to be on duty.  

Yes, the only person I will know at the time will be Husband. 

So when I say this appointment is important, it's because it is. 

Ours was not very successful.  

We had Kari, The Wonder (Mid)Wife.**  

Over the course of our 20 or so minutes, along with our other wishes, we said we'd like a note put into our file that I would like an epidural and that any caregivers should be fluent and comfortable speaking English.

She informed us that because Husband knows some Norwegian, that English speaking wouldn't be as important.***  

And more so, that, if she were the midwife on duty, she'd take an assessment and decide whether or not I could have the drugs, but that it would really be better for everyone if I practiced breathing and used the gas.**** 

After that, I was slightly disturbed, but even more so, when she began chit-chatting while she was typing into our file.... 

___________________________________________

Kari, the Wonder-Wife:  So what do you think of your new president?

Me:  I am thrilled

K, t WW:  Thrilled?

Because I thought she may not have heard me or perhaps didn't understand the vocabulary or some such, I tried again.....

Me:  Thrilled. I think he is a good man and just the right person to deal with the giant mess.  He's got a hard job, though. 

Still nothing.  Just a quick glance and silence.  So I gave it one more try.

Me: But what do you think?

K, the WW:  Oh I don't know.

And, in one last attempt to be cheery, plus clearly she had something to say...

Me: Really? Most people have some sort of opinion.

Kari, the WW: Well, I think a change is good, but I don't; know about a black man. Or any colored really.  And by colored, I mean any colored person other than white. We've only had people that are colored here for about 30 years and I don't think we'd let them run the country.

Me:   Huh. 

Husband, who has been silent until now:   Huh. 

Kari, the WW: Yes, you know how we are here. We like our own people.

Me: That's funny. I guess we just like all sorts of good, brilliant people back in the states.

Kari, the WW:  Well, that's not very Norwegian, is it?
_________________________________________

It was so odd and weird and unfunny, that, in between my rants about the system, we laughed about it until we almost cried. 

I am going to deliver the Pickle in the middle of an SNL skit...and a poorly written, not so funny one, at that.

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

*Or to be fair, it reminded me of one instance and one midwife in one Norwegian hospital. 

**And no, doctors don't get involved in these parts, unless surgery is needed.

***To be fair, Husband is actually fluent in the Norwegian language, so that note in our file would be valid and totally on point IF Husband was in actual possession of the particular ladyparts from which our Pickle will most likely emerge.  He is not.  I am. My Norwegian is only fluent-ish through Lesson 8 in my textbook.  So being able to ask a shop-person if they have a green sweater in my size won't be as useful in this case.

***The "gas" is the same gas used in the dentist office, in the case you need a bit of drilling.  One friend of mine, who missed the window for an epidural here because they told her to go home.  She took a long walk around the hospital grounds, came back and her daughter was born 90 minutes later.  She used the gas as a last resort and said "It does take the edge off and the mask is useful for screaming into." 

One of the Few Times I Will Ever Discuss Bodily Functions

Our sweet Lillie is an American Bulldog. 

(American Bulldogs have occasional skin issues.  This is one of those times.  She is wearing a cone until one of her paws heals. Poor sweet Lillie.) 

For those that aren't familiar with the breed, those dogs tend to be overwhelming good-looking, fiercely loyal, slightly clownish and just smart enough.  

They also often have slight issues with flatulence.  

When we lived in Atlanta and (Not Quite Yet) Husband worked from his home office, Lillie and Milo would lie at his feet and slumber peacefully all day.

But Lillie just can't help herself.

I would often get a text from (Not Quite Yet) Husband that would read simply, "Ack, Ack. Am choking on Lillie fumes. xo."

But Lillie is an integral part of The Pack, so we (meaning me especially) tend to overlook her few flaws, including the flaws we (meaning me especially) would find repugnant in almost any other creature. 

We (meaning me especially) even tend to think of the small "pffffsssstttttts" that escape from her hind regions as special little fragrant blown kisses. 

We even find them amusing when they are slightly louder and she'll spend several minutes startled and befuddled, wondering where did that come from???

We (meaning me especially) tolerate because this because we love her. 

These days, because I do not currently have a J-O-B, often I am at home much of the day.  And while the sweet dogs slumber (punctuated by Lillie's air kisses), I sometimes keep the television on in the background. 

I favor a mix of CNN and Norwegian Children's television. That way, I am either learning about what's happening in the world, or subconsciously adding to my meager Norwegian vocabulary.

Right now, this is the commercial that is on practically every single second and it drives me nuts. 

Imagine it dubbed into Norwegian, if you can.  

Traveling 4,209.19 Miles of Makes No Dang Sense

As you may know, Husband and I got married almost six months ago.  

We had a very short engagement of only eight weeks.  In that time, Big D (my mother for those who just arrived) and our friends and family pulled together so we could have a wedding that was lovely, and, in record time. 

Overall, everyone was incredibly generous in myriad ways from events to gifts to all sorts of unexpected and lovely kindnesses, so naturally that means thank you notes should be soon on the way. 

We had our hands full with moving and getting settled and a few other family worries, so the notes did not go out absolutely immediately, but they did go out, well under the Emily Post-prescribed time period.  

Some were even written twice, but that is not the point of this missive...

What I mean to share today is a letter we received last week.  

You'll have to trust me on some of the following information because, in the interests of privacy---the intended recipients', not mine---you'll see I have shielded some of the information on the envelope...

This is a note that was posted from the Stavanger Post Office more than ten weeks ago.  

The problem is, apparently, the people to whom the note was addressed have moved.  And, in the time between sending my wedding invitation and sending the thank you note, their forwarding address has expired. 

So as a matter of protocol, the US Postal Service sent it back to us.  

As an American citizen, a long time resident and United States Postal Service user for more than 36 years, I understand this system. 

Someone in the Gainesvegas Post Office had to handle that note, look up the new address, print out a sticker, affix that sticker, flip over the letter for the return address, see the address in Norway and then toss it into the "international" or perhaps "Europe" bin. 

And then, some time later, that note arrived back to us, here in Stavanger, Norway.

What a giant waste, of time, resources and money. 

That $2.50US that we spent to mail it from Stavanger, Norway to Gainesvegas, Georgia, United States, is just a fraction of the roundtrip cost.

I also know from the time period, that, even if I missed the forwarding window of time, it was only by a few days, at most. 

The Gainesvegas Postal Service People know where this letter should have gone. Both the old and the new addresses are in the Gainesvegas city limits, exactly 3.81 miles from each other.  

So, really, Postal Service People, don't get me wrong.  I admire your "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night..." brand of perseverance. I'm really sorry you sometimes have to deal with vicious dogs and that whole "going postal" reference is really bad PR.  

But let's be clear here:  I pay taxes to the US government.  The US government runs the US Postal Service.  So, even if it's just a teeny tiny portion, I pay your salary, so that kind of makes me your boss, even if it only works out to a fraction of a second of one day every few years.  

So, I'd like to use my moment of authority right now to say: What were you thinking?  How could it make ANY sense to send a letter back over the 4,213 miles it had just traveled instead of just forwarding it on 3.81 miles to its real destination?

Seriously, peoples. 

Go Car Go

This is Car.



This is my letter to Car.*

++++++++++++++++++
Dear Car,

I hate you.

Kisses,
Elizabeth
++++++++++++++++++


Car is part of Husband's contract. We pay a small fee every month and his company takes care of Car, including insurance, tolls, etc... It's a pretty sweet deal, really.

And before we got here, we talked about the fact that the vast majority of cars in Norway are stick shift. There are all sorts of expenses and tariffs that go along with having a car, especially an automatic, so our choices would be limited to manual transmissions.

I had been worried about it for months for two reasons:

1) I am a rotten driver. I lived in New York City for ten years and would drive once or twice a year. Maybe. Then drove Gertie, the Green Jeep (1993 Jeep Grand Cherokee) for the two years I lived in Atlanta. Gertie got me places and I felt safe. As far as I am concerned, cars are merely to get from Point A to Point B. I'd like a car that goes, please. If it has A/C and a way to hear music, even better. That's about it.

2) Also, it is a well-documented fact that my coordination is so poor that I can barely walk upright. Seriously, I trip. I walk into doors. I fall down. I cannot touch my nose with my finger. And forget about patting my head and rubbing my stomach at the same time.

I'm okay with this.

And I was okay with accepting what I thought was our one option.

So Husband signed the papers and checked all the boxes and Car was put on order.

In the meantime, they gave us a loaner----a loaner which was an automatic.

(It turns out that there are automatics in Norway. Quite a few, but they tend to be loaners from dealers. And we could have had an automatic, if Husband had known to ask, not to just trust the words on the standard paper. Oh well.)

So for six weeks, I went on field trips to places like the beach and IKEA, where I would learn the area and practice my rudimentary Norwegian on unsuspecting locals.

Here I am modeling the latest in Norwegian dishware. (Yep, I'm mature like that.)



Here's Erin trying it on as well. (Yep, she's mature like that, too.)



Then Husband got the call. Car was here.



And, still trying to be a good sport, I try to drive it.

And fail.

This is not good for House Durel.

And, again, trying to be a good sport, I try to drive it again.

And fail.

Again, this is not good for House Durel, not for what could be the obvious reason, but because it makes me feel defeated.

It is just one more thing that I cannot do.

Plus, it limits my options for a daily adventure to pretty much walking into town. Or hoping for an invitation from my more skilled friends.

(Or my one skilled friend. No one else of my friends here drives a manual. Also please, before you get judgey, out of all the people I know, only one has a car that is manual. So, while I may not know many people here yet, I know alot of people in other places.)

Both of which are great adventures, but knowing I only have two choices makes me feel trapped.

Plus, occasionally, I need to do something else, like go to the doctor or buy heavy things.

(Also, I once had an elfin grandmother. She was not actually an elf, but was very short and round. She said she couldn't but really just wouldn't drive. She was always tied to my grandfather's schedule or really, it was the other way around. I don't want to manipulate either of us that way. It's just not good for the family business.)

So sweet Husband tries to give Car back.

I thought it would be as easy as switching out a shirt at the department store.

This is how naïve I am.

And they say, "Of course, we'll take it back for the low, low price of 66,000 kroner."

That is not the price of the car.

That is the "buy-out-the-lease" fee, plus "some-more-money-because-we-registered-it-and-paid-some-taxes-or-something" fee.

And, frankly, sweet Husband was about to do it.

But, I couldn't let him.

So, the only thing to do was to figure out how to drive.

I know that millions of people do it every day. Also, I am not unintelligent. I know stuff. Surely, there was a wee part of my brain just waiting to be crammed with driving knowledge.

A few days ago, the husband of a friend said, "Elizabeth, it's such a good skill to have. You never know when you might use it."

I politely nodded while wracking my brain.

When would I need it?

This is what I came up with:

If I were in high school, in the middle of a field, at a party. If the only car available had a manual transmission and if the only other drivers were drunk and if I had to get home by Big D's curfew.

Then I would need to know.

But truthfully, it's much more likely I would be among the inebriated. I am not in high school any more. Also, I don't have a curfew.

So nope.

Why do manual transmissions even exist?** We don't live near the Autobahn. I don't care about fuel efficiency (Sorry.) And the highly regulated speed limits here are such that I cannot imagine many times that anyone even needs to shift all the way up to 4th, not to mention 5th and 6th. Seriously. Keep them for the Porsches, maybe, but quit it in the regular cars.

Which also to be clear. I have driven a manual in Atlanta. I drove one for two weeks while my Jeep was being repaired. In Atlanta, there are few hills, less roundabouts and if someone steps into the road, it's all on them. Not so here.

Also, to be clear, I can "go." I am also a pro at shifting. It's the whole "getting and staying started" where I have a problem.

But again, we have Car, so I have to figure it out.

Driving with Husband was not the most effective method of learning, so dear, dear friend Christine volunteered. She just started driving manual a few years ago for the exact same reason I am working on learning it now.

Her goal was not to get me good, but to get me going. She taught me the tricks and how to ride the clutch and which gear to cruise around the roundabouts.

I felt okay about it enough to try to go to the grocery store today.

I chose the non-rush hour times and set out.

To the nice men at the bottom of the street who smiled encourangely as I stalled going up the hill, then clapped when I got it going:

"Thanks. You helped me get started and made my day a little bit better."


To the honking people behind me when I stalled at the roundabout:

"I am so sorry that you are now two minutes later than you planned. I was flustered. I am suspecting not all of you are Norwegian because the noise you made was not nice. I do wish I knew where you were from because then I would talk smack about you and never visit your country. If you are Norwegian, here is a word for you to think about "empati." Please remember that once you had to learn to drive as well. I'll forgive you this time, but you made me cry and made my day a little bit worse. Also, fuck you."



*In case Car only understands Swedish...

Bäste Bil,

Jag hatar dig

Kyssar,
Elizabeth


** This is a rhetorical questions.

UGH

I did not grow up in one of those "everything is natural" kind of families.

In fact, I am pretty sure that no one in my family, at least not my mom and sister, has ever had a bodily function.

(My brother is another case altogether. I am almost 100% certain he has.)

I mean that seriously.

Growing up, occasionally someone would go into a little room, the one with the sinks and shower, close the door and come out a little while later. There was no discussion about the events that occurred while in the room.

We did not read



And any form of scatalogical humor was roundly dismissed for a variety of reasons.

Years later when I was living in New York, I was slightly horrified when some of my friends cavalierly announced what they were going to do when they left the table.

They, in turn, thought it was hysterical that I would just stand up, say "Excuse me" and walk off.

To this day, instead of giving their usual announcement, they will now announce that they are going to the "Excuse Me" or "The West Wing."

"The West Wing" was so named when I was living in the West Village in a small apartment. It was approximately 400 square feet and consisted of one large room, one small room and a bathroom.

If I stood up to leave whereever I was sitting, clearly, I was not going to the kitchen. It was right there on the side of the bigger room.

I was not going to the dressing room. If guests were over, I most likely was already dressed.

I was not going into my bedroom. It was sectioned off the large room in the opposite direction.

I was also not going to the sitting room. There wasn't one.

The only logical choice was "The West Wing," a name chosen mainly because it was ridiculous.

(NOTE: And in Europe, it is polite and commonplace to ask where the toilet is...I don't know when I will get used to that. When I am in need of the "Excuse me" or "The West Wing," I usually just wander until I find it.)

Perhaps I have made overstated my point, but really, I just believe there are some things that are just not necessary to discuss in polite company or in public. *

===============

Here in Stavanger, I am a member of a few expat lists-serves, which means that once a day I will get notices about where to find organic peanut butter or how to get an international drivers license...just general info on things that the expat community may find of import. I skim and discard most of them.

Late yesterday, this is the what I received.

The water in Storhaug from Klubbgata to Badedammen/Verven has been infected by E.coli bacteria. Stavanger Kommune have requested all residents in this area to boil their drinking water until further notice.

See article in Stavanger Aftenblad for more info (på norsk!):

Kok drikkevannet på Storhaug


I clicked to it and realized that my rudimentary knowledge of Norwegian was of no help here, but I could check the map at the bottom of the story.

We were well within the area defined.

So I sent it over to Husband for more information.

His reply was:

Ugh. We need to boil water used for cooking, drinking, and teeth brushing for at least 3 min. I’ll stop by the store to get some bottles of water on the way home.


The key part of the story is that the E.coli may have been in the water as long as a week.

My friend Erin suspects that it is from a pipe break that happened on Sunday down the street from their house. (They apparently are pretty near E.coli ground zero.)

The bacteria was found on a routine check of the water supply, but there was no note in the story about the amount, at least not from Husband's reading (and he even used the Norsk/Engelsk dictionary for a few of the unfamiliar words.)

We have no idea whether this was 1 part to a million or a 99% concentration of the little wigglers. The news story skirted a bit around the source of the e.Coli, but I took biology. And I can read.

For the unfamiliar, there are just a few sources for E.coli and I am not a fan of any of them.

This kind of contamination happens all over the world on both a frequent and infrequent basis.

For example, just in the last few years, there have been similiar happenings in Fort Meyers (USA), Galway (Ireland) and Ontario (Canada).

This does not in fact make it any less gross, just more common than you may think.

I am not squeamish about my own family's functions and have changed mounds of diapers of babies of my friends and family for years.

But, please notice the key phrase in the sentence above...friends and family....

So last night, when Husband confirmed the worst, I was in the middle of figuring out dinner.

I immediately started boiling water and threw out the rice. I worried about the pork chops and whether or not I should rinse them. Then couldn't figure out how to wash my hands.

And, worst of all, I started to get parched-throat, stuck-in-the-middle-of-the-desert, thirsty. I couldn't drink the Brita water. The clean water was boiling and we only had a little milk.

Thank goodness for chilled wine. **



* NOTE: In case you may wonder, I am okay with people thinking I am slightly more repressed and straight-laced that I actually am. Over the course of the past three decades, I've found that if you open the door on the "bodily function" discussion, the next thing you know, people will share details that will make your ears bleed and your eyeballs pop out of your head. Or at least my head. So, while I actually am okay with many details and comments, I find it helpful to just keep a slight air of bodily function aloofness.


** And for this afternoon's plane ticket to Stockholm. Hopefully, they'll have clean water there. I've got my fingers crossed that the water situation will be straightened out here by Sunday when we return.