EKinDK

Garden of Eden

2009-07-28T12:54:00.001-07:00

Musical Genius

2009-07-28T00:41:00.001-07:00

In no way should the following videos be considered as official audition submissions to Juilliard or any other music conservatory, which are forthcoming as per editing of the optional Viking interpretive folk dance montage. Thank you.

Sometimes the Truth Hurts

2009-01-22T07:05:00.001-08:00

And sometimes it's just super funny:

(Thanks, Krista Jean!)

A Very Bad Man

2009-01-19T01:14:00.000-08:00

I've been reading the scores of online reports about what's going on in Washington D.C. right now, and even all the way over here in my little Danish fishing town, the excitement is inescapable. It's bubbling under my skin. Wow, what an era! I'm still choked up by the fact that Obama gave a speech yesterday on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, with the steady stone eyes of Honest Abe himself staring down on the 44th president. Obama will move into the White House shortly with his wife, Michelle, and their two daughters. Michelle's great-great grandfather was a slave in South Carolina, and the White House and the Capitol Building were built in part by slaves. Anyone who is even a little bit knowledgeable of the United States' dreadful slavery story has got to feel the enormity of these circumstances. But it's not all about the slavery connection -- Obama is simply the best person for the job right now. The coming year or so will certainly suck, likely getting worse before it gets better, but I believe he can do it, and he will do it. He's not a magician, but the optimism and hope that Americans feel right now is infectious, unusual and real.

Not everyone seems to feel this way. I know someone, someone I like very much, who told her young children that Obama is "a very bad man." She supported McCain and especially wanted to see a woman (Palin) in the White House, and so maybe she muttered this as sour grapes right after the election. I've been thinking about this story frequently over the past several weeks. I'm trying to understand what it is about Obama that could make someone feel that he's a bad man. He's got it all going on -- unbeatably smart, witty, relaxed, real, compassionate, empathetic, committed, direct, extremely ethical, and he always speaks in complete sentences. I understand that to some people the fact that he's not white is deeply unsettling, but I don't think that's the case about this person who told her children that he's a very bad man. Is it because he's going to ask the wealthy to share their wealth a little bit more? I'm extremely embarrassed by the greed that's growing and getting fatter on all levels of American society these days, but I don't think this is what it's about either.

The fact, not just my opinion, is that Obama is a very GOOD man. He has sought and is now taking this job -- and what a horrible job it's got to be -- for the right reasons, and it breaks my heart to think of kids seeing him and feeling fear. I hope that by the time they're in school and learning for themselves, they'll see the bigger picture of what he's signed on to do, and the very good results from his labors.

GOBAMA.

I Could Nibble These Toes All Day Long

2008-12-20T11:53:00.001-08:00

William is now eight months old. EIGHT MONTHS. He's practically ancient. Then why is it that sometimes I'll look down at his crusty little pureed pear-laden cheeks and think, "Oh my god. I have a BABY!!! When did THIS happen?? And HOW??" And when will that feeling end? By the time he's twelve? Twenty-three? Never? He's just so wonderful, even when he spits nasty strawberry-flavored amoxycillin back at me. (I wouldn't want to touch that stuff either, kid.) His last weigh-in was two days ago, and he's 11 kilos (24.25 lbs) and 77 centimeters (30.3 inches) long. Big boy indeed. Sometimes he feels like a heavy, noisy purse. But much sweeter.

What a Day...

2008-12-14T13:22:00.000-08:00

Oh, hello!

Yes, I'm still here. We're all doing very fine, just a little busy is all. Soooo... Yeah! I'm still blogging, although primarily in my head these days. I mental-blog about all kinds of things -- well worth the price of a subscription -- and I take the most fantastic mental-pictures you've ever seen. But, today something happened that I simply must share, and the story ends with a wonderful moral.

Here in Denmark, there is something called hygge. Hygge does not have a direct translation, but the closest to it is "cozyness." Kind of. Anyhow, it is the OFFICIAL passion, mindset and mode of all Danes. It is because of hygge that we have lit candles in banks, shops, bus stations and even schools during the dark months, to bring that certain happy cozyness to our Danish lives. And at Christmas, there is an even more intense level of hygge, and it is called julehygge. This means "Christmas cozyness," and today we were invited to our friend Rikke's parents' house for some scrumptious julehygge -- specifically æbleskiver (homemade fried dough balls with jam and powdered sugar) and gløg (mulled wine with almonds and raisins). Also, Rikke's dad has grown a nice little patch of Christmas trees to which we could help ourselves to the best darn tree our grabby little hands could saw down. As this is William's first Christmas, the yuletide thrill has been ratcheted up a bit, so today was to be very exciting.

And it was! Rikke and her husband Gert, Jorunn and Jeppe, and Bo and Randi and all of our assorted tykes piled into our cars and caravanned to Rikke's folks' place. It looked like a snow sky (but without the snow) and we sang Christmas songs as we talked about where to put the tree in our new apartment. 'Twas cozyness defined. We even threw Bella in the back of our car so she could taste a bit of the excitement.

Our motorcade arrived in the late afternoon, and we all popped out into the crisp air. Christmas! Yay! Good cheer! Love! Cinnamon! Pine needles! Yippee! As we congregated in the driveway, Don whispered to me, "Don't look over there. Just don't."

"Why not?"

"Just. Just don't. Okay?"

"Okay."

There was something under a big black garbage bag on the ground. I saw a hoof sticking out of one end, and when I got closed, I saw Bambi's nose. Aw. Rikke's dad must not be a fan of deer hopping around happily in fields. :( Oh well. Let's get a good tree!!!

Rikke, a huge dog lover, told Don it was okay to let Bella out of the back of the car.

"It's okay, Don -- she can't do anything. And she can't run away. It's all fenced in."

"Uh. Naw, it's okay. She likes sitting in the back of the car."

"Come on, let her out. It's okay!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! There's no problem! You can't let her stay back there!" Rikke was right -- Bella would be very uncozy all by herself.

While Don was having this conversation, William and I were over admiring the chickens in a nice big pen that Rikke's dad had made. Our tree party was making its way over to the thicket of hardy pines beyond the chickens, and Don came down the path with Bella.

The chickens started to FREAK OUT.

"Rikke, don't you think the birds will, uh, be uncomfortable with Bella around?"

Bella's jaws were a saliva waterfall as she squealed through the chicken wire.

"No, no -- they're fine! Bella's fine! Don't worry, Erin! You're too worried!"

Don, my sweet darling pot-stirrer, agreed.

"Yeah, she's fine!" Don was giggling. A bad sign.

"Don't let her spook them, Don. I'm serious. Look at her. She's going to put her paw through that wire..."

"Come on! Relax, Erin! Let's go get a tree!" Rikke called. "There's no problem!"

Bella was up on her hind legs, front paws rattling the chicken coop. The birds were twittering and clucking frantically. Why was her leash off?

CRASH!!!!!!!!!

A blur of orange fur and feathers was all I saw. How that dog moved that fast I cannot figure out but she managed to corner about three chickens and a pheasant (yes, he kept pheasants in there, too) and with me screeching "DONDONDONDONDONDONDONDONDONDON!!!!!" and trying to get the stupid gate shut (how Don and I wound up in the pen I don't recall) so all of the chickens and pheasants wouldn't run out into the Christmas trees... It was terrible. And at the end of those two seconds, Mrs. Pheasant's neck wound up snapped in the jaws of the horrible wolf-monster from America.

And so Mrs. Pheasant died.

Ugh. Oh my god. Um...

I turned around to see Bo and Jeppe laughing, Rikke telling me it was okay (her dog did the same thing not too long ago), Don trying to shake a dead pheasant from Bella's smiling locked jaws while trying not to laugh too hard, and Jorunn, completely horrified, who was holding a sobbing William (probably from me completely freaking out and shouting at Don).

Mortification was I.

You have to understand that, except for bacon, I've spent many adult years not eating meat all that often, if at all. (Bacon is not murder. Bacon is heaven.) I just can't stand thinking about killing animals. Sadly, I am that much of a softy. I couldn't even make it across a parking lot of a slaughterhouse. So to see my little doggie cracking the neck of this beautiful bird in one sweeping lunge... Blech. Not good.

And what to say to Rikke's dad? I mean, was this a prize-winning bird? Was this his pet? And what of Mr. Pheasant? Such a lonely Christmas for him! I was so rattled by it all that I just kept apologizing to him over and over in Danish and English. Rikke's brother-in-law laughed and said, "ah, well, yes, but sheet heppens." Rikke's dad just laughed and shrugged his shoulders. Another day, another dead bird. Saved him rounding her up himself.

Soon thereafter, I saw the old gal hanging from a hook in the carport, next to the gutted deer and another bird of some sort. I tried to not be bothered by it all, but it felt a little odd being invited to this nice cozy house by these incredibly warm and kind people to come take one of their trees and eat yummy snacks with them around their table while my monster dog attacked their livestock. As I sat at the table, Don looked at me and laughed a few times. I felt terrible, like I had BIRD MURDERER scrawled across my forehead in pheasant blood.

But, we got an awesome tree. As I'm typing this right now, Bella is asleep at the foot of it, spread over her giant dog bed, dreaming of catching more skittery clucky things as she dozes.

And the moral of the story is a dead bird in the carport is worth a gorgeous Christmas tree in the living room. Sad, but true.

(With regrets to Mrs. Pheasant, wherever you are, for stealing your hygge...)

Paradise Found

2008-10-06T02:17:00.000-07:00

I was born and raised on a little dot in the middle of the Pacific Ocean called Oahu, one of the Hawaiian Islands. You can be sure that Honolulu, Hawaii is about as different from ol' Sønderborg, Denmark in most every possible way, so imagine my delight when I found this beauty for sale in the grocery store for 6 bucks last week...

The hibiscus is the state flower of Hawaii, and bushes of them ringed my elementary school when I was a kid. Us gals -- keiki wahine -- tucked the blossoms behind our ears and threw the yucky dead flower buds at cute boys whom we hoped to marry someday. So how could I resist buying it? It transports me just about every time its catches my eye, perched on a window sill overlooking the Danish sea.

"Atticus says it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."

2008-10-06T01:25:00.000-07:00

I'm proud to announce that any of you Danish residents out there can now legally name your child (or yourself, for that matter) the fine name of Atticus. As of last week, we've made a little Danish history by getting that name on the books of the ol' Ministry of Names for Sir You Know Who, who has now officially added that to his collection of wonderful middle names. Yippee!!!

And as it's been embarrassingly long, here's the latest on the tyke: TWO teeth, bottom middle. (I am THRILLED that breast-feeding is a thing of the past.) They are SHARP, and dude has STRONG jaws. Put your finger in his mouth at your own risk. He's probably a few weeks away from crawling (yikes), and he spends quite a bit of time these days turning himself in circles on the ground. Sleep is still something of a far-away fantasy as he strongly requests bottles at around 2am, or 3am. Or 4am or later. Or sometimes all of the above. Also, he has very recently discovered the joys of random spine-jangling screaming. It's quite a treat. Still, he's quite a guy, so jolly and happy, and he's got the most expressive eyebrows ever.

Pureed peas? Yeah, um, not so much, Mommy.

And They're Off...

2008-09-14T12:22:00.000-07:00

I know this is all over the ol' interwebs, but I feel downright compelled to fry up my own tasty little slice of it here on Ye Olde Blog:

It's plain marvelous.

My Merry Mozartian Music Maker

2008-09-14T01:01:00.000-07:00

This is Sunday morning at our house, when Daddy and Doggie are still asleep...

How does he make it look so easy?

2008-09-04T23:35:00.000-07:00

Because... Well... It is.

Brilliant, no matter what your political leaning is.

(I ♥ Jon Stewart!!! Glib smirks and all!!!!)

Vi Lær Dansk!

2008-09-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, Don and I dutifully pack ourselves off to Danish class. Largely sponsored by the Danish government, these courses are available to every new immigrant to the promised land (for a small fee). You have three years to take advantage of the language classes, and after that, you're on your own. I don't know why I'm always surprised by how many newcomers actually make the conscious decision to not learn Danish, but instead choose to just hobble along with English or German (something that isn't totally far-fetched, but still).

I used to loathe these classes, and Don would have to bribe me with chocolate or beer or the promise to fold an entire mountain of clean laundry. Now, I look forward to them, mainly because I've grown fascinated with the lives of my classmates. Living in a land where you don't understand anything on TV (except for the fifty-billionth episode of "Friends") makes you look elsewhere for dramatic characters.

Simply put, our class is fabulous. These people are so interesting, and their backgrounds and personalities blow Ross, Rachel and Chandler out of the water. Two weeks ago, I scanned the class and wrote down who was in attendance that night:

2 Mexican software engineers
1 Chinese engineer
3 Brazilian engineers
1 German technical designer
1 Afghan secretary
2 Polish machinists
1 American trombone player
1 American teacher
1 Chinese student/hotel housekeeper
1 Filipina au pair
2 Ukrainian engineers
1 New Zealander university lecturer
1 German slaughterhouse inspector
1 Lithuanian student

I mean, you can't make this up, right? Our class seems to be mutating, and last night we had even more people than before. Break time is the most fascinating time to me. Some folks dash outside to suck down cigarettes (including our teacher), but those who stay in the classroom tend to be chatterboxes who love to ask about each other's deals (like me). One night I egged on the two guys from Mexico to tell us what kind of Mexican food they cooked here, and they described it in mouth-watering, almost cruel detail. (Have I mentioned before 1. how much I miss Mexican food and 2. how bland and unremarkable Danish food is?) I was practically writhing in my seat when they told about making molé from scratch with chiles and chocolate carried over here from Mexico by one of their mothers. Aye yay yay caramba. The Lithuanian student was transfixed; I'm pretty sure she'd never heard about food like this before. The Afghan secretary (who works in Germany nearby) has a terrible gorgeous shoe addiction, and the Filipina nanny thinks the Chinese engineer should marry her Danish boyfriend right away and have children and WHAT is taking them so long? Last night a newcomer, a muscled Israeli dude with a shaved head, was flirting so amorously with the shy Brazilian engineer that her cheeks were like embers. (She did not seem one bit displeased.)

What's amazing to me is that ALL of these people speak pretty dingdang perfect English. When a Danish word comes up that we can't figure out, it's always defined in English; any explanatory discussion happens in English. Just about all of them pack Danish-English dictionaries, which I suppose makes sense as I have yet to see a Danish-Tagalog version for sale. Right now, we're in module #2 of a six-module program, and an exam will greet us sometime soon, (hopefully) promoting us to module #3. I'll keep you posted on how things go...

Who's a Sassy Jumper???

2008-09-02T13:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening...

And twenty minutes later...

In the Navy

2008-08-19T07:19:00.001-07:00

So, this afternoon, I washed about 98,429,713 bottles. By hand. On completion of the rather gargantuan task, I stepped back, looked at my work, and said, "Well, all right!"

And then, at that moment, a marching band started playing outside of my window.

But it wasn't for me.

Looks like the Danish navy has pulled in for a little Tuesday whoop-de-woo! Welcome to town, fellas! They're playing "Rock Around the Clock" as I type this.

(Nice August afternoon we're having, huh?)

Hello! My Name Is [UNAPPROVED]!

2008-08-19T01:07:00.000-07:00

On my to-do list for today is, "Find form to change William's name." Yes, we have to legally get his name changed, because round about four months ago when I attempted to register him at our town hall, I was told no, sorry, you cannot name him those names which you and your husband have lovingly and effortfully searched the corners of your minds and memories for because, you see, one of them -- Atticus -- simply does not exist on the approved list of Danish names as per the Order of the Ministry of Names.

Ummmm... I see. What?

(And of course I immediately flashed back to Monty Python's Ministry of Funny Walks, not too far a leap.)

After doing the "ha, ha, you're joking...right?" laugh, I actually whipped out this line: "But, but -- I'm an American citizen! He's an American citizen! How... But...? It's a... But... from a very famous book! A classic! The character is... This can't... Uh?"

'Tis true. Here in the Land of Many Orderly Rules, you cannot name your kid whatever you want; it actually must be on the approved list of names. (I'm not joking, once again.) This is to prevent Danish residents from naming their child Badonkdonk or Frying Pan or Zqxrefff8dskil. (Because that would be disorderly.) I recall staring into the clerk's face very intently, waiting for her to tell me she was kidding, or at least to give me some advice or comprehension or even a tiny spoonful of solace. I must have made her the slightest bit uncomfortable as she hesitantly told me that I could, if I really wanted to, appeal my case to the Ministry of Names, explaining why we'd chosen this name and why it's actually not in the least bit ridiculous or offensive and perhaps William's wonderful middle name would be approved. In three to four months. Maybe. Good day.

This is an excerpt from an excellent article in the International Herald Tribune (http://www.iht.com/articles/2004/10/08/news/danes.php):

In Denmark, a country that embraces rules with the same gusto that Italy defies them, choosing a first and last name for a child is a serious, multitiered affair, governed by law and subject to the approval of the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs and the Ministry of Family and Consumer Affairs.

At its heart, the Law on Personal Names is designed to protect Denmark's innocents - the children who are undeservedly, some would say cruelly, burdened by preposterous or silly names. It is the state's view that children should not suffer ridicule and abuse because of their parents' lapses in judgment or their misguided attempts to be hip. Denmark, like much of Scandinavia, prizes sameness, not uniqueness, just as it values usefulness, not frivolousness.

"You shouldn't stand out from anyone else here; you shouldn't think you are better than anyone else," said Lan Tan, a 27-year-old Danish woman of Singaporean and Malaysian descent who is trying to win approval for her daughter's name, Frida Mei Tan-Farndsen. "It's very Scandinavian."

Greg Nagan, 39, and Trine Kammer, 32, thought it would be cute to name their new daughter Molli Malou. To their surprise, Malou was not a problem, but Molli with an i, which they had thought sounded Danish, had to be reviewed by the government.

The church told Kammer she needed to state in a letter the reason for choosing Molli. She did so, and said she told the clerk, "Here's your stupid letter: The reason for naming her Molli is because we like it."

"Isn't this silly?" Kammer said. "We love to make everything a rule here. They love to bureaucratize."

I guess this is a great example of taking intrinsic freedoms for granted. I grew up in a pretty free (sometimes too free) country, and now I live somewhere where I can't even call my child what I feel is best without running it past some harrumphy old Ministry. On the other hand, I also live in a country where virtually no one can own or carry a gun; I really like that. Give and take, I suppose. And so I'm off to our kommune (town hall) for a form to submit to get his name changed, a new birth certificate, and then we'll apply to have his passport amended. All for a hefty fee, of course.

Some Banana-Pear-Rice Cereal

2008-08-17T13:29:00.000-07:00

Back to Work

2008-08-16T01:26:00.000-07:00

This past week, I started my new job as a part-time teacher at the school where I subbed last year. It's a very small private school where all classes are taught in English. It shouldn't be such a big deal, but 1) I have a four-month-old baby whom I have to say goodbye to most mornings of the week, and 2) I haven't had a job in TWO WHOLE YEARS, something that hasn't been the case since I was 14. Oh, if I had a buck for everytime I fantasized about not having a job over the years... Frankly, it kinda sucked. I never had the "yay! it's FRIIIIIDAAAAAY!!!!" feeling, because everyday was a Friday, every morning was Sunday morning. Nebulous. Structure is a mighty good thing to have in your life, and I've sure missed it these past two years.

But now, it's back, in force. Not only do I have to organize my own structure, but I also must push and pull 20 middle-schoolers along with me for eight hours each week, in and around the magical kingdoms of English and History. Curiously, not many 13-year-olds are naturally and intrinsically overjoyed to do so, but I'm up for the challenge. I kicked off my classes by creating a charter of sorts, asking the kids to ponder for a few minutes what traits make for an effective teacher, and what makes for an effective student. Kind of big ideas for the pre-teen set, I know, but I wanted to see where it would go. The youngest kid in the class is 8, and the oldest is 14. (Yep, it's a multi-age, multi-level classroom. You can see how my mind boggles, right?)

They took the task quite seriously. After mulling over and jotting down what they thought were the most important attributes in teachers and students in order to make for a really great classroom, this is what they came up with (click on the photo to see a larger version):

How relieved am I to have just barely made that age cut-off. WHEW!

Catching All Y'all Up

2008-08-08T02:55:00.000-07:00

We've been on the road for most of the past two months -- Seattle, Honolulu, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Tucson, Portland -- and that's meant TEN flights for us and young William. I've been asked so many times, "How did he do flying?" which is usually accompanied by a somewhat nervous facial expression. Simply put, he did beautifully, far better than we'd expected. Part of the great thing about flying SAS is that when you tell them you're flying with a baby, they seat you in the bulkhead, and then two smiling flight attendants bring out a little baby bed that screws right into the wall in front of you. Voila -- fresh crib linens are whisked into place, baby toys and spare diapers are lovingly placed into your hands as your infant is fawned over by the flight crew. Pretty dang nice. And not having to hold a baby in your arms for nine hours is also a major treat. Flying to Seattle was a dream (he slept the entire trip), although our seat-mates flying back to Copenhagen were a rather jangled pair of parents and their even more jangled 9-month-old who shrieked the loudest, most eardrum-bleedingest shrieks from out of nowhere the entire journey (when not tumbling right out of the bed itself). This occurred about every 30-60 minutes, and poor little William did NOT care for it one bit, opting to demonstrate his displeasure by crying. And for any of you who have had the rare misfortune of seeing him cry, well, you know that that's some mighty sad business all right. It was definitely not the funnest time of our lives, but so it went. For nine hours...

It was such a fabulous summer all around, and now it's time to get serious and all worky again... BAH HUMBUG!

Literally...

2008-08-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

I've had a wonderfully literal summer. Not much figurative about it, just loads and loads of very tangible, real, in-your-face joy and relaxation. I've literally gained a few very real pounds (oooh...margaritas AND onion rings!), and I've ticked away innumerable hours laughing and gabbing with some of the best friends ever invented, and I really did cut off all my ratty long hair (which had somehow become a baby stabilizer... OW!). Perhaps the most literal moment of all came when I remembered (poolside in Honolulu) that we left our Danish apartment having forgotten one terribly important thing: To empty the diaper bucket. And, so it sat. Packed. Full. For seven weeks. It appeared that our Bella-sitters did not quite see fit to empty (go near?) it. Guess whose attending it fell upon returning home?

It. Was. Tremendous.

Literally.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????

2008-08-02T13:10:00.000-07:00

So... May. Like, LAST MAY. MAN. Like, WHAT IS UP WITH THE POKEY POSTS? Well, I'm sorry, everybody. I guess my mommy is all BUSY or something. Diapers and stuff, you know. Bottles. LOTS of bottles. And holding me, and talking to me, and smoothing my hair and nibbling my toes and purring in my ears to make me giggle and making weird cross-eyed googoo faces at me and stuff. Whatevs. She's a little nutsy about this mama business, so I guess she's not super into blogging these days. Apologies, guys, for reals. Clearly I have to do everything around here. But, here are some mad cute snaps of ME! ME! ME! to tide the frenzied masses over until she joins the living again... More soon!

Introducing...ME!!!!!

2008-05-13T01:46:00.000-07:00

Um, hello, everyone. I'm here!

I'm still working on the open-eye thing -- takes practice -- but rest assured that I am SUPER, SUPER CUTE. I hear it ALL of the time, but it hasn't gotten totally old yet. Yeah, so, uh, I'm doing great! I'm really healthy, and other than being an oral stapler on my mommy's breasts, my hobbies are sleeping, eating, saying "nuh, nuh" and crossing my eyes. Crying is kind of a drag, but I'll do it when you-know-who is slow with the chow, know what I mean?

Speaking of the you-know-whos, they're doing great, too! Of course, I kind of tire them out, them being all old and stuff, not quite as rockin' and rollin' as me and all. Still, they are standing upright with their eyes (mostly) open, although Daddy is working some pretty funny hairstyles and Mommy hasn't worn make up in a very long time. They're not finishing many sentences these days, which is fine by me as that allows more airtime during which one can relax and enjoy my heavenly coos. (I am a beautiful singer, have I mentioned that?) Mormor ("mother's mother") just left after visiting and helping out for a couple of weeks. I sure miss her holding me and talking to me. She is a very good conversationalist, and she understands everything I tell her.

So, yeah -- to sum up, I'm shockingly adorable, uniquely talented, super fit, intellectually earnest AND I can kick and punch the air like nobody's business. Stay tuned for more info about me, and please forgive Mommy for not posting for so long. Gotta keep her running, you know.

Love,
William Atticus Kaser Immel
born April 16, 2008

Eviction Notice

2008-04-13T11:31:00.000-07:00

So.

Tomorrow, I'm going to meet my son. I haven't worked out yet what I'm going to say, but I plan to sing him "Happy Birthday" at some point. Feels appropriate, although I doubt I'll have a cupcake on me. (But I might.)

April 14th marks sixteen days of ghastly tardiness, something I hope my father-in-law will forgive someday. The kid's a pokey puppy, what can I say? I'm taking this as an indicator that my uterus is a uniquely comfortable and aesthetically pleasing place. Too bad he's getting the big eviction notice in the morning. I am, of course, beyond nervous, but after hauling around this 40-pound feedbag (yes, I said it, Shannon) for months, it's time to get the party started.

We had a bunch of tests done last Friday, where they confirmed that he's a big boy -- almost ten blessed pounds. Eesh. Starting with an ultrasound given by a technician who could easily have second career as Reba McEntire's stand-in (EXACT TWIN, I'm telling you), we wrapped things up after a meeting with an obstetrician who not just looked like, but WAS Howard Stern. Like, down to the hair and glasses and Adam's apple. (He's a German doctor who practiced for years in Italy but now works in Denmark and is practicing his French for his Mediterranean vacation next week, speaking to us in rusty English. I'm pretty sure he was an obstetrician; he kept pointing to the most gigantic poster illustrating the birth canal when searching for just the right English word.)

It's standard practice in Denmark to induce after being two weeks overdue, so we're back for the big blast-off in the morning. Let's just hope we won't be too affected by the midwife/healthcare worker strike that's set to start Wednesday across Denmark. (No, I'm not joking.)

NO BAYBAY YET

2008-04-05T09:49:00.001-07:00

Although I hear that things get a lot noisier, smellier and tireder once Junior arrives, I'm still extremely impatient right now. He's technically not overdue, as due dates are just an estimate, but at one week past when were told that he'd be here, well... I'm learning patience. By the minute. I want to meet him so badly, to see him look at us for the first time and blink at the bright lights in confusion. Of course, having pizza, chips and apple juice delivered to him in his own room all of the time probably makes it pretty hard to leave. He'll be here soon, Don keeps telling me. "Enjoy this time (where you can't touch your feet or walk normally or sleep through the night or stand up without grunting) now!" So I'm trying to do that, to relish the quiet and the calm...

Leave

2008-03-27T07:06:00.000-07:00

All this waiting business has made me downright feisty, and when I feel feisty, I can get political. Let's do a little comparison, shall we?

(General Disclaimer: I know, I know -- it's totally unfair to compare the U.S. and Denmark in many ways. The current U.S. population is just over 300 million, while Denmark clocks in at five and a half million. Still.)

One thing that continues to blow my mind on a second-to-second basis is how these two countries address parental leave. Of course it all comes down to money, but there just has to be more to it than that. There has to be. Our friends here ask us about the American practices all of the time, and I'm starting to think it's because they just can't believe it, so they keep asking, even though they can repeat what we're going to say along with us. From what I've researched, here is what each nation offers:

U.S.A.
Parental leave, while mandated (kind of) by the government, is administered by one's employer. Mothers are legally entitled to 6 weeks of paid leave at the birth (or adoption) of a child, and she is legally entitled to 6 more weeks of unpaid leave after the initial 6 weeks, should she choose it. If she opts to take more leave at this point, her employer is legally allowed to terminate her and open up the position for interviews. Fathers are legally entitled to no parental leave, although employers encourage fathers to save up and use vacation leave for such an event. Some employers opt to allow for some paternity leave, e.g. the day the child is born, or perhaps the first week. (This is elective, and fairly uncommon.)

Denmark
Parental leave is mandated by the government, and is broken down like this:
Maternity leave......90 days
Paternity leave.......10 days
Parental leave......160 days (to be divided by the parents as they see fit)
TOTAL.................260 days
(Incidentally, these are WORK DAYS, so not counting weekends, this cracks up to be a full year.) (And they are WITH pay.) Also, employers are not allowed to count already allotted vacation time and holidays as part of this leave time; in other words, it's completely separate from the good stuff.

As of April 1st, 2008, the Danish government is changing the paternity leave allotment from two weeks to six weeks. (Sometimes I think I'm going to wake up and find out that you'll also get a brand new car and a 20,000 kroner gift card to Ikea. And that is starting to be a not totally ridiculous idea.)

Isn't this a freaking trip?

At the moment, I'm too tired to start swimming in the ocean of "why is this so?" I'm off to take a nap, but will dream of the possibilities. And that Ikea gift card.

(Oh, yeah: And Don is reminding me that I'm supposed to tell you that I have to keep my legs tightly crossed until April 1st at 12:01am. SIGH. The things I do for this guy...)

Whack-a-Baby-Tootsie

2008-03-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

One of my new evening activities that I've come to relish is sitting quietly on the sofa and waiting for Thud's foot to surface somewhere within my abdomen. It's usually on my right side, but these little pokers of his pop up anywhere. (Lately they've been exploring my rib cage. Like, inside of it.) I push down on the foot and -- BLOOP -- it's gone. And then, about five seconds later, it reappears somewhere else, like on my lower left side or right in the middle of my tummy. It's very quiet and lovely and has a wonderfully peaceful quality to it, and it also feels a little like tai chi whack-a-mole (my favorite arcade game for eons). Poke. Press. Submerge. Poke. Press. Submerge. I could do this for hours, I tell you...

MOOOOONNNSTERRRRRRR TRUUUUUCKSSSS!!!!!!!

2008-03-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

Yep, we got 'em here, too! This deep-rooted attraction to big mechanical things that go vroom-vrooom and bang-smash knows no international borders. Don had told me a monster truck show was coming to town, but I didn't quite believe him. I mean...??? So, on Saturday, when I heard the revving motors and squealing tires in the morning (apparently rehearsing for the big show in the afternoon), I wanted to see for myself, so we walked Bella over to the "stadion," a big field that hosts things like the circus, rock concerts, summer festivals and, yes, MONNNNNNSTERRRR TRUUUCKSSSSSS!!!!!

It was VERY cold that day, and yet a good hundred twenty Danes crammed into some pretty small bleachers to watch the chainsaws zip up and down the circuit (which was about a hundred yards long), trucks AND motorcycles. There was mariachi music (DUH) blaring over the loudspeakers, a wicked throwback to my days in Nogales...

The security fella was none too happy about my picture-taking, and I think I was about to get the bum rush after another few seconds had I not scooted my large self away from the ticket booth right then and there. A hugely pregnant woman toddling around with her camera at the entrance to a monster truck show is immediate concern for a security breach, I've come to observe. Don did experience some initial worry that there might be some false advertising going on, as he could not immediately locate Freak Out or Iron Horse (note the poster in front), but was much assuaged to eventually spot both hulking vehicles, probably hidden away for the grand finale. I wish I could have really gotten in there to take some pictures of the audience, as they were the most sober and non-yeehaw lot I've ever seen. I wanted to lead them in a rousing chorus of "WOO HOOS!!!" and "HELL YEAHS!!" this town had ever seen, but it was not to be.

And now the show has pulled out of town until next spring, just in time for Thud's first birthday. Rev on, Iron Horse. Freak on, Freak Out. O, but we hardly knew ye.

HAPPY EASTER!!!

2008-03-24T04:53:00.000-07:00

Though the Easter Bunny did not bring us a baby in our basket, everything is still just duckie around here...

Pretty Nails

2008-03-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

We are, as I like to say, locked and loaded. The countdown-o-meter shows EIGHT! MORE! DAYS!, but I'll believe it when I see it. I keep warning The Kid that he should really be packing his bags because eviction is no walk in the park for anybody, and to not get too terribly cozy in there. He kicks, and I presume it's a foot, and not a fervently raised middle finger.

In an effort to keep myself off of the pregnancy troll side of things, I've been planning for days now to paint my toenails a festive shade of "Hot Stuff!" or "Berry Gorgeous!" or "Indian Sunrise" or some such nail lacquer poetic nonsense. I say "planning" because, folks, this act takes preparation. I had to actually think my way through it for a bit. What would my positioning be? On the floor? Foot on the ottoman? Coffee table? Two chairs? How would I file these nasty buggers first? (The clipping had taken place last week. With long-handled tree trimmers. There were sparks and perhaps a bit of lingering smoke.) The coordination was endless, but today, Good Friday, seemed as good a day as any.

Filing was a little rough; I noticed an uptick in my breath, but the job was humanly doable. (And without an electric sander, thank you.) I chose a nice generic shade of red, shaking the bottle for a few minutes as I pondered my next step. For those of the female (or pedicure-positive) persuasion, you know the size of the brushes which reside in these bottles. I believe they qualify as officially "teensy." As I measured up what appeared to be a toothpick with some eyelashes stuck to the end, I knew my goal was lofty, but I dug in. Big toes are the easiest, the most approachable target on the whole row. Bullseye! Twisted so as my belly contorted to the left, I made a shaky series of scarlett stripes, holding my breath as I finished my first toe. Hooray! The successive toenails proved far more elusive, each one getting smaller that the one before. I changed positions often, grunting every other toe or so, until I hit on the fantastic idea that I should just do my best to paint AROUND the whole nail, then fill in the middle. This method, while wasteful (using 2-3 times more polish than the nail actually requires), exceeded all of my prior attempts to paint the whole nail within the edges, knowing I could go back later and sponge up the excess. It truly felt like I was dunking a string mop into a bucket of red paint and dabbing the drippy thing relatively close to the intended location. Still, it worked. They are now exactly as I imagine Mrs. Bozo the Clown's feet look -- cheery AND cherry.

I am pregnant woman. Hear me paint my toenails.

(Sorry no photo -- they are still rather Hobbitish all around...)

Labor & Delivery Pain Management

2008-03-17T02:11:00.000-07:00

I can't believe my luck. I've had the very thing, the actual antidote to birth pain under my nose in my desk drawer this whole time!!!

BEHOLD! THE AVENGING UNICORN PLAY SET!

Not only are there three distinct figures to impale with the unicorn horn of my own choosing, but the packaging comes with a copy of the Unicorn Code to guide me through rough and uncertain seas:

(My belief is that #5 has a missing addendum of "...unless they are in labor and then epidurals administered by board-certified and practicing anaesthesiologists are deemed appropriate as needed but NOT STREET DRUGS.")

But what really soothed my worries was remembering what the spiral horn's (#2) unique and magical powers will do for me when screwed on to Brad's righteous forehead...

"2) Spiral: illusion casting, super healing (i.e. turns blood into rose petals)."

EXACTLY!! Blood into rose petals! Could there possibly be anything more perfect? No, indeed not. Brad the Unicorn will sit in a very special place in the delivery room, turning all of that yucky blood into a glistening ocean of rose petals. If it all gets to be too much for me, I will whip out the chrome horn, which specializes in electromagnetism, speed reading and teleportation, and I'll teleport myself somewhere right cozy.

Special thanks to Krista, who knew I'd need Brad's protection and powers way over here and saw fit to provide me with his guardianship.

Facing the Music

2008-03-09T10:54:00.000-07:00

I'm about to have a very big problem on my hands.

Twenty days away from the big arrival, and I just had a supremely major come-to-Jesus. Our brunch time with Jorunn and Jeppe this morning has been pushed back an hour, so with a nice chunk of free time, I had a little lie-down with Thud. I love taking ten or twenty minutes here and there to just close my eyes and put my hands on my belly and confer with this little ducky. We talk about all kinds of stuff, but it's usually me calling the agenda. Today, it was him. He started things out by drawing my attention to this incredible book I'm reading, "Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year" by Anne Lamott (recently sent to me by my wonderful, wonderful friend Shannon). Lamott, a single mom, documented every day of her son Sam's new life, and last night I read about what seemed like an eternity of colic. Frankly, colic is freaking me out something terrible -- the thought of a baby screaming at top volume for hours and hours and quite literally more hours with no end in sight makes me feel a little, um, edgy. She details Sam's frightful crying and her own horrifying dark thoughts of throwing him down the stairs or just giving him one big whack. (Really, this book is actually very funny.) Of course, she never acts on any of these miserable fantasies, but the thoughts alone sure give one pause. (As Don’s very wise friend Phil advised him not too long ago, “there will be times at two, three, four in the morning when you will be holding the devil himself in your arms, and you will have some very, very dark thoughts. But they are normal, and they will always pass.”)

One night in the very wee hours, out of sheer desperation (she's sobbing herself), Lamott calls a hotline for jangled parents of inconsolable newborns. She's counseled by a woman who orders her, starting right now, to stop eating all wheat and all dairy. Desperate, she follows this direction and... Sam has no more colic on Day Two of the new diet. He's an angel. He chokes out one small whinny to nurse, but that's it. It is a miracle.

Thud ran me through this scenario today, pausing for effect in all the right spots. And then he folded his arms, cocked one brow, and said, "So, what's it gonna be, lady? You know what's coming. You know it, I know it, and pretty damn soon your whole building is going to know it." I sighed and gripped my belly with both hands, but he kept on. "It's time, mama."

He's right. I have a problem. It's The Coffee.

For anyone who knows me, I'm a pretty easy-going gal. You may have noticed that at any dwelling I've maintained has always had a neatly defined coffee station set apart from everything else -- coffee maker, sugar bowl, glass coffee jar full of CAFFEINATED coffee, a little stack of coffee filters at the ready. It's always clean and well stocked, like a shrine. Along with the premium coffee, there is ALWAYS 2% milk in my refrigerator. Not skim, not cream, not Mocha Mix. TWO. PERCENT. MILK. Also, I am never without even a little bit of sugar (not artificial sweetener, not maple syrup, not brown sugar). I usually have a couple of restaurant C&H sugar packets on reserve in my silverware drawer, just for emergencies. All of this organization helps things run smoothly in my universe. Coffee in the morning makes my eyes sparkle and my hair bounce. It happifies me, and those around me. For the few of you who have had the awful misfortune of witnessing a hiccup in my morning coffee service, you understand the fury, the sturm und the drang. I can get downright irrational. During my ugliest episode, I mentally made my way through several Mikasa place settings until Don got back from the corner 7-11 with the 2% (TWO PERCENT) milk. It's my cross to bear. (And his, too.)

And so, I have a little somebody knocking on my belly, forcing me to look at this whole nasty picture. Sure, there were those three days in August when I gave it up, but after the cracking headaches, my doctor assured me that one to two cups per day was absolutely fine and for the love of all things great and small, please go ahead and keep drinking coffee. Yes, there was possibly a link to miscarriage and low birth weight, but the correlation was actually fairly questionable and that was really attributed to excessive coffee drinkers (four cups or more per day). I stuck to one big mug and nobody seemed to be bothered by it.

Now, with colic as a result of nursing a very real looming issue, I fear that the time has come. I mean, it's REALLY come. It's here. I have to stop. I may need help. If this baby has six-hour screaming jags for weeks and weeks – months – on end, I’m liable to hand him to Don and walk out the door and go pay a solo visit to Portugal for a while. And so, I know in my heart that caffeine, something essentially intolerable for babies, is off the menu, starting very soon. All I have to do now is decide whether to ween myself or go cold-turkey, and then set the date. I’ll probably ween, as the thought of cutting myself off in one cruel sweep sounds so violent, so inhumane, so foolhardy. We’ll see. Maybe it will start with some kind of ceremonial farewell, like cleaning every crevice of my Tefal Prima Vera Arom Express, remembering all our good times together, all our mornings of shared drips and sighs. I’ll replace my sacred coffee jar with a dainty tray of herbal teas, set out my prettiest teacup and saucer and perhaps a lovely scalloped silver spoon. I just don’t know. I hope I can fool myself. I hope I can go along with this tsunami of change and learn to enjoy that coffee-free lifestyle. Tea actually tastes quite nice, I think. Especially with lots and lots of sugar.

And so it begins – this sacrificing for the kid thing. SIGH. It’s a pretty big love that’s swelling in my chest, and anything I can do now to offset meltdowns, tummy pains and sleeplessness must be addressed. Wish us luck. And let’s not talk about that wheat-and-dairy-free diet just yet.

Ummm... Come Again?

2008-03-06T10:27:00.000-08:00

NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT THE SOFT POO.

(From a pack of Norwegian Pampers.)

Sygehus = Sickhouse = Hospital

2008-03-05T12:00:00.000-08:00

Today we had our long-anticipated hospital tour. Every Wednesday at 2:00pm, a cluster of heavily pregnant women and their entourages forms at the main entrance of the hospital, which, as I keep hearing, boasts a really state-of-the-art birthing center. We'd been told by friends to not dawdle in our waddle as the group tour departs at 14:00, no later, so we showed up a little early and watched all the other preggos lean against walls and vie for the few chairs in the hallway. I was, of course, the biggest bellied one there, but, sadly, no prizes were given.

Can you believe the WHOLE TOUR WAS IN DANISH? I'm all... WHATEVS. Still, it was interesting to see all of the rooms and call buttons and blinking lights and smiling midwives who look like a platoon of warm welcoming angels and the little tiny water pitchers and the huge shelf of vases available to the new mums to use in their rooms during their stay. There's this area with a sign out front called "Køkken" ("Kitchen") where you can just go and help yourself to whatever snacks or drinks you want. The giant fridge had a see-through door, and I noted apple juice, milk, bottled water, butter, cheese, fruit...and beer!!!!! Yes! Bottles of beer! I can drink beer while I'm delivering! Talk about state-of-the-art! (I hope all you American hospital administrators who are reading this are making a big ol' mental note, okay?) (And, no, Brenda, I did not see a Margarator™, but I didn't have time to look behind all of the curtains. Will keep you posted for sure.)

The midwife who gave us the tour, Randi, was a pert, red-cheeked gal who took, I think, maybe two breaths in the span of an hour. She had A LOT of information to share with us. I'm sure it was all very important. I actually found myself intently listening as she talked, hoping that if I ESPed her hard enough that she would spontaneously burst into English. She didn't. But, I tried to listen for words that I understood, so this is what it sounded like to me:

"Hkuhsfih BABY klhskifh skdjhsdkhf hiefhieoighh BIRTH hkfhigoeakh irhg jkhsekifh hjsfyghbjksl hngiklisuh BABY fhilfoiukh YOU sjkdhfikhgjdk jbksjhf TELEVISION hjljifihigh bskjloijfnjmsruiow bjksdhfilhbk MIDWIFE. Jkjsehu hksfhukh kjbf kjnf jbd JUST ASK! Bjklsjhfgh njksdjhfugb BIRTH jkbsdjbkjhivh hbjkshf jg BABY jknbdksfnkjn BLOOD jnshf h BLOOD njksdfhkuh bjbd BLOOD khnfkhkuhtua nmfdklj BLOODY knfkhn BLOOD jkwsiutn BLOOD njakehfuy EPIDURAL nkjlsyhfiuyh kjdhshjgj PAIN guwegr fjugsdfjbn BLOODY bjskhfkuhsn mkalrfhukghsa bkjhsdfhk BABY AND MOTHER. Ojkerhukgsf BIG HELP! Pjsgdfugkjbjfih PAIN njksdhfuguks VERY PAINFUL bjkshdfuhkepogj BABY..."

I also understood about the magical pull-cords, which seem to be everywhere -- tub room, next to the birthing bed, next to the recovery bed, next to the toilet, at the window seat, in each corner. I like that. My beer will always be cold and fresh. Also, at some point, I am just completely certain that I heard her say "DIM SUM" very quickly, and I think Don did, too, so maybe we're in some major luck here. Let's just hope herring dim sum is off the menu during our stay.

"You Gotta Baby In There?"

2008-03-04T11:55:00.001-08:00

When I was three, I met my grandmother's new husband, Fred, the fellow who would come to be known as "Freddie Boy," a retired four-star Army colonel who didn't take no guff, especially from nosy three-year-olds. Somehow Fred and I became fast friends, despite the fact that the first time I was introduced to him, I patted his impressively rotund stomach and inquired whether or not there was perhaps a baby in there.

I think I am starting to resemble Freddie Boy in more ways than one.

Showered with Love and Good Wishes

2008-03-03T07:06:00.000-08:00

It's been a busy couple of weeks, including a five-day bout with stomach flu (not terribly enjoyable at 8 months of gestation). After losing five pounds and reminding myself over and over that I was (very likely) NOT going to barf the baby ("okay, so...those tubes and wires are not at all connected...impossible...right?"), I'm back to normal! (Normal being a waddly, smiling whale with swollen ankles.)

First off, I'd like to inform everyone that by marrying into this family last year, I have acquired the most loving, warm, funny, genuine and supportive in-laws ever, in addition to my own wonderful family. They're a pretty darned tootin' good bunch of folks, and I am unusually lucky. My magnificent sister-in-law, Deanna, who just last November brought her very own little tyke, Jack, into the world, somehow found the time and energy (did I mention she just had a baby?) to organize an international-postage baby shower for me, and so four sizeable boxes plus a suitcase full of prezzies made their way to our fourth-floor apartment door over the past few weeks (much to the chagrin of our postman). I was instructed by Don (who was also in on this shower of gifts) that under no uncertain circumstances was I to touch, look at or even share air with these boxes. (This warning to someone who mastered flawless scotch-tape removal and perfect reapplication on Christmas presents under the tree by age 6.) (Sue me.) And so, after ignoring this leaning tower of baby things, I made it to March 1st, the day where I'd get to Skype with Deanna and rip everything open with Don. Yay!

When the doorbell rang at 5:30pm, the jig was up: Don had secretly invited five very dear Danish ladyfriends -- Jorunn, Annette, Susannah, Ulrika and Randi (all moms) -- over for a surprise shower for me. Out came platters of tuna salad, egg salad and cucumber-and-cream-cheese tea sandwiches (crusts cut off, each variety in a different shape), champagne, fresh fruit, a cream cake, a cheese board -- Don did it all. (He specifically asked the cheese shop lady in our village what cheeses would be good for a party of ladies, and she immediately recommended Emmenthaler, a basil gouda and this lump of unknown French creamy heaven.) There were vases of daffodils and roses everywhere. Can you believe this guy? I mean... COME ON. (I'd been out running errands for much of the day, so he was doing all of this while I was gone and stashing everything in cupboards and drawers.) I still almost can't even stand it.

We even had Deanna and baby Jack join us all the way from California via Skype! The ladies took a real interest in Jack's sling that Deanna was wearing, and that they were live from the Bay Area.

All of these ladies were unfamiliar with the idea of a "shower" -- is it for cleaning the pregnant person? Do all American pregnant women smell that bad? There was quite a bit of curiosity among them, and they wanted to see what the Americans were going to do for this shower, but I also think that perhaps there was a teeny tiny worry of bad luck, as they told me that the practice here is for people to come visit you right after the baby is born, bearing gifts then, not before. But, as my friend Jorunn said, it's actually quite nice to rally around the mom at a time preceding a huge, potentially frightening, life-changing event, and at a time when she may not feel the most, shall we say, lithe and dainty.

Don took photos the whole time, and while I'll curb my desire to post all 73 shots, here are some highlights:

I have never seen so many onesies in my entire life. We're off the charts on the Onesie-a-Tron. And the blankets... I think I've developed a thing for baby blankets. This little boy is going to be the most elegantly swaddled chap in western Europe, I have no doubt, and I have so many of you to thank for it. The "real" thank yous are in production, but for now, I am so, so very grateful to everyone who sent a gift, a card, or advice for this novice mom, along with the oceans of good energy and oodles of love.

Three and a half weeks and counting. I'm fairly surprised by how calm I am about it all -- the fears of birth have kind of melted away into clouds of relaxed deep cleansing breaths. I have no idea why or how, but I'm glad it did. Susannah swears by the big ol' tub of warm water in every delivery room in our hospital for killer contractions, which I'm all about, but to me, the shower will always be a uniquely treasured event.

Baby Love, My Baby Love

2008-02-14T10:12:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, Don thought long and hard about what to get me for a Valentine's Day present. He put a lot of consideration into getting me something that I'd really like and use. He settled on a high-quality Henckels frying pan.

He's still hearing about it.

But this year, he got me something that made me start bawling right off the bat, and I'm talking tears of joy (and hormones):

He ordered personalized pacifiers for our impending tyke, three little nuggets of plastic and silicone that each have "Thud" inscribed on the front. From all of this naming business emerged Thud, courtesy of my dad, who suggested something Scandinavian, Viking-like, strong, like Thor, but with a unique twist. Thud! Perfect! So, that's what we've been calling him the last several months, though we do have the real name already picked out and buried deep in an anonymous field in far-flung Denmark.

It's terribly hard to describe, but when I saw these little things, it hit me in a funny place when I wasn't ready for it. And I've forgotten all about the frying pan.

WE! GOT! A! CAR!

2008-02-11T13:00:00.000-08:00

It's true, what you've heard: WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR! WEGOTACAR!

After a year and a half without a car, we are now the proud owners of a Peugeot Partner. She's metallic burgundy, and painfully chic. MEOW!

On Sunday we took Bella -- who has her very own compartment in the back -- to the "hund skov" (dog forest) near our town. We had the place to ourselves...

A gorgeous sunny day, but gotta take care of those muddy tootsies before getting in the new ride!

Tongue-Tied

2008-02-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

So, I am a little embarrassed to admit that, after a year and a half in Denmark, Don and I are not fluent in Danish yet. We are, in fact, far from it. However, we are in a twice-per-week language course, taught by a woman whom we rarely understand. But, we dutifully attend our classes, nod enthusiastically and hope for the best.

This morning, on returning from walking Bella, I ran into our very sweet neighbor, who looked anxious and told me she was off to see the dentist. I told her not to worry, that it would be fine, and then, in my heartiest Danish, I wished her "God Jul!" I was so sure I said "Good luck," but instead blurted out "Merry Christmas!" Yeah. Still working on it.

And sometimes the best communications happen in my own native tongue. I had my hair cut today by Kenneth, a German guy who is wicked good at what he does. He lives in Germany but works in Denmark, because the cost of living is so low there, but the pay here is at least double, if not triple. Anyhow, ol' Kenneth worked my coiffure ferociously for a very long time, styling, styling, styling, curling and swirling as if our lives depended on it. I watched as my hair got bigger and curlier and tendril-ier by the minute; it really looked like Venus in her clamshell should be rising at any moment from the bouncy, foamy swirls. My. Hair. Was. Huge. Really gravity-defying and lovely. All I needed was a satin sash, a rhinestone tiara and some tears.

After 20 minutes of this, he was finished. I have never seen my hair like this before, and I knew my head would never look quite this spectacular again. I looked in the mirror and said, "Wow! Kenneth! This is so... TEXAS!"

You know what he did? His face lit up, he smiled wide, put his hand on his chest, bowed a little, and said, "Oh, THANK YOU!" Now that's taking pride in your work.

Huffing and Puffing

2008-01-30T13:51:00.000-08:00

Perhaps 'tis a touch foolhardy to attend one's 20th high school reunion two months after giving birth, but, you know... It's what's INSIDE that counts, right? I'll still be radiant and aglow with all that new motherhood goodness, right? And that was high school! We're all grown up and mature now! Totally different times! Right?

While I refuse to be like the Hollywood starlets who bounce back to stick-figury in the days following birth, I am wholly in acceptance of the concept that I may need a little fitness assistance. I've come across these two gems:

I am feeling a bit partial to this one, if only because all three of these hairstyles have shown up in my personal repertoire during my formative years:

Does This Make Me Look Fat?

2008-01-30T13:36:00.000-08:00

I have to say that these days, I am feeling a little less brick house and a whole lot more plain ol' HOUSE.

Though I am quite mighty mighty, I am just letting it all hang out.

Yes, I Had a Case of the Lazies

2008-01-30T12:16:00.000-08:00

The holidays will do that to you. So will pregnancy. And relentless gray skies. BUT! I'm back! Try being pregnant and far, far away and not writing on your blog for several long weeks. People PANIC. Not to worry, folks -- all is well with li'l Peanut (who is actually more melonesque these days) and myself. Pretty darned tootin' hard to believe we've hit the eight-weeks-left mark. AYE YAY YAY CARAMBA! How can this be? It's all so strange to think about, that we will have a smiling, cooing sack of love in precisely sixty-six days. Ridic! We'll see how punctual the little tyke is. As my dear father-in-law likes to say:

EARLY IS ON TIME.
ON TIME IS LATE.
LATE IS UNACCEPTABLE.

Curiously, I was absent the day we covered that lesson, so I'm still trying to learn it every single day. I sure hope Peanut gets his dad's genes in that respect.

Speaking of his dad, this guy has bought an extended pass on the Daddy Train. Dude's excited! We've been getting things ready the past couple of weeks, repurposing our laundry area into Diaper Headquarters. Shelves that once held beach towels and rags are now brimming with binkies, bottles, wipes, bleach-free diapers, burp cloths, footie pj's, and one nutty stuffed turtle that plays "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" when you yank his neck. (Thanks for everything, Barbara!)

We bought a big waterproof foam pad for the countertop where all of the, um, "procedures" will take place. As I lovingly draped it with a soft cloth, I was reminded that Don has -- proudly so -- never changed a diaper, so I started piecing together in my head a gently worded offer for a brief training session, preceded by the request that he NOT roll his eyes even once in response to my question. It was tough, but (I think) he managed to keep his eyes fairly steady, and he thanked me for my kind offer but that he was quite confident that he could figure it out just fine.

And early the next morning when I woke up, this is what I found on the changing pad:

We may just have a wee refresher anyway.

New Horizons

2007-12-15T07:13:00.000-08:00

But today: Honey. Discuss.

Crave

2007-12-14T07:16:00.000-08:00

I seem to have developed an irrationally strong dependence on apricot jam these days. While walking Bella each morning, it's all I think about. I caught myself looking forward to my next apricot-jam toast as I drifted off to sleep last night. Ah, pregnancy.

TAAAA DAAAAAAA!!!

2007-12-13T12:39:00.000-08:00

We got a tree!!! Last Sunday we snagged us a car for an hour and rattled out to a little Christmas tree farm. I was quite beside myself with excitement as I have not had a tree for years and years. It seems such a married thing to do, so this season, we got it together on the yuletide shrubbery front and hacked down this baby for the bargain price of thirty dollars:

Ain't she a beaut??? Okay, a wee bit bottom-heavy, but what's not to love about a fresh-cut tree with a little junk in her trunk? We love her to bits. And to show her just how much, we put all these pretty things on her:

So the star's too big -- I'm out shopping for a better one tomorrow. I guess hanging lamps don't belong on the tops of trees anyhow, so stay tuned for a more size-appropriate star very soon.

Japan's Got Talent

2007-12-10T13:53:00.000-08:00

In keeping with the Christmas tunes theme:

Don and I are hoping to save enough money to buy our very own broccoli flute to make these dark Danish evenings even cozier.

Ho Ho Ho!

2007-12-10T11:12:00.000-08:00

Here's what the Christmas season sounds like at my house:

Truth in Advertising

2007-12-07T08:21:00.000-08:00

Like many other countries, we've just had elections here in Happy Denmark ("discovered" to be the happiest nation on the planet in 2006), and it's been extremely interesting to watch the process unfold. Basically, it's not that different from the States -- posters everywhere, TV ads, banners hanging from streetlights. The only big difference -- and this may very well be that I can't understand what people are saying around me -- is that we haven't really heard people talking about it. Maybe our friends thought they'd be boring us, especially since we can't vote. Regardless, the ballots have been cast and counted, and of the seven (or is it nine?) official political parties, the incumbents, and the most conservative -- the Danish People's Party -- are back in the hizzouse. This party has two main issues: Immigration, and caring for the elderly. They've been quite successful at securing wonderful senior security (healthcare, pensions, housing), and at stirring up lots and lots of fear about immigrants taking over Denmark. Their motto is: "Vi står fast på de danske værdier," which translates to "We stand fast to those Danish values." It feels kind of icky to me to have this as one's main point of identity or communication, but so it goes.

And so it went when I saw this ad in the paper a couple of weeks ago:

I tried to do a straight dictionary translation, but it didn't make much sense, so I asked my friend, Rebekka, what it meant. (I didn't, however, tell her from whence it came.) She wrote back: "It means that if you don't like the rules, values and traditions in a given country, you are free to move. Where have you read it?" When I told her, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, yes. Now that makes sense." I also asked my friend, Jorunn, who gave a much stronger and more colorful translation, and she, too, was not surprised one bit to hear the context.

We've actually saved this ad, because Don and I can't really believe that Denmark, with an international reputation of being so open-minded, fair and caring of its people, is being led by a party that states very clearly and directly its disdain for those who might be culturally, religiously and ethnically different. "If you don't like it, get out. VOTE FOR US! YAY!" Of course, I'm quite sensitive to this whole immigration quagmire myself, considering my own long tangles with the system, but I'm still trying to get my head around this topic. Far be it from me to say this just doesn't exist in the States, because, boy howdy, DOES IT, but it's completely couched and implicit and not at all stated outright; imagine the repercussions of an American political candidate saying something like this to the press, let alone paying for it to be printed in huge block letters. I'm still trying to figure out which way is less worse...

Choppers

2007-12-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

I've just had my very first Danish dental appointment, and I can fervently say that I now know I can get through labor and delivery. No problem. Okay, it had been (eesh) a year and a half since my last slash-n-score appointment, so there was probably quite a nice few pounds to dig out from under my gums, but MAN -- there has GOT to be raw electricity in that there probe. OUCHY!!! Me no likey one bit. It's a miracle I still have some semblance of a gumline left.

But, she is a very nice lady indeed. I gave her some old (18 months) x-rays from my last dentist, knowing she'd probably just toss them and order up a new set on the spot. "Oh, no. In Denmark, we take new x-rays about every four to five years," which freaked me out because at first I though she said FORTY-FIVE years. Still. Four to five years? Ain't that a kinda long time? She went on to say that in Denmark, "we treat the problem itself, so no unnecessary surgeries and procedures." Um, you mean, like all that silly preventative stuff? "Yes. I think American dentistry is very focused on preventative. Here, we fix the problem." And that was that. I'm going to floss everyday now, no matter what. I may just leave the floss in there permanently, just to make sure. I guess I can't complain, as I've lived through a Polish dental filling that involved no anesthetic or pain killer stronger than deep tearful breaths.

On a related note, I just read on the ol' interweb today that a new American indie movie called "Teeth" is set to be released very soon. Ready for the plot? A teenage girl is raped, upon which she comes to discover that a full set of teeth has grown in her vagina. I am not making this up. I don't know if madcap mayhem ensues, but I'm pretty sure revenge comes into the picture, probably over and over and over again in full close-up. Unfortunately, I'm very certain this will not make it to my town, but I'm going to keep checking the moviehouse posters anyway.

Julehygge

2007-12-04T13:22:00.000-08:00

It's that time again -- JULE!!!! All of the Christmas lights are up in town, and there is a little evergreen tree on every single street corner. Also, the 50-foot Christmas tree in the town square is all decked out with lights and stuff. Pretty!!

As a child, my Christmases were about Santa, toys, tinsel and long wish lists. Not so much on the real "reason for the season," as my brother likes to say. Anyhoodle, now I'm learning all about Advent. Although very few Danes attend church, everyone seems to belong to one, and you even have to list your "kirke" on government forms. My friend, Annette, made this spectacular Advent wreath for us, using roses from her actual garden. (In December!) She and her husband, Tony, and their sweet, sweet sweetie pie son, David (a week shy of 3), joined us for dinner recently, and I probably should have been a little more red-faced about the candle thing. Apparently, you're not supposed to light them all at once -- just one every Sunday during the Advent season. Okie doke! I got it now.

Next week we're going to Jorunn and Jeppe's for some "Julehygge," which at first listen sounds like "Ylllhhgga," or "YOO-luh-hoo-gah." It means, literally, "Christmas coziness." We'll drink glog and bake cookies and make ornamenty things and be all cozy-cozy and stuff. Nice, huh? Beats fighting over the last rolls of cellophane at the West Seattle Dollar Store anyday.

The only sad note here is that as Danes decorate their trees THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS (HELLO, SLEEPYHEADS!), we can't get a tree until about a week before Christmas. Still, I hear there are some renegade black-market outfits who start things early out the backs of their vans down by the river, so I'm keeping my eyes peeled.

Workaday World

2007-11-30T10:53:00.000-08:00

For the past few weeks, I've been subbing a bit at a wonderful little school here in town, and it's been completely fascinating and a hilarious experience so far. My background is working mainly with older kids (ages 14-18), but sometimes I'm with the wee ones (ages 5-9), which is a mindblower in itself. It's been a long time for me since tears and boogers were a normal part of interpersonal communication.

Today, I came in for an hour and a half to help with a bon voyage party for one of the older students who was moving away. No sad faces, just some goodbye cards scribbled on graph paper. Someone had blown up about 40 balloons, which were bopped around like beach balls until someone got the brilliant idea to start stomping on them. Then, a tray of hotdogs appeared out of nowhere, followed by egg rolls, and so the group of nine students (ages 13-16) sat around and shoved hotdogs into their mouths and played Green Day on a laptop computer. That was when they started begging to go home.

"Home?? I thought you guys were having FUN!!"

"We are! But we're BORED!!!"

It was about an hour from the end of the school day, so we cut a deal: They could go outside, but not home. Fair enough. The gal who was leaving tried to get Capture the Flag going, but no takers, so I suggested Red Rover, Red Rover, which they'd never heard of. It was like I'd given each kid a loaded rocket launcher. They. Went. NUTS. I guess when you're 14, RR, RR can be just about the most exciting thing ever, because you must 1) run, 2) scream, 3) be mildy violent and 4) grudgingly hold hands with all of your mad crushes (that you outwardly hate). YAY! Win-win!

For one of their classes, they have been working on research projects. The boys have read a portion of "The Godfather" and are researching the mafia, while the girls have been reading a book called "Supermodels." Yes. It's an in-depth look into the lives of today's supermodels, one of whom they will select and individually research in earnest. I can't tear myself away from this slim volume; I'm completely captivated. Here are a few choice verbatim excerpts:

CINDY CRAWFORD
Famous for: A smart model
Cindy was a smart student. After high school, she went to college in Chicago. She got 100% on one test there.

CLAUDIA SCHIFFER
Famous for: A great smile
Claudia was with David Copperfield, but they separated after six years. Now, she is going to marry Tim Jeffries. He was with Elle Macpherson before Claudia!

LINDA EVANGELISTA
Famous for: Short hair
Linda married a modeling agent when she was young. He was an older man. They separated after six years.

KATE MOSS
Famous for: Very thin
Kate Moss wasn't always happy. When she left the hospital, she found a new BMW at her house. It was from her old boyfriend, Johnny Depp. She went out for a drive. When she was out, a fire started in her apartment.

You see why I'm transfixed?

OH, HE'S HERE!! HE'S HEEEEERE!!!!

2007-11-29T12:23:00.001-08:00

Little Jack Alexander made it into the world on Monday, saying HOWDY to everyone with a big sneeze!

Congratulations to you both, Deanna and Alex! He's just beautiful and we just can't wait to meet him!

Thanksgiving, Herring Style!

2007-11-29T11:35:00.000-08:00

No. Not really. But, we did stage a traditional American Thanksgiving last night for some dear Danish friends. And it did damn well near kill me. We had to push it back a week due to a variety of scheduling issues, including special-ordering a turkey from Slaughter Frank's, the butcher. No Butterballs or Jennie O's hanging about our grocery stores, unfortunately.

Despite some rather overcooked veggie side dishes, all was simply super duper. Our menu consisted of roasted turkey, stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, Brussel sprouts with bacon and shallots, fresh cranberry sauce, freshly baked bread, pecan pie and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Sadly, I found that I simply no longer possess the same abdominal vacancy volume that I used to, and so I spent a good hour staring glumly at my half-eaten plate of delicious food (which I paid for that night with the most spectacular heartburn fireworks). To cheer myself up, I had pie.

John and Jeppe were in charge of wine, so they chose something extra special, to remind Don and me of home:

Oooh, it was SO good. Neither Rebekka or Jorunn had made their chosen dishes before -- roast turkey, and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie -- but they turned out really, truly fabulous. I don't think Danes are all that accustomed to this concept of stuffing yourself beyond what you can comfortably hold in your belly, but these guys absolutely got into the spirit. Jeppe and Don had a silent, knowing competition of repeated helpings, while John announced that he thought he was probably going to be on the toilet for four days.

Jeppe, baby Victor and Jorunn:

Rebekka and John (our lovely hosts):

Don and me (completely exhausted):

It was SO much fun, and SO incredibly delicious! And I'm never doing it again. (Although I was asked if we could make this a monthly, if not a weekly thing.)

Understanding Is Good

2007-11-29T11:19:00.000-08:00

Late this afternoon, I went to our friendly little pharmacy (or "apotek") to pick up a few items. Pharmacies in Denmark, incidentally, are kind of like all-purpose well-being stores, and you can get a lot of handy doodads there besides just prescriptions. They're quite official, however, a real take-a-number-please operation. Anyway, I had a couple of questions about some stuff I was buying, and I did it ALL in Danish!!!! No "I don't speak Danish well. Do you speak English?" for me! I got through my whole transaction without a word of English, and it felt amazing.

"Hello. I have these."
"Yes. Do you have the prescription?"
"Yes. It is here."
"One moment."
...
(Little stock-ticker loop running underneath my thoughts the whole time: pleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplexpleasedon'taskmeanythingcomplex)
"Okay, here you go. Do you want the big one or the small one?"
"Hmmm. That is the small one?"
"Yes."
"I will have it. And I am pregnant. This is okay for me?"
"Yes, it is good."
"Great. Thank you."
"158 kroner, please."
"This is my money."
"Okay. And here is your change."
"Thank you. Bye bye!"
"Bye!"

I felt like a freaking Rhodes scholar. I think I was actually smiling. While I am a tiny bit perplexed that there was NO applause when I walked out the door, it didn't matter. I did it! I did it! I did it!

And He Shall Be Known As Thud

2007-11-24T10:29:00.000-08:00

Baby-naming is a frightfully loaded minefield, I am quickly discovering. EVERYONE has an opinion:

"Don't name him THAT! It sounds WEIRD!"
"He's going to get beaten up on the playground. You do know kids will tease him?"
"Ugh. I dated a very freaky guy in college named that. DO NOT NAME HIM THAT."
"Are you intentionally trying to keep him a virgin until he's 50?"
"Don't you want him to have friends?"
"I like ____. How about that?"

Or, my personal favorite (hi Krista):

(straight face, no expression) "Huh."

If you haven't guessed by now, it's a boy! We do have a pretty good frontrunner that hits a lot of bases which are important to us, but we're keeping our cards close to our chest, SO DON'T ASK. It will probably change a few thousand times over the next 18 weeks (I KNOW!!!! EIGHTEEN WEEKS!!! WHAT AM I DOING TYPING A SILLY BLOG!!!!), but we like it for now.

However, my dad has come up with an excellent stand-in moniker. Searching for something kind of Nordic/Scandinavian, strong, short, easy to spell without any crazy characters, he put forth: Thud. You know, like Thor, but with a bit of zing to it, a bit more oomph. Don likes it because, as he says, this was the precise sound his jaw made hitting the floor on seeing that pregnancy test for the first time. (Although for some reason he has lately taken to addressing him as Nancy. Huh.)

Would You Just LOOK at What My Baby Done Did?!?!?!!

2007-11-24T09:49:00.000-08:00

After four action-packed months of marriage, I assumed I knew everything there was possible to know about my husband. Wrong. I have recently discovered (as did he) that he is a WICKED PECAN PIE MAKER.

We're going to put on a Thanksgiving feast for our friends next week, delayed due to schedules and life in general. Don got a bee in his bonnet that he wanted to make a pecan pie for our Thanksgiving, and so he did a trial run first. There is no such thing as corn syrup here, so he had to make do with something called "mørk sirop" (dark syrup), which turned out to be browned cane syrup. Anyhow, the pie was smashing, and I think we both learned a very valuable lesson about leaving me at home alone with a cut pie. Nut by nut, it shrank down to nothing, until:

Yes, I have a problem. BUT, there are nuts in there, and nuts are natural, and the crust had some whole-wheat flour, which, um, contains fiber, so...

Whole Lotta Gelato Love

2007-11-21T11:20:00.000-08:00

Of all my honeymoons, THIS was the best: ROME. Wow! Romantic, delicious, beautiful, educational. Don and I headed down south for five days of pizza, gelato and pasta, stopping off first for an overnight visit with Sophie and Mickey in their adorable new home in Cambridge, England. They set the tone for us nicely -- kedgeree and crumble with custard! GAH!

We opted to take the rent-an-apartment route rather than get squeaked out of every euro we had to our name in an sketchy train-station hotel. I've had too many bummer experiences of gauze-thin walls and beds of granite in "hotels," so I booked a sweet little apartment 2 blocks away from St. Peter's Basilica. It was SUPER cozy! And the hordes of overjoyed cockroaches were more than happy to sweep away any miniscule morsel of food-like substance that we had either spilled or tracked in with us. My valiant husband sent each and every one packing to Jesus (only 2 blocks away!) as I wimpered and acted the role of terrified newlywed wife, according to the script. My hero!

Spending time in Italy without the option of swilling barrels of wine can kind of turn you into a Debbie Downer, so I chose to eat everything I possibly could instead. The food got better and better...

Unfortunately, the toilet situation did NOT get better. It is hugely puzzling to me that Rome seems to be a place where toilet seats are not all that important. Okay, so, this is not quite the Italy of my youth where, at 6 years old, I cried in fury and deep humiliation as pee splashed all over my legs from having to squat and aim for a tiny hole in the ground. I guess things have now improved -- there are actual sit-down toilets these days. But no toilet seats? Am I being a snobby American? Perhaps so. Maybe they ARE kind of unnecessary? The whole time in Rome, this became my minor obsession, and I reported the contents of each cubicle to Don after every pit-stop, which, during pregnancy, can be an hourly thing. I wondered if maybe the city was trying to cut costs; no toilet seats would eliminate that pricey order from the toilet factory. Did they have a problem with rowdy tourists stealing them as souvenirs to take home? Could it be that Italians all carry their own personal Fendi or Gucci toilet seats? After a lot of mulling and discussion with Don, I've concluded that modern Romans are just too darn busy for toilet seats. I mean, who has the time? All this up-down-up-down business, and then that weekly cleaning? Forget about it! Look for Versace to be the first on the blinged-out catheter market in the spring.

Back to food: This photo is one of my favorites. In a pizza-by-the-ounce place near the Vatican, one could choose from pies loaded with mushrooms, spinach, Serrano ham, eggplant, buffalo mozzarella, sausage, or this -- sliced hot dogs and French fries. Yes, please!!!

Agressive cockroaches aside, our apartment was in a pretty great location. We walked through St. Peter's Square most mornings, marvelling at the throngs of tourists. In truth, we did hear more English than Italian around there, with a good bit of Japanese, Chinese and German, too.

A pre-lunch walk along the Tiber River...

A piazza with fountains...

On a lovely little street just after a truly fabulous lunch...

Making toast Italian-style...

At the Colosseum...

Inside the Pantheon...

At the spectacular Trevi Fountain...

Walking home over the Tiber to our little cockroaches...

Our bedroom ceiling was laid with bricks and mortar, and one morning, Don spied a dog paw print in one of the bricks. Bella was sending us all her love and kisses...

We walked so much that we hardly gained more than a pound or two, so not a bad take. We did make it to the Vatican (probably the most crowded place I've been in my entire life) (yes, even more than that George Michael concert in 1986), but I'm sorry to report that the most interesting thing there was a collection of Popemobiles spanning the past two hundred years. Lots and lots and lots of crucifixes, however. The Sistine Chapel was incredible, though there were so many people crammed in there, each spouting his own commentary about whatever, it was a little tough to block it all out. We're talking shoulder-to-shoulder, for real. Major points to Don for shushing the unbelievably loud American goon next to me who saw fit to lecture to his companion (and the rest of us) in outside-voice. Not cool, dude. I know this is a little like going to Times Square on New Year's Eve and complaining about the crowds, but MAN, maybe let just a few people in the chapel at a time? Or install a moving sidewalk, like at the crown jewels in the Tower of London? Yeah, go with the moving sidewalk, Benedict. All in all, an excellent five days. Yay Rome! (Sorry, roaches.)

Kinda Like Camping

2007-11-20T12:27:00.000-08:00

When we returned from Rome last week, our sweet Bella-sitter informed us that there had been no hot water for a few days. Aha. Broken pipes? Only ice water from the tap. I see. That was a week ago Monday, and I am pleased to report that today, Tuesday, we now have hot water again! This may seem like no big deal to you fancy-pants city folk, but try going without it for even just a couple of days. Un. Pleasant. Yu. Cky. You ever washed dirty dishes by hand in freezing water? Not nice. We broke out our big pots and started the whole constant-boiling thing, which took forever, but it did get the job done. Bathing was a pain, but I tried to remind myself that it was kind of like camping. Minus the beer and hot dogs and trees and fresh air and good smells and laughs around a campfire. So, yes, like camping, minus the fun and positive stuff.

Anyhow, it's back now. Tomorrow's bonnet-starching, butter-churning and rug-beating will be SO much more enjoyable.

On the Road Again...

2007-11-20T01:14:00.000-08:00

It appears that pregnancy's second trimester is just dandy for travel -- reduced fear of miscarriage, early labor and all that unsavory business -- so I've spent my silent blogoshere absence zooming around the planet in a whole bunch of flying machines. Three weeks visiting family and friends in Washington and sunny Arizona was just what the chakra doctor ordered.

I've always found airplane-window photography excruciatingly dull, except for my fine portraits. Behold -- the balmy tropical isles of Denmark:

Apparently, Copenhagen's airport has won all kinds of coveted awardery for being the best/coolest/most architechurally forward/efficient airport. I love how this part looks like a cathedral. Or rather like the space-age corridor to the Wizard of Oz's chamber:

Look how special -- a private smoking cabin! How relaxing for everyone!

Seattle was beautiful, as always. I hadn't realized how spectacular the autumnal tree colors were in that town. The leaves were so mesmerizing that I was unable to get it together enough to photograph them. But here is a picture of Krista's cat, Isabel. She and I spent many quiet hours thinking deep thoughts at one another.

After several days visiting Krista, Kathy, Jen, Brenda, Judy, Marcia and others, it was down to my dad's in the Columbia Gorge region. Ridiculously beautiful. Or, if one is to trust the legion of local bumper stickers, "IT'S GORGE-OUS!"

Down at Dad's, I'm afraid to report that I was unwittingly turned onto a particularly wicked, a uniquely evil and unforgiving addiction. I'm talking about Nips. And I say it loud and proud because I feel in my heart there are others out there like me, those who sometimes have Nips for dinner. Or get out of bed for one. Or two. Or a box. And, of course, guess what's NOT available in Denmark? Yes. Cold turkey, my friends. Rough days. My best advice to you now is that if you've never had a Nip, please -- don't start. (Send them to me instead.)

Off to Arizona! A layover in Salt Lake City afforded a fabulous view of the Great Salt Lake. American terrain is really something else...

Now, I'm not scientifically certain about this, but these two ponds may be the Snapple production facility just outside of SLC. See the red part? My indications tell me that's the strawberry sector of the strawberry-kiwi drink, and the green, obviously kiwi. (I must emphasize, however, that this is only an untested hypothesis.)

Tucson is really an incredible place. I lived here for ten months awhile back, despite the 120-degree days in July and no air conditioning. All of the crazy-delicious Mexican food made the languid sweats well worth it.

While getting my hair cut in Tucson, I noticed this awesome display of a brand-new product that the salon was hawking. Me? I think I'd go for the Fun Betty, myself, were I in the market to dye my pubic hair electric pink. (Although maybe I will surprise my midwife in about 4 months.) Needless to say, I don't think this product would fly in Denmark. Unless it came in red-and-white with a stencil of the Danish flag. Then: Gangbusters.

Oh, yes, lest I forget Mexican food (REAL Mexican food, that is). My poor mother has never been harangued to pull into every single Mexican joint in her whole city like she was last month. What can I say? Baby loves Paco's best, so a pre-airport stop was unavoidable. Can you hear me sighing? And struggling to keep my eyes from crossing? I knew this would be the last food with flavor for a long, long time. Paco, oh, Paco. Do you deliver?

And with that, I was off into the friendly skies, leaving Baby to happily work with all of the guacamole, carne asada soft tacos, chicken flautas and Mug rootbeer he could handle. The next 23 hours saw me from Tucson to Chicago to London-Heathrow to Copenhagen to Sønderborg. And I was very happy to be home.

We Won the Waiting Game!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-10-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

Seventeen months after we started the process of getting our residency in Denmark, we did it. We’re legal residents! Of course, due to his employment, Don was approved right away, but for this one, Denmark wanted to take a good long look. And so they did. Now that I’ve been rubber-stamped for approval, here is are some things that I can NOW do/have/be that I couldn't before:

• open a bank account
• have my name on our mailbox (no more “c/o”!)
• rent a movie at Blockbuster
• borrow books from the library
• have a real cell phone (not just buying minutes at ridiculous rates)
• attend any Danish university, tuition-free (including graduate programs)
• see a doctor, fee-free
• travel in and out of Denmark (and the EU) without fear of being denied re-entry
• take state-sponsored Danish language courses (almost free)
• work
• GET A DANISH DRIVERS’ LICENSE

This past Monday, I went to the police station to apply for something called a re-entry permit (at the suggestion of the immigration ministry). On Wednesday, Don and I went back to collect our passports with our new Schengen visas, allowing us to come back into Denmark even though we’ve overstayed our time here because the Danish government was still ruling on our cases. Thursday morning, Don calls Immigration for what seems like the 45,000th time: We’ve been approved! In fact, our letters should be in our mailbox today! Yay!

Here’s where it gets hairy: I got my letter that day around 1:00pm; Don’s is nowhere to be seen (even though I’m connected to him legally). I phone him, we agree to meet at the police station to get things sorted out. At the police station (where we’re kind of regulars now), they congratulate us and tell us that their sticker machine isn’t working, so we need to go to Aabenraa, a neighboring town about 25 miles away. And they close in two hours. And they’re not open on Fridays. And this MUST be done within two weeks. And I’m leaving on Saturday to be in the states for three weeks. “It is a very short drive.” “We have bicycles.” “Oh. No car?” “No, no car. (Are you not reading my blog? The post office ladies are.)” “Well, you must go today. See you!”

So Don, the fastest phone dialer and most resourceful person I’ve ever met, finagles us a car, but this means I can’t get home afterward, so I’m off to the opera that night! But first, I need my CPR (Danish residency) number. Off to city hall (on bicycles). Tick tock. We wait in line, fill out a form, show them the all-important letter from the government, wave my passport around. “You are married?” “Yes, we are married.” “I see. I need to see a certified copy of your marriage license.” So, Don hops on his bike, pedals like there’s no tomorrow, somehow finds the certificate, pedals back. More stamps, signatures and directions. I have my CPR number!!! I’m REAL!!!

We bike home to meet the generous soul who is lending us his car, drop him off at his house and buzz out to Aabenraa. We have just under and hour. It’s raining. It’s rush hour. Somehow, Don did not pull the steering wheel out of the column, but I’m pretty sure there’s some major timpani banging at full volume in his poor head.

We make it! Clearly our car is magnetized to inchy tractors in the roadway, but we make it! The irony of screaming into a police station in frenzied haste was not entirely wasted on us. But we made it! And the police officers are always SO jolly and SO thrilled that we try to stumble through this all in Danish. “Yes, yes, I see you here in my computer. I have a sticker for you.” THE MAGIC STICKER!!! I’M GOING TO GET A MAGIC STICKER!!! THE ONE WITH RAINBOWS AND SHINY LINES AND BEAUTIFUL STARBURSTS THAT I’VE BEEN SALIVATING FOR FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS!!!! THE STICKER OF MY DREAMS!!!

Stamp, stamp, sign, sign, peel, WHAM. That gorgeous WHAM that means that this thing was NOT coming out of there, no peeling, no ripping, no nothing, IT IS STUCK IN THERE GOOD.

Sigh.

We were practically panting from all the adrenalin. Then we celebrated with pizza. And it was heavenly...

Ding Dong

2007-10-10T11:43:00.000-07:00

I know that precisely one person out there (and she knows who she is) will find the following videos delightful. There actually is almost nothing to see as I took these at night. But, what's fabulous is the audio: This is my favorite churchbell tune, the 10pm get-down, if you will. I think there are certain hours (9am, 5pm, 10pm, among others) that each have their own accompanying ditty. The Sunday morning at 9am song is all about better-shake-yo-butts-to-church-folks/GET-OUT-OF-BED-DON; very lively and extra loud. Anyway, this 10pm tune is what I often hear with Bella as we take a quick spin around the block. I love it, and it's usually deathly quiet right before the bells start. So beautiful.

Look What I Made!!!

2007-10-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

Mmmmm... Cinnamon bread...

And it is not one bit brick-like! But, perhaps the most important discovery at hand is that Baby ADORES cinnamon. S/he demanded it so insistently that, before I knew what had happened, half the loaf was gone. It all happened so fast...

F-Bombs at the Police Station

2007-10-10T10:37:00.000-07:00

Ah, linguistics. I could talk about this whole language-learning stuff all day. Not only is Danish incredibly difficult to pronounce, but IT SOUNDS NOTHING LIKE IT LOOKS. Every other syllable sounds like a drunken slur, even when completely sober, and several of the letters are silent, just like in English. If you know what a guttural slur is, try doing that for a few moments, then throw in some glottal stops and swallowed Rs. There! Now you're talkin' Danish!

Despite my pronunciation woes, I find Danish quite interesting. It's a little bit German, a little bit Norwegian, a little bit country, a little bit rock & roll. Very Donny and Marie after countless pints of Carlsberg (which is pronounced "KAAHLZ-bug"). Another thing I've found fascinating is this whole idea of swearing. While a few friends have delighted in teaching us some of Denmark's nastier vocablulary offerings (one of which sounds EXACTLY like "pizza" to me, which can be dangerous in the wrong cafe), it's even more interesting how Danes view English swear words. They hear them all constantly from movies and television, and after any Sean Penn flick, f*** is a completely normal word -- functional yet casual, emotive yet general enough for everyday conversation. Therefore, we hear these sparkling gems absolutely everywhere, lest we forget the finer members of the English lexicon.

Case in point: A few weeks ago, I went to the police station to take care of some business as we await our permanent residency visas. I was at the counter, speaking to the kindest and most helpful officer posted at the "udledningenservis" ("foreigner/new immigrant service"). During our conversation, he asked where I was from, and the discussion went a little like this...

Me: "My husband and I are both from Seattle, but I grew up in Hawaii."

Officer: "Hawaii!! F***! That's a lovely place! Oh, sh**, how I would love to take my wife for our holiday there. Yes! It is f***ing beautiful, I hear!"

Me: "Uh. Yes, it is. Beautiful."

Officer: "Now, let's see... Hawaii is in the Atlantic Ocean, yes?"

Me: "No, the Pacific Ocean."

Officer: "F***!! Yes, of course! The Pacific."

Me (trying very hard not to look completely shocked as he shouts this across the whole police station) (whispering): "Yes, the Pacific."

Officer: "And Seattle is at the Atlantic?"

Me (cringing and whispering): "No. The Pacific, too."

Officer (slapping his forehead): "Ah, F***!!! The f***ing Pacific, as well! I need a map! F***!"

By this point, we're both laughing, but for totally different reasons. Mine was shock, his was geniality. He was so sweet that his peppery shout-outs were bizarre and hilarious at the same time. After our geography lesson, he told me that I must be a very good teacher because he could understand me so easily, and that maybe I ought to go his daughter's school and ask for a job as they need good teachers and I could probably teach the kids very well. I thanked him and thought about how fortunate for everyone that he was a police officer and not an elementary school English teacher.

I saw Officer Pottymouth again today, and I stopped just short of asking him how the f*** he was doing.

It Wasn't Jet Lag

2007-10-05T13:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm not sure what the exact protocol is for announcing things such as these on the ol' interweb, so maybe I'll just show you a pretty picture:

It's worth well more than a thousand measly words, and I believe this will forever be my very favoritest portrait of all time.

Big Sky, Denmark

2007-10-04T05:23:00.000-07:00

It's taken a good deal of self-reminding that not only have we moved to Denmark from the U.S. but we've also moved from a very big city (pop. 3 million) to a pretty small town (pop. 30,000). For so long, I would usually attribute all differences to the transition of nations -- language, social customs/behaviors, economics, attitudes, government -- but over time, I've come to see that a lot of these dissimilarities are actually big city/small town differences. It's not always a Danish/ American thing, but the fact that we now have begun living as semi-countryfolk.

When I take Bella out for our nighttime constitutional, I am always struck by the the gaping vastness of the sky. The darkness is so huge, stretched over me like a giant black bowl dotted with flour stars. I remember, when I thought to look, the Seattle sky as a charcoal haze, faded by the light pollution and traces of smog. Here, it's just pure black. The stars are so bright and shiny -- they act like real stars are supposed to, not just sluggish bulbs. Sometimes I stand in our courtyard and look up for a few minutes before we come inside. I've never been all that interested in the sky before, but now I'm very taken with its clarity. It just seems so incredibly BIG, and I think of Big Sky, Montana, very far away, but tuned into the same channel. Bella must like it, too, as I sometimes see her sitting on the ground next to me, eyes up, sniffing the stars contentedly. I could take a picture of the night sky for you, but it wouldn't fit on your monitor.

Because You Know You've Been Wondering

2007-10-01T11:02:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking of surprising Don on his next birthday with his very own personalized version outside on our exterior wall:

Floody Friday

2007-09-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

Bella and I forgot our swimcaps when we tried to head out the front door the other morning...

Hmmm. Maybe it's a little better down the street...

No tiptoeing to dry weewee ground this way, so out the back door for us. When I biked home from Rebekka's the night before, I saw the roadblocks up on our street, which only means one thing: Floods, dey is a-comin'. Though it was as dry as a Danish joke that night, the next morning was, of course, far wetter -- a good foot deep of mucky brown harbor water. Oh, the aroma! Maybe the city worker guys are all tide experts, or maybe they sleep with almanacs under their pillows, but they ALWAYS know when these floods will come, blocking off the street to cars hours beforehand. The only real tragedy about this is all of the hundreds of starfish and jellyfish who perish on the road, wondering how they hell they got there to begin with. I've tossed a few baby startfish back into the harbor, but it always feels kind of futile. Besides, who am I to play God, right? Maybe I'm robbing the next seagull Jonas Salk from the meal he needs to gain the strength to cure cancer? Or the next seagull Tchaikovsky the opportunity for another tomorrow to compose a brilliant new opus? SIGH. Circle of life, circle of life. So much to think about these days. The water's gone now.

(Did you know that the Danish word for jellyfish is "vandmand," which literally means "water man"? Don't you think that is just nifty??)

Uh oh...

2007-09-30T08:53:00.001-07:00

The natives are getting restless:

Remember this sweet li'l billboard? The one that says "Tolerance. ... We stand fast to our Danish values." (Translation: "Boo! Go away, Muslims and other non-Danes!")? Seems that a person disagrees with those there contents of it. Last week, someone spraypainted "Ret til forskellighed" on the Danske Folkeparti sign, and that means "Right to be different." YAY! I'm waiting to see how long it takes to be replaced. And the best thing about the picture is that I actually waited for someone else in front of me to finish taking a photo of this board.

Burn, Baby, Burn!

2007-09-28T06:19:00.000-07:00

It's not all that often when I wake up in the morning, walk outside and try to remember if I took quaaludes very recently. Those are special mornings. Like, take Monday. Walking Miss Bella Sue around the castle, as we normally do 364 days of the year (Don does it the other day), I saw a groundskeeper mowing the lawn. Normal activity; check. Except that THERE WERE FLAMES SHOOTING OUT OF THE FRONT OF THE MOWER AND HE SEEMED ENTIRELY OKAY WITH THAT. Also, the lawnmower was not on the lawn itself, per se -- it was on a gravel trail. Did I mention the mass of orange flames covering the pathway? I think I stood there for several minutes until Mr. Satan Greenjeans waved at me and gave me a hearty smile. Then I felt so embarrassed at my quick jump to judgment. Why NOT torch your gravel walkway if it helps things? I waved back and looked to Bella for the answer. She shook her head in puzzlement, shrugged and sniffed some pee.

It's been almost a week and I STILL cannot quite get my head around this one.

(NB: I have seen said groundskeeper waving a blowtorch over a rock wall to, I presume, burn off little teensy weeds who dare take up residence in the cracks. And that's all I got, folks.)

Magical Marimba Ponies

2007-09-27T00:43:00.000-07:00

"BUT, DADDY, MADELEINE FAIRCHILD HAS A MARIMBA PONY AND I WANT ONE, TOO!!!!!!!!!"

The People in Your Neighborhood

2007-09-20T00:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the coolest little experiences come when you least expect them. A couple of days ago, Don and I went grocery shopping and were trudging home with heavy bags (IN OUR HANDS) and one very sniffy and disobedient dog. We started down a long flight of stair, where we saw an old woman slowly, slowly making her way down the many steps, clutching the handrail. We said hello, and Don mentioned something about "so many stairs," to which she replied, "so many stairs for such an old lady." She asked us where we came from (Mars?), and then we just started talking (all in Danish, mind you). We told her about where we were from, what we were doing here (people are always very curious about that and not shy about asking), what we thought about living here, where we lived, etc. She started telling us about learning English in school when she was a young girl here in this very same town, and she recited the first thing she learned in English: "See me hop, see me run. I can hop and I can run. Oh, how it is such fun, fun, fun!" Margit was quite proud of that, and it was a real treat to see her laughing out loud that she still remembered it. Turns out she's 82, and she told us all about living through WWII -- the American soldiers who came here in 1945 after liberating the concentration camps ("ah, I remember Jimmy and Joe! They were SO nice!"), and how loads of refugees came here and lived on the boat docks, the same docks out our windows, just sleeping under the stars and so happy to be free. Our jaws sat on the groud for quite a while listening to her, and it occurred to me (again) how rich in history this place is. I still can't quite believe that we live across the street from a castle (A CASTLE!) built in the 14th century. I hope we see her again.

There are all kinds of neato people in our neighborhood!

My Stuff Is Back!

2007-09-18T02:11:00.001-07:00

Hey, so, do you guys remember that time when I moved abroad and then I had all these problems getting residency and so I was all, "I am SO outta here," and then I took off with, like, two suitcases, and then all of my other stuff was packed up and moved out and driven to London and then it was all ready to be loaded onto a ship there to come to me in Seattle and then I was all thinking about it all serious and then I go, "Well, maybe I *will* live on Denmark after all!" and then I go, "Wait! Mover people! Stop my stuff!" and they were all, "Okay, weirdo, we were just about to put it all on the boat to you. What's up?" and then I go, "Okay, thanks, you guys. TOTALLY DO NOT SEND IT TO ME IN SEATTLE, OKAY?" and then they go, "Whatever," and then I go, "Right on! Can you send it BACK to my original address where you guys picked it up?" and they're all, "Okay, cool," and then I go back to that place and I wait and wait and wait and try to remember what's in the boxes of my stuff that has already traveled around the planet once or twice before and then I start to get really excited to wear something warm other than my one navy blue sweatshirt because it's getting all cold outside and stuff and then one day all of my stuff shows up again and it's the same moving guy as before and he's all confused and goes, "So, didn't I just move all this stuff up all these stairs before?" and then it's all back in my living room AGAIN, all totally wrapped up just like old times?

Yeah. I totally love that story.

(See? I *did* learn something from teaching 10th grade English!)

O Gardenburgers, How I Miss Thine Rapturous Ways...

2007-09-18T01:49:00.000-07:00

I miss Gardenburgers. The staff of life, the bloodline to joy and health and all things wondrous and good. I also miss granola bars and jalapenos that are actually hot, and not just sad sliced pickled bits. Anyhow, I've (somewhat) successfully recreated the former here in Siberia, and they turned out not too bad! Did you know there's a recipe online for pretty much every single kind of packaged food or famous restaurant item? (And did you also know that Oreo filling is just shortening and white sugar?)

Start with kidney beans, oatmeal, onions, red peppers, bulgur wheat, cottage cheese, mushrooms, carrots and stuff:

Whirled in the food processor for a wee spell:

Shape into patties and broil. NUM! MERS!

I also made granola bars, and they were pretty darned delicious, too, although they did lack the all-important cohesion factor. However, I have deduced that eating granola "bars" from a pan with a spoon is just as tasty as the real thing.

Young Scandinavian Engineers

2007-09-18T01:43:00.000-07:00

I love this Norwegian ad...

Being Driven Crazy

2007-09-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I've missed woefully these past several months, it's having a car. I arrived a little late on the car ownership scene with my sweet little 1984 Toyota Tercel purchased in 1994, but I can assure you it was extremely cherry. I've since owned two fabulous Hondas, and all were my tickets to freedom. No more clutching grocery bags on my lap on the crowded bus for me. The convenience factor couldn't be beat, and the fact that I could just GO wherever I wanted, to another city, across that field, to the beach, to Target or the Statue of Liberty or to the Yukon or to check out that giant crucifix on the hill in Rio de Janeiro, just like that, was pretty awesome.

It seems that just about everyone here has a car, so much so that people are surprised that we don't have one. A bank teller looked dumbfounded recently when we said we didn't have a car. "But...how do you get around?" Bicycles. "Yes, but when it is raining?" We walk, with hooded jackets on. "And shopping bags?" We carry them. With our hands. I think she stopped herself before asking, "But why?", though I'm sure it was perched on the edge of her tongue.

And that's where I'm at: But why? Why don't we have a car? WHY???? Two reasons: Cost, and the insufferable tribulations involved with getting a Danish driver's license.

First, some math: I saw yesterday that gasoline here costs 9.75 kroner per liter. (They're all metricky here and stuff.) There are 3.8 liters in a gallon, so a 15-gallon gas tank is 57 liters, and to fill that gal up will cost you 556 kroner, or $103.50. My last Honda cost roughly $32 to fill up, bone-dry to tippy-top. This amount seems so mind-boggling to me that I wonder if there is an error in my calculations, but I don't think so. So, how do Danes afford this? I have no idea, especially when you think of doubling it for a two-car family. Sheer wackiness. Why haven't they figured out a smart way to get cheap oil? Sillies.

Other than the simple task of buying gas, there looms the daunting challenge of convincing the police that we are actually fit to drive. When we arrived here last September and Don took care of all of his temporary residency set-up stuff at city hall, he was assured that once he became a permanent resident (after one year), he had two weeks to come in and swap his U.S. license for a Danish one. Easy peasy, even trade, smiles all around. Until then, our U.S. driver's licenses would work a-okay, especially since we were conscientious enough to have gotten international driver's licenses through AAA before we left; not necessary, but certainly helpful. Gold stars and smiley faces next to our names for being so proactive!!

Fast forward to two weeks ago: Don goes back to city hall to inquire about the jolly license swap, and was told, "oh, no, the law has changed." As of January 1st of this year, American driver's licenses are now obsolete for permanent residents, about as effective as a broken rubber band. No trading. Sorry. Okay, so now what? "Well, you will need to first take a written test at the police station, in Danish, then a driving course consisting of about 8 consecutive lessons with a private teacher, then a driving test through the police (and you must rent the driving instructor's special car with the brakes on both sides), paying for translators chosen by the police and the driving instructor, and then there will be a licensing fee as well." The whole package will cost about $2500-3000. Each.

I think we will eventually get our licenses, but we'll have to do it one at a time. We've kind of stopped talking about it between ourselves, because our discussions usually end in one or both of us going mute, not being able to locate any words to express the lunacy of it all, so now we just talk about happier subjects like Paris Hilton being free and how pretty windmills are.

Going Postal

2007-09-11T10:55:00.000-07:00

I think the ladies at our post office have been reading my blog. They still take every opportunity they can to be scoldy, but they are being much nicer about it these days.

A couple of weeks ago, Don and I took a very large stack of thank-you cards to the post office, all going to the States. Most had been stamped, but we still needed about 10 more stamps to get the whole lot out of our hair. (THANKS, EVERYBODY!!!) They're these cute little notecards, roughly 3"x5" -- you know, thank-you card size. Well, these dimensions rang some alarms at the ol' post office. Fru (Mrs.) Post Office Lady frowned. "This is too small. You cannot put this in the post." I see. Out comes the Official Danish Postal Policy Manual, then the ruler. Measure, measure, measure. Frown, frown, frown. She conferred with her cronies. Was it too small? Hmm. Yes, it is too small. Are you SURE? Very tiny puffs of smoke come out of Don's ears. Can you check again? Please? Measure, measure, confer, confer, sigh. "Okay, we think it MIGHT be all right. But we cannot guarantee it. Please follow the postal rules next time."

Right. Yes. Absolutely.

A few days ago, we received a very nice letter from the Post Office. It seems we had sent a bill to the States in a standard U.S. business envelope, and there was a problem. It was too large. There was even a digital photo of our envelope placed next to a ruler. Clearly, it was approximately one centimeter too long, and that was not cool. This time, they would let it go, but if we plan to use these envelopes in the future, we must put the appropriate postage on it. Instead of the standard 8.25 kroner ($1.50), please affix 44 kroner ($8.20).

I think it will be cheaper to stop paying our bills.

MORE Love Is in the Air

2007-09-08T10:35:00.001-07:00

Aw...more double happiness! We went to another wedding last week, and this one was uniquely special because it was a Chinese wedding here in Denmark. Sai, principal oboe in Don's orchestra, married his longtime girlfriend, Yao (a classical pianist), and we were lucky enough to be invited. Although they were actually married in China last year, they wanted to share their wedding celebration with their friends and colleagues here in Europe. So, along with their families travelling all the way from China (that is one ridiculous travel intinerary, believe me), they had music conservatory friends coming from Germany and Austria, too. It was quite the international bunch. The wedding ceremony (including really touching speeches from both fathers, one of whom talked about reading and loving Hans Christian Andersen stories as a child in China, and how thrilled he was to be here in the land of Andersen himself) was done in Chinese, with Sai's sister-in-law interpreting to everyone in perfect English. The ceremony was held in an elegant historical hotel, after which we had a spectacular lunch in another room. SO GORGEOUS. The food was unbelieveable, and it kept right on coming. (They really should have noted "elastic waistbands strongly encouraged" on the invitation.) Danes have several very interesting and funny wedding traditions, including cutting the toes off of the groom's socks and cutting his tie in half, and they also do the throwing of the bouquet and the clinking of water glasses to make the bride and groom kiss. My absolute favorite is when the groom leaves the room at any time, all (and I mean ALL) of the men immediately jump up and run over to the bride and line up to kiss her, and vice versa for when the bride steps outside. It's quite hilarious to witness, and it was especially funny to see Sai and Yao's parents reacting to the rowdiness of it all. Sai caught on pretty quickly and was gracious enough to start announcing that Yao was gone. Cheeky boy!

The Faces of a Danish Tomorrow

2007-09-08T09:23:00.000-07:00

One thing that I love about living in Denmark is the relative absence of pervasive advertising. It's all pretty civilized -- you can choose to either have a snappy red sticker on your mailbox stating "Ingen reklamer, tak!" ("No ads for me, thanks!"), or you can opt to have the standard supermarket circulars popped into your box every Tuesday. Commercials on radio stations are very brief and come on maybe twice an hour. Even billboards are sequestered to certain areas and are generally pretty mild and few in number.

Well, it's coming up on election time here on our groovy planet, so guess who's bought our town's few billboards this month?

So, this gang, Denmark's Conservative Party, says, "We're keeping Denmark on track." Okay, simple enough.

And this crew, Denmark's Peoples' Party (and the current incumbents), takes it up a notch. (Incidentally, the DPP is a super right-wing group, the rightest of 'em all.) They say, "Tolerance. We hold fast to Denmark's values." That's nice. But isn't this kind of a paradox? I thought social tolerance was about including, validating and generally celebrating differences.

There was something about these posters that stayed me as I walked by them every so often, asking Danes to commit to their vision and image of the future, deciding what Denmark should strive to be. It didn't hit me until I saw this photo in the local newspaper the other day:

School's back in session, and these kids seem to be the real faces of Denmark's tomorrow. Maybe some politicians could use a little kindergarten refresher.

Bella Update

2007-09-06T04:14:00.000-07:00

Good morning, everyone. I'm Bella the Dog, reporting live to you from my living room carpet.

It all started a few nights ago when I was enthusiastically informed that there was going to be a surprise that evening. I do love surprises, folks, especially when they look like this:

Mmmm-MMM. Indeed, you will never see me turn down a meat tube, hot off the tall smoking thing. Stupendous. Unfortunately, the surprise turned out to be this:

Simply put, ladies and gentlemen, no me gusta. I did not gusta this one teeny tiny bit. It was deafening, smelly, people were shouting -- it was complete chaos, folks. Apparently this was a staging of a historic battle between the invading Germans and Dutch and the defending Danes. (So they were maybe short a few dozen ships that night, but this was a DRAMATIC RE-ENACTMENT, people. Please try to not be so literal.) I was quite upset, understandably -- there were numerous explosions in the air, the water, out of ships and cannons and it was all so frightful and terrible that I will stop here for now. Please take my word for it: I hope you never have to endure the misery of a summer maritime festival conclusion such as this.

Still, sometimes life's greatest struggles yield the sweetest of rewards. Like some cozy time with my bewitching Nylabone Liver Flavor Bone for Powerful Chewers.

When God created liver-flavored plastic, He really got it right. Absolutely sublime, and I highly recommend keeping one on hand for stressful situations.

Um...

2007-08-30T01:34:00.000-07:00

Now, let's be clear and acknowledge that every single country has its share of numbskulls. They're all over the planet, and I've certainly done a little time myself starting many sentences with, "huh?" (Like, in high school? And stuff?)

But...

This is excruciating. And funny. And sad. And very, very, very, very telling. Do watch the entire clip (though I had a hard time getting through it all in one go). I'm pretty sure they're not actors. Just regular ol' Amerrrrrrrricans.

We need to start taking education real serious!

Morning Post

2007-08-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

Just a regular Wednesday morning at our apartment...

Saturday Night Crazy

2007-08-29T10:32:00.001-07:00

Sophie came to visit us last weekend from Cambridge, and we pulled out all the stops for her. We even ordered up a li'l Americana to tug at her heartstrings.

It still mystifies me how monstrously popular LINE DANCING is here in southern Denmark. Like, crazyhuge. This group was the first of many to shake it in one of the public squares that night; there were loads of off-duty line-dancers strutting around in chaps, black ten-gallon (2.64-liter?) hats and cowboy boots, thumbs hooked into beltloops accordingly. I guess it is actually just like how in the states we wear aprons and braids and go clogging to alphorn music, right?

(How many of you got that this picture is DUTCH, and not DANISH? People commonly ask me how my Dutch is coming along. In a word, terribly.)

More Wedding Happy!

2007-08-29T09:54:00.000-07:00

Our friends, Rebekka and John, got married last Saturday on the grounds of our neighborhood castle. It was gray and cold that day, really grim. At 2:58pm, John and the wedding guests promenaded to the wedding site, and the clouds actually parted.

The sun shone for about 15 minutes, and then, back to clouds. But, the bride and groom were rays of sunshine!

This was THE most mind-blowing wedding cake EVER -- dense dark chocolate base covered with a blanket of heavenly raspberry cream and fresh berries on top. I ate three pieces. Slowly. Silently. My eyeballs very likely rolled to the back of my head.

As it got colder, the guests boarded a three-masted sailing ship for a cruise around the sound. Don and I stayed behind and waved from the shore. Gale-force winds and icy ocean spray in a short dress and heels ain't often my thang.

Besides, there was leftover cake to be cleaned up.

Tillykke med fødselsdagen!

2007-08-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

It's very, very difficult to fool me around my birthday, due to my infinitely vast intellect -- I *always* uncover surprises. (Yes, I really am this much fun!!!) But, this year, Don got me. He used the time-tested "do it the day BEFORE the actual birthday plan." AHA!

He left very early this morning to go practice at the music hall. (That should have been my first tip off -- waking up just past daybreak on his day off to go play the trombone? Um, no.) He split, and then I smelled coffee. Don doesn't drink coffee, let alone know how to make it. I got up to find many coffee mugs set out, along with a spread of fresh fruit, bread, yogurt, etc.

Then the door buzzed... which quickly followed by a lively and very loud brass choir outside (click on the pic to enlarge):

(L to R: Bo on trumpet, John on trumpet, Jeppe on French horn, Søren on bass trombone, and the magical and lovely Don on tenor trombone. Also making a special appearance to the right is Jeppe's wife and my friend Jorunn with baby Victor.)

Note the stunned sailboat inhabitants in the background who were jarred out of their slumber by this fantastic concert, still in sleepshirts. (I especially love the guy peaking out of the porthole in the upper right corner. "WHAT THE...???") There were actually quite a few who grabbed their cameras and snapped away.

And here is the audio/video version (turn up your speakers!):

I should add that this is something of a Danish tradition on special occasions, to hire a brass quintet or a whole band to play very early in the morning outside of your house with all of your friends gathered there, and then you have to have them inside for breakfast before everybody heads off for work, which is what happened this morning. So always make sure you have lots of coffee and breakfastings on hand the day before your birthday or anniversary! (And make sure you're wearing some kind of pajamas, too. I'm just sayin'.)

Little Language Learnings

2007-08-15T01:36:00.000-07:00

Don and I have certainly picked up little sayings or utterances (in English) from hearing them so often here in Denmark. For example, you can frequently hear us say "okay, okay" and "yeah, yeah" and "no, no" sprinkled in our conversation, rather like "uh huh." Also, from hearing it several million times from Danes, now we say, "o-KAAAAAY" (emphasis on the drawn-out second syllable). See? We're pretty much totally Danish now. (The last 5% of that crossover is eating herring.)

Another observation we've made is that virtually all Danes switch the English words "fun" and "funny," or usually just use "funny" to cover all those happy bases. So, you'll frequently hear something like: "Ugh, I had to wait in line at City Hall for twenty minutes! It was not very funny!" Or: "We took our kids to the beach today and they had a funny time."

Fortunately, it looks like we'll be starting our evening Danish classes in early September (FINALLY), and then we'll be sounding like enthusiastic morons... ("Hello lady! I liking to have the big very bread at me, if you happy for it! I thank you very!")

Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen

2007-08-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

Last week I had the pleasure of catching a ride to Copenhagen with my friend, Rebekka, who was going there to pick up her wedding dress and take care of last-minute pre-wedding details. It was a four-hour drive each way, which was great as it allowed us to talk and talk and talk. She asked me the zinger question: "Do you consider yourself patriotic?" Good thing we had four hours.

We crossed one of the longest suspension bridges on the planet. Who knew Denmark has so many islands?

It was incredibly hot that day, probably in the 90s (F), but no one seemed cranky. Some street scenes...

A Danish parking lot...

Apparently it's Fashion Week in Copenhagen. I know this because there was a giant telecom truck parked in the middle of a square with an even gianter television screen perched on top. Anyone within a few blocks was "treated" to a repeating reel of interviews with various Danish designers and clips of fashion shows. Mildy interesting to me, but these four gals, visiting from Akron or Duluth or Indianapolis, found it pretty funny. They especially enjoyed the glittering-silver-silk-hoodie-jacket-as-buttock-grazing-dress look. They were far more entertaining than the models.

After a full day, we headed home to our little town. Copenhagen says, "hej hej!"

Wedding Belle and Beau

2007-08-13T13:25:00.000-07:00

I just love weddings, don't you? Especially when they're mine!

Yes, by the power invested in our Justice of the Peace by the State of Washington, we are legally wed! A fantastic, fantastic, triple fantastic day and night for us and our guests, seriously perfect. Thanks to everyone who could make it on such short notice! To quote my dear new sister-in-law: "WOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

A Ghost in the Machine

2007-08-03T06:31:00.001-07:00

Denmark is a very concise place. Things happen on time, and with great consistency. It's nice. However, amid this niceness, I have developed a new hobby. It goes a little like this:

Call Ministry of Immigration. Ask a caseworker how long they estimate my residency visa will take. Note results. Hang up.

Here's the tally so far...
July 22: "You will be fast-tracked, so, one month, tops. I'll make a little note about this in your file."
July 27: "We don't have anything called 'fast-track.' Three months."
August 3: "IF you can follow the directions and have sent in EVERYTHING in PERFECT, UNQUESTIONABLE condition, then you will be fast-tracked for three months. But if ANYTHING is missing or strange or if we don't like the way the stamp was positioned on your envelope, then seven months."

At least I got to talk to a real, live human being. That is quite a benefit.

Back from Outer Space!

2007-07-31T14:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, OKAY, okaaaaaaaaaaay, OOOOOKAAAAAAAAAAAY, okay, okay, okay!!!!

HERE IS YOUR BLOG ENTRY. (Yes, it's for YOU. All of your subtle "reminding" worked. OKAY?)

Well, so, yeah: Denmark and I broke up, but now we're back together. I just had to tell her firmly, "Denmark! Don't be all like that!" Ding! All done! It'll feel terrific once the rubber stamp actually hits my forehead, but I'm ready. No more funny business, Denmark, you hear?

On a tragic note: I have misplaced my digital camera download cord, so no images for a while, folks. Sorry. (Not my fault.) (But not naming names, either. Being gracious.) (Hmph.)

On a joyous note: I have discovered that pickles ARE available in Danish grocery stores!!! Not only are they available, but they are CRAZY SCRUMPTIOUS!!!! I love sour pickles, and I love sweet pickles, but you know what they do here? THEY MIX THEM UP TOGETHER! Yes! I know! Sweet AND sour, in the same jar! And these guys are crunnnnCHY! Yumtastic! The label says "drue agurk," which translates to "grape pickle," which I don't get, but I also do not care one whit, as it could say "battery acid pickles" and I would still be on my third jar this week.

Things are gonna be okay, methinks.

Springtime

2007-03-07T01:12:00.000-08:00

My friend, Simona, had an appointment in Flensburg (Germany) the other day, and I tagged along for fun. I love walking up and down the main pedestrian street -- it's a very cute little town loaded with charm. Northern Europeans go crazy for springtime, and flowers (mainly tulips, gerbera daisies and ranunculas) are everywhere. Most of the flowers come from Holland, and you can get a humongous bunch for almost nothing...

Guess who I bumped into on the street today?

2007-03-01T07:13:00.000-08:00

So, February kind of sucked all around, and we're just going to go ahead and put those nasty few weeks behind us. Hi March! What better way to kick off a new month than with a heart-warming li'l story of what just happened to me:

Bella and I took a long walk out of town, through some fields and far away. It was beautiful, and I listened to last week's "This American Life" on my Ipod. On our way home, we're maybe thirty yards away from our front door when I saw them. I think I spotted them first, but I wasn't giving anything away; I was excited, but I hesitated to say anything to them. It was the bikes that did it, and then the ties and nametags, all wrapped up in earnest grins.

The Mormons, one tall, one short, had found me.

Little Missionary Guy hopped off his bike and made a beeline towards Bella and me. I was kind of thrilled -- I knew these kids would be shocked out of their minds when they found out I was American, and they were. LMG started talking to me in very stalled Danish, and I said, "Hey, you're American, huh? Me too!" He looked like I'd just grabbed his face and given him the hottest French kiss of his short life -- initial shock, followed by confusion, and then pure joy. He beamed at me -- I wasn't ratta-tat-tatting at him in Danish!

"Yeah! Uh, yeah! I'm American! Yeah! You too!" Tall Missionary Guy hustled over to see what all of the excitement was about; it seemed, I'm sure, suspicious.

They could not believe their luck at having found me. We chatted about learning Danish and how hard it was and where we were from and why I was here and why do Danes stare at us even though we look like everyone else here (well, kids...) and could they pet my dog because they sure missed their dogs back home. They were so jazzed they completely forgot about the gospel (not that I'm narcing on them). These two were the sweetest kids, I wanted to invite them for coffee or maybe just some 7Up but I thought it might be best to just leave things as they were so I told them I had to go and I'm sure we'd bump into each other around town real soon so bye!

Unfortunately, I think they saw which building I went into, so I'm sure I'll be seeing them again.

Bella Update

2007-01-30T01:47:00.000-08:00

Good morning, I'm Bella, I love to be outdoors, and here is my update.

As many of you know, I absolutely lose my head for anything small that moves. Like, say, oh, cats, or Yorkshire terriers, or rabbits. LOVE the rabbits. Scrumptious. Never actually had one per se, but I dream about them all of the time, and it has been brought to my attention that sometimes I run in my sleep (while on my side, of course), whimpering and snarling. They are THAT good. Also, love the squirrels -- gotta give a shout-out to my hometown Seattle squirrels! MISS YOU GUYS, MAN!

Lately, however, I have a new love, a new elusive obsession. People, I'm talking about DUCKS, the kind that quack and bob in the water like the tasty little vixens that they are. When I've been extra good, Don takes me to what I like to call Duck Cove, a tiny little inlet near the castle, where he... he... LETS ME OFF MY LEASH!!!! AAAAAAARRGAAAAAAAGH!!!! I go crazy, I tell you -- I just about explode! I don't know where to run, it's all too much, so I just run all over the place! The ducks! They're everywhere! They tease me with their swimming back and forth, so coy, so "oh, you can't get us, you big stupid dog!"

That's what they think. HA! But after much experimentation, I have come up with a glorious new plan -- I call it, "Going in the Water After Them"!!!! HA HA!!!

As with any pristine strategy, it still has its kinks, but I'm committed to honing it into something foolproof. Still, there are days I feel like giving up and just walking away from it all...

But, I just remember my chakra and regroup. Take a little walk down the beach, reflect, think about what it must be like to be a seagull. It's important to soak up your surroundings, notice what's really around you, and be grateful that you're not a pebble, or a starfish.

Hell no! You're a D-O-G!! A smart, licky, stinky, sandy, wet DOG! So you pick yourself up, shake yourself off, and have a good roll-around in some duck poop and seaweed, and go hug Don, who has given you this fabulous opportunity today! YEAH!

You'll get those damn ducks next time...

A Loverly Visit to Cambridge

2007-01-20T08:20:00.000-08:00

I've been horribly remiss in not posting about our visit to Cambridge before our Hamburg soiree. Don had been in Hong Kong and Korea for almost three weeks, and we met up in London. My oldest friend in the world (she's REALLY OLD), Sophie, lives in Cambridge with her fella, Mickey, and they were gracious enough to host us for two nights. (They are also the owners of the world's tallest airbed -- like, three feet tall. I think it actually doubles as one of those poofy landing apparati when one must jump from the window of a tall building. 'Twas marvelous. Sadly, I failed to photograph it.)

We spent most our days strolling the town. Cambridge is ridiculous and unbelievable -- everything is lovely and quaint and chaaaaahming. We walked about the many colleges which comprise Cambridge University, and along the River Cam. We even had us a real POINT (read: pint). It was real noice. And, on our last night, we had a crazyscrumptious dinner at a "gastropub," a pub which specializes in excellent cuisine. As you can see, they also greatly enjoy decorating for Christmas.

I've known Soph since I was ten, and somehow, whenever we see one another, we always find the return path to fifth grade. And we behave accordingly, usually by stuffing our faces with junk food while having fits of nonsensical laughter. Thanks, Soph, and kudos to Don and Mickey for the extreme tolerance...

Makes Sense to Me...

2007-01-10T00:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday saw my weekly turn-on-the-TV-in-hopes-of-finding-something-I-can-understand session, and this is what I found:

It's a mid-day newscast in sign language! Smart! The anchor is signing away while an off-camera voice narrates the signing. Everybody wins! Except they are still discriminating against English-speakers...

General Observation #3,927

2007-01-08T01:35:00.000-08:00

Our town is extremely clean, virtually no litter anywhere to be found. There are trash cans every 30 feet or so, which are changed what seems like hourly. And yet, I've noticed one certain consistent strain of litter on the ground: McDonald's cups, wrappers, bags, sauce packets. Maybe this is a form of guerilla marketing from our one franchise unit, or maybe the trash guys don't like to touch the stuff themselves. Who knows. But, it is curious as this one McDonald's is pretty far aways out of town. Hmmmmm. Must investigate...

The Ice Capades Are Here!!!

2007-01-07T04:27:00.001-08:00

I grew up in Honolulu, Hawaii, and so anything snow- or ice-related was a huge, big, fat deal. Shoveling snow seemed ridiculous and exotic, and I never really believed that ice could seriously cover the ground, like, more than ice cubes. That was from storybooks and simply crazy. So, when I was about 5 or 6, my parents took me and my siblings to the Ice Capades at the Neal Blaisdell Arena in Honolulu, two miles from Waikiki Beach. I remember being demented with excitement on seeing the enormous ice rink as we entered the arena. What magical wizard had created this unbelievable oddity of the universe before me? It must have been around Christmastime, as I recall toy soldiers and shiny ornament-people skating around the rink and waving at ME ME ME. My dad even beat out the other dads to catch me a yellow styrofoam ball that one of the toy soldiers threw into the audience. MY HERO!!!! I cherished that styrofoam ball, and it outlasted even my Duran Duran obsession until I tossed it enroute to college.

But I digress.

Here in Denmark, most towns pull together a community ice rink for the holidays, and this year is Sonderborg's first go at it. It's free for anyone to use at anytime of the day (did I mention that nobody here really files lawsuits?), and you can rent skates for practically nothing if you don't have any. (I saw a lot of kids just running around the ice in their shoes like a giant slip-n-slide.) Part of a parking lot near our apartment was sectioned off with planks, and loads of little snaky pipes were laid down very close together, and then, one day, the black pipes were white, covered in frost, and then the frosty lines became a shiny sheet of ice. It was pretty cool to watch over the progression of a week. Unfortunately, it's been so warm here that there's often a giant puddle sitting on top of the ice, but that doesn't seem to bother the kiddies none.

(And I'm still trying to figure out a "capade" is.)

Holidaze...

2007-01-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

Yes, rabid fan base, it's been weeks, and I'm sorry for the struggle it must have been for both of you. Now we're in a whole brand spankin' new year. I'M BACK!! The last few weeks have included family visits, travel, cookies and lots of Christmas ornaments.

Don's dad and "wicked stepmother" (!) were our first visitors, journeying all the way from Los Angeles. WOO HOO! It was GREAT to see them, and we had a very fun time. This was Dean's first trip to Europe, and I venture to say he wasn't disappointed. Don and I met him and Cheryl in Hamburg before all of us scooted up north to Denmark. One of the highlights of the trip was our day at the Hamburg Christmas market. It kicked some major yule butt.

I really do think we did other stuff besides gorge ourselves, though the pictures seem to tell another story. Hamburg is a frightfully cool city, and we were happy just to walk around.

Santa brought lots of fantastic treats -- in fact, there was a whole Santa Suitcase! (THANK YOU, SANTA!) Among the goodies were yo-yos, and here is the tale of Bella being introduced to this phenomenon for the first time. (I wish I had audio to share, but you'll just have to imagine.)

Mostly, we just hung out, played canasta and Sudoku, walked around town, pet Bella, put together our new elliptical machine (bought in Germany), did laundry, visited the neighborhood slot (castle), visited the cows and chilled.

Funny Food Fun

2006-12-08T04:40:00.000-08:00

So, it's holiday time, and I'm getting ready to bust out a mind-blowing batch of my jule biscotti. I went to the grocery store today for the ingredients and spent A LOT of time examining all of the baking goodies. Maraschino cherries come in little plastic bags, kind of like large ketchup packets. Candied ginger and plain cocoa are completely non-existent. I asked a sweet young store employee for "kakao," and she took me to the chocolate drink mix section. I said, "nej, kakao uden sukker" (no, cocoa without sugar), and then she took me to the diabetic sugar-free chocolate drink mix section. I can't believe I cannot find ginger anywhere. This nation was practically built on gingersnaps, and yet no actual ginger available. No wonder they lost the war.

But, here's the crowning glory. I bought this chocolate, figuring it was baking chocolate, or just regular dark chocolate. (After wolfing down an entire box of chocolate Ex-lax at age 4, you'd think I'd be a little more careful about vaguely understood chocolate packaging. I'm kind of edgy and daring that way.)

After bringing it home, I translated the package, which says, "30 pieces dark chocolate for sandwiches." Bread crammed with dark chocolate... I think I'm in heaven. (Just hold the herring, please.)

A few things...

2006-12-07T02:56:00.000-08:00

1. Pedestrians DO NOT have the right of way in Denmark. Cars do. I have shaken my fist and shot deathray laser beams from my eyes at drivers thousands of times upon almost being mowed down on the street. Crosswalks are really cobblestoned reminders for pedestrians where it's probably somewhat safe to cross the road, and they are invisible to drivers. You will be scowled at for attempting to cross, period, so get used to it. (Or just stay on one side of the street at all times.)

2. Danish movie theaters have assigned seats. You get your seat when you buy your ticket. Even if the theater isn't full, Danes stay in their assigned seats, crappy sightline or not. They do have popcorn for sale, but by far the vast majority will be gumming salted licorice instead. (Quieter that way, too.)

3. Milk is sold in one size -- a quart carton. No behemoth plastic jugs or even large paper cartons, just quarts. It's a common sight to see a Danish hausfrau wheeling her shopping cart around with 10-12 of these cartons in a heap at the bottom.

4. Danes loooo-ooo-ooove to be tan. Orange tan, in fact, the darker and more cinnamon/tangerine-tinted the better. This look seems to be favored mainly by middle-aged women and late-teen boys. I still can't tell if it's tanning beds or self-tanner, though I think it's a combination of the two. Tanning salons are on just about every block in our town, and they seem to be the only thing open until late at night besides bars.

5. Christmas trees do not go up until around the 22nd or 23rd of December, and then they're usually not decorated until Christmas Eve, which is THE main holiday event, not Christmas Day. The 25th is about hanging out and watching TV or napping. Rather than hang stockings on the mantle the night before Christmas, Danish kids hang them on their bedroom doorknob, into which a small gift is put every single night in December, making for a far greater overall yule booty than the regular Christmas morning stocking score.

So Much Depends On...

2006-11-29T10:14:00.000-08:00

...which post mistress you get in the post office line.

Why are some so patient and helpful and kind? And others are mean and cranky and impatient and terribly hateful?

When you go into the post office here, you take a number. (They're civilized that way, you know. All orderly-like.) Needless to say, you've got to take whichever frau calls your number, no negotiations here. So, when I get the nice lady, I breathe more deeply and I smile. Cinchy. When the meeeeeeeeean post ladies start shouting my number, I shorten by a good three inches (that's 8 centimeters, Hans) and skulk down the counter slowly. I start to wonder if this really does need to be mailed at all, or maybe I can just keep walking to the number dispenser for a fresh stab at the situation.

The nice ladies talk softly and grin and nod and don't hurry me. They even write down numbers for me and one speaks English. These are fresh and pleasant transactions. I like Denmark very much during and after those meetings.

The mean ladies... Well... THEY MEAN. They take my parcel or letter and weigh it and roll their eyes and shout at me very quickly. I blink, and so they shout again. Am I deaf?

Here is what they are saying to me:

"TRE OG HUNDREDE KRONER!!!!! PRIORITAIRE ELLER NEJ?!??!!!!?!"

Which translates to:

"ONE HUNDRED THREE KRONER, STUPID!!!!! PRIORITY OR NOT, YOU MANGY LITTLE NON-DANISH-SPEAKING TWIT?!!!??!?!"

And it sounds like:

"KJDHF HDKURGUHUUOOOWDSK DISKH KUDGFH!!!!!!!!!! KIHDAKH GVKSZHDF KSSSSSAAAAAAAJTUILUUUU IIIIENKJSL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And then, in their infinite helpfulness, all of them try to sell me a phone card or ask me if I need stamps or alert me to the definite possibility of avian flu which may or may not be in Denmark but that I should be very careful anyway when I travel internationally. Or something. And so I blink some more.

One of my favorite episodes of "Absolutely Fabulous" finds Eddy and Patsy taking a trip to Provence, France. Of course, neither of them speak a word of French. After sitting around their tiny pest-ridden dumpy chalet without any alcohol for HOURS, Eddy gets up the nerve (I am cracking up as I type this, BTW) to go out to town in search of booze and food, in that order. While she's out, Patsy, alone, is faced with a pounding at the door. Terrified, she answers it, and a surly old Frenchman talks menacingly at her. She has no idea what she's saying, and her spastic facial expressions are the best filmed examples of COMEDY GOLD EVER. She starts throwing money at him to get him to go away. THIS IS HOW I FEEL WHEN I GET THE MEAN POST OFFICE LADIES.

Go find that episode on YouTube, and welcome yourself to my world.

Bella Report

2006-11-29T09:14:00.000-08:00

Oh, licks and kisses to you all, everyone! I absolutely must apologize for the excruciating delay since my last post, I've been simply inundated with the veritable cornucopia of street poo and pee to sniff. My work here is never done. I'm sure you understand, dears.

My adjustment has been going just wonderfully. I get to go on walks -- long walks -- every single day, with our afternoon route looking something like this:

It is just SO precious here. As you can see, we walk along the waterfront every day. There are mussel shells everywhere as the seagulls do enjoy a fresh-cracked meal dropped from on high. They also drop live crabs from the sky onto the concrete -- extraordinary technique! When I'm not being watched by my minder, I've been known to gobble an errant crab shell or leg or two or fifteen. Scrumptious! It's rather like being divebombed by a flurry of steaks! An excellent source of calcium, too. But, sadly, my last crab shell snack resulted in a terrible upset tummy for me for a few days. Good thing Erin knows hows to scrub and scrub and scrub that carpet.

I've also acquired a stunning new coat. Tres chic, no? I actually brought it back from the States for the nippy Danish winter.

It has caused quite a stir here among the locals, and I often have to move quickly to escape the paparazzi:

Country life suits me nicely, I think, and I'm finding all of the little weiner dogs terribly amusing. Farvel!

Lackadaisical Naming

2006-11-24T01:58:00.000-08:00

One of the trumpet players in the orchestra here and his wife have recently had a baby. He's awfully cute -- all squeaks and furrowed brows. While we were visiting the little family a few days ago, we were suprised to learn that Danes had a window of six months to name their kiddies. This little guy is still being called "baby" as his "mor" and "far" cannot agree on a name. They've been close, but something always skews the finality of it -- feeding time, laundry, the doorbell, sleep. (Although I think they are secretly enjoying the debate...)

When we told them how in the U.S you couldn't leave the hospital without a name for the birth certificate, they were shocked. "How can people make up their minds with so little time???" they puzzled. For most Americans, we assured them, 9 months was usually sufficient, and by the time the baby was swaddled like a burrito in a hospital receiving blanket, everyone was generally in agreement, happy to slap a name on the kid and go home. They marveled at the militancy of our inflexible system. So bureaucratic.

Then they told us this: "Well, here in Denmark, after six months of no name for a baby, the government gives it a name for you. Girls are named after the queen, and boys are named after the king." Brilliant!!!!!! I guess there must be lots of Margrethes and Fredericks running around.