Debate? Naw, posturing.

I’ve been surprised lately at the ferocity in which people are “debating” Obama’s Healthcare reform. NPR’s Michel Martin wrote a blog entry about how emotional the town hall meetings are and how little of the actual bill is discussed. Lee Hill followed it up with this blog entry on civil discourse.

WELL. If everyone’s posturing and no one’s debating, DO allow me to get in on the brawl. I have no idea what the bill states and have some pretty strong views for an ex-pat. Living in Norway has its pluses and minuses, but I find that the national healthcare system (among other nice socialistic perks, such as the one year paid maternity/ paternity leave) to be increasingly like golden handcuffs. Anders and I have often talked about moving to the US, though we’ve never really discussed the nitty-gritty. My head starts aching when I think about navigating American healthcare and bureaucratic systems again.


I remember distinctly when I read my friend’s blog after he wathced Michael Moore’s Sicko:

“I've forgotten the sensation of living in utter economic fear of ever getting sick or hit by a car, as I often did in the U.S. I say economic fear, because I wasn't worried so much for my health--I was fairly sure, correctly or not, that I'd make it through fine--but that I'd catch something or break something that would make me go into bankruptcy.”

(Mind you, I still haven’t seen Sicko, but I am merely posturing here.)

Then and now, I wholeheartedly agree with Ian. My European compadres like to tell of horror stories they hear on the news about Americans being turned away from a hospital because they either didn’t belong to the same HMO that runs that particular hospital or being turned away for not having any insurance at all --or worse yet-- being dropped by your HMO in middle of, say, chemotherapy. This is utterly and completely unimaginable to Europeans. Then again, Europeans see health care as right and not a luxury. After experiencing both, I have to say I agree with the Europeans.

That’s not to say the various national healthcare systems aren’t without their flaws. For one, they’re tailored to the culture/ nation they serve. I’ve heard some crazy stories about friends who’ve received healthcare in places like Japan, Romania, Germany and the UK. We shake our heads, laugh in disbelief at the “they did what?!” aspect of the story and continue the conversation. What never, ever enters the conversation is how we didn’t have access to healthcare in our time of need. And this is where I lose the plot in the US debate: Isn’t and shouldn’t the Healthcare Reform be about accessibility?

What also astonishes me is how Americans who actually have healthcare do not view their monthly deductions as a kind of tax. Different companies have different options, but almost everyone pays XXX amount to their employer every month. If I recall correctly, I paid close to $200 month for my healthcare (no dental, no eye coverage) at Temple U. That was on top of my federal, state and local taxes, which at the time totaled about 32% of my income. Right now, I pay about 32% of my income to the Norwegian government and get to keep the $200 per month that otherwise would’ve gone to an HMO because healthcare is already included. (Hmmm, what on Earth should I do with this yearly saving of ca. $2400? I know! I’ll use it to fund my 5 weeks of vacation!)

Lastly, what is this nonesense about the governement “Death Panels”? Seriously, people. Don't you know that the private, for profit HMOs already have their own? My aunt died from liver failure because the healthcare company flat-out refused the transplant that would have saved her life. Had she been 69, it would have been granted, but too bad for her, she was 71. Everyone in my family has good genes and longevity on their side, living well into their late 80’s to mid-90’s. But to the private health insurer’s Death Panel, an odd 20 or so additional years wasn’t enough of a reason to grant a transplant. Honestly, what’s the difference between Uncle Sam’s or the HMO’s Death Panel? It’s not like the average Joe has a chance in hell to appeal a decision from either one.

You May Call Me Snaggletooth

It all started with a bad haircut. I mean, a really bad one. All I wanted was trim and now my hair looks long-ish, but in reality it is barely long enough to pull back into a ponytail holder. All of the fly-away hairs I so patiently grew out are back, the length that took months to acquire is gone and I'm flat out pissed. Anyhoo, that was on the eve of my birthday.

On my birthday, I was immediately reminded of said crappy haircut when I woke up. My mood was foul. With my morning cuppa joe that my husband so lovingly put into my hands (props to the man who dared to get that close to me whilst so grumpy), I opened the birthday package my folks sent to me. It was full of magazines, clothes and items otherwise unattainable in Norway. Ok, my mood started to improve – a bit.

Then Anders offered to deliver & pick up Theo from daycare, giving me the liberty to take my racing bike to work. I'm still new to the skinny tire revolution and I'm giddy as a schoolgirl on that thing. (Seriously, this thing is, like, vrrrrrrooooooom!) Anyhoo, the ride lifted my spirits and by this point, I was feeling nearly human.

Later, Anders bought me lunch (he had to since I forgot my wallet). We went to my favorite bakery and sat in the sunshine. As if that wasn't enough, he also surprised me with a brand new iPod. Poof! the bad mood was banished.

At the risk of sounding like some soppy actor at the Emmys, I would like to thank my folks for their care-package and my hubby for not being scared by my snaggletooth alter ego and for all the birthday wishes I got on Facebook. A black mood as foul as I started out with is rare and mercifully, it doesn't last long with a day like today. Y'all ROCK.

In like a lion?

I can't believe the entire month of February blew by and we're already in the first week of March. There was a lot to do at work and we were busy during the weekends, too. Since the conditions were perfect for skiing, we took advantage of nice cross-country trails whenever we could.

While I survived the winter with a whole lot less seasonal depression than before, I find myself among the ranks of Norwegians who feel … so… tired. Daylight hours are expanding, but there’s still ca. 70 cm snow on the ground and mixed bag as far as the weather is concerned (warmish/frigid/rain/snow). Now that March is here, the wish for Spring that Works (i.e. mild sunny days that melt the snow away instead of the rainy kind) tops the list of “Things I Long For”. Whatever Spring holds in store for us, I am considering a helmet and hip waders: the helmet is for "takras" (lit. roof avalanche) and the hip waders for the muck.

Otherwise, there isn't much to report. Work is good, the kid is good, and ditto for hubby. Boring I know, but sometimes boring's OK.

Time to Get Away

What is it about going on vacation that makes me spin around the house like a madwoman? I’ve come to learn that packing means two things for me: 1) putting my clothes in the suitcase; 2) cleaning the house. Naturally, putting my things in the suitcase is the easy part. It’s cleaning the house that gets complicated.

If I were able to vacuum the carpets, put the laundry away, wash the dishes and go, then it’d be simple. Some how, I equate “going away” with “deadline”. Small projects I’ve put off MUST get done before I walk out the door. Things like delivering the recycling, lining the drawers, replacing light bulbs that burnt out months ago start bothering me with an OCD-like intensity. I rarely get to bed before 1am the night before I travel and this unbelievably stupid since I usually have to wake up at 5am.

I wonder if I do this out of some sub-conscious desire to have a spotless house in case, god forbid, anything happens. Honestly though, I doubt anyone would think negatively of me if I didn’t get the stain out of the carpet lest I never return. Or, I wonder if I do it to extend the concept of vacation. The lovely thing about vacation is getting away not only from work, but also from the household routines. It’s nice to come home and not see all of the things I should have done days or weeks ago, but to clean sheets and a clean slate where I can start my to-do list all over again.

Geek Rock

While working at the student radio station a few years ago, I got my hands on a copy of The Best of the Talking Heads. For me, it was nice to have these tunes lying about since the “Classic Rock” stations of my past aren’t readily found here. For Anders, it was revelation: this was first time he understood that geeks rock.

For while, we were spinning it daily and the CD is now a standard for any road trip. It was really fun to hear the songs as Anders heard them. We even developed a language to describe the various sounds in Naïve Melody. (I mean, the keyboards obviously say dwee-oo-wee and wee-oo-WEE-oo.) There was a lot of discussion around the lyrics, the squeaking, the hollering and whatever else David Byrne managed to utter.

It was by accident that we learned that Theo liked the album, too. I can’t remember how it started, but Theo became a Talking Heads devotee at the very tender age of 2 months. If he couldn’t sleep, we would start with Psycho Killer and he was out by Slippery People. (It’s true!)

The day care recently asked the parents to bring any CDs that kids liked. The employees were a bit skeptical when we presented the Talking Heads and flabbergasted when Theo started dancing to his favorite tracks. Pretty soon the other tots were bouncing to “Once in a Lifetime” and the adults were singing “Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?” long after the day care closed.

2008 has been a great year, but I gotta admit that corrupting a few very minor minds in favor of Geek Rock has been a highlight. ;)

No More Boxes

One of the downers about living overseas is missing out on family moments. I told my parents I was pregnant over phone and while it fun to hear my dad giggle like a school boy and to hear my mom scream for 10 seconds straight, I would have preferred to have told them in person.

This also meant that a traditional baby shower was not possible. In Norway, people show up in droves to welcome the baby and small gifts are given then, but it's not the same as an American shower. My parents and I got to talking and we worked out an ingenious solution. As everyone knows, it’s the taxes that people fear here in Norway. Luxury goods, such as electronics, booze and cosmetics are heavily taxed – up to 100%. (That’s right, a $20 bottle of alcohol ends up costing over $40.) However, Norway does not tax used goods, especially goods not meant for resale. That way, you can move your entire household without paying a penny to the government.

My folks mobilized my sister, my cousins (Betsy had tons), aunts, uncles and my grandmothers to round up baby gear and send it by freighter. This was seriously no small task. There were mounds of clothes to sort out, the whole new world of international shipping to learn (who do you contact to reserve space on a freighter?) and resisting the urge to purchase new & cute things for the coming baby. All of this had to be done within a space of 6 months.

When it was all said & done they had selected, cleaned and packed all that we needed: clothes for the first 6 months, car seats, a crib, sheets & blankets, toys, safety gear, a changing pad, diapers, bath supplies, towels, bottles, shoes, winter gear, summer gear, books, strollers and list goes on. I will never forget the day the shipment arrived in Oslo and Anders saw the packing order. He totally lost it. We had to arrange for the transport of 3.1 cubic meters (110 sq. ft) of baby gear from the docks to our house. Since we couldn’t organize cars with enough cargo space, the shipment had to be delivered. Anders walked around for months muttering “3.1 cubic meters!” and the number over time grew to 3.3 and eventually 3.5. (ha-ha!)

What was truly amazing about this gift was how comprehensive it was. I started unpacking everything and got an overview of all that we received. After Theo was born, Anders would ask “Do we have _________?” and my reply was always “Yep, we got it.” I think we spent all of $30 dollars in the first months after Theo was born. The money didn’t even go to diapers – it was more for gratuitous things or specialized items needed because of the Norwegian climate.

The gift didn’t stop there. When we came home for Christmas 2007, my sister and my cousins pulled out everything we needed. We only had to show up with enough clothes and diapers for the trip and they literally supplied everything else. My Aunt Margie even crocheted a blanket for the visit. We left with enough clothes for Theo that would last another six months. And that’s not all: when my parents came to visit in June, they brought enough clothes (again supplied by my sister and cousin) to last Theo until he reached 18 months.

For the past year and a half, I have been pulling boxes out of storage and packing boxes down. My sister, my cousin and the rest of my family have been looking at pictures of Theo in all of the gear that their children had. My family takes pride in seeing their gift put to use and we are more grateful than words can express. I suppose it’s not too strange that I get a little emotional as I write that we have no more boxes. I was shocked to find that the last box of gear I pulled out for Theo that it was indeed, the last box. After Theo outgrows this round of clothing, we will have to purchase all he needs.

For some people this is actually good news. My parents in-law, for instance, have been waiting very patiently for this day. They supplied Theo with a few big-ticket gifts, like a down bag for the stroller and a new car seat after he outgrew the last one. Occasionally, we would get a packet of onsies. I have to give my mother in-law credit where credit is due; she has restrained herself for the past 18 months. Given how giddy my brother in-law and my parents in-law are, I suspect that they are thrilled that they can lavish Theo with all the little gifts they want to for the coming holidays. To be honest, they’re having a hard time waiting. ;)

The Great Suburban Bicycle Race

First, it behooves me to say that technically I live inside city limits. Oslo, however, is described as the biggest little city in Europe or the smallest large town. “Urban Assault Riding” (the once renowned sales pitch for urban ‘mountain’ bikes) is hardly necessary. I find that drivers here tend to be patient towards cyclists and the biggest challenge is avoiding cobblestone streets. Along the many and uninterrupted cycling lanes in the city, a kind of unspoken rivalry keeps the daily commute lively.

Now, there are different categories of cyclists, of course. You’ll find the pros, whose bikes generally cost more than a car. You feel them approach by the cushion of air pressure that pushes you along before they pass you. These men and women simply live for open road. On the other end of the spectrum, you see the obvious Chads & Betties who were suckered by salesmen to buy a medium priced bike, the racing clothes, shoes, all of the extras which cost nearly as much as the bicycle itself. These people look the part, but they are clearly novice riders, ambling along.

Then there are the people that fall in the middle. They can have any kind of bike (cheap, expensive, road or off-road) and any kind of clothing (racing, everyday or sweats) and appear to be reasonably active when not commuting by bike. These are people that I assume are like me, and therefore, active participants. I know I’m not making this phenomenon up, since if I pass someone (especially a guy) he’ll try to catch up or a woman who was previously ambling along will pick up the pace so I can’t pass her. Others sometimes give the sidelong glance in acknowledgment of defeat.

There are daily victories and defeats, and I like to think that I’m on the plus side of passing people versus being passed. My deep competitive spirit (I’m cracking up as I write the phrase) has recently been dampened by hauling Theo back and forth from day care in his trailer. Flying over speed bumps and hopping over pot-holes isn’t good for his helmeted noggin, so I slow down. I am also slowed down by any kind of incline whatsoever. This means I hang in the right lane and only get to pass the occasional Chad or Betty. The ultimate satisfaction, of course, comes from passing another mom hauling her kid in a trailer. (heh, heh, heh)

I used to do this in Philly, too. Once I escaped the grid of Philly’s streets and where the common foe and fun was dodging traffic, this kind of racing rivalry was common along East and West River Drive. (I once made the mistake of trying to pace some speed skaters just for shits and giggles. They were obviously annoyed that yet another novice cyclist tried to keep up with them, though gracious enough in the short convo we had at the end of the run.) The difference between Philly and Oslo is that there were so few cyclists who commuted along the River Drives. It didn’t take long to know which cyclists I could beat and which ones could beat me, because there were only, like, three of us. On my daily commute, I never see the same people twice, which some how makes it a bit more exciting.