Happy Thanksgiving, Peoples!

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.*

(This is Husband's Turkey Day card.)

I love Thanksgiving.  It's a day of good food eaten with people you love unemcumbered by present pressure.  There is usually some kind of drama, as there is when people are in big groups, but that drama almost always gets worked out and becomes a funny memory.  Mainly, to me, it's all about taking a minute to be grateful for all the good things.

Also, I LOVE the fried turkey**, next to key lime pie, it's my very favorite food in the world.  Seriously.

But in years when I haven't made it Georgia for the holiday, I've had some great ones as well.

My sister and I were guests of LisaD's family Thanksgiving in Brooklyn the morning after we spent happy, chilly hours watching the Macy's balloons getting blown up next to the Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side.  I hosted a friends' Thanksgiving in my tiny apartment in the West Village complete with a champage fountain.  And this year is going to be great, too.

Husband, Elliot and I have been invited to have Thanksgiving at our best friends' home here in Stavanger.  It's happening tomorrow night and there will be the requisite turkey*** and ham and best of all, assorted goodies and important ingredients imported all the way from Denver, smuggled**** in a suitcase carried by an American who has come all the thousands of miles for a real Norwegian-style holiday.

We couldn't be more excited about it.

But tonight, we're having our own little family Thanksgiving---not with turkey, but with Asian BBQ'd pork and cheesy potatoes.  The dishes may not be the "appropriate" ones, but the thankfulness for our good things and happiness is all there.


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*That, and other peoples' birthdays.

**If you're not familiar with it, imagine this:
Take a thawed turkey and a special turkey hypodermic needle.  Then shoot the turkey full of buttery cajun goodness all underneath its turkey skin.  Then drop it into boiling peanut oil. Remove it from the oil about 45 minutes later and enjoy its cajun, buttery goodness.  And also enjoy the fact that it's less calories and more healthy than the turkeys cooked in the oven for hours and hours.  Seriously.  (AMENDED---I actually looked it up.  According to the American Dietetic Association, with the skin on, fried turkey has two more fat grams than the same serving size of conventionally prepared turkey.  Take the skin off and it's less because very little of the peanut oil soaks in...Of course there are lots of mitigating factors...ie the amount of butter you inject but that is often a wash because a conventional turkey is rubbed with it and then soaks in it for hours.  Also fried turkey is not dry and is extra tasty, so there's that....)

***Not fried, but prepared by an Englishman who knows what he's doing.  Don't be sad for me, I'll get the fried goodness at Christmas, so all is well in my world.

****If you are the custom authorities reading this, don't believe a word.  I made it all up.  So pass along, nothing to see here.

Do these socks make my feet look fat?*

Over the past few weeks, I've also been asked:

"Now that you're heading back does this mean you're going to be shutting down or renaming your blog?"

The short answer:
No and no.

The long answer:
Striped Socks and Skinny Jeans was never really about stripes, socks, skinny and/or jeans.**

It's always been about figuring out how to navigate where I am---which right now has been Stavanger, Norway and soon will be Atlanta, Georgia.

I've written about gettting hitched up, being newly married, traveling and having a baby, as well as other weighty topics such as wombats, how not to be burgled, glitter and tobacco.

I've even had contributors.

None of this will change.

So I'm just going to keep on with what I'm doing.

Please feel free to stop back by anytime.  You're always welcome.


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*Horizontal stripes are often not considered a great idea on most body parts unless you are very very brave.  I am not.  But stripes on feet?  I kind of like them.  They just seem friendly.

**The name came from my very first trip to Stavanger, which was not Husband's first trip.  (He's American, but had lived here before, moved back to the US.  Then we got hitched up and moved back to Stavanger for a few years.)

It was early in 2008 and as it often is in these parts, Stavanger was cold and rainy.  But being the optimistic sort that I am, I immediately tried to figure out how to make the dampness less annoying.  And I began with my feet, which if you've ever had really wet and cold feet, you may know that often that makes all the difference.

If you every happen to drop into Stavanger, and really most of Scandinavia, you'll notice that women tend to wear close-fitting pants or leggings, often jeans, tucked into knee high boots. I am convinced that it is less (or at least equal) a fashion statement and more of a practical one.  

On dark, dank days, the last thing you want to do is get the hemline of your pants wet.  Then not only will it eventually creep up your pants, but also will track into your home.

Which brings me to the next bit, the striped socks.  Unless it's a place of business, shoes are never worn inside.  Once you step over the threshold into your home, the shoes are removed.  And really, no one wants to see holey socks.

Also, I just like stripes.

Things I Will Miss, Part One

There have been a few common questions I've gotten when I've told people we're heading back to the US.

The most frequent one is "Aren't you so glad to be going back?"

And I am, mostly.

I want Elliot to grow up close to his cousins and I want him to spend lots of quality time with his NeeNee (BigD)*. My career has been on hold for the past two years and while** Husband and I are excited for me to be fully hands on for the next few years, I'd like to start dabbling in the freelance again when I can.  I miss great museums and we're going to spend lots of time at the High Museum of Art and at the Georgia Aquarium. I love going to matinee movies*** in the middle of the day. The mani/pedis are $20 and Elliot will have a backyard where I'm hoping we can clear out a space for a swing.

But we've had a great two years here.  It has been the best place for Husband and me to start off our adventure.  And other than the initial business about the car, which passed, we've been really happy.

And there are going to be lots of things, I'm really going to miss.  Below aren't all, but just what popped into my head at this minute....

Girlfriends
No matter how much I love Husband,**** I always need at least one good girlfriend.  And in my time here, I've been so so lucky to have had several.  Some who have moved on to their next location and one in particular who is here on a semi-permanent basis. It's going to be no fun to be six time zones away, but there's Skype and also a pile of airline miles, some of which are going to be used to pop over to Atlanta.  So there's that.

The language
I am no good at the speaking, but I've gotten fairly okay about understanding a little bit when I am listening.***** Norwegian is a challenging language, especially for me and especially because it's Germanic-based.  The rules can simple, but the exceptions are tough.  And the cadences are fun to hear, but they are so hard to emulate...But I still love it. My favorite part is that many of the words are just what they are. For instance, hospital is "sykehus" (sick house) and kennel is "hundepensjonat" (dog hotel).  It's straightforward and great, which is akin to how the Norwegian people are in general.

Baby Cakes

Pre-Elliot, Husband and I took a childbirth class with nine other couples.  And those moms, along with one mom we adopted from a pre-natal yoga class, have met every week since with our sweet babies.  Those weekly meet-ups saved me in the beginning when I was so tired and recovering.  And as the months have passed, it's been one of the major highlights of our week. We visit and compare notes on everything.  And Elliot LOVES his friends.

Roundabouts

This is a pretty rotten photo, but you know what roundabout are. Traffic merges, comes together, then splits off into all the different individual ways.  Sometimes there is just one lane, but often there are as many as three or four, but it all works. Navigating them in the beginning was nothing less than a giant, pain-in-the-caboose challenge, but as the months have passed, I kind of love them.  Seriously. It's much like walking on the streets of New York.  No matter how many people there are, if you know what you're doing, people just move and make it work and it does.

The airport

Ahh the airport.  I've always loved the airport.******  And I love this one, too.  Husband (and now Elliot, too) have had so so many great adventures that (for the most part) started right here.  Europeans know how to live.  No joke.  They work to live, not live to work. And while Husband has worked so so hard, we have also been traveling.  And, once we're back in the States, that kind of adventure will be over, at least for a while.  We'll still go places and do things, but it won't be quite the same.

This sandwich

I LOVE this sandwich.  I kid you not.  It's chicken breast, with hummus and lettuce and tomato on sourdough bread.  If you're in Stavanger, go to either of the Ostehuset locations, go immediately and eat it. Look on the menu under "Sanwich på dansk rugbød." And it's called exactly what it is...Hummus, kylling, ruccula og tomater.******* Have them put it on their sandwichbrød ("sandwich bread,") which is this light, fluffy sourdough-ish bread.  Then ask for an extra side of the hummus.  It's an awesome mix of chunky hummus, with just a tad of curry, but they are a little stingy with it. Good stuff. Trust.





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*Hopefully a few of which are overnighters, once the little man can handle it.  I am not worried about NeeNee's skill in this, she's a pro and I have already scheduled a weekend with her in Spring 2010 so Husband and I can have a weekend away.  I love the little man like crazy, but I love his daddy like crazy, too.

**If all things go well...

***This ship may have sailed.

****And it's alot.

*****Which really means that I could have a small little conversation with a toddler and could gather the subject of a conversation being had by grow-up.  It's hard.

******Seriously.  In most of my jobs, I've always had to travel.  And in a few of them, alot.  And, especially in the years before the things happened in New York, I loved going to the airport early just to watch the travelers.  You can see the entire range of human emotions within the walls of any airport.  Everybody is going on some kind of an adventure.  It's amazing.

*******Which shockingly enough is the "Hummus, chicken, lettuce and tomato" sandwich.  It is, what it is.

Homeward Bound

So it's been in the works for a while, but we've just gotten the final final details...we're packing* up and heading back to the United States.

We're going back to Atlanta, so I guess it's a good thing that the house we own there has never sold.

We have about thirty days left and will touch down in Atlanta the first week of December.

So there's lots to do and lots to report, but right now, that's what I have for you.

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*And by "we're packing" I mean "the nice people hired by Husband's company." Thank you nice people.  Thank you Husband's company.

A Short Story About Hats

Every single year, the International School in Stavanger celebrates Guy Fawkes Night* by building a bonfire and burning the poor guy in effigy.

We had a plan to meet up with several other families from our babies group.  We were going to visit, watch the bonfire and stay for the fireworks.

Elliot hated it.

And we're not quite sure if it's because of the darkness, the fire, the wind or AS's hat.**  But after a bit, it just seemed the nicer thing to scoot out early.

At least we missed the traffic.

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*In 1605, Fawkes was one of the leaders in a plot to blow up the Brit's Houses of Parliament.  It failed. So depending on how you feel about that, you can feel a bit sorry for him...or not.

**It was a furry one, kind of like a cartoon hunter's.  (I'm not cracking on it, really...It suited him.) And every time he leaned into Elliot's face to talk to him, Elliot wailed.  So I'm going with the hat.

Norway is safe, but...

Let’s be clear.  Norway is a safe country with really low crime rates.*

(This is our dear Lillie.  She sweet and friendly and looks much much scarier than she is actually is...unless she senses some sort of danger to her people.  Then, if you are the dangerous one, trust me, she is too.)

When we went to Spain, we forgot and left some accessible windows open. A few weeks earlier, our car, filled with baby stuff and our stroller, was left unlocked and parked on the street in front of our house the entire six weeks we were in the United States this summer. 

Husband has lived in Stavanger a total of almost six years and other than one incident with his wallet has never experienced any sort of incident.**

In the almost two years, I’ve lived here, other than some parking tickets and working on immigration papers, I’ve only had two incidents with the police. 

The first was when I was about 14 months*** pregnant.  At the time we lived across the street from a mosque and on the holy days, dozens of cars would illegally park, many directly in front of our house.  It was cold and snowy and I worried about not only where to park, but then tromping up our hill, big and pregnant and wearing slippery shoes.

I pulled up next to the police car parked at the bottom of the hill, explained how pregnant I was in case he couldn’t see.  Then I asked if he could do something about all the cars, particularly the ones parked in front of my house. 

He said, “I don’t do that.” 

And I replied, “Well what do you do?”****

The second time was yesterday when Husband and I went to the police.  We intended to either make a complaint or report a crime.

It all started on Tuesday morning.  I was running up and down the stairs straightening up before the cleaners arrived.*****  Elliot was safely deposited in his playpen and the dogs were laying about downstairs.  All of a sudden, on a run upstairs, the dogs went NUTS, barking their heads off. 

I went downstairs to check on it and told them both to sit down.  Milo went to his corner, but Lillie got even more agitated, placed herself in front of the door, kept barking and bared her teeth.  

That when I noticed the big man-shaped shape through the frosted glass in the door. 

I stood there for a moment intending to open the door and ask if I could help him or what he was doing just lurking about on the doorstep.  But then I thought that it might be the wild boys who live in one apartment downstairs wanting to talk to Husband about the trashcans or maybe the Mormons in the other apartment.  Both are kind and harmless, but I didn’t have time for either, so I ignored it.

Also, the shape never rang the doorbell or knocked, so it really made me a bit nervous.  What if something happened to me and Elliot was in the house?  And a host of other sorts of bad thoughts, etc…. crossed my mind.

And while I was standing there, pondering these things, the shape receded and footsteps thumped down the stairs.  I leaned out the front window to see who it was. It wasn’t one man, there were three men, all dressed in jeans and ski-ish jackets and they were big.  And I couldn't understand the language except for one bit: “Hun er americansk”******

And then I forgot about it.  The cleaner arrived.  I put the dogs up and out of the way and Elliot and I went to meet our friend Jenny at a baby store.  She is pregnant and Elliot was helping her peruse the merchandise, by sitting in things like baby cages and strollers when my phone rang.

It was the cleaner coordinator who said that that police had just come into our house.  The woman cleaning was startled, but also worried because they were looking for me.

The door was left unlocked because the cleaner was going in and out.  And the cleaner had gone around the corner to the kitchen to get something.  

When she walked back around, there were two big men standing there, in our living room.  

Everyone involved jumped.  

And the men asked if she was the woman who lived there.   They flashed some sort of badge, said they were the police and were looking for me.

Standing in the baby store, I panicked a bit and called Husband to make sure he was okay.  

Once that was established I told him what happened.  We catalogued my list of offenses and determined that other than a parking ticket that isn’t even due yet, I’m pretty much in the clear.

He called the police to figure out why the officers came to our house.  

Also why they walked right into our house.*******  

They had no record of it. At all. But asked us to check back.

So overnight, the more we thought about it, the more we were worried about it.  

If those men weren’t police, that’s one scary thing.  

If those men were police, what were they doing just walking in our house?

So Husband, Elliot and I went to the police.  And as Husband put it, “We are here to either register a complaint or a crime.”********

And they had no record of any police coming by our house for any reason at all.

So people, lock your doors.

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*According to NationMaster, if you look at just burglaries per capita, Norway has just 1.15 per 1000 people,  which ranks 38 out of 40. As a comparison, the United States is 7 times higher per capita… In case you are interested, you can find more Norwegian crime stats here

 and here and here.

**He left a door unlocked in our first apartment when he was walking the dogs.  The next morning his wallet was gone from the table beside the door.  He canceled the credit cards and was in the process of reapplying for a passport.  A few days later, a man knocked on the door and returned it with everything intact and in place save the 200NOK cash that was inside.  We’re pretty sure it was the thief, but really, that’s what you get for living next door to a drug house.  We didn’t realize it when we moved in and moved out soon after.

***It felt that way, trust.

****Perhaps I was a bit snippy, but really it’s so safe here, you rarely see police anywhere.  No joke.

*****Don’t judge. The thought of cleaning bathrooms grosses me out beyond belief and we are not even dirty people.

******She is American.

*******This is a whole other issue.  No one should just walk into my house, ever, unless I know you and think it’s okay, even if you’re a police officer.  The very thought just is WRONG.

********Related to the point above, if it had been the police, we would have also would have wanted to report a complaint AND a crime.

Trick or treaters: Then and Now

So I spoke too soon on the Halloween evening...

I was hoping for trick or treaters.  I hadn't had any in years.  The last time trick or treaters came to my door, I was a sophomore in college and my roommate and I weren't going out until later, so we stocked up on the candy.

Right after the sun went down, our doorbell rang.

Standing at the door were two giant people both of whom were probably linebackers on their high school football team.  They had painted their faces with white and black makeup to look like ghosts.

When we opened the door, they held out their bags, which were not so much trick or treat bags as wadded up grocery bags from the local A&P that probably had held their illegally bought 40s of beer a few minutes before.

While my roommate and I considered the sight, in unison, they said, "Trick or treat," in these deep Barry White baritones.

So of course, we gave them every single bit of chocolate we had.

And that was it for the evening.

I've never had trick or treaters since.  My apartment buildings always had security doors.  And trick or treating isn't big in our neighborhood in Atlanta where our house is.

But I love Halloween and seeing all the children* dressed up and running about, so I was hoping for at least a few, even though Halloween is not big in these parts.

And I am pretty sure that it's not well understood in any case, but I still hoped.

And sure enough, while Husband, Elliot and the dogs were out walking, our doorbell rang.  While I frantically ran around the hour looking for our bag of candy, I heard the little footsteps going down the stairs.  So I threw open the door and said, "I'm here.  And I have candy."

Two little American girls, twins about eight years old, dressed in their ski gear ran back up the stairs, said, "Trick or treat," showed me their outfits and then said, "Thank you" before heading back down the stairs and on to the next house.**

About 30 minutes later, the doorbell rang again, so I grabbed the bag of chocolates and went to the door.  Standing in front of me were two little Asian girls, about seven and five.**

The older had on a witch's hat and the younger was carrying a devil's pitchfork.

They looked at each other, held out their bags, took a deep breath and yelled, "HALLOWEEN."

I was the funniest thing I had ever seen, so I gave them the rest of the candy.

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*And Elliot is a little too young to drag him all around the town on the slight chance for a photo-op, but for a 7.5 month old, that's all it is, really.

**Both the moms were standing at the street level watching.

Happy Halloween, peoples

There's not much in the way of festivals or trick or treating in these parts, and I haven't seen one carved pumpkin.* 

But Elliot's cousin Jack gave him a great costume.  

And it's Elliot's very first Halloween, so we stuffed him in it.  

And he loved it. 

But today we didn't really have anywhere to go Halloween-y**, but we did have to go to the grocery store***, so we dressed the little man up and went there.

I'm pretty sure he didn't know the difference.

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*At least not in our neighborhood, dang it.  There probably are somewhere else in the country, just not around where I am sitting right now.

**Husband and I were invited to a party. This is us last year.  We couldn't top it, so we're staying home.  Also, it's hard (and expensive) to get babysitters.

***This was also a lesson on why I will never ever let him eat candy given out in a public place.  Not only was it not wrapped, there was one kid who ran his fingers through the whole pile (and I am pretty sure he licked them, too.)

Countryside, Wild People and a Lack of High Chairs

All sorts of things have been happening these days, but there are very few of them I can talk about just yet, so in the meantime, here are a few things I've been thinking about...

1) Norway's countryside can be incredibly beautiful.

Every week, Elliot and I go to meet with our moms and babies group.  This week we went out to a place called Kvernaland, which is about 30-45 minutes from where we live.  The first time we went there, we were about two hours late because I couldn't find our way there.*

This time, I couldn't find our way back. I took a left when I should have taken a right or maybe the other way around.  

In any case, we ended up in a place called Tu, which is so small that it only gets two letters and most likely you will never go there either unless of course you are lost as well.

So we just enjoyed the view for a bit....

(These photos do not do justice at all.  Imagine that you can actually see the rich blues and clear whites and strong greens.  Also, please imagine my car windows are clean.  That would be great, too.)

2) Sometimes I pretend to lament that Elliot is so mobile and energetic and wild, but I don't mean it at all. 

I love the fact that he is curious and funny and looks like he's growing into a sweet, slightly headstrong little person. 

I also love that he is starting to understand "No."

But all that said....

3) We will never again go for a family lunch at a place that doesn't have high chairs.

*The first time out, the problem was that I wasn't going far enough.  And on this second time, we got home by trusting that eventually there would be a sign for the highway.  There are probably some life lessons in those two sentences.  I will leave that to you.

Yesterday's yoga

So how did Baby Yoga go you may wonder?

In case you didn't read yesterday, Elliot had been running amuck.  All the other babies were calm and good.  I thought it was stressful and tried to turn in my classes to no avail.

So we went back.

And it was better, mainly because Elliot had an entire room to himself.  Seriously.  The yoga room is giant and L-shaped.  The class happens in one end of the "L" and the other part is supposed to be sort of off limits because the footfalls disturb a doctor who works underneath.

Apparently the yoga people were willing to make an exception for Elliot.  And it's not like he's all that noisy other than a few thuds and the occasionally LOUD babble.

They had even baby-proofed.  The electrical sockets were filled in, the heating coils were off.

I did have to go through the room and move all the giant loops of rope hanging from the wall.  Other classes use them when the students lie on the floor, then grab the loops to pull for leverage.  They were right at Elliot's neck level, but were easy enough to loop higher than his little hands.

And this time, I only had to get up five times during the class, which split over an hour, averages about once every 20 minutes and that may not seem like much, but if you consider that about 15 minutes was spent working with Elliot.  And also that the teacher took him and carried him with her for the last ten minutes, that's alot of popping up and down.

But we've (really meaning "me") has switched my attitude about it all.  I have given up any hope of yoga-ing myself and have decided to look at it as Elliot's play time.

Because Elliot loves it.

One of our friends and her daughter comes and he loves to see them.

He thinks the massages are the best thing ever and he laughs and laughs.

When I pop up to save him, it's big fun for me to come and play with him.

Sometimes, the teacher will pick him up and let him sit with her, so he gets a different view of the class.

And really, Elliot is my funny little love and any mischief he causes in only in the spirit of curiosity and having fun. And I cannot blame him a bit for it* and overall, think it is the best thing ever.

And, this time, the "worst" thing I caught him doing was leaning over another baby blowing raspberries in her face.  And, she loved it too.

Only five more classes to go.

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*He cannot help his gene pool.

Kind of Blue

Norway, please

Today was an Alexander* day.

It began with rushing about to get to Elliot's Heath Station appointment, which led to a crabbiness with Husband. The house was a giant "just-got-home-sort-of-from vacation" mess and I couldn't find what I needed.

Then it started raining.

All in all a bad way to start out a day.

Once Elliot and I left the house, it got incrementally worse:

A car darted out at a roundabout when it wasn't the driver's turn, narrowly missing us.

A group of people crowded the sidewalk in front of a bus stop (there was no bus there) and the vast majority, who were non-Norwegians, parted ways. Two teenagers, facing a bit away, stood their ground and there was no way for me to pass.

There was no way they didn't see the rest of the people move, yet they didn't.

I said "Unnskyld" ("excuse me") several times, each time with a bit more volumne. Then loudly cleared my throat. Finally, I reached way over and poked one in the shoulder and said, in English, "Excuse me!" Both of them gave me a rotten looks and laconically ambled out of my way.

Then, six men, all ranging from about mid-20's to mid-40's, all seemingly healthy, pulled together and fit, went past me as I was struggling to get Elliot's stroller through the swinging door and up the five stairs into the elevator lobby.

Not one held the door and not one offered to give me a hand to lift the stroller up the stairs. These were not the neighborhood crackheads or even unkempt. These were businessmen who should have better manners.

But that's the problem, I'm not sure they did.

As I've written before, I have been warned that I am too polite.

I say "please" and "thank you" on a regular basis. I open door for people and have been known to offer assistance to women and their strollers. And a few weeks ago, I let two people cut in line at the grocery. Each had one item and I had fifty.

These are not commendable acts. They are just the right things to do.

Or so I have been raised.

Also this is not a trait unique to the Southern US where I grew up. I lived in New York City for almost a decade. It happens there, too.

And, while I am not terribly well-traveled, I have been a few places and have noticed these stranger-to-stranger kindnesses all over, even in France. Even when they knew I was an American in France.

Here not so much.

This is not to say that there are no kindnesses.

There are and there are many.

Just in recent history, Elliot's pediatrician kept the office open after hours to see us when I called and said I was worried about his cough. Colleagues of Husband's have made an effort to befriend me and make me feel welcome and acclimated. A fellow customer at Ultra about my age, bagged my groceries so I could pick up a howling Elliot and pay the cashier.

And, just a few days ago when Elliot decided to be rambunctious on the plane home from Alicante, a group of Norwegian grandmotherly sorts talked to himand the oldest one of them all, who had a smiling face akin to a dried up apple, made him laugh until he lost his mind.

But on the streets, no one will hold a door. And at the airline gate, the crowd of ticketed passengers will press to get to the front. And be warned, you should watch the hell out in the IKEA corridors.

Most of the time, I just accept it as a cultural difference and go along my merry(ish) way.

But today, on a grey yuck day, it just made everything worse.

After Elliot's visits with the nurse and the doctor, which was fun and hilarious, I was still feeling out of sorts (and it was only 10am).

Back in the waiting room, I was getting Elliot back into his warm clothes and was standing next to another mother, a Norwegian woman about my age, who was unbundling her young daughter. We started chatting a bit and it turned out that her baby was one day older and that we lived in the same neighborhood. She asked how I was doing and if I was a member of a baby group. And I had just enough time to say "yes" before she and her baby were called to their appointment. They headed off in the direction of the nurses room, but turned around long enough to say "Ha Det Bra," which is a salutation which means, "Have it Good."

And it made me cry.

*The star of "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." Fantastic classic children's book. No joke. If you don't know it, read it. If you do know it, read it again. His day wasn't so bad and neither was mine, really, in the big scheme of things, relatively speaking and all of that...but also, that doesn't make it good.

Swabbing Our Brains

Last week, on yet another visit to the doctor's office to check on the state of Elliot, we both took a test for the swine flu. We were both handed masks...

(Elliot's didn't fit. Also, face masks are hot. Not "hot" as in "looks great," clearly, but "hot" as in 9000 degrees and sweaty. Dang it.)

And put into a little room, sequestered from the rest of the patients.

(Look closely at the left end of the table. There are two glasses that look like party glasses...Maybe too celebrate if it's all okay?)

Then our dear doctor, who we love, came in and put instruments like this into each of our noses. And swabbed our brains.

(These are really bottle cleaners, but I promise they are pretty close to what did swab our brains.)

The tests came back and we're both fine, but Elliot is still not 100%, but he's getting better.

In Which I Explain the Price of Beauty in Norway

I've written about how much I love and miss mani/pedis (scroll down to Number 6), but also how they are mega expensive here, so they only happen for me when we go back to the states.

But, for my very first Mother's Day, Husband and Elliot went to the only place in town, Bare Clinic, and got me a gift certificate for the kind of mani/pedi I love, which means nothing too fancy, just the good, soaking, rubbing, scraping and painting.

First, my hands...the cuticles were trimmed and shaped, then my nails were clipped and filed and then painted.

Next I sat in a comfy chair, which reminded me of the ones in dentist offices, but without the bright lights, tray full of scary shiny instruments and an anticipation of imminent pain.  My feet soaked in a pan of hot soapy water and the polish was whisked off.  The sweet technician rubbed my feet and got every bit of calloused skin off.  Then she polished them properly, which is much more challenging than it looks.

And if it sounds like the sweet, sweet mani/pedi that I used to love...the one that can be had in every major American (and most non-major as well as non-American) city...the one that costs in the range of $17-50 depending on how swanky the venue...

That would be because it is the same.  

The process is similar and even the polish is OPI.  

The difference is that this mani/pedi cost 1490 kroner.* 

And, depending on the day and the exchange rate, that is about $231.  

I say this, not to necessarily share the cost of the present, but to illustrate a bit of the way things work here.

The pricing of these kinds of services are based on the time it takes to perform them.  

The manicure was the 60 minute mani which cost 700NOK ($108ish).  Husband could have chosen the 15 minute one, which is a polish change, or the 45 minute which is in between.  

It is the same with the pedicure. The lower end one is just a polish and the higher end one, which is what I had, takes 80 minutes and costs 790NOK ($122ish).

In comparison, check the price list for the waxing,* which is really when a skilled person smoothes hot wax over chosen and/or various hirsute body parts, covers the wax with linen strips and rips.  

It's pretty quick, or at least, if you're the one having it done, you hope it is.  

So the prices are pretty comparable to the US prices.

Also, the time it took for the mani/pedi (140 minutes) is approximately the same amount of time as it takes to cut and color my hair.  It is also about the same price.

The root of it all, in vastly oversimplified terms, is that everyone is paid a "living wage." Which also means that while a manicurist may not make the same wage as a CEO, proportionally, there is not the same massive difference that there is in the US.  

In related news, one also does not tip. 

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*Don't judge or think I'm spoiled.  I'm not, or if I am, it's only a little bit.  I was my very first Mother's Day, so my boys got me my very favorite thing.  It was the best present ever and I appreciated it like crazy.

*Go to XE, if you'd like to convert for yourself.

Cows and Feet (Or a Short Story Ending with Free Wine)

When I was a freshman in college, there was an older guy in our group of friends.  

You know the type.  

He was on his 42nd major, in his late 20s and liked to explicate the intricate symbolism and mystery in Bob Dylan lyrics.  Cigarettes were too banal, dipping was his choice of tobacco use, but it was strictly ironic.  

He also had an off-campus apartment and a valid driver's license. So of course, he was not only the key man for the purchase of many refreshments, his home was the location for many a shin-dig of sorts.

"Mi Casa es Su Casa!"

On one particular evening, the regular group gathered.  

We visited, sipping on our refreshments of choice.  The room was smoky from the cigarettes in every hand. The coffee table in the middle of the living room was slowly getting crowded with cups and cans.  

At some point, I put down my cup and eventually came back to retrieve it.

As I reached for it, think the slow motion that happens right before a car wreck.  

One friend from across the table said, "Nooooooooooooooooooo." Others just got wide-eyed.

Instead of my own refreshment cup, I grabbed the party host's dip cup.  

Instead of a cool cool sip of cheap beer, I had a giant gulp of tobacco'y warmth. 

It took me years to fully recover. 

At least I thought I had until about three days ago.  

In these parts, boxed wine is big.  And I don't mean the typical Riunite or Peach flavored Rose'.  I mean the pretty good stuff.  

Booze is so expensive* here that if you are the type that likes to have the occasional glass of wine with dinner,** often you get a box of really good wine. Then it doesn't go bad---as a bottle of wine might if it's not all consumed over the course of a day or two---because the spout reseals.

(In this house, we call it The Happy Box.)

But I don't know much about wine.  

I know what's good and what's bad.  I also know the particular kinds of grapes I tend to like, but that's about it. Also, my Norwegian vocabulary isn't so extensive that I can read the descriptions.

I tend to choose the Happy Boxes based on the box design.  

I like to assume if they cared enough about the design, then they cared about the wine.** Ridiculous perhaps, but it's always worked before.

Until last week.  

I choose Foot of Africa.  

I know, I know.  Why would I choose to drink anything that called itself foot?  Probably because I am constantly sleep-deprived and the box is red.  I like red.  Also, I like feet, particularly mine when they are rubbed by someone who is about to paint my toenails.

Whatever.  

When I took the first sip of it, I reverted back to my freshman year college self about five seconds after that fateful giant gulp.  

Foot of Africa does not taste like foot and it does not taste like Africa (as I may imagine either of them.)

About five seconds after it hits the tongue, it tastes like nothing less than strong strong tobacco, unlike anything I've experienced since that night.

We won't be finishing this particular Happy Box***.  

It's back to the cows of Argentina.

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*A basic every day bottle of okay wine is about 120NOK (about $19 by today's exchange rate). And it's much more for a bottle nice enough for a hostess gift or to pour at a dinner party. The boxes usually start at about 299NOK.  Foot of Africa was 350NOK, about $55 US.

**Yes, I realize that a person could also make the opposite argument, "They spent all the money on the box and none on the product." Though, that is not what I have found in my experience.

***Would you like it?  I am serious.  If you live in Stavanger and are a fan of wine with intense notes of tobacco, send me a note and you can have it. This will tell you about it, though you'll have to translate from Swedish.

 

A Short Story About Strollers and Babies in Them

This was taken yesterday. Notice Husband's hands on Elliot's stroller.

When we first arrived, Husband's work hired Tune (TOOOOOOOO-NAH) to help me get acclimated.  She drove me around, showed me around town and answered my questions about Norwegian life and culture.

As we wandered, I noticed that often people would walk into shops and cafes with their dogs, but leave their babies in the strollers parked outside. 

Why do you wonder?

"Occasionally dogs disappear, but the babies never do."

Goin' Back to Cali

It's been a busy few weeks.  

First I got on a plane last minute to head to Gainesvegas for my Nana.  After ten days there, I headed home.  

Three days after coming back to Stavanger, Husband signed a new contract keeping us here until the end of next year.  

So that evening we bought tickets to California  and took off the next morning to see his family for Thanksgiving.

We've been back for three days, but I still don't have my head around the correct time zone...

In the meantime, here's a few glimpses into the big fun in California.   

We flew into San Francisco and spent one night passed out in our hotel, wiped from the time difference.  The second night we met up with dear Andrea for some seafood.  Husband ordered crab.  The waiter came over and tied this giant bib around Husband's neck.  It was so dramatic and flourish-y that we couldn't quite tell if the waiter was overly serious or totally kidding.  Either way, it was awesome. 

Andrea did not need a bib.

The next day we were off to Roseville (right outside of Sacramento) for Thanksgiving with the Durel fam.  (Yes, those are collard greens on my plate.  The only thing that could have made me happier would have been fried turkey.) 

This was the grown-up's table.  Husband, me, Jim, Belva, Grandma Margie, Tim. Contrary to the fact that Jim is wearing the apron, Tim was the super-chef. 

Grandma Margie has spent the past few months cross-stitching our names and wedding date, then had it framed.  We love it.  Not only is it really lovely, but the effort and thoughtfulness behind it make it even better.

Then a few nights later, we all went for pizza and bowling. (Matt, Audrey, Tim and Joe) Audrey is grinning because her pizza and beer was like rocket fuel and she knew that in a very short time, she'd be smokin' all of us.

Sweet Joe is consoling Husband as he laments the fact that bowling shoes, while updated from the traditional brown and red lace-ups, still fail to meet his sartorial standards.

Belva promises she has no idea how to fix the electronic scoreboard, but for them, she would if she could. 

This was my actual birthday, so I brought cupcakes and blew out a candle, too.  

Yep, just because I am knocked up, doesn't mean I can't knock them down.  (Which I really didn't all that often.  The ball was the lightest one in the whole alley and I wasn't throwing very hard. But still I wasn't dead last, so that's something.)

Husband has mad skills.  Check those moves, too. 

The whole crew.

Then Matthew practiced the art of paparazzi.

But then I caught him catching everyone else.

The next day, we headed back to San Francisco for a night with Andrea and Deena.  Andrea, always the best hostess, guide and font of limitless information gave us a tour of the city as it spread out before us. 

Deena had to work a bit late and met us at Foreign Cinema, where they hosted us at one of the best birthday dinners, ever.  (Plus I was sitting between two of my favorite smarties.  Husband was to my left and this guy was to my right.)  Seriously, if you ever get a chance, be friends with Deena and Andrea (or even just one, if that is all you can manage.) They know good food and wine.  And they are better fun that a barrel of monkeys. 

I forget whether Deena is trying to count how many glasses of wine she's had or is vainly trying to demonstrate "L" for left. Husband is smiling because he knows the answer to both questions. 

All of us, courtesy of Andrea.

Happy birthday to me!  Notice the yummy swanky cake.  It was chocolate, chocolate and oh so good.  (It was soooooooo good, I actually carried the last three pieces alllllllll the way home with me.) And of course, Andrea hunts down the best place in the city for the cake.  

It's always an event with these two. How lucky are we?

Then the next morning, I got cleaned up in the world's tallest shower and we headed home.