Dogs, Ducks and Dresses

Here is what I know about rain in Stavanger and about dogs in Stavanger....

Rain in Stavanger:
--About 50 inches of rain falls per year
--In July 2007, rain fell on 29 of the 31 days
--September tends to be the rainiest month
--Rains falls about 2/3 of the time, which is roughly 240 days a year

Dogs in Stavanger:
--Milo must go outside at least twice a day
--Lillie must go outside at least five times a day
--Both must go outside 365 days a year



(If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a Husband.)





(I bought this dress at the West Village Urban Outfitter in 1996. When I wore it for the first time, Derek, my downstairs neighbor, said "Elizabeth, that is the ugliest dress I have ever seen." He is a graphic designer with super funky taste, so of course he was right. But I loved it anyway. And eleven years later, this dress (and Mos Def) played an initial and starring role in the beginning of the Us, so while it's in a much less frequent rotation these days, I still wear it occasionally for that very reason. Why it survived in the years inbetween, I can't say for sure...)

Chicken, Shrimp and Swans

Stavanger is the fourth largest town in Norway, with a population of approximately 180,000 people in the general area, and about 115,000 in the town itself.

That means that the population of the general area of Stavanger is similar to the population of the greater area of my hometown, Gainesville, Georgia.

And population is not all they have in common.

Right off the square in Gainesville, is a tall obelisk. Perched on the top is a (relatively) small chicken.



This is because Gainesville, Georgia is the Chicken Capital of the World. For reals.

Years ago, there was a gentleman named Jesse Jewell who made up ways to preserve and pack poultry on an assembly line, forever negating the need to go out back and behead the evening meal. (You're welcome.)

About once a year, some enterprising pack of teens steals the chicken. Mayhem ensues, at least until it's recovered.

And as one can imagine, before Norway tapped into its the mother lode of oil, the sea provided the basis for much of the economy.

Now, Stavanger is called "The Petroleum Capital of Norway," but once it was all about the ocean.

Hence, the giant statue of the shrimp in the harbor, which I think is more proportional to its base than the chicken.



The giant shrimp statue is situated at the most inland point of the harbor in the center of town, which serves not just as the geographical center, but also the social center of Stavanger. On sunny days, the cafes lining one side become packed with people soaking up the rays with a pint of beer. On weekdays, Husband goes to his office on the far side of the water. And the "downtown" is built around it.

Yesterday, Lillie and I went on a walk around the harbor. Though she grew up in Atlanta, she really was a homebody. But now that we don't have a backyard, she has to take her breaks on walks.

So, I am trying to acclimate her to city life and all that entails, for instance people, cars and swans.

Let Them Eat Steak

Dear vegetarian readers,

You may want to leave for a minute or two ...

Please come back soon.

Kthanxbai.

Love,
Elizabeth

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


I miss steak.

Other than key lime pie, there is no food I love more than a hunk of red meat.

I am an unabashed carnivore and suspect that it just is in my genes. (Seriously, I come from a long line of meat-eaters.)

I love it rare and just about five minutes past breathing.

I love the smell of it cooking and the smell of it on my plate.

I love to marinate it and to eat it plain.

I love it hot right off the grill or cold from the refrigerator the day after.

I love filets and rib-eyes and over the course of a few days, I'd bet I could do some serious damage to a porterhouse.

Mmmmmmmm.

And not only does steak taste good. (mmmmm steak....), somehow, it's always wrapped up with goodness, too.

(To wit: When Husband and I were first dating, I'd come over and while the meat was marinating, I'd chop up vegetable to put on the grill and we'd visit. And for as long as I've known him, we've eaten some form of steak at least twice a week...mmmm steak...)

Up until now...

Here it's mega expensive and the cuts are just not that good. But lately, we've been having such sunny weather. We have a slightly rusty grill on our tiny little back deck. And, Husband invited one of his colleagues home for dinner.

So last night, when the three happy coincidences merged, so we decided it was time for steak.

When looked at piece by piece, the evening was a slight disaster.

I misplaced the lettuce and bought blocks of lighter fluid instead of actual fluid lighter fluid. The timing of the fire in the grill was a little off, so the steaks were a little overcooked and the grilled veggies were a little undercooked. The roasted potatoes could have used less salt and about ten more minutes. And when it was time to make the brownies, I forgot the egg.

When looked at as a whole, the evening was a complete success.

The food was okay, but the company was good. We had loads of beer and a nice bottle of wine with dinner. Kenneth, our guest, lives in a hotel for the work week and was longing for a home visit. Conversation was lively and for most of the time, borderline hilarious. And the men and the dogs walked around the corner and got me an egg.

It couldn't have been better. And did I mention the steak? mmmmmmm...steak

And afterwards, Husband and Kenneth got out Husband's latest toy...*

Kenneth appreciating Husband's sick beats



Husband trying to share, but really longing to get back in the driver's seat.



And then there's me...




*For those of you who don't know, Husband used to be a DJ with these guys He's old school in that he usually works with turntables and vinyl. He pretty much skipped the next level ---abandoning the vinyl for CDs--- and somewhat reluctantly, he moved to the next generation, which is all digital. Right before we left the states, he bought himself a schmancy machine that produces the same effects as working on a turntable as well as working with CDs, but uses MP3 technology... (No, I don't totally understand, but it's cool. Kenneth is a DJ, too and wanted to check it out...)

Jeg heter Elizabeth

I started Norwegian lessons this morning.

Tiziana, my teacher is fantastic.

She's been talking to Husband, who she'll be teaching as well, all weekend about our different skill levels and to schedule our meetings.

I suspected that she would be a little bit energetic from the conversations she and Husband had touched on subjects including, but not limited to:
Couples taking language classes together: "Very bad. Never works out for the couple."
Americans taking language classes from her: "May I be so bold as to ask your ages? I hate to teach old Americans."
Canceling our first meeting (which happened to fall on a sunny day: "Hack Hack Hack, I am so sick."

I figured that either I would love her or would hate her immediately. There would be no in between.

So this morning, I get a call from Husband. Tiziana is running late because she needed to stop and get petrol, so a few minutes later, the dogs barked and I leaned out the window to say hello and that I would be right down. And who is standing on the walkway?



Yep, Tiziana is Janice Soprano, if Janice Soprano was a Norwegian teacher born in the Netherlands who probably does not have sociopathic tendencies.

So Tiziana comes in breathless and a bit harried. I introduce myself, take her coat, then am immediately horrified when Milo sticks his nose up her skirt. She matter of factly tells me that it's okay. Dogs do that to her all the time. She's allergic though and would like to wash her hands. Then she teeters up the stairs in her little skirt and tank top and tells me she will take some tea.

(When we trade phone numbers, I saw that her screen saver is a picture of herself all dolled up with a total come-hither look on her face. So odd, or maybe it's just Norwegian...)

She pulls out a scrunchy and pulls up half of her hair into a perky ponytail and we begin with gossip smattered with Norwegian phrases. She doesn't like to tutor Chinese because it's always tick tick tick. The company that handles this for her is a pain because they have her buy the books and then they don't pay for two months. The neighborhood where we live was once on the edge of the water, but was recently dammed for construction, so there would be more land. (When you ask? In the 50s.) I have pretty eyes. She doesn't like Norwegian haircutters because they take a razor and go chop chop chop chop. We have the same hair, but she has more waves. My husband is nice and sounds like he's from the midwest. She has a contract with NATO until summer break, so we'll have to be flexible on time until June 18th. My nice husband says I don't like to get up early.

And that was the first three to five minutes.

Then she propped her boobs on the table and we went to work on basic sentence construction, articles, question words and the like.

Hvor er du fra?
Jeg er fra USA.

Hva heter du?
Jeg heter Elizabeth

Ja, vi har 2 hunder.
Jeg har en bulldog og en husky.

Apparently I am a great parrot and after a bit, I don't even sound American.

I can't wait for the next lesson...

Norwegian lesson #1: Forbudt and "ha det"

Norwegian is a Germanic based language and can be challenging to learn, especially for someone like me whose language experience is limited to English, a smattering of Romance-based languages and a working knowledge of Pig Latin.

The vast majority of Norwegians know English and will use it when asked, so I am not completely stuck.

Husband is fairly fluent, so he's always fine and I can rely on him to help with communication issues when he's around.

We have Norwegian friends who are kind enough to speak English in front of me. But, I don't want to rely on all of their kindnesses because we're going to be living here for at least two years, if not longer. Plus, often a native speaker will slip back into Norwegian and I'm left in the dark and miss great bits of what seem to be really good stories. (Though some words are almost identical, in a few days I will tell the Kangaroo Body Parts story...)

In any case, I am an American living here. So, as a resident, I want to learn to speak and at least comprehend much of what goes on around me for a variety of reasons, the least of which is that I just think it's the polite and right thing to do.

So in my quest towards fluency, I am using several methods.

Immersion:
During the day, I often go to places alone where people are not quite as fluent, like the wine store. I use the bits I know and muddle through the rest with combinations of "Tusen takk" (Tooo-sen tock) which means "thanks so much" and pointing.

Osmosis:
Most morning I keep the Television tuned into the channels that only use Norwegian in the hopes that it will sink into my subconscious.

Tutoring:
Tomorrow, I will officially begin my lessons with an instructor and Husband has been coaching me through lots of lessons.

Self-study:
By using Husband's old language books and workbooks, I've figured out some conjugations, vocabulary and structure.

Going to the grocery store:
Much like reading a children's book (which is another method I will soon employ once I get a library card), the grocery store is full of items that I can identify by sight, so then I memorize the appropriate word, (red pepper=paprika, cheese=ost, milk=melk).

Word association:
There are just some connections that seem appropriate to me.

For example: "Forbudt" means "Forbidden"



Don't park here unless you meet certain conditions

And for some reason, "Forbudt" (Fuhrr-booodt) connects with "Forgetaboutit" (Fuhrr-get-ta-booot-it) in my head.

If you are over 18, let Donnie Brasco explain it to you



If you are under 18, learn about it through Mad TV
>

(To reiterate, the Norwegians mean "don't do it.")

Then there is a "ha det" (ha-da), which is a commonly used salutation, which is an informal way to say "good-bye, see you later." The inflection uses a higher pitch and emphasis on the first syllable.

Say it quickly and t may remind you of "Holla," which is also a commonly used American salutation, which means "See you later on, give me a call."

If you are over 18, the Ghetto Boys will help me explain what I mean...

MiEH, Part Two

As I continue planning Masters in Expat Housewifery, I need to give serious thought to one of the most important courses in the curriculum,

Identity 203:
Traditional Unemployment in a Non Traditional Setting

Over the course of my working life, I have a corporate careers, seven or so years working in advertising and marketing for major American magazines, crunching numbers to sell advertising or traveling around the country to inform engaged couples of the accessories they must have to start their lives together.

There were another two years at a freewheeling dotcom, the kind before the bubble burst where we would have meetings over games of pool as we planned how to translate advice from community members to stories in the magazine.

And during the latter, I executed my master plan to give it up for graduate school so I could officially switch over to journalism.

For the last seven or so years, I have worked both as staff and freelance reporting on the various (mis)deeds of celebrities and writing about the intersection of culture, entertainment and lifestyle. I've even been linked on Gawker.

For the most part, it's been loads of fun. And, I've always been up for any sort of adventure, whether it's been in some facet of reporting or my own life.

So, it's been a little bit of a transition, to say the least, to admit that I don't have a job. At least not a "real" job.

Right now, even if I was fluent in Norwegian, which I am not, at least not yet, I could not get a reporting job here.

My papers have not come through yet, so I don't have all the permits to work in any capacity.

Yes, I have transferred my affiliations to the European offices of my American magazine clients.

And, I am getting started on some travel writing and there is always, this, my blog.

There is even The Project (which I can't talk about, so please don't ask, but send happy creative thoughts in my general direction, please) that I intend to finish during this time.

And, a friend and I are working on a secret business venture.

Best of all, Husband is completely supportive of any and all things that I want to do, but it's been a slightly difficult mind-shift.

Overall, I'm happy. Husband and I are having fun setting up house and figuring out being newly married, as well as newly living together.

Our dogs are here, so The Pack is complete.

Finances are in order, so the fact I am not working doesn't impact us in that way.

I finally have the time and a partner's willing palate to practice my culinary skills.

Life is good and I suspect that it is only going to get better.

But last night, we were going over some papers, one of which was a power of attorney authorization solely based on my immigration papers. (My papers for living and working here have been delayed in Oslo due to a backlog, which may or may not impact my travel in and out of the country, getting my personal number, etc...loads of things that matter here...)

I didn't mind signing it at all until I looked at the last line on the form. In the space labeled "occupation" was the word "housewife."*




*No offense to the happy housewives out there. It's a noble and difficult profession. It's just that, even if I don't have an actual employer right now, I am a writer.

Catch Up

So it's taken me days to get over the jet lag and I am days late on updates, so this is going to be an overlong series of posts on the past few weeks...Here we go...

Picture Perfect

I think it's really hard to take photos that look exactly like us (really, of me in particular).

And these two are...


(December 1, 2006---my 35th birthday party---almost two months after the beginning of the first part)



(February 16, 2008---getting hitched---almost two months after the beginning of the second part)

First Day at the Beach

This Sunday we went on our first pack outing.

Husband is a surfer.

He started dabbling in it in South Carolina when he would visit his friend Matt in Foley Beach. Then, after moving to Norway the first time, took a few weeks at a place called Surf Experience in Portugal. And on clear days, in his last Norwegian incarnation, he headed out to Solastraden (which means Sola Beach), which is a few miles out of Stavanger.

He's been watching the weather, refreshing the webcams and longing for the water, even though it is still well below freezing.

So last Sunday, we loaded up the surfboard and Lillie and Milo and piled into the car.

When we got there, there was not a wave on the water. At least not nearly enough for Husband to put on his wetsuit and wade in...


(Oh no, Husband. Watching really really intently will not make the waves come.)

But it was okay and we hung out for a while anyway.





No Lillie is not lounging. She just fell down.


Then when it was time to go, Husband grabbed the poo. Gotta love that.

What I Say When I am Tired

My friends Chris and Mindy are well traveled. They've been places all over the world, particularly Mindy, and they can talk intelligently about it.

I cannot when I am tired.

To be fair, the list of where I haven't been is much much longer than where I have, but I'm working on changing that. And I do think I have the journalist's eye for detail, so usually I'm pretty good on the storytelling front.

But on this particular night, I was exhausted, but I hadn't seen them in forever and hadn't had a good visit with them in longer than that, so I was doing my best to be positive and rally for the experience.

And this is how it went...

Since I am now the worldly expat in Europe, they asked about where Husband and I have been lately. The answers are: Skiing a bit north in Norway and traveling a bit around Scotland.

Chris knew all about Scotland, the castles and history and fighting.

I desperately wanted to tell them about Edinburgh Castle


(To be fair, we didn't feel like waiting in the line to go in, but we did admire it and read all the plaques on nearby walls...)

and the train ride south through the countryside from Aberdeen to Edinburgh


(Lovely countryside and miles of almost blooming goldenrod...)

and The Hudson, our fabulous hotel


(Go to Edinburgh, if just to stay there.)

and wandering around the city


(Gorgeous architecture everywhere)

and the brown sauce that was suggested with every single thing we ate


(Think A1 with a dash of worcestershire)

and the very best job ever


(One pound, one photo. The money goes into a little bucket labeled "Children's Leukemia Fund." I took this photo and deposited my pound. It wasn't until we were a few blocks away that it dawned on me that it was likely that "Children's Leukemia Fund" was a euphemism for "How I Stay Off the Dole Fund." Husband had already figured that out. Smart Husband.)

and haggis


(Surprisingly good...)

vs.

blood pudding...

(Unsurprisingly yuck...)

But I did not tell much of that at all, if any.

I cannot quite remember because I was semi-bleary in my sleeplessness...but I do remember that this came out of my mouth....

"I have never seen so many condom machines and so much dirty hair."

In my defense, it's true, particularly the part about the condom machines.

They were EVERYWHERE.

From the minute we got off the plane.

There was one in the airport bathroom (which will from now on be referred to as the loo since I am discussing the UK.)

They were in the pub loos. In the loos in dodgy restaurants and in swanky ones. One in the loo in the art gallery and in most of the shops.

Usually they were three for a pound with a choice between all sorts of varieties.

It got to be a joke.

No matter whether I had to use the loo or not (which who are we kidding, I always have to use the loo), I'd check the facilities for the condom machine.

And with the exception of one restaurant, which had a teeny-tiny-almost-not-quite-enough-space-to-go-in-and-close-the-door-completely loo, every single place...if there was a loo, there was a condom machine.

Seriously.


(This is one with one of the more vanilla selections. I did not have my camera on the evenings I saw the ones that included the choice of a whiskey flavored one.)

A few weeks later, back home, Husband and I were having Friday evening cocktails with some of his work people. I walked outside for a minute to visit with some of the people on the front porch.

While I was chatting on the wicker couch, I heard a Scottish burr to my left.

Recognizing a reporting opportunity when I hear one, I turned, introduced myself and after a moment or two of conversation, I mentioned that Husband and I had just spent a few days in his home country.

As many Europeans do, my new friend asked how did I find it.

This time I remembered to mention the train ride and golden rod and castles in Edinburgh.

But I also added, "What's up with all the condom machines? Do Scots just have loads more sex that anyone else?"

When he and his crew were done laughing, they confirmed that they also thought there was an overabundance of condom machines as well. And that they asccribed it to drunken wishful thinking.

I didn't ask about the dirty hair. I thought that would be rude.

The One Friend Visit

The entire time I was in Georgia, I spent either nursing or stealing a few hours to run an errand or two. There was no time to visit or sleep, really at all.

The one visit I did get to have was with my dear friends, Chris and Mindy.

Mindy works at Emory and in the weeks pre-trip reminded me that I was welcome to come over and sleep in their guest room, even if it was just dropping in...

But I wasn't sure if I was going to do it because I was so overwhelmed and jet-lagged and just tired.

But one night, it was my sister's turn to sleep at the hospital and by the time I left, it was sort of late, at least by standards of people who have jobs that start at 9am and a toddler and a relatively new baby.

And while I formulated a plan, I decided that I needed some cheering up, which in the States, oddly enough, often happens at Target.

Seriously.

I love the Target.

Wheeling around a giant red cart --- that I can fill to the brim and most likely it will, by some Target-generated magic, equal $100 worth of stuff that I don't really need, but may quite possibly make my life complete--- is the best.

(And remember, I've been in Norway for the past two months. Not only is there no Target any where, if there was a Target, it would take at least $1000 to quite possibly make my life complete.)

So that was my plan.

I was going to enjoy the last shopping hour at Target, then go to a hotel room, where I would sleep and not bother any people, even my friends, who have jobs that start at 9am and a toddler and a relatively new baby.

So, I navigated my way to the nearest Target parking lot and got out of my deep red PT Cruiser. (It was the last car on the lot at the rental place and I found it oddly amusing to drive around in a giant tomato.)

I walked through the doors, stood there for a minute and just walked out.

I have been somewhat homesick for my friends and this was my only night, so I did the only best thing.

I called Kathleen in Denver.

Of course I didn't have the right cell phone with the right number to call to let Chris and Mindy know that I was coming over.

And I was too tired to remember the twisty Decatur street, so Kathleen talked me through the directions landing me to the end of Chris and Mindy's driveway.

And, right as I getting out of the car, Chris came out of the house, relatively new baby in one arm, reaching out to give me a hug with the other.

(And people who know me, know the next part is not odd or even an indication of being upset. It's just what I do when I am exhausted. As Big D would say, "Really, you just need a nap.")

I started crying. He didn't bat an eye.

And then we all visited for a while, then I had the best night of sleep I had all week.

Good news

For the past few weeks, so many of you have been supportive and thoughtful as the Big D was going through all the trauma and have been asking how she is...

First of all, thanks so much for the pages and calls and good wishes. And no matter where you stand on the the "good thoughts = good outcome" debate, we appreciate them all.

Second of all, it all turned out the best it could.

I went back to the states for ten days to help take care of Big D as she went through a mastectomy and the beginnings of reconstruction. It was pretty intense for days. The surgery was pretty brutal and she had a tough time, especially at the beginning.

But the day before I left, the pathology report came back and she's clear. Both lumps were completely removed and hadn't spread, so no further treatment is needed.

She's not completely done yet.

There's still the recuperation from the surgery, which means eventually she will be able to raise her arm again and get unhooked from tubes.

Then the reconstruction has to be completed. But really, knowing that she's dodging the chemo and radiation is the best news in the world.

And D's brave.

She didn't want to do it, but she did.

Big D marched into surgery, to emerge almost eight hours later, stitched and bruised, with a complexion best described as the color of the inside of a potato.

But, on the day I left, she was sitting in her own bed, showered, eyebrowed and slightly sassy.

So, nothing's better than that.

Shout Out From the Past

I am well aware of the science of the spinning of the Earth. I understand longitude and latitude. I can even explain the tilt of the Earth with enough confidence to win a trivia contest. Logically I understand it.

But I still think it's funny, when I am sitting in my living room in Stavanger, Norway to begin conversations with my friends back in the States with "I'm calling from the future. Don't be afraid. It's all going to work out just fine."

Depending on the location, I have to do the math of connecting with people in time zones 6, 8 or 11 hours behind. And often it's hard, but I figure it out. (Gotta love Skype.)

But right now, as I sit in Gainesvegas late in the evening, I am waiting for my sister to put her baby Jack back to bed and killing time until the Big D needs her next dose.

And I just started thinking about the fact that Husband is about two hours away from hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock. He'll be starting the next day long before I am finished with this one.

I am so glad that I could be here to help my family, but I miss my pack.

Welcome

Meet Khloe (and her big brother Elias).




She arrived yesterday in the middle of the night.

She's the reason that my dear friend Lisa couldn't come to our wedding. And really, I can't think of a better one.

Welcome to the world!

What I've been thinking on...

A cheerful heart is good medicine.
--Proverbs 17:22



That is all for now.

How the Pack Began (and A Small Life Lesson)

I'm still in Gainesvegas where Big D is starting to feel just a smidge better.

She's still connected to tubes and won't be able to lift anything that weighs more than about ten pounds, with the exception of her arm, which does not weigh ten pounds but cannot be lifted either. The bruises have changed from a deep purple the color of grapes to a lovely mottled rainbow.

The meds are tapering off slightly and she's started sneaking out of bed. Her orders are a little less meek and much more bossy and she's been a little sassy. So, while we wait for the pathology report, all is about as well as it can be...

I worry about how my sister will handle it all alone, but am working on a plan for that. It will all be in place before I take off on Thursday afternoon, which brings me to the next bit...

I am so excited about going home. Not only will Husband be there to pick me up at the airport, our sweet fur peoples, Milo and Lillie, have arrived.

Milo has lived with Husband for the past six years or so, since he was a pup. This is his second arrival in Stavanger.

Milo in his best fancywear



Then there is sweet Lillie ...... AKA The White Menace AKA Lillie von Hundenberg AKA Princess Sassypants AKA the Poot Factory AKA My Very Favorite Furball in the Entire World.

Lillie, almost a year old



We had been dating about three and 1/2 months and Husband started talking about getting another dog. We visited the Atlanta Humane Society several times and almost settled on an adult dog named Dora. She had been returned several times for being untrainable and anyone who knows Husband knows he believes in order, so there were no worries that we could deal with her.

But I wanted a puppy or at least younger dog.

And while I think Milo is handsome and dignified, I was longing for a solid square faced monster. But on every single visit, there were none. And we believe in getting shelter dogs, so we weren't going to go to a breeder.

So after one fruitless visit, we stopped by the PetSmart, who hosted dogs from the Georgia Humane Society. And there she was, squirming with a few of her brothers.

They told us that she was a purebred American Bulldog, which is a cousin of the English Bulldog....In any case, she was sweet and clumsy and the cutest animal ever; I loved her instantly, but knew it was up to Husband.

So I deposited her into his lap and sat back. And he sat and visited with her. And we deliberated a bit. And then he was silent for a while. After an hour or so he looked up and said, "Okay, what next?"

It is one of the few snap decisions I've ever seen him make.

This is from the very first afternoon.

Lillie's baby picture


For a while she would travel with me between Husband's home and my apartment. Then my mean crankypants downstairs neighbor* decided that she didn't like having a dog around, so she got sweet Lillie evicted. So Lillie moved into Husband's full-time. I didn't want to put the double dog burden on Husband, so I would pop around more often.

And that is the story on how The Pack began. Exactly one year later, to the date, The Pack became official when when Husband and I got hitched up...

Milo and Lillie have been living in a kennel waiting since February 10, waiting for their blood tests to come back. They flew into Oslo last week by way of Amsterdam. Then this morning were driven around the country to our front door.

And after months of waiting on the two of them, now they're all waiting on me.



*A small life lesson: Being a crankypants downstairs neighbor gets you nowhere except your own little dark apartment where you can sit and think your mean crankypants thoughts. But, having a crankypants downstairs neighbor sure did work out for me. So, thanks Jody! I didn't appreciate it then, but do now.

Goodnight

I should be sleeping.

Yesterday I made a 22 hour door to door trip from Litle Skippergate to Wessell Drive.

Then after five hours of rest, we caravanned back to Atlanta with my family. We waited all day and now while the treatment was happening and now it's midnight.

The original plan was for my sister and I to switch off spending the night with Big D. But then we noticed that she has been touching the edge of her bandages. We worry that, in the night, D will pull out a tube or disturb one of her dressings, so are taking turns staying up to watch her for this, the first night.

I took the first shift because for whatever reason, I cannot sleep.

Langston Hughes Was Writing About Big D

There are very few things better in the entire state of Georgia than Big D's bed. Giant, king-sized, four-poster---It's just the right amount of firm and always has the exact right amount of pillows.

Best of all, it's big enough for Mom, my sister and me to pile into to watch television, play Scrabble or just hang out and visit.

And we do, almost ever single time we stay over at D's house.

But, no matter how late it gets or how big and comfortable her bed is, my sister and I rarely sleep in it for just one reason:

Big D snores.

For such a small person, she could easily pass, on a particularly good night, as the subject of a Langston Hughes poem, specifically one called "Morning After."*

But right now, I sit in her hospital room and listen to her snore, tonight much more faintly than usual, I love the sound.

She's had a tough day.

The surgeries were long and brutal, but went the best they possibly could. All the cancer has been removed. The lymph nodes are clear. And the initial phase of the reconstruction went well.

The next few weeks and months of recovery are going to be tough, starting with tomorrow.

We won't know for sure what, if any, the follow-up treatment will be until the pathology report comes back next week.

But right now, today, everything sounds about the best it can.




*Morning After
By Langston Hughes

I was so sick last night I
Didn’t hardly know my mind.
So sick last night I
Didn’t know my mind.
I drunk some bad licker that
Almost made me blind.

Had a dream last night I
Thought I was in hell.
I drempt last night I
Thought I was in hell.
Woke up and looked around me—
Babe, your mouth was open like a well.

I said, Baby! Baby!
Please don’t snore so loud.
Baby! Please!
Please don’t snore so loud.
You jest a little bit o’ woman but you
Sound like a great big crowd.