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. ;)
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.
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.
It made me laugh
This is the best song lyric I've heard in a long time:
"Here's another song about a gender I'll never understand"-the Wombats, Kill the Director
Day care
Theo has passed several milestones recently: he’s walking (running), survived his first year in tact, and started day care.
The beginning involved all of the usual worries and fears – will he be social enough? will he sleep enough? eat enough? How long will he cry after we leave? etc. Mercifully, it went like clockwork. Kiddo shed a few tears the first time we left him for the whole day, but otherwise he loves it. He is thrilled to be around kids his own age and I see changes in him almost immediately. It's small things like finally holding the sippy cup or bottle by himself. I knew he could do it for quite some time, though he preferred to sit in someone’s lap to take a bottle.
A niggling feeling popped up that was a bit unexpected. I realized that when Theo started day care, he also officially started down the long road of becoming Norwegian. He won’t take my American identity with him to school, which is strange for me to think about. (I was equally unhinged when I learned that, for example, any traces of my green/brown eyes are lost since Theo has blue eyes. There’s a long genetic explanation that I will leave out, but suffice to say Theo carries only the blue-eyed gene and none of my eye color genes.) My identity as an American is ipso facto, but not Theo’s.
It puts a new perspective on the parents of my friends who grew up in another country. I met people whose parents came from Russia, India, Korea, Ireland, Greece, Argentina, etc. As kids, the struggle was always for the immediate action – wanting to eat this food, see this movie, wear these clothes, play with these toys – that may or may not have been culturally appropriate for the parents. Later on, as we became adults, my friends could describe the struggles/regrets/perks of having parent(s) from a culture other than the one they grew up in – we always danced like this at home, I wish my mom/dad would have taught me Korean, I’m glad I learned French growing up, I wish my folks would’ve let me go on dates.
I can’t, nor do I want to, forget the places, people and experiences that made me who I am. For what it's worth, I’ll pass that bit on to him and he'll become exactly whatever he becomes.
O my god gotta update
Now it's summertime, people. The International Summer School is coming to a close and I can start exhaling. Emails will be answered, calls will be returned, blogs will be read and I foresee a social life in my near future.
There is, of course, lots of things happening in the coming week. We've a wedding to go this weekend, my parents are leaving and Theo will be starting day care. If this sounds busy to you, well, it is. But it's less than the breakneck speed I've been going at for the past 6 weeks.
There is, of course, lots of things happening in the coming week. We've a wedding to go this weekend, my parents are leaving and Theo will be starting day care. If this sounds busy to you, well, it is. But it's less than the breakneck speed I've been going at for the past 6 weeks.
Hilarious
A friend found this t-shirt while surfing the web: http://store.muledesign.com/shirts/philly.php The only shame of it is that few people here understand the humor in it. The same friend did indeed see the humor in it and proceeded to buy two of them for me. :D
a.k.a. Streken a.k.a Lineman
Do you remember La Linea? I think these ran with Saturday morning cartoons when I was kid, oh, so many moons ago. Anyhoo, these little gems pop up occasionally on ‘Weegie tv (which is now completely digital). They're hillarious!
Still Got A Pulse
A friend recently and bitterly complained, "Your blog is dead, Heather. What's up with that?"
Since early April, a whole lotta transitioning has been going on. I've switched jobs, which is an incredibly slow process in Norway, my folks arrived to help take care of Theo since my husband's gone back to work, I traveled to Prague with my new job and now I'm scrambling to learn as much as I can before the end of next week. New job #2 is at a summer program for exchange students at the University (www.uio.no/iss). All hell is about to break loose on June 19th and I have no idea what I'm doing.
Still, as busy as I am about to be, new job #2 feels good. The last job at the Adult Education Center had me stressed out. I was working overtime everyday with tasks that were tedious and unsatisfying. I had to beg my friends in Oslo to plan to meet since I was brain-dead after 5pm. The best I could manage on a daily basis was to give my son his dinner, his bath and to put him to bed before I collapsed. Ugh. Thank god these days are behind me!
I look forward to new job #2. With all that there is do now and with all that I will have to do in the near future, I feel good about it. I'm not brain-dead after 5pm, I totally enjoy the time I have with Mom, Dad, Theo and Anders after work, I started working out again after a year of not, I've picked up my hobbies again, I'm helping my husband finish remodeling the kitchen and I’ve even hit a flea market or two.
The summers in Oslo are so fine with the long, long days of sunlight. As midsummer approaches, I'm glad that I no longer feel as if I'm wasting them.
Since early April, a whole lotta transitioning has been going on. I've switched jobs, which is an incredibly slow process in Norway, my folks arrived to help take care of Theo since my husband's gone back to work, I traveled to Prague with my new job and now I'm scrambling to learn as much as I can before the end of next week. New job #2 is at a summer program for exchange students at the University (www.uio.no/iss). All hell is about to break loose on June 19th and I have no idea what I'm doing.
Still, as busy as I am about to be, new job #2 feels good. The last job at the Adult Education Center had me stressed out. I was working overtime everyday with tasks that were tedious and unsatisfying. I had to beg my friends in Oslo to plan to meet since I was brain-dead after 5pm. The best I could manage on a daily basis was to give my son his dinner, his bath and to put him to bed before I collapsed. Ugh. Thank god these days are behind me!
I look forward to new job #2. With all that there is do now and with all that I will have to do in the near future, I feel good about it. I'm not brain-dead after 5pm, I totally enjoy the time I have with Mom, Dad, Theo and Anders after work, I started working out again after a year of not, I've picked up my hobbies again, I'm helping my husband finish remodeling the kitchen and I’ve even hit a flea market or two.
The summers in Oslo are so fine with the long, long days of sunlight. As midsummer approaches, I'm glad that I no longer feel as if I'm wasting them.
Roma con bambino
We recently traveled to Rome for a long weekend. With all that I studied about Rome and the Renaissance, it seemed downright arrogant to visit for 4 days, but you take what you can get.I think the first thing that struck me about the Renaissance is how gaudy it was. I was overwhelmed by all the naked ladies, gesticulating men and putti in the Vatican Museum. It was very emphatic. With lots of gold leaf. I know now that most of what I studied was photographed in front of a black backdrop and now I understand why.
Except for St. Peter’s and the Vatican Museum, it’s not a good idea to take a squealing baby into a museum. Any idea how good the acoustics are in square rooms with paneled walls? I do now. At the very least, the museum guards were charmed by Theo. Guards, waiters and strangers in the street chucked Theo on the chin, gave him about a thousand bread sticks and big broad smiles. The Italian ladies were a bit less enthusiastic, but that’s cool. A group of tourists at St. Peter’s started clucking in a strange language and took about 50 photos of Theo. Trust me, I’m flattered, but I’m surprised that they ran out of things to photograph at the Vatican.
Our last day in Rome was really fun. We wandered around the city without a plan, except to see the Pantheon. Along the way we stumbled upon 10 monuments we recognized and we probably sauntered by another 50 that we didn’t. The food we picked up in random corner cafes was crazy good. There really is something to be said for sun-ripened tomatoes, fresh herbs and quality bread. The best chocolate ice cream (gelato, whatever) in
the world was found in a café 50 yards from our hotel. The shopping is all that it is cracked up to be and traffic wasn’t all that bad. I don’t know if Cairo – or even Boston for that matter- puts Roman traffic in perspective, but crossing the street wasn’t as life threatening as I thought. Managing the stroller on the escalators in the subway gave a whole lotta gray hair, tho.Oh yeah: You wanna know what my first words were when I walked into St. Peter’s? I walked into the world’s largest church and uttered “Holy shit”. That’s right. I’m all class.
The Seasons
Before Easter, I was talking to a co-worker about her upcoming vacation in Spain. She described how they were going to fly into Malaga and drive northwards, stopping at different sites before going to their vacation home in Alicante. There was the usual small talk on the challenges of learning Spanish, the Catholic festivals, the multitude of Norwegian retirees who live in Spain and, of course, the weather. She, like everyone else, agrees that Spain has a lovely warm climate. Then she said that curious thing Norwegians say about their own climate: “But at least Norway has four seasons.”
I used to politely gloss over this amazingly absurd statement. It is essentially a prop, a lie (livsløgn) that Norwegians tell themselves. “Yes, yes; Spain may have better weather than Norway, but at least we have four seasons.” If I mention that Philadelphia happens to have four seasons, they are rather suspicious about the quality of the difference in seasons. It’s as if they don’t believe that there’s enough of a difference between summer and spring to really count as a “season”. Sarcastic statements clamber at the tip of my tongue and I fear they will be unleashed the next time some poor ‘Weegie utters
Still, I have to ask: Does Scotland have four seasons, too?
I used to politely gloss over this amazingly absurd statement. It is essentially a prop, a lie (livsløgn) that Norwegians tell themselves. “Yes, yes; Spain may have better weather than Norway, but at least we have four seasons.” If I mention that Philadelphia happens to have four seasons, they are rather suspicious about the quality of the difference in seasons. It’s as if they don’t believe that there’s enough of a difference between summer and spring to really count as a “season”. Sarcastic statements clamber at the tip of my tongue and I fear they will be unleashed the next time some poor ‘Weegie utters
Since nothing in this world is as simple as a stupid statement and sarcastic reply, I am reminded of a conversation I had with my dentist. He hails from Scotland and he first moved to Tromsø and then after a few years, he set up shop in Oslo. I asked him why he moved to Norway in the first place and without hesitation he jovially replied, “The weather.” My sun-loving brain almost imploded when I comprehended that there are worse climates than Tromsø’s three months of complete darkness and six months of winter. In comparison with a year-long forecast of rain and overcast skies, the Norwegian climate would indeed be a step up.“…but least Norway has four seasons.”
So Vivaldi travelled all the way to Norway to get his inspiration, then?
“…but least Norway has four seasons.”
That must be a strong selling point in the real estate market here.
“…but least Norway has four seasons.”
Yeah, and three of them suck.
Still, I have to ask: Does Scotland have four seasons, too?
Cultural-ism
February is a tricky month here in Oslo. The late winter temps compact the snow into ice that is usually covered in a layer of water. Even if the sidewalks have been treated, the conditions are so slick that ordinary shoes ought to be replaced with skates. There are two clever solutions to these conditions: the first is socially acceptable, if outdated and the second solution is simple, modern and without question socially unacceptable.
The first is what Norwegians call a “Spark”. It’s essentially a push cart on metal runners used to toodle back and forth from the grocery store. Anders said the conditions in Oslo haven’t been good enough to use the spark for years. Outside of Oslo, in the colder regions of Norway, you’ll find people still using it to get around. Again, keep in mind that this considered to be old-fashioned, but you’re not a total dweeb should you dare to use it. (Maybe a 50/50 split, 60/40, tops).
I vividly remember the day I made way safely down the ice-covered hill to the nearest subway station, since above ground traffic was at a standstill due to the weather conditions. At the bottom of the hill, a young ‘Weegie and her mom were making their way along the sidewalk when she asked, “Why that woman was wearing cleats? It’s not that slippery out today…”
I’m sure any of you readers from upstate NY or Maine would sympathize with the ‘Weegie here, but I’m from a sub-tropical climate, yo. If I don’t wear the cleats, I look like an 80 year-old woman who’s afraid to break her hip and if I do wear the cleats I’m openly mocked. This is a true lose-lose situation, folks.
The first is what Norwegians call a “Spark”. It’s essentially a push cart on metal runners used to toodle back and forth from the grocery store. Anders said the conditions in Oslo haven’t been good enough to use the spark for years. Outside of Oslo, in the colder regions of Norway, you’ll find people still using it to get around. Again, keep in mind that this considered to be old-fashioned, but you’re not a total dweeb should you dare to use it. (Maybe a 50/50 split, 60/40, tops).
(Side note: Spark means “kick” in Norwegian, which is how you propel the damn thing. This is just one of many annoying examples of when I ask for the name of something in Norwegian and I get a description in return. Other examples include Spatula = slikkepott = pot licker (I’m not making this up) or Vacuum cleaner = støvsuger = dust sucker. My personal favorite is cervix = livmorhals = life-mother-throat, whereas uterus is of course livmor = life-mother (I’m not, I repeat, NOT making this up, but I digress.))The other socially unacceptable alternative for these conditions are “brodder” or strap-on cleats. I mean, this is totally logical, right? These cleats give unequaled traction for walking up, but more importantly, down steep sloped streets covered in ice. Anders has warned me that only old ladies used these things, when he wasn’t ridiculing me to death. What he failed to mention was the perception of people that use the cleats goes deeper than that: It is people who have nothing to contribute to the society who wear them, as if wearing cleats publicly declares that the wearer evades paying taxes. The withering looks I get while drinking my morning cup of joe from a travel mug are nothing in comparison to the horrified stares people give me for wearing the cleats. (horrified, jeering, you get the point). According to Norwegians, falling on your ass is nobler than putting on these sensible cleats.
I vividly remember the day I made way safely down the ice-covered hill to the nearest subway station, since above ground traffic was at a standstill due to the weather conditions. At the bottom of the hill, a young ‘Weegie and her mom were making their way along the sidewalk when she asked, “Why that woman was wearing cleats? It’s not that slippery out today…”
I’m sure any of you readers from upstate NY or Maine would sympathize with the ‘Weegie here, but I’m from a sub-tropical climate, yo. If I don’t wear the cleats, I look like an 80 year-old woman who’s afraid to break her hip and if I do wear the cleats I’m openly mocked. This is a true lose-lose situation, folks.
Weekend
Recently, Anders and I wondered what we should do on Friday night. After a short, half-hearted discussion, we decided to stay at home. I opened a bottle of red wine, settled in with my knitting (yes, I knit) and we watched the movie on TV. Two things struck me: the first was that this was an endlessly dull way to spend a Friday night. The other was that I was perfectly content with the evening. Seriously y’all,is this difference between being a 20-something and a 30-something?
And as if to make up for a dull and asocial Friday night, the whole of our Saturday was action-packed. Anders and I picked out a sports stroller, fed my brother-in-law’s pets (but forgot the key), met my friends for coffee at three o’clock and then went downtown to meet Anders’ friends at eight. Theo was in tow the whole day and was a champ. He tested different strollers, charmed the sales lady (no small feat in a baby boutique), slept whenever he had the chance and wound the day down by taking a bath in an ill-fitting sink that doubled as a tub. Being the good boy he is, he fell asleep in his pram while we continued on enjoying pizza, beer and the rare night out with friends.
Even though my 22 year old self would never believe this 34 year old version of me, it’s true when I say life is good.
And as if to make up for a dull and asocial Friday night, the whole of our Saturday was action-packed. Anders and I picked out a sports stroller, fed my brother-in-law’s pets (but forgot the key), met my friends for coffee at three o’clock and then went downtown to meet Anders’ friends at eight. Theo was in tow the whole day and was a champ. He tested different strollers, charmed the sales lady (no small feat in a baby boutique), slept whenever he had the chance and wound the day down by taking a bath in an ill-fitting sink that doubled as a tub. Being the good boy he is, he fell asleep in his pram while we continued on enjoying pizza, beer and the rare night out with friends.
Even though my 22 year old self would never believe this 34 year old version of me, it’s true when I say life is good.
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