This is not Daisy

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

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

Image via AP and Jezebel.com

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

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

We're here...

We've had a big few weeks.

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

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

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

And in the city, it's worse.

I follow the speed limit laws there, too.

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


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


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


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


***Other than the smiley people. 


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

One year ago today

My older brother has been with his wife for more than half of their lives and married for almost ten.  

So when he toasted us at our rehearsal party and said, "Pay attention every day, because the years pass quickly." I knew he must know what he's talking about. 

He's right.

I cannot believe that an entire year has passed since the hitchin'.

And it's been a big year.  

We've knocked out (or made a big dent in) most of the major milestones...marriage, major move, cultural adjustments, employment instability (then stability), family illnesses, travel and sometime in the next few weeks, we'll have a Pickle, as well. 

And even with all of it, it's been really good and mainly a whole lot of fun. 

I don't know how we got so lucky, but we're both pretty sure staying lucky comes down to remembering something the Big D said a few weeks before.  

I asked her for advice and she said,"Why don't you two just try to always be nice to each other. Then see how it goes."

And thus far, it's been going really well.  

How's Milo?

Occasionally I'll get a note saying, "We see you, Husband and Lillie all the time, but what about Milo. How's he doing?"

And the answer is, "He's fine."

For readers who don't know, Milo is my step-dog.  He'll be seven on his next birthday, which he shares with me as well as my sweet nephew James (if you believe the date on his adoption papers.)

He's been living with Husband since he was about 6 months old.  So clearly he's been around much longer than I have been, but we've been fast friends since the very beginning. 

We became The Pack about four months after Husband and I began dating when we decided that we needed one more. So we added Lillie, who we (meaning mostly me) refer to as our first daughter. 

(She came home with us on February 16, 2007, which is exactly one year before our wedding.)

 

So while Lillie is my constant companion and dear household clown, Milo is well and happy, too.  

He appreciates you asking of him, though. 

We went to the dog park a few days ago.  

Both of them spent some time running about and making new friends.

Then the hunds were parched.

(Milo first because he's lead house dog or as Lillie might say, "Age before beauty.")

Then sweet Lillie, but Milo had some more as well...

Then we all posed for a minute before it was time to go home. 

Merry Merry Mariah Carey

I'm pretty easy-going and flexible, but there are certain things I cannot stand, things that I abhor with the heat of 1,000 suns.

It's odd and unnatural, but true. Some things just make my eyes bleed...

I politely tolerate all of them in public situations or in polite company, but several things are not allowed in our house.

For instance....

Carrots: Equine candy, icky texture and the go-to vegetable.
I just can't respect a "filler" food. "Hmmm what should I add to this here soup? Oh I don't know...What about a carrot?" Seriously, check it out. Carrots are tossed into everything, willy-nilly and with wild abandon...Soup, stew, pot roast thingys, salads...

Skorts: Be a skirt. Be a short. I don't care, but just commit to one or the other. (Also see: Portabella mushrooms. Do not try to fool me. I KNOW you are not a burger. This same line of thinking goes for sporks as well.) It's wishy-washy and weak. I just can't support it.

Roses: Cookie cutter sentiment, the Hallmark card of flowers and a smell like the feminine product aisle of the CVS.
When we were getting married, our dear Lucy handled the flowers. It went a little like this.
Lucy: What flowers would you like me to use?
Me: "White, with maybe some cream as well. That would be great."
Lucy: "What kind of white flowers?"
Me: "I don't know. What can you get?"
Lucy: "I can get anything. Flowers are growing all over the world, somewhere."
Me: "Well, I don't think we need to fly in something. Pretty much anything is good, other than roses. Please do not have even one rose."
Lucy: "Really? They tend to be less expensive, so you could have loads and loads of roses."
Me: "No thank you. If that is the case, I guess I will just have three."
Lucy: "Three roses?"
Me: "No. No, thank you. No roses. If cost becomes a factor, I'll just have three."
Lucy: "Of what"
Me: "Of anything else in the entire botanical world. I'd rather only have three of something than even one rose."
Lucy: "That's ridiculous."
Me: "Hmmm how about tulips?"

Mariah Carey:
I cannot stand her butterflies and her eight octaves. I don't care that her mother was an opera singer or about any of her teeny weeny dogs. It just seems dishonorable and just wrong that she has more Number 1 songs than Elvis or the Beatles. Her skirts are too short and I don't want to see her boobs. My eyes bled when I happened to catch her episode of Cribs and "walked" through her house filled with fluffy things. I hate the sound of her voice when it talks as well as when it sings. And when I read this morning that she got a tattoo of "Mrs. Cannon" I outwardly retched and inwardly snickered.

But as with most things that I abhor, there is usually one small exception.*

Often, there is one tiny little detail or caveat that will get an "abhored thing" into Hus Durel.

For instance....

Carrots: Husband chops carrots into teeny tiny pieces and blends them into his pasta sauces for a lovely earthy flavor.

Mariah Carey: I love one of her songs so much that I listen to it when it is not Christmas. I love that it is cheery and happy and makes me go-go dance against my will. I love it so much I plan to listen to it for most of the day.

Then when Husband arrives, I will play it for him and then we will discuss why he does not have a Mr. Elizabeth tattoo.

Hit play immediately, if not sooner. (You're welcome.)





And another, sweet version...from a sweet movie



And if you're cooler than I am, here's one for you, too...



*Roses have no exception. Not one. I can talk for hours about how much I hate them. But I won't. I may tell you that I am allergic, but it's not true. They make me mad to look at them. If you give one or more of them to me, unfortunately every single one will go into the trash or out the window the minute you are out of sight. And in case you're concerned, we had loads and loads of gorgeous flowers at the hitchin'. And not one rose, anywhere.

Måned-dag

I'm not a huge fan of holidays. As a general rule, I think that any government, religious or Hallmark mandated holiday is packed with unreasonable expectations and fraught with danger. Of course, those expectations are usually mine and the danger comes when my mind is not read.

So, I try my best take them off the table. But I do love made up holidays.

And, Husband, as with most of my ideas that are not illegal, immoral or hideously expensive, indulges me.

So a few months ago, in the early days of March, the weather here was a little dreary and I decided we needed a holiday. So, we agreed on month-aversaries---Every month on the 16th, we would have a little celebration.

When he told another recently married colleague at his work why he was leaving a bit early for the March month-aversary, that colleague said "Watch out man, you're traveling on a slippery slope..."

I think that comment frightened Husband a bit, so he announced he has only bought into this holiday schedule for a year. After that, it will be on a case-by-case basis. So, we'll see how it goes, but it's all okay with me....

For the etymologists out there, yes, quite possibly the correct term would be mensis-aversary or some such, but I just can't do it. (I have a general aversion to the fact that using the word mensis in conjunction with our -versary would only conjure up thoughts of feminine products. I just can't do it...)

And in Norwegian, I think the construction would be something like måned-dag, but I can't pronounce that yet, so monthaversary it will be for the foreseeable future...

So thus far

February 16th
We ate cake




March 16th
We went skiing



April 16th
We ate Italian food and Husband got me a flower that I have been able to keep alive thus far.




May 16th
We're traveling again, but this time, it's in search of a traditional smorgasbord or perhaps some oddly shaped glasses.

Read This

One of my favorite sites is Jezebel, which for anyone that pays attention to the sideline list will not find as a surprise.

It's the sister site to Gawker, which I rely on to keep me slightly informed about the media gossip in New York.

And I pay attention to Gawker mainly so I don't feel completely uncool and out of the loop, though I suspect I am becoming more and more uncool and out of the loop, which is becoming more and more okay with me.

Life changes, and quickly, but that is another post, for another time.

My point today is Jezebel has a feature in which they review books.

The books they choose are not books on any best seller list, at least not the best seller lists of today.

Jezebel reviews books that mattered when their readers were growing up: The Witch of Blackbird Pond or The Island of the Blue Dolphins...

And today it was From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

I learned to read at an oddly young age, an age which I will not share here because it's obnoxious to mention in conversation, but it was pretty lucky in any sense.

Lucky because Big D (who for those unfamiliar with this blog is my mother, so named because she is not. She is D for DaAnne, but small...) likes to have projects.

Also because from about age 3 until age 12, we lived on a farm in deep south Georgia in a town called Colquitt (not the county, but the town, for those geographically inclined.)

About 800 people lived there in the mid-80s. My family and I lived about 20 miles outside of the city proper on a dirt road off the Bainbridge Highway.

(If you are ever driving on that road towards Bainbridge, look to your right. You'll see a two story brick house in the middle of ring of pine trees surrounded on three sides by fields. That is the house. My dad built it for my mom in an attempt to make her happy so she would stay. It didn't work.)

At any given time, we could only get about three channels on the television and never at the same time. Some of our neighbors put up satellite dishes, but Big D thought they were tacky.

So on the hot hot summer days, and pretty much every other day, we read.

(There are huge chunks of pop culture I have only read about, never actually experienced, but again...another post, another time...)

I read constantly. I read the encyclopedia from A to Z one summer and "grown-up" books when I was done with the encyclopedia and my own stack from the library.

Now, I read magazines and books and the internet. And I ingest and store the information, but for some reason it's likely that I will stare at you blankly when you ask what I've been reading. I have a weird inability to just reel off a list of what has passed in front of my eyes, at least I can't do it on command.

I can, in fact, tell you about the books I read as a child.

The librarian at the Colquitt Library was the nicest woman in the world.

Her name was Miss Vera.

I don't know her last name, because as in the Southern way of nomenclature, we called everyone by their first name prefeced by a Miss or a Mister, no matter that she wore a wedding ring and I thought she was the second oldest person I had ever seen.

(The first was a great great aunt who lived in an old falling down house. And when she died, her children found thousands and thousands of dollars stuffed into the mattress and underneath the floor boards and in drawers. No kidding. She didn't trust banks and she was so wrinkled that she looked like a dried piece of fruit. I mean this kindly. She was also a nice lady who made quilts. But that was the oldest person I had ever seen when I was that young.)

Miss Vera, who was probably in her 60s, must have had scoliosis because she was hunched over almost double, which made her just about the height of me.

I'm not tall now, so I was even less so when I was not-quite-double-digits.

Big D would take me the library at least once a week and I would peruse the stacks. And no matter what I chose, Miss Vera would have put aside a book or two for me as well.

I read The Great Gilly Hopkins about a tough girl who was tough because she needed to be to survive.

I read The Cricket of Times Square about a little guy who was a little bit lost.

I read Bridge to Terabithia about best friends and imaginary worlds.

I read A Taste of Blackberries about loss.

And I read From the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler about a girl who didn't want to be ordinary and ran away with her brother to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

About eight years ago, I was walking on the Upper West Side with a friend of mine.

It was a sunny Saturday. We had just had brunch and were wandering around a bit.

He was going to meet a friend to watch a hockey game and I had to go to work.

We passed by what would have been called a yard sale if it we were in the suburbs. But, because we were in New York City, it was a stoop sale being run by a teenager with slightly smeary eyes, as if she couldn't get off all of her makeup from the night before.

I have a certain need to support kids in their business ventures. I stop and buy over-priced, poorly sugared lemonade and I always purchase things I do not need at any sort of money raising venture run by an industrious kid.

So we paused while I flipped through the book section.

And there it was, a copy of "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler."

I was torn.

Should I tell this too-cool-for-school Manhattan teen that she was making a big mistake?

Should I tell her "Trust me. Do not sell this book."

And further, "If you are going to sell this book, do not sell it to me for just one dollar. I promise you, I will pay more. I will be happy to fund at least one over-priced drink...one that you should not be able to buy at a place you are not old enough to pass through the doors of at your young age."

And more than that, "This book matters. One day when you are possibly not living in Manhattan, you will see it and it will remind you that Claudia Kincaid longed for, and intended to have, a life not ordinary."

I did none of that. I bought the book. And raved about it for blocks until my friend and I parted ways.

That book is somewhere here.

When we were figuring out what had to go into storage back in the States and what would come with us to Norway, I had to cull through my piles of books.

And "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler" made the cut.

So somewhere in the piles of books I have not sorted through, but intend to, so we can finally have a party, is my copy I bought from some unsuspecting teen on the Upper West Side of New York City.

I'm going to find it soon.

Then I will reread it and maybe even write a thank you note to E.L. Konigsburg. I will thank her for telling me early on that it's okay to aspire to to a life that is just a little bit different.

And also, for giving me the idea that the Metropolitan Museum of Art is a fine place to run away to.

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)

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.

Fish and Guests

\



Whenever I tell people that we live in a renovated sardine factory, they inevitably ask "Does it smell like fish?"

And the answer is "No. No more than a renovated factory loft in SoHo smells like sewing needles or the sweat of exploited workers."

Norway is so far north in the world that over the course of the year, the amount of sunlight varies radically depending on the time of year....In the winter, there is very little sunlight, often just four or so hours. And those hours can look like twilight when the sun doesn't get very high over the horizon.

In the summer, there can be as many as 18 or more hours of sunlight...

Also, it rains. Alot.

So, having dark sleeping quarters is just as important as having ample windows. So you can both soak up as much sun as possible, while still having enough darkness to sleep.

Which are only part of the reasons why I love our house. It's on a hill, so the downstairs, which is storage, sleeping and bathrooms is pretty dark. Then upstairs is an open layout with high ceilings and windows 3/4 of the way around.


(No, all that furniture is not ours. Neither is the dog. His name is Rufus and belongs to our landlord's girlfriend. Lille and Milo will be here soon...)

Plus, it has a red and blue door. And you're welcome anytime.

The Hitchin' Happened

Yep, I have a husband, a ring and a marriage certificate, but I don't have a completely clear memory of the entire events of our wedding day. It came so quickly and then was over.

There are things I remember with complete clarity:

Being so excited to see Husband on that morning when he was waiting for me at the alter, I hitched up my dress and ran just so I could get there quicker. Which is only fitting because I always said that I wasn't going to get married until I found someone just right. Someone who when I saw him at the end of the aisle, I was going to be so excited about it that I was going to skip to him at the very least. And, without really thinking about it, that's pretty much what I did.

Though I was really disappointed in my father for deciding not to take part, especially at such a late moment, I couldn't have been more happy to have mom walk me down the aisle. If we're going to follow the tradition of "giving away", then the person who is doing the giving should be the one person with the authority to do it. And there is no one in my life who has more authority in that capacity than my mother. She raised my brother, sister and me, mainly on her own, and we wouldn't be half whatever it is that we are without her guidance, then or now.

Being so touched (and I mean that in the non-Hallmark card, shot though a fuzzy lens, way) at the generous out pouring of love, time, effort and genuine good spirits from the very first moment that Husband and I received from the minute we announced we were going to get married. And further, that we'd like to get married in just under two months.

That almost every single person who was really important showed up. They traveled from California and New York and Atlanta and Colorado and all over the country to be there. The ones that couldn't were just too pregnant or had life events that couldn't be rescheduled. And even those called and supported and were there from far away.

But for the rest of it, much like any couple on any wedding day, we didn't get a good chance to visit with many of our guests. We didn't hear all the Vivaldi we chose for the ceremony or drink a bloody mary or eat more than one bite of the fancy cream cheese pound wedding cake.

And there were little moments, dancing with my stepfather or having my new nephews get sugared up and tap me on the back and pop around the other side or looking across the room and seeing friends from different areas of my life start to be friends with each other....but I guess it was a little bit like not seeing the forest for the trees.

We missed a lot of it, so we have been so excited about seeing the photos and watching the video, if just to prove it really happened.

And according to the email I got last night, it did.

Elizabeth and Anthony's Wedding Slideshow