The Culinary Habits of Elves

Once upon a time I had an elfin grandmother.

She was not an actual magical creature like a dwarf* or a woodland sprite, but she was short and round and mischievous.

Also that is not some cropped out ex-boyfriend.  It's one-half of my brother, but he is not germane to this story, so he didn't make the cut. He won't mind. 

Seriously, look at the photo.  I am short-ish person, but I am hunched over and folded up on the sofa.  She is sitting up straight and tall.  And her feet were so small, that I always wondered how she didn't topple over.

My point is, I've been thinking about her lately, for a variety of reasons, but also because she could cook.**

She did "farm to table" when it was just called "dinner."

She was such a good cook that the day before her funeral, we gathered in the minister's office to talk about her, so he would have stories to tell from us to use in his sermon.  The first thing any of us said was, "She sure could cook." And we talked about her fried chicken and her lemon pies. About how she would always want us to eat.  And how most of the time*** it was so good that if you had one bite, you would eat every single bit.

I should have written down more of her recipes or at least learned the name of what I loved.****

For years I have been looking for little green peas or purple butterbeans.  And a about a month ago, I found small tubs of what they called "cream peas" in the Whole Foods.*****

So I bought the entire stock and came home and started googling for recipes.  I found this one, which is not exactly how I remember Meme's (I highly doubt she would use garlic, for instance), but it's sort of close.  So I've been playing with it and modifying it and below is what I've come up with.  It's not exactly Meme's peas, but it's close and it's good.

Elfin Cream Peas
Buy what you can, then you'll need the following for each pound of peas. (I highly recommend starting with at least two pounds.  They only get better each day.)

- 4 slices bacon
-1 small onion
- 1 clove garlic
- 1/2 tsp salt
- 1/2 tsp pepper
- 1 cup water

Chop the bacon, onion and garlic.  Rinse the peas.

Toss the bacon, garlic and onions in a big pot.  The bacon will provide enough fat to cook the onions and garlic.

Stir around until the onions are translucent and the bacon is cooked.

Then add the peas, salt and pepper.

Then add water, which should just cover the peas.  (Below is probably just a little too much.) And don't be shy with the salt and pepper. Taste it all occasionally and add more.  The amount of salt and pepper is just a starting point.

Bring it to a rolicking***** boil for about 15 or 20 minutes. Then let it simmer for at least an hour.  Good stuff, I promise.

Meme would make you eat at least two helpings.

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*Not to be confused with dwarves, woodland sprites or any other actual magical creatures.

Bonus points for recognizing one of the dwarves.

Though, on the subject of woodland sprites....Would you know one if you saw one? Googling comes up with this.  But for years, I've always thought of one as more like this.  No joke.  Then shrink him down just a little bit so he's about as tall as I am, shave his mustache, put him in loose overalls, douse him in pachouli, take away his shoes, make him a mega-fan of the Grateful Dead and "natural substances," circa 1995 or so.  Then make sure when he gets hyper or excited, he hops sideways from foot to foot.  I know this because I am 98% certain that I met an actual woodland sprite once at a friend's mountain cabin.  We had sneaked off after exams to take a day off before holidays with our families. And our own personal woodland sprite showed up for a little visit.  Trust me on this.  It freaked me out. 

**I am still pregnant and hungry.  And along with Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, chocolate milk and peanut better sandwiches, I want Meme's cooking. Elliot was made almost entirely of pickled vegetables, chocolate popsicles and mandarin orange slices.  This baby girl has a serious sweet tooth. 

***Her skills did not extend to all foods, though. You could always trust anything fried, vegetable based or if it had Cool Whip or frosting as a component.  But with any baked goods, it was wise to check twice before eating.  Based on her brownie making skills alone, I was in my early twenties before I realized that "from scratch" was not "synonymous with 'tastes like shite."  No joke.  But really, as long as you remembered to stay away from the brick-like brownies, you'd be all good. 

****Let this be a lesson to write it all down...also, to snag the cast iron skillet while the snaggin's good.  I don't know where her skillet ended up, but I hope whoever has it, appreciates that it is seasoned with six or more decades of goodness.

*****Another Southern raised friend of mine says they are called young field peas and I think she may be right, but cream peas was printed on the sticker, so that's what I am going with today.  She stared at me blankly when I said purple butterbeans.  But I know they exist out there somewhere.

Here's what's been going on...

Lots has been happening over the past few months since my last regular posts.*  


But before I get started again, I want to keep things a bit in order, here's the catch-up on the past few months----you can either read the bits or scroll through like a sort of flip book.  Some of the topics I've been thinking on and will revisit in the future, others are just bits....


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I've been culling.**


One of the items in the photo below went to Goodwill, the other stayed, just in case of emergencies.  Can you guess which one?  It all depends on whether or not you think it is more likely that my future self may one day:

a) work in a suited up corporate environment 

b) stay out all night dancing

I also went through boxes and boxes of papers, letters and one menu from a restaurant I frequented in college. I even found a handful of notes from my sixth grade bully.***

Elliot learned lots of things, like drinking from a cup,****  

Escape...

And all about fish...

We took family photos.

Elliot turned one. 

Husband and I went on our first trip away. He can drive with his eyes closed.  Yes, he is that good.

We flew to Key West where I was appalled by some of the sights, but enjoyed the chocolate covered Key Lime Pie anyway.

Husband stuck mainly to the more conventional seafood. 

Elliot and I went to the beach with the Jackalope and his mom.

We went to the Easter Beer Hunt.  

Elliot scored three pieces of chocolate and three beers. 

We went to a birthday luau pig roast.   It was awesome.  Seriously awesome. 

I got to try a bit from each section of the pig.  Even the brain.***** I have a new appreciation for pork. 

And somewhere along the way, I got pregnant.****** Two will arrive in late October.

See you next week...

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*And I want to get back to it.  It's good for me---it gives me a few minutes of amusement and creativity for myself, much like I imagine it is for a non-professional ballerina.  They may still work out just to keep their muscles in shape and to revisit their skills, but it's not what they do anymore.  That's probably the most concrete way I can explain it.  I like to write.  I used to be a journalist and probably one day I will be again, but in the meantime, I like to try to keep it all a little bit in shape...

**Everything happened so quickly when Husband and I got married and moved that I didn't go through anything.  It either went with us or went into storage here. So I've had LOTS to cull through, including giving more than half my clothes to the Goodwill. 

***I don't know why I kept them, but I'm glad I did.  Twenty-five years past, I have a much better perspective on the whole experience.

****This is a big deal.

*****It tastes a bit like savory marshmallow.

****** This is a big part of the reason for my absence.  We're really, really excited. (Well Husband and I are.  I'm not sure Elliot gets it yet.) But overall, we've been busy and I've been TIRED.  I feel better now.  And by Two, I mean that's its name in the meantime, not the actual number of babies.

May the Force be with You

Every single morning, at least for the last month or so, I wake up at about 5:30am when Elliot does. I feed him, put him back down and then go downstairs to make sure that he has enough milk to mix with his cereal and various food stuffs for the day.

This may sound super early and it is, but it's not so bad.

Not when you consider that he's been in bed since 7:30 or 8pm the night before.

Also when you consider it's a tiny bit of complete quiet time, all by myself, while I take care of the business at hand.

So of course, I do not spend it improving my mind reading classic novels or even watching CNN. I browse my favorite websites* for editor-selected chunks of goodness.

And this morning, I saw a quote on Jezebel.com about what Carrie Fisher had to say about what she writes.**

I love Carrie Fisher. I think she is funny and smart and honest and doesn't have any phobias about embarrassment, either. ***

When I was little, we lived in Southwest Georgia on a farm**** about 20 miles outside of an 800-person town (Or thereabouts...). And every summer, BigD would drive us to North Georgia (where I grew up the rest of the time) to Nana and Papa's where we would stay for a good chunk of the summer.

We would spend the days swimming at the local pool with our cousins and eating the very best fresh sliced tomato and Durkee's sandwiches, ever.

Every now and again, Nana would hand each one of us a sandwich baggie filled with multicolored popcorn, a few of the small individual Hershey's chocolate bars and a can of Coke. Then she would load all of the cousins into her giant yellow Cadillac and take us to a matinee.

Sometimes it would be Pippi Longstocking or maybe The Apple Dumpling Gang, but one summer it was Star Wars. Like the vast majority of theatergoers that summer, we LOVED it. We begged and begged to go again and again.

And that summer, we must have seen it about three times.*****

When we got back to school that fall, playing Star Wars was all the rage. The Middle County Elementary School had a playground with some swings and a concrete area for Four Square and lots of room to run, but occasionally we'd have recess or PE across the street on the baseball field. They'd just let us loose.

As you may guess, I was not one of the ultra-popular kids. I was usually hanging out with one of my best friends or maybe over in the corner, reading a book. But this fall, every now and again, BigD would roll my hair up into those giant buns and when we all played outside at recess, I would get to be Princess Leia.******

And really, who wouldn't want to be? She was a awesome princess. Yeah, she needed a little assistance rescuing herself, but she shot a gun and smack-talked and figured out how to send R2D2 and C3Po out for help.

Cut to almost three decades later:

I'm back in Atlanta, at the Georgia Aquarium and I'm on assignment. Jane Fonda is being roasted for her charity, the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention. And the room is full of the celebrity types, all looking swanky.

Early in the evening, before I started to work, I found a place and perched at the top of the staircase, surveying the crowd of pretty people. After a few minutes, the crowd shifted, and I felt a touch on my shoulder and a woman said "Excuse me."

I turned around to face Carrie Fisher.*******

I had collided with the ex-Princess Leia, and now, even cooler, a hilarious writer.

We both offered apologies and then chit-chatted for a moment about the night.

After a moment, she stared at me up and down and said, "You look great, but I think you need one thing."

Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a little spray bottle, said, "May I?"

She reached into my hair, poofed it out just a bit and sprayed.

"It's glitter spray," she said and tilted her head down. "See, I'm wearing it, too. And, really, everything is better with a little bit of glitter."

THE END

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*Most of them are in the lists to the right. Good stuff, really.

**Scroll down to the bottom of the list for the quote and if you want to read the full Vanity Fair piece, click here.

***I am well aware I am no Carrie Fisher, for a variety of reasons. But if you count the good ones, she's a pretty good, even great example to have.

****Not a "momma go outside and pick up the eggs from the chickenhouse farm." It was/is a commercial farm where, back then, my dad grew peanuts and soybeans and corn. There was even some livestock in the back corner of the main field. (The livestock was really a bunch of pigs, but doesn't livestock sound less muddy?)

*****This was a VERY big deal. No joke. My grandparents grew up without much money and did not believe in wasting anything, not Christmas wrapping, not the crusts from the sandwich bread and certainly not money to see a movie more than once. But this summer, we did.

******They would also play Dallas. I wasn't allowed to watch soap operas, plus we couldn't get all channels on the tv at the farm because Big D thought satellite dishes were tacky.

*******No joke...she's not that tall. Neither am I.

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.

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.

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.

Traveling 4,209.19 Miles of Makes No Dang Sense

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, peoples. 

In Which I Explain Red Carpets and Introduce a Candidate Better Than the Wrinkly White Haired Guy

On red carpets, the order of celebrities is fixed and firm.* 

And how much control any reporter is allowed in their questioning is in direct inverse order to the particular celebrity's fame. 

The socialites, party girls and reality stars come first posing and preening, while the big circulation magazine reporters talk to each other instead of asking them even the most meager of questions.**  They usually don't have handlers or publicists.

Next are the up-and-comers, the kids who are debuting in the Next Big Show on the network. Often they will come in a group with one handler or they will each travel down the line of reporters, but their publicists will be junior.  (This will change over the course of the season according to the show's popularity, if one actor dates another in real life or if "secret" naked shots are "found.")

Then come the D listers, who were once on a  hit television show, but have been on hiatus or on an extended vacation. They will have publicists who will helpfully offer tips on lines of questioning and any access necessary.  Often the actor will be standing there looking a little plaintive, so you humor the publicist.  Plus, often you loved that actor in when you were in middle school, so it's kind of cool.

Then the C-listers, who are niche actors.  They are either eagerly clambering up the next two rungs of the alphabet ladder or are just confident and happy about where they are. Often, if they are well-managed and smart, they've have branched out into producing or writing.  

So really they just don't care a bit about this event and will love it if you've done your homework and know their resume.  They have slightly pushy publicists who will either stand back calmly and let you chat or will tap their foot smugly.

B-Listers and A-Listers often slip between the two levels depending on their visibility on any given day. Both have solid careers and name recognition, and the shift often comes when that actor has a project coming out.  (B-Listers come before the A-Listers on the red carpet, of course.)  

Both have toe-tapping publicists, but the real key comes with the amount of questions allowed.

The publicists of B-Listers, say "Two questions, ONLY." (Note: Be warned---If one of these is "Hi How are you today?" That counts.) 

Publicists of A-Listers, smile and say "Sorry, we're just doing photos today."

Then there are the ones that defy any category...the REALLY big stars.  They always have publicists who are cold, but friendly.  These stars talk all they'd like to the news outlets they like and to the journalists they know. 

Then when the doors to the event are almost closed, here comes another round of the socialites and party girls.

All this to say, that back when celebrity reporting was my full-time job, I remember when Paris was in the groups at the very beginning and at the very end, stopping in a few of the alphabet stations along the way.  If there were photographers, she would go to the opening of a window as well as the VH1 Music Awards After Party at the Four Seasons.  

Because those sorts of things were in my job description as well, I've interviewed her sporadically her over the years. (And once, after an interview, I ask her to give back the fuzzy fingerless gloves she wore for a photo shot.)  

While, I've always though she was more intelligent than her vapid onscreen persona would have you believe, I am impressed with her newly unveiled knowledge, grasp of politics and prowess in the matters of energy conservation.

So, while I am wholeheartedly supporting Obama, if for some reason you can't get behind him, Vote for Paris.  

I'm fairly certain she'd be better than the Wrinkly White Haired Guy.

Loves it.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

(From Funny or Die via Gawker)

* This is merely the condensed version of the Red Carpet Rules.  There are many nuances and exceptions to each rule. Trade secrets, you understand.  I'd tell you, but you'd have to pay me. 

**Unless of course that socialite, party girl or reality star is dating or working on a "project" with a celebrity who ranks at least in the first three letter of the alphabet.