My apologies!

Sorry, y'all for not posting these last few weeks.  I'm laid low with a sinus infection and even after a few days of penicillin, I'm still a snotty, coughing, feverish mess.

*cough*  Arghhhhh....

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.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

It's taken a while, but after days, weeks, MONTHS even, of my bitching, whining and moping - I've finally got a hair appointment.

It's coming off, ladies and gentlemen.

Every now and again I grow my hair out, probably just to remind myself how damned annoying it is.

But during pregnancy and the first month or so of mommyhood, long hair just sort of works.

1) The hair was thicker and more glorious than ever.
2) My skin and scalp were way less oily and icky than ever.

It was the meeting of two perfect moments.  Yes, for a while there, I had lots of glorious hair that could go days without being washed.  I was sexy, divine!

Those days... alas... are gone.

First of all, the lovely hormones that keep your hair from falling out are gone (or the hormones that make your hair fall out are back... or... well, hell, it's different) and then all the hair that should have fallen out, falls out.

It's like Margo when they took her out of Shangri-la.  (Alas there is no good image to go with that...)

I'm going bald.  In parts.  Okay, just in the front.  And it's only noticeable when I pull my hair back.

But I have to pull my hair back all the time or it gets in my eyes.  Balls.

It doesn't help that it tangles just by looking at it.  I pull more hair out just trying to brush it, let alone when I try to get it up into a pony tail.  Who knew that hair, nicely brushed, would knot THAT EASILY when you try to wrestle it into a band.  I have broken my brush TWICE.  And my hair is only just past my shoulders in length.

That's reason number 2.

Meanwhile my application to OPEC as a new member-state is going well.  My skin will solve the energy crisis, as soon as I figure out how to get it off my face and into my car...

Thankfully, since I am able to take long showers every day, I can keep my skin and hair clean and healthy and...

*howling with laughter* I'm sorry *choke* Seem to have lost my poker face somewhere...

My face rivals that of a teen on prom night and my scalp... my scalp has PIMPLES, y'all!  Running my fingers through my hair means... ugh, I'm not even going to go there.

Yes, I'll talk about poop and boobs and bodily functions, but there are some realms I will not enter.

I hate pimples.  And they are in my hair.  That's reason number three.

So the hair has to be cut off.  I can wash it faster that way, getting the soap right down to the scalp.  I will not need to even look at conditioner (which I can't use right now if I want my hair to even look slightly clean), and it'll dry faster without any help from me, because I don't have the time for a hair dryer.

But my child is going to lose one of her favorite toys.

I feel kinda guilty.

She uses my hair as a rope to swing from and as a chew toy.  She likes to shove a whole handful in her mouth and suck on it to calm herself.  And I'm going to just cut it all off.  *wail* What will she play with instead?!

But that's another reason.  Because she sucks on it.  I try to wash my hair with only natural products, but with the amount of oil and skin build up (because I can't wash it every day), it's not getting clean.  I'm using regular old shampoo again, and it works, to a certain extent, but now the ends are dry and split and she's ingesting it.

So my scalp is pimpled, the hair is oily at the base and dry and split at the ends, it's constantly tangled - even when I've brushed it, it's falling out at a prodigious rate - leaving me with thinner hair in the front - which is highlighted by my attempts to keep the stuff out of my eyes, and my child is eating it.

And to top it all off...  I feel gross and hate my appearance in photos.

I don't want to be that mommy - the mommy who screams "no, don't take a picture of me!" and hides behind the baby, who won't leave the house because she's embarrassed to be seen, and who embarrasses her family by looking like a crazy homeless person.

Seize the scissors!  Take it off!  Take it all off!!

...before I change my mind...

Do you think I need a doctor's note?

So I've got this job in Qatar, which will whisk me out of the country on October 31st and keep me gainfully employed until the end of March. I also have a dissertation to complete... which alas, according to my readers is NOWHERE NEAR COMPLETION. Thanks, guys, thanks a lot. I have a chapter for a book due October 1st. I also have Danish class.

I think Danish class is going to have to go. For the time being.

If I'm supposed to spend every waking moment at the library, which SOME people think I ought, then I can't very well spend my mornings in Danish. Especially if I want to spend more than just a few hours in the library, since it closes and they kick people out. Unless I go to the other library, but then I do want to be able to go home and eat and sleep and stuff.

And why do I have to spend all this time in the library anyway? I can't eat in there. I can't talk to myself or print out articles I'm interested in, I can't go on-line because the stupid internets is blocked (gotta talk to the secretary about that), and I get annoyed with other people making noise. I'm the only one allowed to make noise!!

So I have to quit Danish to spend time in a library, which I do not want to do, because it is not as fruitful as some professors imagine in order to finish a dissertation that has quickly spun out of control and is no longer the least bit interesting to me, having veered off into art history which was something I never got a degree in, not liking it all that much and all, and continues to evolve into a larger more horrible beast than ever discussed years ago when I took on this madness.

Yup, I'm miserable and depressed. I think I'm over my cold, for the most part, but the throbbing pain between my shoulder blades refuses to let up. Is that you, Stress? I thought as much.

Anyway, I made my decision to drop Danish AFTER I'd bought plane tickets to see my husband. Vacation was originally planed around my Danish vacation time, which now seems a bit silly. BUT on the other hand, it's also Århus University vacation, so library hours will be shortened and I should be able to get a week away from the library RIGHT?? I'll be taking my crap with me, so it's not like a proper vacation, but I don't have time for that stuff. I'll probably end up in a library in Holland anyway.

I'm so sick and tired of this crap. I've been working for years on this thing and any time I think I get close to being done, there comes an email saying "no, you just need to change ALL OF IT to WHAT I'M INTERESTED IN and THEN it'll be okay."

It's really hard to listen to people saying "stick with it, it'll be done soon" when it won't be soon. No, I'm not stopping and dropping out YET. I've got to see what is wanted NOW for this demonic document first.

Gah, I should have dropped out five years ago when it all started going wrong. I could have learned Danish and been half way to a degree in veterinary medicine by now. Now I don't even have time to learn frekking Danish!!

The Danish language is trying to kill me and I am divorcing my head

Danish is trying to kill me. Yesterday I took part one of my test, the reading and writing bit, and came home emotionally and physically exhausted. There were hysterical tears and I'm well past PMS! Next week I have to do the speaking half and I expect to take to my bed in horror afterwards.

Language is NOT my thing. It just does not stick.

Take for example Tirsdag and Torsdag: Tuesday and Thursday in Danish. Tuesday comes before Thursday and I comes before O so it should be a simple matter of remembering which comes first. Added that I know Torsdag is named after Thor and from which we English speakers also derive Thursday. It even SOUNDS like Thursday for crying out loud.

And yet, every time I see Tirsday or Torsday I get them confused. I stand there and gape and say, what day is that?

Honestly, it's like I'm missing a link in my head.

It doesn't help that I don't really want to speak Danish. I didn't grow up thinking, "you know what would be great? Living in Denmark! Yeah! I want to learn a language that sounds like a throat disease that only 5.2 million people speak, but not to the extent that they can actually understand each other if they grew up in different regions! Cool beans, sign me up!" This lack of desire for Danish language may cause some to say, "ah, see, it is because you are so opposed to it that you are creating a mental block that keeps you from learning it, you horrible Danish hater you!"

What I say back to those people is unpublishable.

So I drag myself though Danish language classes. Pushing myself to learn the grammar rules, trying to pronounce the unpronounceable, and continually repeating to myself "this stupid language is NOT smarter than I am."

My husband, trying to be helpful, asked me why I was learning Danish. Because your stupid country told me to! I cried. But there is also:
- I hate being left out of conversations because I don't understand
- I will not (if we end up raising children here) have my children speaking in a language I don't understand
- I would like to tell people who piss me off exactly why they are pissing me off IN THEIR OWN LANGUAGE (because they just don't take you seriously if you don't)

But I just don't think that learning a language should include making a person cry from frustration and misery. That just doesn't seem right.

---

In other news, I'm divorcing my head.

It's been quite a while now since we've gotten along. Last week my head tried to trick the rest of me into a sinus infection. Inflamed sinuses, aching head and face, neck pain, and a runny nose. I was not fooled however and I have continued to be fever free and my snot is still clear (gross? Yeah, but see it's the color of your snot that will tell you what you have, clear to white is allergies, yellow is a cold or the start of infection, green is VERY BAD). Now my head has decided to clog up my right ear. The pain is immense. Radiates down from my ear to my jaw and my teeth. Is it an ear infection? Probably not, I still have no fever and my ear is not red. It's my head again stuffing up the sinuses in some evil attempt to make me stay in bed and read (which my head likes to do) and not go out and about doing the things that need to get done (like photocopying a vastly overdue interlibrary loan book, which my head does NOT want to read) and enjoying the little sun there is.

My head is also refusing to learn any more Danish until I make more space in my memory and, sorry, but I still need that French and German, thank you very much.

I tried beating my head into submission by continually standing up quickly in the wrong half of my bedroom, where the ceiling slants down to a measly 2.5 feet of head space, but this only resulted in a loss of equilibrium that culminated in stubbed toes as I fought for balance. (Anyone seen the movie "The War of the Roses" because it's like that.)

At the moment we are not speaking to each other, except when I told my head I was out of here and it told me to get a good lawyer because I'd need one. If you could pass along a message to my head, since I am NOT speaking to it AT ALL, could you please tell it that I MIGHT be willing to do some couples therapy, but only if it would stop filling up my sinuses because I am sick and tired of going to the store for more tissue paper.

Drug seeking

Ah, those allergies. Just when you think you've got the balance of drugs to tissue right, something will change.

It's been raining here in Denmark. Rain normally minimizes the allergies. You know, smashes the pollen into the ground. But not this year. This year I think my allergies have decided to be proactive and behave as if I'm always being subjected to pollen, just to save time.

What is it with my immune system? Why does it hate pollen so? It's not like pollen is out lurking behind some bush getting ready to leap out, steal my purse and knife me in the bargain. Why can't we get along?

I've tried having a stern talk with my immune system. But it keeps insisting that the pollen is a virus attempting to invade my body. It says that I'll be glad for it overreacting when the body snatchers come and only those with overactive immune systems will be prepared and only the sneezers will survive.

I think it's being a little over dramatic. And having a stuffy head already makes me feel like a pod person.

But I must say I am getting very good at getting allergy medication in different countries. It helps if you have the box with the drug in question written on the side. Because no everyone can say "pseudoephedrine hydrochloride" let alone SPELL it.

Pseudoephedrine is a fabulous drug. It clears up the sinus like nothing else and can take a barely functioning archaeogoddess dying of sinus congestion in the field to a perky alert and downright spunky archaeogoddess digging machine in just over half an hour. In the US, where they worry about these things, pseudoephedrine is a controlled substance... by controlled I mean you have to show identification and fill out a little book just to get a small packet of the damn things. I can tell you, when your head is going to fall off your shoulders and go rolling down the street, the last thing you want to do is bend over and sign a form saying that you will not make methamphedamines with said medication. Dude! You think I may waste this precious product on making something that I couldn't snort up THIS NOSE if I wanted to!?! Honestly!!

Israel was pretty nice about it. No signing anything, but I couldn't buy more than 30 pills at a go. I didn't bother to ask for more than one pack in Denmark, I was just ecstatic that I could get 24 pills for 64 dkk!!

Bless you Denmark and your generic medication!!

I really ought to go see the doctor and have a little chat about my options allergy-wise. Shots? Different medication? Holes in the head? Hypnosis?? But if they want to take blood for an allergy test it means I have to go...er... dry.... for two days. Gnugh. Why don't you just ask me to stop drinking coffee while you are at it!? Kill me, go on!!

Until then, I'll just continue to trot down to the pharmacy every month for my pill popping needs. At least until winter when I have 5 blessed months sans sneezing (except those weeks around Christmas because I am rather allergic to Christmas trees).

I woke this morning to discover I wasn't dead. Pity.

No, I'm not suffering from depression or suicidal tendencies.  I even like my Danish class because it's fun and we've gotten far enough along we can chat with each other in Danish, so I don't dread going at all.  I just didn't really want to get up.  

So first I took stock of my health.  I mean, if I was sick, I could stay in bed.

Hm, no headache.  Back is okay.  Legs feel fine.  Let me stretch.... nope, no muscle pains.

*cough* Nope, that's not a real cough and *la la la* my voice sounds fine.  Blow nose.  Well, try to blow nose.  Stupid allergy pill is working just FINE.

Ugh, I have a pimple IN my nose.  IN!  That's painful!  Can I call in sick to class?

Probably not.  I can imagine the secretary taking my call: "What is wrong with you?"  Me: "I have a terribly large unpleasant pimple IN my nose."  Her: "On your nose?"  Me: "No IN! I looked up my nose and you can see it if I tilt my head back and squint.  And so it hurts to blow my nose!"  Her: "Do you have a runny nose?"  Me: "Not since I took the allergy pill."  Her: "I think you have to come in to class."

I cut myself on the trash can the other day and even though I washed and dressed it properly, it hurts.  But not the kind of hurt that suggests you should see a doctor about it.  *Glares at finger* Spoilsport.

So I got up and staggered about.  The coffee pot was acting weird.  I wondered if I could use that as justification for going back to bed... but it turned out that my husband was making 10 cups of coffee instead of the usual 7, so it took longer for the water to trickle through the grounds.

My internet was slow this morning (kinda like me), but I had no new emails and there is no good reason to miss school because your dissertation committee has NOT returned your dissertation with corrections.

Sad to say, I got ready and went to class.  

Dust bunny mafia wars

Dust bunnies ("nullernix" in Danish) have invaded my home. They were confined to the office for some time (I don't know about you but I don't unload and move bookcases just to vacuum behind them). Yesterday and the day before, they were unleashed by some idiot who decided to move her office to the other room.

Wait, wasn't that me?

Crap.

I'd been pretty good about keeping the rest of the apartment clean so we could show out the rooms. Apart from the Amazing Popcorn Kernels, who seem to appear out of thin air in the middle of the floor EVEN WHEN NO ONE HAS EATEN POPCORN, dust bunny evidence was NIL.

But yesterday as I betook myself to the restroom to do that thing I do... TMI!!... I noticed... DA DUM... I noticed..... DA DUM... I realized DA DA DA DA DA DA DAAAAAAA!!... I was surrounded on ALL SIDES by dust bunnies. And ALL SIDES is kinda hard to do when you are sitting on the can... TMI!! But it was true! I bent around and looked.

Everywhere!! And not little baby dust bunnies, but full grown MASSIVE dust bunnies. They're in the hallway. They're in the kitchen. They're in the entry way. I even found one out on the balcony, lurking in a corner.

I've been running around for the past two days with a vacuum cleaner. Thankfully I have a very long cord. But like the Hydra, it seems that for every one that I remove from this earth, several more leap up to take its place.

And it's a fight for life, my friends. Because while my allergy medicine is taking spring in stride and I can frolic in the outdoors and drive my pollen ridden car with the windows down and the radio blaring, I am miserable in my own home.

So, I've declared war. I will vacuum this house within an inch of it's life. But first I need to spray my nose, down a spare Benedryl and lay down with a damp cloth over my sinuses for about an hour. Would I cut off my nose to spite my face? Yes, if it meant it would BLOODY stop itching!

(Really, tragically, I am breathing better when I'm outside standing next to freshly mowed grass, which ALWAYS kills me, than I am in this dust bunny infested yet tastefully renovated apartment. ARGH!!)

Brain Melt

My brain is melting. That or the hamsters have been partying a little hard lately. The bastards didn't even invite me, ungrateful wretches.

Yesterday when my husband came home, he pulled an apple from his bag and I exclaimed, "Oh, you had the last egg!"

Egg?

I went to a academic paper yesterday and had a very hard time understanding what was going on. My notes look like a crazy person was trying to take notation. I wrote "the wall was put up in 275" instead of "wall built 275" which would have made it a lot easier to keep up with the rest of the paper. I wasted time trying to remember how to spell Constantine rather than writing "Const" which is my normal modus operandi. (Hey! I remembered "modus operandi!")

I've been staring at my conclusion for a while now and managed to only get one sentence out. I think it might be a keeper, but I'll probably have to wait until Monday to check. I know my other chapters make sense because I remember reading them a while ago and they did, but trying to read and summarize them now is like trying to put frosting on a cake with your bare hands. Only less fun and without the excitement at the end of having something tasty you can eat.

Did that sentence make sense to you?

My nose is sorta stuffy and I think my glands are swollen. If this is a cold, I'm going to cry.

Sounds like it's time for tea.

When realization hits you like a ton of something heavy

When I was little, someone asked me, "which weighs more, a pound of sand or a pound of water?" And I thought really long and hard and decided water. It took even longer for it to be explained to me that a pound of something WAS THE SAME WEIGHT as a pound of something else. Sometimes I just get caught up in the details and TOTALLY miss the big picture.

Kinda like how this post is supposed to be about realizations and I'm nattering on about weight measurements.

Anyway, two days ago I noticed that I had a rather large lump on my head. My husband had a peek and said, my god woman, you've been bleeding, how the hell did you do this? And for the life of me, I couldn't remember. I'm pretty bad about stuff like this, I often have odd unexplained bruises on my legs from where I walk into things when I'm not paying attention or on my arms (which look an awful lot like defensive injuries) from leaning on my desk at a bad angle for a long period of time and stoically refusing to give into the pain and move them (and then being shocked, SHOCKED I tell you, to see that it left a mark)! If I ever end up in the hospital from one of my rather insane mishaps, he'll probably be arrested for spousal abuse. But I didn't have any other unexplained bruises, so it's not like I knocked myself unconscious somewhere. You'd expect there to be some bruising if I fell unconscious to the floor, right? Eventually we came to the conclusion that I must have hit my head while I was concentrating on something else, probably when I was under the bed, retrieving stashed clothing.

But not ten minutes ago, as I went to sit down and call my best friend, I scraped my head against the ceiling (slanted ceilings, we live in the attic) as I tried to avoid the piles of research on the floor, couch, desk, bookshelf, and table. Trying not to knock these things over, while holding the phone in one hand is a recipe for some kind of disaster. And as soon as a whacked my head, a few light bulbs came on. They said:
1) ouch!
2) ah, now I remember doing this two days ago!
3) hey, is that leftover popcorn?

So the mystery was solved, I now remember how I hurt my head. Of course, now my head is hurting AGAIN so that sucks. There isn't any blood on the ceiling... which is almost a shame seeing how hard I whacked it. And that WAS popcorn, but it was stale, thanks for asking. Meanwhile, I have GOT to try to remember to maneuver myself a little more carefully in the future... or at least the next week so my head can heal.

Oh my ears and whiskers...

No, I'm not late for anything, but that is the refrain bouncing around inside my head. I have the most outrageous headache. If I had whiskers, they'd be hurtin'.

I take this as a sign that my head is full.

Anyway, despite the pounding (I'm starting to wonder if my left cerebrum is about to invade the right and what I feel are the war drums) I had an epiphany in the shower this morning.

Showers always lead to epiphanies. I would love to stay in the shower until the solutions for every problem I have presented themselves, but I worry that I'd never get out of the shower. The writers block that has prevented me from making any real progress in my dissertation lasted for DAYS. Talk about prune hands! I had the FSO test to study for, which thankfully led to a good excuse from not working on the THING for longer than an hour or so from time to time, but I still felt like I was running head first into a large plate glass window every time I even thought about IT. (Test is tomorrow... no, I am done studying, I'll only freak out if I try to pack anything else in my head. Rest and headache removal are the goals of today.)

So the problem remained. One section of one chapter was just NOT working. I approached the whole dissertation as a series of questions: the who, what, where, when, why, and how. The theory chapter deals specifically with the why, why something happened in a particular way and the rest of the dissertation is supposed to illustrate HOW. Question: Answer. Easy. Then there is the chapter I've been revising that includes the basic whats, wheres, whens and some of the hows, that the reader needs to have in order to get the major HOWS being shown in the rest of the work. But this one section would just not fit. I moved sentences around, wrote a bit of this and a bit of that. Moved it around. Deleted. I had sentences hanging out in a holding patter and paragraphs waiting to leave the gate. I think the section was a lot like Heathrow earlier this week.

And it hit me as I was in the shower, I was asking the wrong question. I was asking how silver functioned in society. Which I'd already answered in the theory chapter and was the basis for building my argument. And here I was asking it again. What the hell? So it's not the answer that is at fault, it is the question... what was I really trying to ask? After drying off and dressing myself, I rushed to the computer. (Water still in ears and no coffee, that's how crazy I've become!) Read what I'd written and realized I was trying to talk about how silver was displayed. In fact, by simply changing the word "function" to "display" in several sentences, suddenly the whole thing started to slide together. Paragraphs and sentences that would not align began to form coherent thought (unlike many of my blog posts).

By golly I think I've solved it!!

I may have also solved this headache thing... while I've been writing, I keep wandering into the kitchen and filching salami from the package. I have also developed this MAD hankering for brie. Salami and brie are very fatty and salty. I am obviously experiencing a lack in salt and fat (this is what happens when your last meal was muesli and yogurt, way too healthy), because every slice of salami I eat, the better my head feels.

At least that is the excuse I'm going to give my husband when he comes home to find me stuffing my face with salami wrapped brie slices, a bowl of popcorn and a coke.

If only coffee came in IV form...

I am no longer a creature of the night. I am a creature of the day. I will continue to repeat this in my head as I try to stay awake.

I got a haircut, which was lovely. I can now see and do not have to pin my hair back with barrettes. It's very spiky, the hair on my head, which is probably due to the hair wax. I will not know what I truly look like until tomorrow or if I decide to take another shower. I'm avoiding this action because I just bought new soap that smells deliciously of lavender, but since lavender is a relaxing sleepy smell, I might just doze off in the shower and fall over.

Obviously more coffee is in order.

The plus side of spiky hair is that it does a very good job of hiding the grey hairs. There's now a plethora of them all over my head. Apparently I am going to go completely grey by 40. I'm rather bitter about this, I was hoping I wouldn't have any grey hairs until I had children, so I could blame them. Now I'm just going to have to tell them that it was their father that did this to me.

Yes, I speak of children in the plural. I am not necessarily planning on having children in the plural. But it sounds weird to talk of children in the singular. At some point there will be A child and at that time we will revisit the idea of more than one. Plans for a child are in their...er... infancy, so to speak. It's currently a very abstract notion because my life is suddenly very full of lots of different time sensitive goals.

I spent last night reading up on the global economy. It was WAY more exciting and interesting than I thought it would be. This didn't take much, I admit, because I was rather dreading what I thought was going to be a horrific trawl through supply and demand (much like my high school economics class, in which I learned that passive resistance only works if you have a majority and absolutely nothing about economics). I have read some Karl Marx, some Adam Smith, and some Karl Polanyi (want an economic theorist in the family, name your child Karl) in my research into Roman Economics and theories of emulation and distinction, so I wasn't a complete neophyte in the world of modern economic thought, but the term "zero-sum economics" does not come up ever in discussions of the Roman economy (most of the arguments and theories on Roman economics center around whether or not you think the Romans had a economy and if so, were they aware of it, and if so did they do things purposefully to make their economic position better) (the answers are, in my mind, yes, sort of, not really). Reading about currently global economic theory has actually shaped my thoughts on the Roman economy (yay for cross-pollination of ideas), I'd love to be able to go into it more in depth, but at the moment it's all a bunch of firing neurons and not a coherent argument. Maybe it'll end up in my dissertation or maybe it'll just kick around in my head for a while.

It's actually quite a lovely day today. The sun is out when it's not drizzling and the rain of last night washed the city from top to bottom (it was quite the rain). The streets are very clean except where I am because the garbage trucks came and picked up our trash but seem to have dropped quite a lot of it. It's also not that cold, considering that there are very few clouds today. It would be a perfect day to be out and about, except that I stupidly stepped funny yesterday while running up and back from the library. My ankle and foot are killing me. No swelling or discoloration, so I have no idea what I did, but I'm going to keep off of it as much as possible today.

Wisdom... let me impart some to you

In my previous post I warned you about the nail trimming capabilities of potato peelers. Now let me tell you about knifes. Knifes are sharp. If you can't cut something with your knife, it may NOT be that the knife is not sharp, but that your, let's say "onion" for example, is not so crispy fresh. If you decide to proceed with sharpening your knife without testing the knife on something else first, like ANYTHING ELSE IN YOUR KITCHEN, then you should make sure at all times to watch the KNIFE and NOT the SHARPENER. In fact a GREAT idea would also be to married or dating someone who is not blood squeamish.

I live, you learn.

It wasn't that bad, I hit my hand with the knife I was so happily dragging through the sharpener and gave myself a good sized paper-cut-like injury. But there was some blood. The love of my life, who can lift heavy things and reach the high up places, is not one for blood. He called me out of the kitchen where I was staunching my wound to look at the Danish chimney sweepers, who still wear traditional clothing for their job. Which, yes, does include a stove-pipe hat. I took the opportunity to show him my war wound whereas he beat a hasty retreat. Had to get back to painting. He later apologized for not helping me with the bandaging but he "didn't realize it was bad." This is because he couldn't bear to look. It's okay. I can do first aid on myself most of the time and have no problems tearing medical tape with my teeth.

Blood and needles don't bother me. But I can't deal with vomit. When we have small people I will deal with skinned knees and he will handle the stomach flu.

So my right hand is out of action for painting purposes. That's fine, I'm left handed... oh, but if you do nothing but paint with your left arm all day... you wear it out. Arm, wrist, elbow, you name a part of my left arm, it hurts. But sore hurts. Not like tendon tearing hurts. I'll be fine.

I can see you all now thinking "gee AG, you need to take better care of yourself" and "stop injuring yourself! take things easy!" This is what my husband says to me, right before he asks me to grab the other end of the couch so we can haul it down three flights of stairs. (I did throw the christmas tree down from the balcony rather than carry it, but it wasn't really heavy to begin with.) To me "taking it easy" involves drinking wine on the couch and watching episodes of Stargate SG-1 (now playing on our new tv channel "for men" - should include "and for archaeogoddesses"). But I don't think this is what he had in mind.

Anyway, you all worry too much. I tell you these things so that you will LEARN from my errors and become better, wiser, stronger people! So take this lesson with you: knifes are sharp.

Most people learn these things early in life, I was obviously not paying any attention at the time.

"Maybe if you give them some petty cash they won't notice the recession!"

Well, I was wrong about the rates. But anyone who is still thinking that we aren't in a recession already is an idiot. Why do I keep seeing all these reports: are you ready for a recession, is a recession inevitable, will we end up in a recession? The answers are: no, because if we were ready, it wouldn't be a recession, would it? Yup. And we're already in a recession, dumba$$.

And would people stop blaming the various government parties for the recession? It was the bad loans that tipped us all in. There could have been more oversight, or the banks could have stopped giving money away so easily. It's like the dot-com crash, not government induced, idiot induced!

Meanwhile, I had the stomach flu, which was awful in all kinds of ways. The Danish boy was phenomenal, making up batches of re-hydration fluid, peeling apples and boiling up cups of beef bouillon - while still working +12 hour shifts driving the taxi at night.

We then had to shift from the night schedule we have been on to the day shift. This was very painful, as I'm getting over the flu, I have a hard time determining when I'm going to sleep and when I'm not. However, it looks as if we may have succeeded. Alas, here I am at 7 am (I've been up for several hours now) and the sun hasn't risen, the wind may blow down the house and the day is not looking so hot. The weather here has been atrocious. Wind wind and more wind. No snow. Two winters ago we got blanketed and I don't remember so much wind. I guess global warming has robbed me of my snowy winter, this weather feels more like California in February than what one expects from northern Europe. However, it is getting noticeably lighter earlier and staying light for later. This is wonderful. Now if we only would have less cloud cover and less wind, people may actually have a chance at getting some vitamin D.

The dissertation continues and we aren't going to talk about it any more. Because we hates it. It is not precious.

The wedding plans also continue... at a snails pace. There are some rather large financial concerns that must be squared away before we proceed. At this point I am in no hurry. It's not going to be a fancy affair, there will be no frills or favors, and I will probably wear a nice sun dress and flip-flops, so the amazing pressure that normally surrounds a wedding is lacking. Etiquette is out the window - it's not so much a wedding as a casual party. Thankfully!

And on a completely random note - why do none of my cookbooks include a PLAIN oatmeal cookie recipe? I hate dates (unless they are stuffed with cheese and baked) and I don't have chocolate chips. Yes, I am sure somewhere in this god-forsaken country there are chocolate chips, but seeing how it's taken me five years to find the one store that sometimes sells ricotta cheese, I may never find chocolate chips. I also don't want to put all kinds of spices into them. I just want some nice, plain, oatmeal cookies. Is it so much to ask?