Temptation is. . .

Temptation is buying bags and bags of pinata fillers weeks ahead of time. Those damn individually wrapped candies are just screaming my name from the top shelf they are hiding on.

There is no gown

When one moves to a new country, one inevitably compares their new country to "home." Things are done differently here and there. It's not always good or bad, just different, although one's stage of culture shock can color the comparison.

In the early stages, the honeymoon period, ones sees only the positives of the new country and feels secure in the decision to have moved. They can't breathe in enough of the crisp, clean air. The beautiful scenery astounds them on a regular basis. Medical care is free. Crime rates are low, literacy rates are high. It's cold but not THAT cold, and summers can actually be quite pleasant and warm.

In later stages, comparisons become less favorable. People begin to have doubts. They begin to wonder -- wonder why the hell they ever let their husband drag them to the end of the planet where one could buy a small plot of land in the rest of the world for what it costs to fill up the tank of a car, where people don't tell you to have a nice day, where it is never, ever, ever, EVER warm, and for the love of all that's good in the world, why the hell don't people hold the damn door open for those that follow?!?!?!

Oh, sorry. Lost my train of thought. By the way, it's not as if I've ever thought those thoughts. I'm just sayin', hypothetically speaking. . .

Where was I going with this?

Vaginal exams, right.

Didn't see that coming, did ya? Since I didn't move to a country with a vastly different culture from my own, I was never hit with big waves of culture shock. Instead, it was always the small things that would startle me into the realization that, yes, I've moved to a different country. It's in the subtleties that I notice the difference.

Small things, like in the control of the underlife. (Tee hee. Norwegians don't understand why sometimes their lovely language can send me into peals of laughter. A womanly exam is called an underlivets kontrol, meaning an underlife appointment, but kontrol sounds like control. . .get it?? Voice tapering off as no one else finds it quite so amusing.)

So while the big picture is not much different, it's in the details.

In both countries, when a woman submits to this decidedly unpleasant but medically necessary part of preventative health care, she is shown in to the examination room and told to undress.

In the States, after a woman undresses and lays her neatly folded clothes on the chair. I can't be the ONLY one who does this. She puts on a paper gown and drapes a paper blanket over her lap while she waits for the doctor to come in. You know, to protect her dignity for later when she is laying back on the table, legs in stirrups while a total stranger inspects her most intimate regions with a spotlight. Many American doctors also have some kind of picture on the ceiling for the woman to stare at while they are trying to pretend they are somewhere else. Oh, look! Pretty flowers! I'm in a garden. Twirling! Dancing!

As much fun as you could have making light of all these little niceties, hours of unadulterated laughter, I'm sure, you miss those niceties when they're gone. Desperately.

In Norway, there is no paper gown.

Do you hear what I'm saying?! No paper gown. This means that once you're undressed, you stand there, naked (or, at least, half-naked). What exactly are you supposed to do when standing naked in an unfamiliar, well-lit room? Just get on up in the chair, put your legs in the stir-ups, and wait? You don't want the doctor to think you're unprepared, do you? Or start rifling through the drawers to take your mind off the fact that your ass and, gulp, front are just hanging out in the breeze? We're never more free than when we're naked, so maybe we could just start dancing to pass the time.

The worst was, the worst was, please don't tell anyone. I'm just sharing this with you. . .and everyone else with an internet connection, but really, it's private. The worst was, shortly after my daughter was born, I had to go in to the doc for a check to make sure all was okay with my underlife. I had only recently moved to this country and didn't understand the no-paper-gown-thing. The dressing/undressing area was at the back of a cavernous exam room, which was roughly the size of a football stadium. I dutifully went back, undressed, and looked desperately for the safety of a thin paper gown. There was none. The doctor and the nurse and, I think, half the hospital staff waited for me to come out. Finally, someone asked me if everything was okay, clearly expecting me to walk out in all my post-baby nakedness to the exam chair, which was placed on the other side of this gigantic room.

If I think about it now, it was probably that moment I began my descent toward Stage 2 (everything in the new country sucks) culture shock. And of course, there are no pictures on the ceiling here. Doctors don't chat away. Instead, they do the exam in cold, stony silence.

Generally, I appreciate the European/Norwegian attitude toward nudity. I think it's much healthier than our puritanical American attitude. Nudity is natural. It's not that people run around in the streets naked (too cold), but children's butts aren't blurred out on the television either, because really, we're talking America's Funniest Home Videos not depravity.

I also think this attitude lends itself to healthier body images. In any case, people shouldn't feel uncomfortable in their own skins. I can respect that. A commonplace medical exam is not exactly the time to be modest. All of the other stuff is simply unnecessary. I can understand that, too.

But seriously. What the hell is so wrong with paper-gowns?!

Election '08

I was fascinated to see an advertisement yesterday on TV2 (one of the larger TV networks here) for 24-hour Election '08 coverage. This is the American election we're talking about. The Norwegian elections are next year.

It made me really stop to think how powerful the president of the United States is. His (one day her) election is covered the world over, not in passing, but in 24-hour special coverage.

A little ironic. Most Norwegians can tell you who the president of the U.S.A. is and many will watch this coverage of the next president. Most Americans, however, don't know the difference between Norway and the Netherlands. No! They're not the same place! And yes, Seven has been asked if they have wooden shoes where he's from after he has said he is Norwegian.

Many Americans can't even name one other world leader. I can, but I cheat, because I live in a foreign country. I know the Norwegian prime minister is Jonas Stoltenborg. (Ha! Just kidding! Trying to give the Norwegians in the crowd a little heart attack.)

To be fair, Americans live in a country of 300 million people. There is a lot going on there. Like everything American, the election is BIG. Big enough to travel oceans and make it top news in other places.

In honor of Election '08, the cutest election conversation ever.

A friend of mine told me her son's class is studying a little bit about the elections and is holding a secret ballot. My friend's son said that he has decided to vote for Barack Obama. His four-year-old sister chimed in, "Yeah, I'm going to vote for A Rock Omama, too!"

I'm sure one could collect all the cute ways kids say the candidate's name.

*For those of you who don't know and are curious, the prime minister's name is really Jens Stoltenberg (2005 - ). You never know. That piece of knowledge may be the answer that will win you a game of Trival Pursuit one day. Hang on to it.

You know you're out of it when. . .

When you think you've been doing a better job of posting to your blog and realize that you've posted LESS this month than in any other. I think I might have been fired if I was actually getting paid to write this thing.

Do you ever read the comments? I try to post back to comments. So even when I don't post, I might be on here commenting. Maybe.

Others post funny or touching stuff, too, but I haven't been too successful in getting others to comment, yet. Then again, maybe it's better this way? A blog is kind of an ego-trip. I can go on about myself without having to actually listen to what others have to say. It's all about me, baby!

I hate that when you're, you know, like, talkin' and talkin' and still talkin' and then you look up to see that the other person has this glazed look in their eye just waiting for you to shut up. And when you do, they just, like, talk and talk and keep ON talking. And you start thinking about what you're going to say when they finally shut their yap, but their mouth just keeps movin' and movin'. Jiminey! Don't they ever shut up??

See, with a blog, you avoid all that.

Reflection upon lint

Have you ever wondered when cleaning out the lint tray on your dryer, how it is you have clothes left, when so much of the material seems to be trapped in that tray?

Bite my head off, why don't you

I've been wondering about a curious phenomenon. There are these little jelly candies shaped like men. They are gummy, chewy and coated in sugar, or at least a sugar-like substance. Very healthy, I'm sure. Let's call them Jelly Men.

My kids love Jelly Men. They especially relish in biting their heads off. Like so.

They call out joyfully, "Look, Mommy! I ate his head!" They laugh uproariously. Then they bite off his limbs, one-by-one.


If you think about it, this is quite a disturbing inclination. Why is it that the slow, deliberate amputation of a man-shaped candy should bring such joy? I know that I eat gummy bears in one of two ways. I take a handful and shove them all in my mouth at once (very feminine), or I eat them slowly, biting the head off of each little one. I'm wondering if there is some biological explanation for this. Is it a primal human instinct? Is it our primitive hunter roots coming out?

Or is it that this kind of sadism only runs in my family?

Only in Japan

This has nothing to do with anything. It was just so funny that I almost peed myself watching it (that whole post-pregnancy urine incontinence thing is drag).

The voiceover is saying something about this famous ski resort in Japan. Blah. Blah. They've built an outdoor hot tub area. The chairs are supposed to give you a stress reduction massage. You put 100 yen into the chair and the countdown begins. When it gets to zero, something drastic is going to happen. . .

Anime

I love the word anime. It's the Japanese word for animation. The Japanese adopted the English word, shortened it, then made it their own. They do this is a lot. A remote control is a ri-mo-kon. Now, anime has made its way back into the English vernacular meaning a very specific-type of animation -- namely a specific type of Japanese animation.

How's that for a boomerang effect? Pretty cool, huh?

If you're wondering why the heck I'm blogging about that, I just saw the new Britney video on YouTube where she was an anime character. I started thinking. . .I warned you about this. . . and the random thoughts flowed.

Here's the link, if you're interested. I feel a little guilty like I'm contributing to the pop wreckage. . .then again, most people have probably already seen it.

Curse of the 80s

I know I can't be the only one with this affliction. I think it must be pretty common among my generation.

Seven and I were repainting our entry hallway this weekend, and as I made the long strokes of paint up and down, I could hear Mr. Miyagi in my head, "Up. Down. Paint the fence." Everytime I made a stroke, "Up. Down. Paint the fence." I couldn't get him to shut up.

Next thing I know, I was reliving the scene in my head where the Karate Kid gets so mad and confonts Mr. Miyagi and learns the true meaning behind "Wax on. Wax off."


Is there any other movie in film history that teaches us more about the meaning of life and house painting than the Karate Kid? I think not, my friends. I think not.

Profile Update

When I first did my profile, I didn’t put too much info into it. First, I was exhausted after spending ages trying to give this darn blog a name. Second, I didn’t want to fall prey to the phenomenon of sending too much personal info about myself into the Internet void -- kind of funny as I am writing all kinds of personal stuff on this blog. Whatever. Yes. I do see the broken links in that chain of logic.

As the original posts got buried, I realized that my profile didn't really say anything about me, so I updated it. I figured I would find five books, movies, and music that I really liked. It’s hard to find favorites, so I just picked ones that I know I really enjoyed the first time.

Books were easy. That list could go on and on, actually, so I limited myself to a few. Angela’s Ashes is my favorite book ever. I read it in one sitting. I picked it up one evening and literally could not put it down. I read it until the next morning. I laughed. I cried. The book really moved me. I just had to throw in the Nancy Drew series. I read those books as a girl and LOVED them. It was because of Nancy Drew that I learned to love reading. I collected all of her books. We sold the collection in one of our moves when I was a teen, and I will always regret that. I bet I could buy them back on Ebay. I’ll have to check that out. I would have named Laney after her, but Nancy just wasn’t my style of name. Neither was Bess or, egads, George for a girl. I could write a whole post on the books I love -- I think I will, so I’ll stop here for now.

Movies. These were harder. I rarely see new movies. I can, however, name most of Thomas the Tank Engines friends and tell you what color they are, because from the ages of two to three, Nicky loved Thomas and all things trains, so I’ve seen many a Thomas film in recent years. Add the fact that my memory is shot, and I can’t actually remember what movies I watched before that, let alone which ones I actually enjoyed. In any case, I bawled the whole way through Saving Private Ryan, so that one was easy to remember. Funny how a movie that makes you cry can be a favorite, but I really did get lost in those two hours. I thought it was such an amazing and touching story. Amelie is such a fantastic, fun film. It’s a French movie and a little quirky, but I loved it. Finally, I did have to add romantic comedies. I enjoy a good “chick flick” every now and then, although with rare exception, do I ever want to watch one over and over again. I could watch "While You were Sleeping" again and again, though.

Music. This was just sad. I don’t listen to the radio here, and I don’t think I did for a long time before that. I live in a bit of a musical vacuum. I haven’t bought music in a long time either, so I just listen to my old collection of Cd's -- my very dated collection of Cd's, my soon-to-be-played on the Oldies station Cd's. I just listed artists that have albums in which I enjoyed the majority of the songs. Thing is, if you asked me what kind of music I liked, my first response would be R & B and Hip Hop. Yet, I couldn’t really come up with a single Hip Hop artist for my list. I generally only like one or two songs and rarely a whole Cd, maybe I'm not as big a Hip Hop fan as I thought. One of my all-time favorite Cds is Afterglow by Sarah McLachlan. If you haven’t seen the video for World on Fire, you should. It’s so simple and yet so powerful. Don't forget to turn up your sound.

So that’s that. Maybe my taste in music, books, and movies will tell you something about me. Most likely, no one cares.

I updated it anyway! Maybe you'll share some of yours?

What's Disney have against moms anyway?

I vaguely remember seeing Bambi as a child. My kids received the movie as a gift recently and have watched it a few times since then. My son loves the part where Bambi tries to walk for the first time. He also laughs hysterically as Bambi slips and slides on the ice. I enjoyed it as well, sort of. It's cute and has its moments, but I have to say that I was horrified when Bambi's mother was killed. I honestly didn't remember that part of the film.

I found the scene heart-breaking and completely inappropriate for young children. The two survive the long frozen winter together. They trudge back and forth in the cold and the wind to find food, at one point Bambi's mother has to reach up a high tree to give Bambi the moss that will sustain him. There's so little left, and she gives what there is to her child. Finally, the spring comes, and they find the first spring grass. What a happy moment. Bam! Mommy's shot by a hunter.

Nice. Daddy Deer, who's not been around the entire film, steps in, saves the day, and never a word of Bambi's mother is mentioned again. Life goes on.

Mothers in Disney films are either non-existent or die horrible deaths. Seen Finding Nemo anyone? The touching story of a young boy and his father. His mother? Eaten by a big, scary fish two minutes into the film. Sleeping Beauty has a mother, but she doesn't even get a name. The princess, the king, the prince and his temperamental father all have names. The queen? Well, she's just the queen. Off the top of my head, the only character I can think of with a mother is Mulan, but even in that film, it's Mulan's relationship to her father that is emphasized. Snow White? Cinderella? Ariel? Belle? Jasmine? All have fathers, but no real mothers. Oh, wait. Two have step-mothers. That is, demented step-mothers from hell. The only reason you'd want a real mother is so that she's not replaced by some psychopath who tries to feed you poisoned apples.

I try not to get up-in-arms about these types of things. They are only movies after all. My kids enjoy the ones we've seen, and we snuggle on the couch together to see them. (The first time anyway. The thirtieth time, they're all on their own.) I enjoy the time with the kids, and it's often fun to revisit the classics I loved as a child. Movie nights are family time and we all enjoy them immensely. For now, that means Disney films and animated characters.

It's just a little weird to me. Disney = family. However, the Disney family rarely includes mothers. I kind of wonder if moms didn't need to lay eggs or give kingdoms heirs, would Disney's family entertainment bother with them at all?

Hmmmmmmmmm.