On Privacy

Or maybe this post should be called “On Hypocrisy” because I just asked someone on FaceSmack to take a picture of Spawn and me off this person's wall.  The very picture I’ve shared here on the Whorled Web.  (What do you mean it’s “world”?  Have you seen this place?)  So why did it bother me so much that this picture was shared with random strangers when I’ve already shared it with random strangers?

(‘Cause you all are random and more than a few of you are really strange.  I love you, but you are.  Own it, weirdos!)

I mean, let’s face it; there is no such thing as privacy.  Not real privacy, not any more.  If you’ve ever gone on-line (and if you are reading this and just said “ha, not me” then you are not only random and strange, you are also possibly delusional and they have a cream for that), then you know how this can be so.  But the thing is, there never really was such a thing as “real” privacy.  There is only “perceived” privacy and that’s socially constructed.  

We all live in houses/apartments/yadda yadda yadda that have windows.  Pretty much anyone can look in them, using one way or another, but for the most part, we don’t.  Oh, we glance, we peer when we think no one is looking, but stand and stare right at the people as they eat dinner?  No, not really.  And if you do, those people can call the cops and call it “invasion of privacy.”  That’s because what is in the house is considered private. 

But a nice garden, now that’s not so private.  Everyone can stop and look and sniff the flowers, as long as you don’t go wandering around, and you should probably ask before you take cuttings, but as long as you keep it to the roses that hang out over the sidewalk, I’m not going to really get upset about it. 

Walking down the street is not private at all and you can not only stare, you can make comments about my appearance and really I can’t do much about it.  Other than give you the stink eye.  Which I will.  Big ol’ stink eye!

But really, all of these levels of privacy are social constructs.  We decided as a society that the street is public and what goes on there is protected by laws that we invented.  Hyenas, for example, have no first amendment.  We then decided how much privacy front gardens deserved and made laws that protect what we as a society had decided were appropriate.  We then invented privacy for the home, because until relatively recently, homes were shared by many and the idea of “what goes on in the home is private” would have seemed very odd to our ancestors who shared hearths.  Hell, go to other countries and you’ll see completely different interpretations of privacy.

What does this all mean?  It means that while the internet is the street and anything goes, my blog is my garden.  You are welcome to stop and smell the flowers and I really can’t expect you not to take some cuttings now and again, so I make sure that what I put out there is, hopefully, worthwhile.  I don’t use real names and I choose what images I post carefully.  The CrackBook, on the other hand is my home.   In order to get access, you have to ask permission to enter.   Generally that suggests, to sane and rational people, that some people might, just might, consider that space to be private. 

I prefer to keep the two separate - I don’t link my accounts to each other.  Many of you have permission to enter both Rhymes-with-MaceHook and here, and I’d probably invite all of you into my “home” (although not in real life because it’s a total disaster at the moment, pardon my dust bunnies), I just like to keep my worlds separate, you know?  And 99.99% of you totally respect that, even if you don’t agree entirely with my reasoning or where I draw the line in public and private.  But when someone in my metaphorical home snatches the metaphorical bouquet of flowers from my garden off my metaphorical dinning table and sticks ‘em, with a big name tag, on a metaphorical table in a metaphorical convention center, I get a little miffed.

“Oh but I only wanted to share it with family,” I can hear the excuse now.

This is why the good Lord invented email.  And attachments.  And why not tell the family member to friend me, for christ’s sakes?  Or hey, ASK ME if you can share the photo.  I probably would have said okay.  I mean, really, I’ve shared that photo with the multi-verse, so I’m certainly not ashamed of it… it’s just, well, it’s mine.  To share.  As I see fit.

So I don’t feel too hypocritical asking for this photo to be removed.  Taking something without permission from my home is stealing.  Even if it’s a cup of sugar that I totally would have given you if you had just ASKED!

Boundaries, dude, we haz them.

Ranting and Raving: On car seats

Very important note: I live in Denmark where car prices are at least 180% higher because of taxes.  A basic brand new Volvo station wagon, the epitome of safety, costs $30,000 in the US and $97,000 in Denmark. A more modest Ford Focus costs $17,300 in the US and $48,720 in DK.   When I say we can’t afford a new car, I’m not bitching about a “mere” $10,000 investment.  Car seats are also far more expensive, starting at $233 for just the seat.

I tell you it’s a conspiracy.  A conspiracy between car companies and baby car seat manufacturers.

It goes like this: you have to buy a brand spanking new car seat for your baby.  Why?  Because of SAFETY.  Old seats don’t have 5-point harnesses.  The plastic of an old seat may be compromised.  It may not hold up in an accident!  It may have been in an accident, rendering it NO GOOD.  An old car seat is worse than… than… NAZIS!  You wouldn’t put your precious bundle in the arms of HITLER would you?  I didn’t THINK so.

So you gotta buy a new car seat.

Only, here’s the funny bit - new car seats are designed to only go into new cars.  Doubt me?  Try sticking a new car seat into a 1998 Volvo station wagon, following the directions printed on the side of said seat.  It doesn’t fit.  You were SUPPOSED to be using an Isofix base, which cost an extra $233 (‘cause they’re sold separately in Denmark doncha know), but since you have an older car that doesn’t HAVE Isofix capabilities you are stuck trying to follow the alternative directions for LOSERS who don’t have new cars.  Obviously, with the introduction of Isofix, car seat designers have decided to punish those of us who dare drive old cars because these instructions just don’t work. 

I mean you CAN buckle the seat into your car… as long as you don’t actually PLAN on putting the baby in it.  

The seat belt wraps around, over and under the seat.  If your child is already in the chair, she’s going to be tilted and jostled while you wrestle with the belt.  If you plan on putting the child in after you fit the chair in, you will need to bend and twist the baby like a balloon artist to get her in.  Alas, having gotten the baby and the seat in, you discover that she’s tilted in a way that forces her to either sit straight up or slump over at the waist.  Your child will have an uncomfortable ride with her head planted between her feet.

HOW IS THIS SAFE???

You can ignore the directions and find an alternative way of strapping the seat in…

BUT IS IT SAFE???

Well, if you are really worried about it, just buy a new car!

Bwahahahah!

And it doesn’t end when your child gets bigger.  Oh no.  A child needs to be in a car seat until age - get this - “at least age 8... preferably 12." http://www.aap.org/advocacy/releases/carseat2011.htm

This means that your child will finally be able to sit in the front seat a mere four years before you hand him or her the keys and say “go get mamma a box of bon bons.”

But how can you argue with SAFETY? What kind of parent doesn’t want to make sure their child is safe??  Who wouldn’t expend every effort, no matter what cost, to protect their baby???  If you can’t afford to buy a new car seat every year for 12 years and a new car every 3 years well then, you shouldn’t have had a child! This isn’t the latest fashions from Baby Gap or the latest toys from Lamaze - THIS IS THE WELL-BEING OF YOUR BUNDLE OF JOY!!

Statistics back up the car and car-seat makers - putting your child in an approved and properly installed car seat has DRASTICALLY lowered the number of deaths and injuries in car accidents.

Of course, the best way to lower the numbers even more is to never put your child in a car.  Abstinence, so I hear, is the only way to be 100% safe.  In fact, we should just get rid of cars all together.  And then we can ride about on bikes or, better yet, WALK.  (Because have you seen the seats for children on the backs of bikes?  UNSAFE!!)  I mean, seriously, a car seat until 12?!  Why don’t we just roll them in bubble wrap and unwrap them for their weddings?  We can explain the facts of life as we march them up the aisle.  Or they can just figure it out on their own.  God forbid we tell our children about such things, it may scar them for life.  They’ll have to see a therapist! 

Do you think I’m going over the top here?  That I’m exaggerating the pressure on parents from the AAP and other safety agencies?  I’m soooooo not.  Go here: http://www.safekids.org/ Have fun!  Or don’t, cause it could lead to injury and NO ONE should EVER be INJURED.  EVER.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not advocating letting my child play with marbles and paring knives.  Nor am I going to just chuck her in the back seat and tell her, “hang on kiddo, mommy has a ferry boat to catch!”  I’m just saying that in its exuberance to make sure every child reaches 14 without a scratch (after which it’s open season on teens), society has sacrificed reason and feasibility.  It places an unobtainable burden on parents below a certain tax bracket, guaranteeing they are labeled “bad parent” before they’ve even had a chance to teach their kid to open beer bottles with their pacifiers. 

Now I’m pretty much okay being told I’m a bad parent because I am not sending my child to day care until she’s older, because I read “The Three Little Bears” to her instead of “Much Ado About Nothing” and because we dance to Lady Gaga rather than Mozart.  Those are my choices on how to raise my child.  But I am NOT okay with being told that I’m a bad parent because I can’t afford to keep my child safe. I want more than anything to keep my child safe.  That my ability to do so is limited by my income PISSES ME OFF.   Particularly since car companies and especially car seat designers seem to have decided to ignore the vast majority of the population that drives old, used cars and *GASP* had the audacity to breed.  Children are NOT a privilege restricted to the wealthy.

So, car companies and car seat manufacturers, get your butts back into your engineering chairs and figure out a way that us normal folks can keep our children safe in our older, but still fully functioning vehicles!  

Quiz!

You are Red/Blue!
Take The Magic Dual Colour Test - Beta today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Personality Test Generator.

You are both rational and emotional. You value creation and discovery, and feel strongly about what I create. At best, you're innovative and intuitive. At worst, you're scattered and unpredictable.

A Walk in the Park

Yesterday I had a fussy baby.  I still have a fussy baby.  Turns out she has a little cold, but that's not the point.  Yesterday I didn't know she was coming down with a cold - all I knew is that she Would Not Nap.

When feeding, changing, and walking to and fro no longer work, there is only one solution: a long walk.

Unable to wait for the DB to come home and take the Spawn for her long walk, it was going to be up to me.

Fine.

I can do this.

I got the baby and pram to the doctor's appointment off the island on Monday and that involved showering, breakfast, a bus ride, a ferry ride, lunch (energy bars, worth their weight in gold I tell you), appointment, another ferry boat and another bus.  I can totally take the baby for a spin around the block wheat fields.

Only I haven't showered in a few days (okay, since Monday) and my hair is now standing up in weird ways that no amount of hair wax will contain.

That's fine, I'll wear a hat.

Can't find my hat.  Any of my hats.  Not even a knit cap.

Okay, a bandana!

Nope, no bandanas to be found.  Nor head scarfs.  What the hell, man?!

Okay, so I remember that when I was out in the garage, frantically helping the DB move cardboard boxes off the floor during the Great Flood of Last Sunday, I spied my dig box (the plastic box that contains all my dig gear) and it was totally getatable (new word, Oxford, take note!).  In there should be hats, bandanas, AND head scarfs.

Baby goes into the pram, protesting wildly, and I run into the garage.  I tear open the box and... okay, I see dig stuff... but not ALL the dig stuff.  That must be in another box.  When did I get an extra dig box?  Oh, wait, 5 months in Qatar.  Qatar needed a totally new dig wardrobe of long pants, loose t-shirts, and some winter gear.  I stored it separately from my dear-god-what-lunatic-digs-in-the-Jordan-Valley-in-June-ME-that's-who wardrobe of short shorts, tight tank-tops, and teeny bikinis.  I'd raided the Qatar box earlier for my post-pregnant tubbiness and replaced the shirts with some clothes that I'll probably never be able to get over my ass ever again... but NO HEAD COVERINGS.

Frantic screams from the garden.  Frantic pawing at the clothing.  Frantic scrabbling from a tower of boxes behind me.

It's the cat, who LEAPS from his perch like a drunk bird of prey, lands on a precarious pile of odds and ends rescued from the Great Flood of Last Sunday, which promptly topples over, and vanishes in a puff of fur and indignation.

I triumphantly raise my fist - I have found a head scarf!  I now need to run out the back door of the garage, around the garage, and open the garage door in the front to see if the cat needs rescuing.  The frantic cries from the garden continue, unabated.  Note to self: cry it out - not gonna work.

I open the garage door and bits and pieces of several baby cribs slither out.  The cat is sitting to one side, calmly cleaning himself.  Nothing to see here.  Move along, move along.  I prop up what I can, mindful that another good rain could result in another Great Flood and partially close the door.  Note to self: tell the DB so he can check the pile later.  (I totally forgot to do this, but the DB noticed it himself.)

Run back to the garden, tie scarf over head.  Note to self: damn girl, it's a good thing you learned to do this on no sleep and in a cloud of mosquitos, way to prepare for life with kids!

Grab the baby pram and start shoving it through the grass towards the road.

Screaming baby.

Screaming baby has sun in her eyes.

Damn it!  Drag the pram back into the yard and run into the house to find the parasol I'd discovered in the Great Flood and had set in the house to dry.  Unable to find the parasol, I grab some clothespins and run back outside to fashion something out of a burp rag.

I'm very pleased with my MacGyver skills.  The Spawn, not so much.  Now she can't see.

Not that she could possibly have been able to see through the tears anyway, but away we go.

Push the pram back to the road and walk about 10 meters before realizing that I have to pee.  Okay, fine, we turn around.  The Spawn is still screaming her head off and the cat is now watching us from the front step.  Obviously, we are the best entertainment in town.

Back in the garden, the baby is just not having it any more.  I'm hot, sweaty, thirsty, and I have to pee.

F*ck this Sh!t

I give up, take the baby inside and check my watch.

Well, at least we are an hour closer to the DB coming home.

TMI

Having children means a loss of modesty.  But not like oh-I-left-it-around-here-somewhere loss.  No, your modesty will be ripped from you.  And it doesn't end on the labor bed.  No, that's where it begins.  If you think that the worst thing that could happen to you is five strangers staring down at the business end of your child's arrival...  well, read on.

See, you don't give a crap about what's going on when you are at the end of labor (you do at the beginning, which is why they only bring in the big guns and all of their attendants once you are loaded up with drugs or blinded by pain).  A whole troupe of dancing dogs could have come in and I couldn't have cared less.  Nathan Fillion could have walked in and I wouldn't have noticed.

Shiny

But now that I'm moderately presentable these days... apart from repeatedly showing my nipples to random people (especially now that the Spawn likes to stop mid-suck to check out said random people)... I wanted to have at least some modesty back.

BWHAHAHAHAH!

I had to go for my final post-birth doctor appointment.  Er, I mean, appointment relating to birth.  OBVIOUSLY all doctor appointments from now on will be post-birth (ain't nobody backing up that train), but I think I'm done getting prodded for reasons DIRECTLY associated with the arrival of the Spawn.

Earlier I had two physical therapy appointments pertaining to the muscles used in pushing the Spawn out... and the less said about those two appointments, the better.

Okay, maybe just one thing - for the first appointment, in order to keep the Spawn from wigging out, I had to nurse her while I was splayed on the table having my pelvic floor stretched.  All while the doctor called out, "and... squeeze... hold it hold it HOLD IT!"

Cherish your modesty, ladies, because when it's taken from you, you will miss it so.

The DB came to the next appointment so that I didn't have to juggle baby and do Kegels at the same time.

Right.

So this appointment was a gynecological check-up, which the ladies all know well.

Only this was a check-up on steroids.

Not only was I physically probed (next time, can I have the ultra-sound from the OUTSIDE, thankyouverymuch), but my life came under examination as well.  I wonder if one of the nurses was in training or interning or something, because I don't usually get two to be examined.  Or maybe they'd heard about the nursing incident.  Or maybe they thought someone would have to hold me down when they checked for scar tissue in my rectum.

Yeah, I just put my rectum and Nathan Fillion in the same post.  You are SO WELCOME INTERNET.

I think the gynecologists were very disappointed that everything was fine.  The main gyno was really distrustful of every answer I gave.  Even as I said "but since I'm breastfeeding, I just need to remember to drink more fluids," she'd look concerned and immediately interject with "yes, yes, but, you really need to remember to drink more fluids."

Er... that's what I just said.

And the expression on her face when I answered a particular query with "I fart sometimes when I have a big sneeze."  Horror.  But this horror was not because I had mentioned something so awful as passing gas, oh no.  See, this means Something Is Wrong.

'Cause no one has ever farted when sneezing in the whole history of the world.

Dude, my child does that, should I get her started on Kegels before I introduce solid food?  'Cause I think that might be difficult.  The DB is trying to teach her proper crawling techniques and she continues to stop and slap the floor when she gets excited.  Sometimes with her face.  Poor baby.  Or is it that no one 'fesses up to sometimes farting while sneezing?

Be honest here.  Do you blame the dog?

The DB says we should blame the baby.  I'm totally down with that.

But my emission admission earned me 100 Kegels and 25 butt-clenches.  I guess you should not treat the doctor's office like a confessional.  The truth will be punished with repetitive exercises.

Speaking of repetitive exercises - I was assigned "more sex."  Yes, not content to know the ins and outs of my bowels, I was grilled about my sex life.  And told to have more of it.

Since I wasn't gettin' busy enough for my gyno, she concluded something was wrong with me.  "I'm tired, he's tired, and when the baby's finally asleep there are so many other more important things to do.  Like the dishes," is not a good enough excuse.  We should be bouncing like bunnies or something.  That we aren't means... "Does it hurt?" she looked at me sympathetically.  And I'm really tired, so I look confused.

Does she mean my relationship?  Because we're STILL a great team.  Does she mean emotionally?  'Cause sometimes I don't feel very sexy and it would be nice to have a physical reminder that I am one hot mama.  Oh, she means physically!  

"Well, I do have problems with my knees and my back is kinda sore from lifting... "

And after a few more minutes of further embarrassing conversation, I'm assigned more sex AND erotic massage.

Thanks, but I don't *need* an erotic massage.  I need a babysitter.  A regular massage.  And a hotel room.  Then maybe we could get down and dirty at the rate the doctor prescribes.

Although, to be fair, I think if the DB and I had a babysitter, massages and a hotel room, we'd probably just use it to get 8 uninterrupted hours of sleep.

Vacation in Denmark: Part II - Camping

I like camping.  I think this is what my parents had in mind when they used to pack us up in the minivan and drive us all HOURS to remote locations - instill a love of nature in our children or die trying.  And it worked.

This is probably why I happily camped for 5 months in Qatar.  Tents, campfires, and camaraderie.

Camping in Denmark is totally different.

If you are from the US, forget everything you know about camping.

Camping in Denmark is more properly “caravanning.” 

You take your caravan to a campsite, usually near to a major city and/or highway.  You park it right next to someone with a caravan exactly like yours.  You put up an attached tent, doubling your living space and effectively turning the outside into the inside.  You spend the next week reading a paper over coffee and ignoring the neighbors who are within arm reach.  You are not allowed a fire.  You are not allowed to make noise after 10.  You send the kids off to bike around the campsite and swing on the swings next to the toilets while you toss back a couple of beers and plan on taking the children to the zoo.  It is, I’m afraid, a little grim.

If you have time, watch this - it's hilarious!

We have a caravan that we’ve used as a second home, usually because we need to stay for a few days somewhere too far to make it to our home every night.  The DB lived in it while he was doing a semester abroad in Holland.  We used it when we had first moved to the island, but the DB hadn’t graduated yet so we needed to stay near his school.  But now we have a baby.  So the first time we had to overnight away from home, we tried out the summer home experience. 

But it just wasn’t us.  I keep cringing and spitting and wailing about the inequality and the environmental destruction and the DB panics about breaking something or staining something that doesn’t belong to us and costs more than we can afford to replace.

Back to the caravan it was.

But while driving north, to where we normally camped, we had an epiphany.  We were in a car with a caravan!  We didn’t have to “camp” next to the city or near a highway.  So the DB told me to pick a campsite and I chose one as far as I could from anywhere, within reasonable driving distance to Aarhus, in the heart of the Danish lake-country just outside of Silkeborg - Skyttehusets Camping.

We still were surrounded by caravans and there was no fire pit at our spot, but the difference!  Oh viva la difference… or something.

Oooooh!

There were trees and a lakeside!  Families were going canoeing - parents were hanging out with their kids!!  People were hiking, biking, boating and barbecuing.  Although it was a long drive into the woods (lots of trails!!), campers could take one of the many passenger boats into town (any number of towns, actually).  There was even an old paddleboat that could take you from the campsite to the “Sky Mountain” (the third highest point in Denmark if you don’t count the bridge) to Silkeborg.

Paddleboat!

The lakeside proper was reserved for tents, so if you are tent camping, you don’t have to stay with the rest of us caravanning sorts.  For the non-car owning among us, you can take the train to Silkeborg and then the boat to the campsite, pitch your tent and enjoy the surrounding nature. 

This is more like it!

You aren't camping until you look like you dressed in the dark without a mirror.
Because you dressed in the dark.
Without a mirror.

This is much more like my kind of camping.  There were still too many of us in a small space, but it felt different because of the trees.  The people staying there were so much more active and into their families.  I missed having a campfire.  There’s not much that can be done about that… except have one in our back yard.

Set up and clean up take a bit longer, especially if you put up the tent extension.  This time we didn’t and therefore set up and clean up took less than 30 minutes… TOTAL.  Can’t beat that! 

I’d like to go back to that campsite again.  But I am also looking forward to trying to find other fantastic campsites that are overlooked because caravanning-is-something-for-old-people-and-chavs.

They see us campin'... they be hatin'.  Just me an' mah posse o' one, yo!
Camping Thug Life.

Vacation in Denmark: Part I - The Summer Home

I am opposed to summer homes.

1) It just seems so wrong to me that some people are stuck living in poorly maintained, government-sponsored housing and others have multiple little homes scattered about the country in a land that likes to brag about how no one has too much and no one has too little.

2) They are a blight on the landscape.  Often in the prettiest parts of Denmark, you round the corner and instead of the sweeping vista of the ocean or lakeside you left the confines of the city to visit, there are dozens of little houses one after the other, as far as the eye can see.   Some of these “little” homes are larger than the one I live in now.  Some of them have indoor swimming pools!  Indoor swimming pools… next to the beach!!

3) People only stay in them for a few weekends out of the year, at most a week or two, because in addition to having a summerhouse, most Danes will also travel abroad during their 6 weeks of vacation. And due to legislation, you can’t live in them year round… unless you are retired.  So any grand plan of “taking back” the best of Denmark by moving to these houses can’t be realized for some time yet.

Hate them!  *spit* *spit*

So imagine the ethical quandary of borrowing one of my FIL’s summer homes (why yes, I did say “one of” and “homes” - you may join me in the spitting now) for a few days.

How can I enjoy my vacation knowing that I’m staying in a *spit* summer home??

Should I try to deflect my guilt by saying “oh, but I didn’t build it, and it would still be standing even if I didn’t stay in it” or “if no one uses it then it really is a waste of materials and environmental destruction” or “it’s cheaper than staying in a hotel” because we had to head up north for a few days and therefore had to overnight somewhere?

In the end, it really was about sucking up my pride (we be po’ and needed the free shelter) and deciding that I would try to see if I could find a bright side to this whole summer home thing.  Maybe that’s also compromising my ideals… but at least I could now say I’ve tried it.

The house is nestled in the dunes up on the northwest coast.  Stunning scenery. 

The View.
Look, there's even someone else's summer home to look at and enjoy!

Most of the homes were hunkered down among the dunes, but the FIL’s stood proudly on one of the highest around.  Gorgeous views (see above).  A few of the homes had sod roofs, so they blended in with the environment.  Most of the homes were grey, black, or brown - but a few were a cheeky red.

"Ours" is Baby Poop Brown... a very natural color.

The summer home had a nicer kitchen than I currently have.   There was a dishwasher that I totally forgot to use until right before we left, much to the DB’s annoyance.  And a nicer bathroom.  A MUCH nicer bathroom.  Heated floors, ya’ll.  Oh, and a second bathroom that I used, just because I could.  The furniture was fancier (well, we did get ours from the side of the road, so that’s not really saying much). I’m sure this was designer furniture. There was suede involved. I kept the sheets covering most of it for the duration.  God forbid I get baby vomit or breast milk on something!!  Three closet sized bedrooms, but I guess the idea is that you spend most of your time in a bedroom sleeping, so you really only need enough space for a bed.

All in all it was a nice, tidy house - well designed - in a spectacular location.

I would be finding bits of this dune in my shoes for the next month.

Grrrrrr.

I read in the tourist brochure that there are something like 40,000 summer homes in the area.  In the little area we were, there were probably a few thousand.  A few thousand; right in the dunes.  Only occupied for a few days a year.  Every house could be ripped out and turned into a campsite!  And you wouldn’t need 40,000 campsites, so much of the land could go back to being dunes - an ecosystem that is ridiculously fragile in even the best of times!  And you wouldn’t need to be rich to visit - camping is dirt cheap.

And here you find the illusive Danish Summer Home - Danicus sommerhusetus - in it's native habitat.
Notice how it hunkers down in the dunes, erecting a flagpole to indicate it's receptiveness to reproduction.

*Deep breath*

So I enjoyed my few days, pretending I was one of the many Danes who vacation this way every year.  To be fair, there were some perks to this form of vacation. There was zero set up involved.  It was warm and dry even when it rained.  There was a lot of space and I didn’t have to go outside to go to the bathroom.  Another plus was that I could put the Spawn down on the floor and not worry about her eating the grass or something.  Finally, because it isn’t ours we didn’t have to do any maintenance or pay for our time there (except for the amount of electricity and water that we used… which was negligible).  But it was ridiculously far from the beach - the walk about killed me, there and back.  It’s also ridiculously far from everything else, so there’s not much to do other than sit in the house and look at the view.  It is only accessible by car, so good luck trying to be eco-minded about your vacation.  And it took forever to clean and leave because everything must be washed, vacuumed, disinfected and scrubbed. 

Would I buy a summer home?  NO.   Even if everyone in the world had lovely place to call home AND a summer home and you could promise me that it had no impact on the ecosystem.  Who the hell wants to vacation in the same spot all the time?  And why the hell would you want another house to take care of?  I mean, we didn’t have to do any maintenance, but we still had to clean it from top to bottom.  Nice way to end a vacation.

So, no matter which way you cut it - the summer-home vacation is not for me.

The beaches of northwest Denmark are a sort of savage monotony.
Kierkegaard begins to make sense.

Done and Dusted!

I passed my driver's test and am back behind the wheel... legally!

And I did the hair chop!

From long hair....

To pixie!

Why yes, we ARE just that cute!

Alas, that's not going to be the picture on my driver's license.  Instead it will be a pudgy-pregnant-Archaeogoddess-direct-from-snow-storm-to-photo-chair photo taken months ago when I first started this whole crazy process.  Oh if only I looked glowing in that photo, instead of sweaty.  It's melting snow, dammit!  I swear!!

Well, it's a forgone conclusion that you will look horrible on your driver's license, right?