And one for my mom, too, please.

(Photo and champagne courtesy of Erin.)

A Tiny Bit of Norway Day

(Yep, it's a horrible picture, but that's why I kind of love it.  Both of us are just one second off. I'm sure I could find many life lessons in that fact, one of which is to always remember to check the photo. But I'm just going to skate past that because that is not what this post is about.  This post is about...)

Constitution Day (AKA The 17th of May) in Norway is a big deal, parallel to Independence Day (4th of July) in the US. It's all about freedom, BBQs and beer, but instead of shorts and fireworks, think bunads and marching bands. (I explained it a bit last year when we were in Stockholm instead of Stavanger.)

So I won't go into all of that again, but it was a lovely day (not the weather mind you---it was COLD---but the company.) We spent it at Erin and Kyrre's where we cooked out and watched the parade from their balcony.  

These are some of the photos.  And there's another life lesson:  Always take another photo. I don't think I have nearly enough...But I've been a little tired lately.

The parades are pretty much a free-for-all.  Skateboarders, electric cars, little kids waving flags and tuba players are all welcome. 

(These guys remind me of Venetian gondoliers, though I am pretty sure they are not.) 

Note the national costumes and the men in suits. 

We watched from the porch until it got too cold. 

(That beer does not belong to either of us.)

The Gherkin

Have you ever heard of the Celtic Dragon Pub Company?  

No? 

Imagine that you are anywhere in the world.  You have a raw space, spare cash and a business plan.  Imagine that the crux of your business plan is that you desperately want to open an "authentic" Irish pub, but you are neither Irish, nor antique-y and you don't have the sources, nor the time to find all the accoutrements yourself.  

Enter the Celtic Dragon Pub Company.*

In an overly simplified explanation, they take your space measurements and quote a price, then some time later, you receive your pub in a box (or a great many boxes.).  

Seriously. 

If you've ever been to an Irish pub outside of Ireland itself, there's a pretty good chance it looked something like this.** 

And in my head, the phrase "Pub in the Box," has become a catch-all phrases for anything formulaic, something with not only the feeling that you've come across it before, but, given enough time, you will again and again...i.e. the plot of each Nancy Drew book as well as trademarked room decorations that include window treatments, paint colors, as well as bed skirts, etc...

This is neither a negative, nor a positive, it just is. 

And if you like that sort of thing, it's quite the good thing.  

But all that said, when I was planning Elliot's nursery, I did not want Pub in  Box.*** 

When I began the planning, Elliot was not Elliot.  Or at least we didn't know he was Elliot. We did know he was The Pickle. 

And, other than the furniture, which would have been too costly to ship from the US, I wasn't pleased with any of my local decorating choices, so I decided that I would do it long distance. 

With the help of BigD, the US Postal Service and a designer named Rudy, it all started coming together, with the exception of one bit: the quilt. 

And perhaps, in retrospect, the nursery didn't even matter and maybe the quilt mattered even less.  We all know that (within reason, of course) a baby can sleep anywhere as long as you take care of it and love it. 

But at the time it did.  

It mattered alot and it may have to you, too, if you were seven months pregnant, hormonal and focused on getting things done.  

Plus, if a brand new person is arriving, he should feel welcome and having a warm, cozy, special room is a start.

Enter Patty.  

Patty is one of my college friends, but because of life and locations, we really hadn't visited much since then.  But we were good friends then and over the past few years, we've caught up over Facebook.  

But dear Patty is not only a friend, but also a quilter. And not just any old quilter, but the kind that sells lovely creations and wins state competitions and occasionally teaches classes.****  

So I emailed her to see if she could help me with the quilt dilemma. And being a relatively new mother herself, she understood the importance of my query and she fixed it.  I sent her some fabric and free rein.  And in what seemed like no time at all, The Gherkin arrived. 

She took my general ideas and some of my fabric, added her own of both and made it better than I could have hoped. And it made all the difference.  

I suspect the actual Pickle doesn't quite appreciate it as much as I do right now, but once he's old enough to understand all the kindness and thoughtfulness and good wishes that are all wrapped up in his lovely cozy, cozy quilt, he will. 

 

*I'm not sure if they are the only ones in this particular line of business, but you get my drift. 

**This is in no way a condemnation of Irish pubs, authentic or otherwise. I have been a generous patron of them in many parts of the world, for example here, here, here, here and here just to list a few. 

***I also did not want cartoons or weird nursery rhyme characters, either.  

****If you need a special, distinctly non-Pub in a Box quilts like this or this, you should post a note on her blog.  I suspect she'll charge you slightly more than the rate I had (thanks and the cost of postage) but no matter what, it will be lovely.

And in case you are curious about the whole nursery, here it is.  

It's not totally perfect for a variety of reasons, including that Husband would only paint one wall for me because it's a rental apartment.  And it needs a few more things, but overall, I love it.  

And it's not Pub in Box. 

See that mobile?  My sister in law suggested it and it is one of the best recs ever--because that mobile is magic. 

I'm a fan of giraffes, in case you couldn't guess. 

Yes, it's tacky to photograph the diaper genie, but for accuracy's sake, that's where it is.  The cross stitch above the changing table is one my mom made for me years ago.  When she was here a few weeks ago, she said, "I made that for you before you were born." I said, "Really, then why is it dated 12-1-72, my first birthday?" The only conclusion we could come to was that maybe I'm a year younger than we thought. Score. 

 
The end.

Our first visit

As it's been well documented, Megan is my peep.  And I've been psyched about her popping over from New York for a visit...

What did we do all week, you wonder?

We burned fried chicken and then ate it anyway.

We had a night out...

(Husband flashes a gang sign while Erin plays it cool.)

(The slouch of my body is to distract from the fact that I am approximately the same width as both Megan and Kyrre.  Is it working?)

Then we got fancy to go to my baby shower. 

(My friend Omar went to India and brought me a lovely belt.  Because my waist has gone missing, now I am using it to wrap what I can.  Thanks, Omie.)

(Look at everyone.  How lucky am I?  More on this later.)

We visited with my sweet hunds.

(Milo and Lillie are blue because they just found out that Megan will not live with us forever.)

We took a driving tour of the area. Husband explained it all. 

Then for Megan's birthday, we all went to dinner. We gave her a scarf and lessons on the correct use of toothpicks, but only if you're in Stavanger, Norway or Colquitt, Georgia.  

(Don't try this at home, kids.) 

It's Not a Secret Assignment, but It's Something

I've been going through old photos today and came across this one...

For years, Megan and I were partners in crime.  

This particular photos was taken one evening when we were undercover at a starlet's engagement party.  The bride was ultra hot for both her role on an HBO award-winning drama, but also for her recent reveal (and numerous in-depth interviews and stories about) her eating disorder.

I was on assignment and had been guest-listed by the club's publicist.  And Megan was serving as my plus-one.

The trick was to blend in, while taking notes and still filing by my 2am deadline so it would make the next week's issue. 

The slight problems we had to overcome:

--The club was mega-small...One open space upstairs that was roughly about the same size as my studio apartment and one small space downstairs. 

--The only people there were the groom's friends and family and the bride's friends and family. And the groom was the bride's manager and had been longtime romantic interests, so pretty much everyone knew everyone else.

--The vast majority of invited guests were Italian Catholics from New Jersey.  (Megan is sort of from New Jersey, but she has bright green eyes and flaming red hair and freckles.  As for me, I am white and pale, and even when undercover, I drawl.)

But blend we did.  Mainly I think it had to do with short, non-specific conversations and constant movement, some of which was in the photo-booth (See photo above). 

And of course, I got all the scoop.  

And no matter what it is, Megan always shows up to help.  

She's showing up in a few weeks, too.  When she suggested a visit, I warned her that the excitement level would not be up to her recent graduation from race car school or even her day to day life in New York.

She laughed and said "Well, it sounds like you need a visit and maybe some help unpacking boxes or something."

So while we won't be lurking about nonchalantly, champagne in hand, it promises to be all good. 

 

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. 

Megan's hitching

Megan and I have been friends since the very beginnings of graduate school.  (Carolyn Davis, who's wearing the blue dress and dark cardigan in middle row, posted this photo on Facebook and then was dear enough to send it to me so I could borrow it at a decent size.  We all look so young there!)

And since 2000, we've had adventures. 

Both of us have always had odd freelance schedules, so occasionally, on sunny weekdays, Coney Island was just the place to be...then we'd head up the boardwalk to dance all afternoon at Ruby's, the diviest bar on the beachs.... (trust me on this...It's loads more fun that it sounds and were some of the best afternoons ever, especially on days when the Cyclone was open for business.)

Then there was always Halloween.  On this particular year, Megan was a mermaid.  Jess was a pregnant housewife and I was Miss Reform School. 

And of course, the wettest and rainiest concert Bruce Springsteen ever played.  (Yes, we are on the very tip top row of the stadium...But it was our second concert that tour, we scalped the tickets that afternoon---for face value no less, gotta love Bruce fans in Jersey---- It was awesome---and the one concert out of the ten or so I've seen that Bruce played "Rosalita.") 

And there have been countless events in between.

...Sipping key lime martinis on Manhattan rooftops.

...Staying up the entire night before the movers came to finish the packing.  (We spent several hours in the smallest hours of dawn wandering the streets for discarded cardboard boxes. Who knew eight years in the same apartments could fill up so much space?) 

...Helping me make new friends in Atlanta when she came to visit shortly after I got settled into my new apartment.

While I sort of hate that we don't have more photos of the nights out and the parties and the afternoons wandering, they most likely would be full of incriminating evidence and compromising situations, many of which I just don't want to explain.

...At least not now.  I do have lots of notes and explicit permission to use the stories as I see fit. 

She's is the best kind of friend...Amusing, brilliant and best of all she shows up.  And I don't mean just arrives, but participates and is a good guest.  And By good guest, I mean, adds to the party and stores up good stores and observations to tell later.  

This is a key quality. 

So even though Husband was at a crucial time in his work and couldn't come with me, I headed to New York last week, for Megan and David's hitching.  It couldn't have been lovelier.  They got married in the back gardens of a castle.

There were parasols for the guest waiting outside, then loads of dancing, food and drinks.  I saw people I hadn't visited with since I left New York.  And even in the midst of all the activities, Megan and I visited a bit as well. 

She and David hired a celebrity silhouette artist to work the wedding.  (Yes these do exist.  The night before this guy ---who was second generation, using his father's scissors that had never been sharpened--- had flown in from Los Angeles where he was the entertainment at a movie premiere.) 

He snipped out two copies.  One for the guest to keep and another to be glued into their guest book with a note.  Because my family couldn't come, Megan told me to bring a photo for the artist to use.  
(Yep, that's an approximation of Sweet Lillie. I had a photo of Milo, too.  But then actual human guests walked up and got in line, so we decided to wait.  Then time ran out.  I hate that we don't have a full family, but oh well...)

Megan loved Lillie's so much that after we walked Adele, her puppy who is almost exactly Lillie's age, she sat down for a portrait as well.


David waited patiently standing by...

And then it was almost time to go. 

Skype and A Small Lesson on International Mail

Skype is the schnizzle.  

When we moved here, Husband hooked me up with Skype, which, for the uninitiated --- and in its most simple definition --- is direct connection over the internet. 

A quick program download turns your computer into a phone.  Add a (relatively) cheap video attachment to your computer and presto!  you have an in-home video conference.  

It's free from computer to computer, and just a few pennies (or kroner) to call a land line or a cell phone.*  

Next to Husband, Lillie and my red cowboy boots, Skype is one of my very favorite things.  

When we moved here, several of my best friends, who didn't have the program already, loaded Skype onto their computer and got the little video attachment.  

So --- not nearly frequently enough --- we will figure out time zones and schedule a visit. 

It's really like the weirdest television show, ever.  Along with the main stars of the program, occasionally there will be guest stars or a field trip.  To wit:

Megan and I have discussed the final details of her upcoming wedding, then we've introduced my Lillie 

to her Adele (the Airedale).

 

When Kathleen and I talk, often her daughters, Addie and Lula, who are some of my favorite short people ever, will pop in to tell me about school.  And on occasion, Kathleen has walked me (the camera) through their new house so Addie could show me their new pink room.  

In the middle of a visit with Wendy, Husband will sit down for a minute to say hello and to discuss the waves and their common love of surfing. 

(And that's just what happens with the friends who have video.  Guests drop in as well when it's only voice, too.)

All that to say, I love Skype, almost as much as I love my friends.*  

Husband and I are all the way over here and they are all the way over there, but with a little bit of timing, all that can work out.  

Everyone (for now) can live where-ever we are and if you forget about the time difference for a while, it's almost like they are next door. 

A few weeks ago, Wendy and I were visiting. I was filling her in on some news, which included a a ridiculous story about crying over udon noodles a few nights before. 

This is the Reader's Digest Condensed version of the story for the curious: 

It all began when Husband said "What would you like for dinner tonight?"

And the first words that popped out of my mouth were "Doc Chey's," which is an Asian restaurant we used to frequent in Atlanta.  And the minute I said it, I wanted it so badly I couldn't think of anything else.  

But there is no Doc Chey's here---not even a close approximation. 

So, I got a little teary eyed.  Luckily for Husband, who is patient and kind about these things, it only lasted a few minutes.  

Then we went and got a burger, which is a close approximation of any burger I have known and rated 5 on a scale of 1-10.

She laughed for a while, then said, "We have that here, all over the place."  

Then she was quiet for a while and said, "You know, you probably need some pudding, too."

And immediately, I realized that I did.  I needed pudding and badly.

So 6,819 miles and slightly more than two weeks later, this is what arrived.  

Look closely at the label. 

It says "Used Clothes."

While that is not entirely untrue...

Inside were two articles of clothing.  Both of which I have decided are good luck because one has been worn happily by Wendy and the other has been passed down from Kathleen to Wendy. 

It is also not entirely true...the package was not full of only used clothing.**  

Inside (and you'll have to trust me on this...) dear Wendy had not only stuffed in packages of udon noodles and boxes of pudding, but also a note covered with good wishes.  

And underneath that note were things I didn't even know to want, at least not yet. But every single thing shoved into the package was thoughtful and exactly right.  (Though there was one item I desperately hope I will not need or want anytime in either the near or distant future.  Though it is good to be prepared, for sure.) 

What did I do with udon noodles and packages of pudding?

Of course I immediately made a (simple) lunch which consisted of one bowl of awesome and a cup of pudding-y goodness.

Then I ate it. 

What happened to the rest of the pudding?  I put it in the refrigerator with a note.***  

*You're welcome Skype.  Now I would like some free things, please.

**It's all about the taxes. 

***Don't worry.  Husband understands, plus I made him brownies.

Poor, Poor Hassan

A few weeks before we got married, Husband and I visited Stavanger.

Really, it was for me to check out the town, for him to work and for us to find a home.

While he went to the office, I was escorted by a woman named Tune (Tooooo-NAH) who had been hired to show me around and start the process of acclimation.

Along with driving me about and helping me learn, she also gave me this book.



I flipped through the pages and read about doctors and shopping and setting up house. Then I came to this page and gasped...



There was no way, I was going to get severe culture shock. I am not a textbook person and am certainly not irritable and hostile.

I am cheery and flexible and up for anything. Plus, I am not one to get in funks often and when I do, they tend to be low level funks. (I have a pretty high funk-tolerence, so even when things are their most tragic, it's really not all that bad...)

All this to say, I was slightly wrong. I've been in a bit of a funk lately. And that funk has been coupled with slight irritability.

Also, while, I refuse to say I've been hostile, perhaps I have been a little bit edgy.



And there is no one reason, but a charming combination of, but not limited to, the following:

1) Time zones
I keep missing all the windows of time to talk to my peeps because they live in highly inconvenient places like Georgia and Hawaii and California and Colorado. They also have jobs and kids, so the windows are even shorter.

2) I hate Car.
Every dang time I want to do anything, no matter how mundane, I have to make a major plan involving rush hour, hills and timing.

3) No one can read my mind.
This poses a major challenge for sweet Husband. Lillie could offer pointers because she usually knows exactly what I need:

A vist


A shake right


A shake left



A little footsie


4) I cannot work.
We got a letter a few weeks ago saying that my application has been put into the pile and that they expect an answer within the next 8-10 months. This is a multi-multi-faceted issue, which goes even further to even if I did have the permits, then what would I do? So there we have isolation and identity all piled into the mix.

5) My pants feel snug.
I haven't been eating and drinking more, perhaps I am just hormonal today or maybe my pants hate me.

5) Language
I have been studying for weeks and am not fluent yet.

All of which are semi-ridiculous on a variety of levels and I am usually not one to indulge these kinds of thoughts, at least not seriously but I have been lately (or at least in the past week or so...).

But today is when I realized that I have lost my mind and need to buck up.

Janice Soprano came over for our regular Wednesday morning lesson.

We're working in a book called "Ny i Norge" ("New to Norway").

And as we were making our way through Leksjon 5, we flipped to "Hassan sender en e-post"



Hassan is one of the recurring characters in my textbook. (Among others, we have Tor, the Norsk teacher and his wife Liv. John, who is from USA who moved to Norway to be with his wife Anne. Urai from Thailand and Larissa, the au pair from Latvia and her young charges Ingrid and Gunnar.)

Hassan, we learned today, was sitting and thinking about his friend Ali in Iran.



Ali is in school in Teheran. Hassan is a refugee and lives in Nordby.



So Hassan goes to the library to write Ali an email to say hello and to tell all about the traveling he has been doing. When he's finished emailing and looking up news about Iran, he leaves the library.

He eats a banana and is a little bit sad. It is a long way from Norway to Iran.



But then he runs into Larissa and Ingrid. Hassan carries her grocery bags while they talk. Then he heads off.

He cycles home. Hassan is not so sad now. He goes to the movies and watches a French film about love.



I am reading this out loud and translating and my voice breaks a bit. Janice, misreading my cues, says "It's a little bit silly, but good vocabulary and lessons."

I say "It's the saddest thing I have ever read. Poor Hassan, he must be so lonely for his friends."

She stares at me for a long minute and says "Ahhhh I know these signs. You are feeling a little bit isolated. We have only been having lessons here at this table. We will fix this. You need to practice with more people. I will help you."

So from now on, we're going to have lessons at the coffee shop.