Jack Wants YOU!

We're a Little Bit Shameless and Famous

Also, while I'd been thinking about the nature of "showing up" for a while, especially in this particular year with The Hitching, and the surgeries and the funerals and transitions, my hilarious friend Anne, at A Good American Wife, wrote about it this week.  

And I post this only because I would hate for the readers we share in common to think I totally and shamelessly cribbed from her. 

I would like to make it clear that I do have shame and only semi-cribbed...

Now, we're a little bit famous. 

But especially click over for the baking cabinet list. 

And, Anne, you can pantry raid anytime. 

The Girls

There have been lots of things I haven't been able to really talk about so much this year and at certain times haven't even been able to write about, at least not yet.*

First I was pregnant and we decided to keep it a secret until we were sure it was going to take.  But in the beginning, while we waited, I felt pretty awful and people guessed anyway, but I still didn't write about it and refused to confirm. 

And now for months, we haven't been sure whether or not we'd be in Stavanger for the last half of Husband's two-year contract.  The financial crisis spread around the world quickly and because he's in financial services, it bit us as well.  

So we've been waiting to see whether we would be packing up to head back to Atlanta (where we came from and still own a house that we haven't been able to sell) or would be staying here.

There was also the added bit of having to figure it all out by mid-December, which is the last approximate time frame I should hop on a plane for more than about four hours.**

So the time has been ticking closer to our deadline and this week, when people in Gainesvegas would ask when we would be appearing again, I would laugh and say, "Either next week or next June."  

But now, it's all be figured out.  We'll be living here, until at least next December.***

And as for when we will be back for good, I don't know for sure.  But definitely, we will be settled somewhere for the long haul by early 2015, which may sound like a long time from now, but really is only about six years.  

And, while there are a few other reasons, one of the key ones is because of The Girls. (Occasionally you may also hear me refer to them as The Calvary because they always show up, en masse, to save the day.)

The Girls have been my mother's best friends since BigD was in kindergarten.  Depending on how you count, there are about ten of them who went all through school together, some to college together as well.  Then they all went their separate ways, scattering all over the United States, South America and the rest of the world. 

They create things and have glamourous careers and travel and made families, but they always show up.  At the very least, each one of them comes to Gainesvegas around Christmas for the yearly lunch.  They rent out a private room somewhere, shut the door and if you walk by can hear the raucous laughter coming from inside.  

But they also show up during the rest of the time as well.   When Husband and I were getting married in a speedy and unconventional way, but still hoped for some of the more traditional trappings, they stepped in and threw the very best rehearsal party ever. 

And while Big D has had a pretty rotten year (other than our hitching, of course) they have been there, too, with emails and calls and showing up.  

Best of all, not only do they have almost sixty years of history with my family, they are fun. Because along with all the good, they've been through every single thing, but have always kept their perspectives and wicked senses of humor.  So when they appear, the levity does as well.

(Trust me, if you ever have the good fortune to meet one of them, try to stand next to her as long as possible.  It's good fun, I promise.)

Last week, on the morning of Nana's funeral, I was left at the house to open the door and answer the phone.  One by one, The Calvary assembled.  

They showed up with piles of food, and shooed me to go on and get dressed for the lunch before everything started happening.  But the best part was coming upstairs and listening to them talk: "We just borrowed the car and then we replanted the flower bushes.  Was that right after your fourteenth birthday?" and "I'm glad that both my kids have gotten neutered because four grandchildren in two years in about all I can handle."

And why does The Calvary matter in the plan Husband and I have on when we get settled somewhere? 

Because that's what we wish for Pickle. We hope that he will have a long time group of solid friends that he will be able to count on as much as he will his own family. And that they will be there to show up. 

I have the same Best Girls from 6th grade on up, a handful of great friends from college and New York and then a fantastic group from our time in Atlanta.  Husband has a solid group from college.  And we're cultivating a hilarious and diverse group here. They are all people we love, have amazing histories with and we all show up for each other in all the same ways...

But the best example we have are The Girls.  And they started when they were six, so that just seems like a good goal to work towards.  

So while lots of things are somewhat uncertain these days, some things aren't. 

And do the The Girls have partners?  Yep, and they show up, too.  And, when needed, man the bar. 

(One of these is not 1/2 of A Girl.)

*There's really not much that is off the table, in the overall sense.  (Unless the secrets are not mine.  I would never tell those. Notice how non-specific I am in this post...) Everyone I know, knows that if you are in my life, it's entirely possible you may one day be a character in something I commit to paper or some other permanent medium. The BigD is okay with this and I have the most dirt on her, so you should be okay with this, too. Plus, even though I am honest, I am also benevolent, so really, it's all good. 

**Getting from Stavanger from Atlanta takes 16-20 hours, at least two plane rides and there is one giant body of water to cross.  Even if a plane would let me on, which becomes more and more unlikely as the weeks pass, along with a few other things, the very last thing I'd like to do is deliver Pickle on a plane...unsafe, messy, embarrassing and far too far from the copious amounts of drugs I feel are essential. 

***Or until the next major financial crisis hiccup.  But at least until next June or, which is when Pickle will be about two months old, which is about as early as he should be on a plane...

I'll be back in a little bit...

Late on Friday afternoon, I got a call saying that, Nana, my grandmother died.


(This was taken on Christmas Night, 2005, about two months after her 95th birthday. And that look is not an older-person-slightly-vacant expression. Trust me, that look is merely an indication that she's considering the next sassy thing to come out of her mouth. Need proof? Look closer at her right eyebrow. That is one of her sassy signs.)



(This from this February. She was 97 and would be moving into the assisted living home pretty soon thereafter. She wasn't feeling well enough to come to the church or the reception, so when Husband and I left the reception, we went over to see her. Her nurses dressed her up in party finery and she waited on us to come. She wanted to see my dress, so I twirled for her. Later on, she told her friend Myra, Husband and I came over and got married at her house, which really was close enough...)

It wasn't unexpected. She was 98 and had not been feeling well for a few months.*

So Husband and I had been on notice and were prepared to hop on a plane as soon as we got the call.

When my sister called, Husband was in the middle of work things, so I headed out alone the next morning.


And after about 20 hours I arrived in Gainesvegas by way of Amsterdam and Atlanta.

I'll be back to Stavanger and The Pack next Monday, but suspect there will not be much time or resources for blogging in the meantime.

But just in a few days here are a few things I have noticed:

--Husband is the absolute best. I intend to keep him for a long, long, long time.

--The most polite strangers on any sort of public transportation are on New York Subways. No kidding. And I was barely even showing when I was there. Now there is very little doubt that I am pregnant** and I was a little surprised at the usual travel shoving and the lack of courtesy. (The stewardess*** on KLM was super nice and gave me loads of water, so that was something.)

Really, whether or not you are pregnant, have been pregnant, intend to be pregnant or to get someone pregnant, being thoughtful to pregnant people is really just the right thing to do. Being pregnant makes you awfully tired and slightly clumsy.

And really, if it were your mom, wouldn't you want someone to give their seat up to her? That is all.

And yes, for the cynical peeps out there, I was nice to pregnant people long before Pickle was a twinkle in his daddy's eye.

And as for the rest of it...I have loads of notes on all the things that have happened just in the 36 or so hours since I have been here, but it's kind of a lot and I'm still thinking on it.

So you'll just have to wait a bit, in case you're even a tiny bit interested....

They include, but are not limited to:

--Longtime friends and backing over a flowerbed at the age of 14.

--Supergluing pearl earrings.

--Little drawers in coffins, but there once used to be bells.

--The intrinsic value of and in Southern traditions.

--Once Nana was 36 and loved her family, too.

In the meantime, click below for a little more about Nana...

Daisy Elizabeth Blanchard "Miss Daisy" Watson, an educator, musician and Southern lady died on Friday, Nov. 7, 2008, in Gainesville. She was 98.

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*This part I am completely serious about...other than a little bit of arthritis and missing her husband, (my Papa, who died in 1994) she lived alone, gardened, played piano for the Kiwanis Club and took mile long walks up until she was about 95. The last few years were a little bit rough, but not so bad, really. She did get extra sassy. (Which is not disrespectful to say, in case you were wondering. She would admit to it and laugh about it as well.)

**Other than to my brother, who has two children, so he is not unaccustomed to pregnancy. When I appeared, I was dressed in a pair of leggings and a flowy top. It was not highly fashionable, but it was comfortable, basic black, was not a muumuu and was also not highly unfashionable---remember I had just traveled about 20 sleepless hours door to door. He took one look at me, gave me a hug and said "You don't look all that pregnant. Really you could just be a little bit fat." Thanks, Will.

***I think there is a more PC way to refer to them (hostess?, steward? server?), but cannot think of it right now. So I'm sorry stewardess people. I mean no slight, my mom was one for a few years after college, if that counts for anything.

Once Again, BigD Knows Stuff...****

We started Tuesday night at an election party hosted by Democrats Abroad.   

Our friend Erin rocked a panel...*

(from left: Academic view, Republican view, Queen of the Local Chapter of DA view, Sensible and Clever view.  Hosted by Norwegian Progressive Party moderator)

I asked two questions.  The first was about hosing the winner ("Should your particular party be psyched if they lose because whoever inherits this mess may be hosed for a second term?"). 

And my second question was about info gathering in a faraway time zone ("We're way off the American cycle of 24 hour newsgathering.  Has that affected where you get your political information?")

Not only was I interested in the answers, but also saw it as a multiple opportunity to:

A) Set up a forum for the Sensible and Clever View to speak up, but also to 

B) deflect from the questions along the lines of "Can you explain the American government?" and "Can you explain each candidate's energy policy?"

(Also, I really wanted to ask the Republican why he was so angry, but thought that would sound best coming from an accent other than American, but could find no willing volunteers.)

Then we watched the returns, or at least the coverage, until about midnight.  

(Kyrre, Phil and Bo focus, focus, focus. Check out the girl with the red hair on the left.  She and her cronies stole the last of the key lime pie. )

Then when I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, Husband and I headed home, where we lounged** on the sofa until 5am watching.  Finally we went to bed, reasonably sure of what the outcome could be. 

When we woke up a few hours later, we saw the count, read the stats and watched the speeches. 

My faith in the American people, which was never gone completely, was bolstered and fully restored. 

Even if you remove the fact I just believe Obama is the best man for the job based on concrete reasons, I am exceedingly moved by the overall grace and goodness and forthright compassion in him. 

And, I think it really shows that "slow and steady" and --- most of important of all--- honor wins out in the end.*** 

It just makes it seem that there is potential to get the world back right and warms my tiny, little Pollyanna-ish heart.

________________________________

*This is the link to the English translation, which is a straight translation, so it's not edited for the language change, but still understandable and clear.  If you want to read it in Norwegian, click here.

**And by "we lounged," I really mean Husband watched intently, while I tried, but dozed intermittently. 

***Look Big D, you were right....

For everyone else, the Big D is full of good advice, even if we only recognize it in retrospect. One her mantras when we were growing up was "Don't worry about what anyone else is doing.  You just work hard and do the right thing. Then it will all work out in the end." 

(The D also said, "I don't care if you're a ditch digger, just be the very best ditch digger there is." So think on that, too.)

****This is not in any way to indicate who may or may not have gotten BigD's vote this election.  She made her own, secret informed decision.  This is merely to prove yet again, that the BigD has good sense. Obama used her rules and it worked for him.

Unnskyld (Or Sorry Little Girl, but I Blame Your Mom)

About two weeks before we got married and about a month before we moved to Stavanger, Husband and I came over to Stavanger for a week. 

Husband was starting his job.  I needed to get a little bit familiar with the town and most importantly we needed to find a place to live. 

As part of the moving package, there were some "perks" included to help me get acclimated, one of which was a woman named Tune ("Tooooooooooon-NAH). 

Tune was a sweet, tiny Norwegian woman who I assumed was about my mom's age.*  She dressed all in black, talked about how she was still a little winded from her three hour "training" which started at 5am. 

I smiled through most of the "training" talk because I had no idea what she was talking about and assumed that I would pick it up in context eventually.  

When I did, both of us were horrified.  

I was shocked that a person would want to"train" (AKA "work-out") for three hours and she was shocked that I though gym time was a necessary evil best done in highly concentrated spurts. 

Tune's job was to threefold:

1) Show me around town and the area, which included introducing me to shopkeepers and showing me where to buy things.  

I also suspect she was getting kickbacks from everyone because she would be totally overt about who I was, "This is ELIZABETH DUREL.  She is moving here in a few weeks and she's from AMERICA.  She's one of MY PEOPLE.  You know, I'm HELPING HER GET SETTLED."

(I also suspect that she was paid fat cash by the hour.  She wanted to hang out ALOT and this town is relatively small.  Finally, I had to feign tiredness and talk about how "I just don't learn well unless I do it myself. Thanks so much, I'll call you.")  

2) Help me look at apartments and houses with the realtor (AKA "Bergen Blondie"), so I could decide what was worth taking Husband back to see. 

This was a minor disaster.  

Our requirements were that our new home needed to fit three firm requirements:

--within walking distance to town

--must take both dogs

---have more than about 1000 sq. feet (approx. 100 sq.meters). 

So, on two mornings, Tune and I hopped into the realtor's car.  I was armed with a notepad and measuring tape and was heartened by their promises of the "perfect places" we were going to see. 

House One: A giant 6-bedroom house in the middle of nowhere. 

"Look at all the space," said Bergen Blondie.  "Look at all the cows," I replied. 

House Two: An apartment in a high-rise that only took one dog. 

"You could probably hide one of the hunds," said Tune. "Remember? Lillie is 60lbs. Milo is 100lbs. I'm not sure either will tuck into my purse," I replied.   

House Three: A small house with a kitchen from a 1950's dorm room along one wall. 

"You are newlyweds, you will want to be close all the time," they both agreed. "Yes, but not ALL the time and also, we have to eat," I replied.

Overall, the entire experience made me doubt my own skills in the art of English'ing.  

As they dropped me back off at the hotel, the pair went for the international routine of Good Cop/Bad Cop fortified with a dash of tough love, which culminated in "Housing is very tight here, you may not get all you want."  

After standing firm, I thanked them and said, "Well, I guess we'll just live in a hotel, until we find what we need." 

PS---Husband found our house for us on the last day. It's not perfect, but fit all three of the requirements.  Tough on you, Bergen Blondie, that would have been a fat commission.  And probably a cut for you, too, Tune.

3) Acclimate me to the local customs, just a bit.  

Early on, I noticed that Tune would get a giant grin every time I talked.  I thought it may have been my Southern accent or the fact that occasionally I string words together in a somewhat creative fashion or maybe just that I am American.  

In any case, I was okay with it and just ignored it for the first day.  

Finally about halfway through the second day, she put her tiny hand on mine and said, "You know, we Norwegians are just not as polite as you are."

And it's true.  

I have the habit of saying "Unnskyld" ("Excuse me", pronounced "OOOOOHN-shuuuud") when I need to pass or to get someone's attention.  And I often get shocked looks.

The closest translation for "please" is "Vær så snil" ("Vah soh SNIL" or "You are so nice"), but it's highly uncommon.  I've heard it said once, and that was uttered by my friend Erin, who is an American from Washington State. Husband thinks he's probably heard it twice in the four years total he's lived here. 

Thank you is "Takk" (Tahk), which is fairly common.

Then there's "Tusen Takk" (TOOO-sen Tahk) which mean "a thousand thanks."  That's for the really big deals...As Husband explains it, " It's if you're lost and totally frustrated and someone helps you. It's not if someone hands you a bag of sausages at the meat store.  

And it's not that Norwegians are rude or thoughtless, it's just the way things are...

Which brings me to our Saturday at IKEA.

Husband and I needed a new rug for the kitchen.  I wanted a few candles and we needed a present for one of our favorite one-year olds.  

When we drove into the parking lot, it was PACKED, mobbed with quite possibly the vast majority of people within a 30 mile radius.  

And though I lived 10 happy years in New York City and I am a fan of people, I just don't tend to like them all standing within a close proximity. 

And by close, I really just mean I don't like crowds.  I've found they always include touching people I don't know and usually a fair amount of jostling and shoving (not by me, but by other people.)**  

As Husband, drove through the parking lot, I was busy calculating...

Need for objects 

X 

Need for Soft Ice Cream

X 

Time We'll Spend in Line

X 

Lack of Things to Do on a Rainy Stavanger Saturday

/

Number of People Packed Inside

And it all equaled a shrug...

So we went inside.  

And eventually, we left with our three objects...But I also left with an ice cream cone as well as several small face sized bruises on the back of my upper thigh. 

How did I get the bruises you wonder?

When mothers shoved past me, they seemed to forget that they were holding their small children by the hand.  And as they sneaked quickly past, their little people would get banged into the back of me.  

Poor little people.  

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*As it turned out Tune was only about ten or so years older than I am and about ten or so years younger than the Big D.  And right now, I am not totally willing to confirm what it may mean about the three of us, I can say with realize certainty that I'm pretty sure it means that one of us looks OLD. 

**Walking on a crowded sidewalk in New York is like dancing. Most people, especially natives, knows the steps and you never touch actually come into full body contact unless you mean to or are a tourist. Trust me on this.