If we lived in a Stephen King novel, we'd probably be dead.

Danish Boy (looking out the front door window): Woah, how weird is that!?

AG (doing dishes): How weird is what?

DB: The fog!  It’s SO thick!

AG (looks out the kitchen window, which looks into the back yard): Uh, there’s no fog here.

DB: Weird!  It’s really thick over here! I can’t see the next field. (Pause) Maybe it’s smoke and there’s a HUGE fire!

AG: Well, I got nothing over here.

DB: So weird!!

AG: Right, so as soon as I finish these glasses I’m going to have a look.

DB: Oh don’t bother, its just fog.

(Long pause as AG works this through her head)

AG: So you are telling me not to look at the really weird fog that has so impressed you so much that you keep talking about it?

DB: Uh… (laughs)

AG: (does "dumb boy" voice) Wow, this fog, man, it’s the most amazing fog ever!  No, don’t bother looking.  It's only really really interesting.  But you don't need to see it.

DB: Heh.

AG: (switches "dumb boy" voice for high sarcasm) YUM, wow, I’m eating the best food ever!  It’s amazing!  The taste is just FANTASTIC!  No, I’m not going to give you a taste, you don’t need to taste it.  You just need to know that I’m having the most amazing food ever!

DB: Okay, I get your point.

AG: UMMMMMM!  YUM!

DB: Yes, yes.  Enough already.

AG: Yes, but NOW it’s FUNNY!

(Finishes washing the glasses and goes to the front door.)

AG: WHAT FOG?

DB: Huh?

AG: There’s no fog.  No smoke.  Nothing!

DB: Weird!  I swear you couldn’t see the trees over there!

AG: Hey, Spawn, come see the fog that isn’t there!

DB (anguished): I swear there was fog!

AG: What a let down.

The Dane and His Daughter

The Danish Boy has had his hands full this week.  As he will for the next 15, provided I keep passing exams.

I get up at 5 am and head for the ferry at 6.  He’s got to catch the bus at a little after 8 am, with the Spawn. 

So Monday was a little rough for them both, but they made it on the bus.  That night, he asked to be woken up at 5:30, so he could take a shower and I would be available if the Spawn woke up and needed whatever it is that my child wants at the ass-crack of dawn. *

Tuesday, I woke him up.  He was a little out of it, so he said “hello” and woke the Spawn.  Bless him, he handled the mess he made while I ate breakfast and caught the ferry.  That night he said, screw it, let ‘em both sleep.

Wednesday I let them be.  They were both sleeping when I left.  Later he got up and showered before she woke up.  He got her dressed; they ate breakfast and were out the door on time.

Thursday.  Same again, only the Spawn woke up a bit earlier than the Danish Boy wanted.  Something I’ve noticed about the Spawn.  After she wakes up, you must hold her until she’s ready to be put down, usually about 5 to 10 minutes, after which she is Happy Baby and ready for anything.  Trying to hurry this process up, however, results in Angry Baby. ** The Danish Boy, fresh out of the shower (so, naked, then), was unaware of this charming side to our child’s nature.  He put her down to get dressed.  He confessed later, “I had to put her in Time Out.”  The Danish Boy never puts the Spawn in Time Out.  He talks to her reasonably until she works herself into a fit and then declares, “she needs her momma” before handing me a hysterical child.  Then I get to put her in Time Out because she promptly begins to hit me and we do not hit momma. *** So this was a big moment for him, he actually had to do the discipline.

Despite this, he says he’s actually quite liked having this extra time with the Spawn.  She’s going through a growth spurt and teething like mad, so she’s been the total Velcro baby recently.  If it ain’t momma, it ain’t happenin’ was the motto around the house.  These mornings (and afternoons, since he’s the one who picks her up from daycare) have refocused her little mind on him.  Daddy also makes food.  Daddy also cuddles.  Daddy is also cool.  They talk together and on the way home, they take a little walk and eat berries.

Of course, as soon as I come home, she lights up and runs to me.  (You want a total ego boost?  Be greeted at the door by an enthusiastic toddler.  It’s all “Oh WOW!  It’s YOU!  How great to see YOU!”)  Then she just wants me and only me from then until bed, but that’s fine.  For me.  The Danish Boy is then stuck doing the cooking, which I used to do, and the washing up, which I also used to do.

Only after Spawn and I have gone to bed does he get to do whatever it is he wanted to do by himself.  He almost complained about this, but then wisely remembered that there were months where I never had any time to myself, any time where I wasn’t cooking, cleaning, or breastfeeding and shut up.

* Usually: a boob.

** Angry Baby hits and kicks and, as of recently, bites.

*** She’s one and a half, so she gets one and a half minutes of Time Out.

Obviously I’ve confused myself with someone else

I don’t know if you’ve heard about the “Muppet Theory.”  I’ll let you go check it out, quick like.  It’s fun and shouldn’t be taken too seriously, but like many oversimplifications, you can still learn a lot about yourself from it.

For example, if you’d asked me before I read the article, I would have told you that I’m a Chaos Muppet.  I mean, OBVIOUSLY!  As I was reading the article, I laughed at “if your house catches on fire and you know precisely how to rescue your Schumann CDs in under 15 seconds, you’re an Order Muppet,” because I don’t have a Schumann CD!  LOL!

Cue slight delay for maximum humor purposes.

I know I don’t have a Schumann CD, because when I organized our CD’s based on frequency of use, I would have noticed if we had Schumann…

face/palm

I am such an Order Muppet. 

And I really ought to know better than think of myself as anything but.  I am The Keeper of Knowledge in my relationship, after all.  My desk may look like the set of a post-apocalyptic disaster flick, but I could leap up and collect all of my family’s passports in under five seconds.  My passport and those belonging to my child (yes, she has two) are in the file on my desk, the DB’s is on the table in the entry hall, under a pile of other random crap that belongs to him that he has yet to put away.

And probably will never be put away, that’s the beauty of the system.

The Danish Boy is most assuredly a Chaos Muppet.  He looks like an Order Muppet on the outside.  His shirt is tucked in, his hair is gelled, he’s on time… but he’s carrying half a dozen different bags because his note pad is in one, papers he’s got to turn in to the municipality in another and his camera in a third and one of those bags is probably carrying another few bags for shopping which in turn may be stuffed with more shopping bags that he’s forgotten he’s already packed. His brain is constantly popping and fizzing with ideas and half-baked plans.  He looks so calm, but if anyone is going to suddenly say, “let’s go to Germany today!” it’ll be him. 

I look like a Chaos Muppet, wearing whatever clothes I grabbed out of the drawers in the dark (I never remember to set out my clothes the night before, but my clothes are organized so that I can grab a complete outfit out of the drawers even if I can't see what I'm grabbing), I’ve probably not had enough coffee because I was child wrangling, and I’m carrying one ridiculously large bag.  But that bag contains everything that anyone might need on whatever trip we’re taking.  Chances are that the bag was packed the night before.  Chances are that it only took me a few seconds to pack that bag because everything we might possibly need is stocked, at hand, and probably already organized in smaller, easy to assemble containers.  If anyone is going to be able to be out the door and in the car, ready to go to Germany at a moment’s notice, it’ll be me.

We’re Kermit and Miss Piggy.   Sure, I can organize an event in under two weeks, but I need my Miss Piggy Danish Boy to kidnap invite the celebrity host. 

Yes, I just called my husband Miss Piggy.  I’m sure he’d be just as appalled as you are.

But have you ever noticed that the more hysterical Kermit gets, the more calm and focused Miss Piggy is?  And when Miss Piggy is frantic, it’s Kermit who keeps the show moving?  Yeah, that’s kind of how it works around here.

Even if I secretly wish I was Gonzo.

A Parable for my Husband

Note: My husband and I have already had this conversation and if he actually reads this he’ll be all *sad face* “But we talked about this already and I understood the point you were trying to make.”  And I’ll be all *does-it-look-like-I-give-a-shit face* and say “And you’d do well to remember the moral of this story, then, asshole.”

Ah love.

Once upon a time there was a little old man and a little old woman who lived in a little old house on the edge of the woods.  One day the little old woman gave the little old man a basket with five eggs in it. 

“I want you to go into town and sell these five eggs for five crowns,” the little old woman said to her husband of many a year, “so that I may buy meat from the butcher for our supper.”

So the little old man took the basket and began to walk to town.  Just on the other side of the woods, he met a man with a rooster.

“Say, friend,” said the man with the rooster, “where are you going with those eggs?”

“My wife told me to take them to town to sell them so that she may buy meat from the butcher for our supper,” he answered.

“What a coincidence!” cried the man with the rooster.  “My wife told me to sell this rooster at the market so she could buy some eggs.  I don’t suppose you’d want to swap the eggs for this rooster?”

The little old man was surprised and delighted.  The rooster was easily worth ten crowns!  His wife would be so pleased with him.  “Yes,” he answered.  And they swapped.

The little old man continued to walk to town.  At the crossroads he met a man with a suckling pig.

“Say, friend,” said the man with the sucking pig, “where are you going with that rooster?”

“I’m going to town to sell it so that my wife may buy meat from the butcher for our supper,” he answered.

“What a coincidence!” cried the man with the suckling pig.  “My wife told me to sell this pig at the market so she could buy a rooster.  I don’t suppose you’d want to swap the rooster for this pig?”

The little old man was surprised and delighted.  The pig was easily worth fifteen crowns!  His wife would be so pleased with him.  “Yes,” he answered.  And they swapped.

The little old man continued on his way.  At the outskirts of the town he met a man with a cow.

“Say, friend,” said the man with the cow, “where are you going with that suckling pig?”

“I’m going to sell it at the market so that my wife may buy some meat for our supper,” he answered.

“What a coincidence!” cried the man with the cow.  “My wife told me to sell this cow at the market so she could buy a pig.  I don’t suppose you would want to swap the pig for this cow?”

The little old man was surprised and delighted.  The cow was easily worth twenty crowns!  His wife would be so pleased with him.  “Yes,” he answered.  And they swapped.

The little old man continued into town.  But when he got to the market, it was closed for the day.  He’d spent too much time talking and swapping!  “Oh, no,” thought the little old man, “what will I do now?”

Then he spied a man with a horse, coming into the square.  The man with a horse smiled as he saw the little old man and his cow.

“Say, friend,” said the man with the horse, “where are you going with that cow?”

“I was going to sell it at the market,” said the little old man, “but now the market is closed!”

“What a coincidence!” cried the man with the horse.  “I was going to sell this horse at the market and buy a cow, but I was also too late and the market is closed!  I don’t suppose you would swap the cow for this horse?

The little old man was surprised and delighted.  The horse was easily worth twenty-five crowns!  His wife would be so pleased with him!  “Yes,” he answered and they swapped. 

The little old man proudly rode his horse home.

“Where have you been?” cried his wife when he got home.

“I traded the eggs for a rooster,” said the little old man.

“Ah, well, that’s okay,” said the little old woman, “I can put him with the hens and we can raise chickens to eat.”

“Ah,” said the little old man.  “But I traded the rooster for a suckling pig.”

“Eh, well, that’s okay,” said the little old woman, “we can butcher the pig and have the meat for supper."

“Eh,” said the little old man.  “But I traded the pig for a cow.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay,” said the little old woman, “we can milk the cow and sell it to buy meat for our supper.”

“Oh,” said the little old man.  “But I traded the cow for a horse.”

“Uh, what?” said his wife of many a year.

“Uh,” said the little old man.  “But it’s easily worth twenty-five crowns!”

“So what,” yelled the little old woman, “we now have no money to buy meat for our supper and now we have to buy food for the horse!  With what money, I ask you?  We have no eggs, no rooster, no pig, and no cow, just a hungry horse!”

And with that she pulled a pistol out of her pocket and shot the little old man in the head.

The moral of the story is: if we need to sell my Volvo because we need the money, then I don’t want to hear any more about trading it for another car or a trailer because it *might* be worth more or because it *might* be easier to sell - because at the end of the day, we still will not have any money and I will f*cking end you.

Wherein I can say "I told you so" all I want

On Sunday the DB came into the house, all worried and fretful, to tell me that there was something dripping from his car.

"It's probably just condensation," I said, "because it freezes overnight and then thaws in the morning."

No, he insisted, it was fuel!!!

But, I pointed out, that was crazy talk.  It doesn't smell like fuel.  The last time we had a fuel leak in a car, I could smell it from a meter away.

He insisted.  He brought a paper towel soaked in the liquid in for me to sniff.

Okay, it sorta smelled like fuel, but not that strongly, it could just be random engine smell.

No, no, the DB said, it was fuel!!!

You know those arguments you have with people you love?  The ones where you know you can't win, no matter what you say because they are freaking out and insist that you aren't taking them seriously and for the love of god, don't you trust them to not be idiots???  Yeah, it was one of those.

He wanted the emergency-car-peoples (AAA in the US, Falck in DK) to take the car all the way to our mechanic half-way across the country.  I said, uh, shouldn't we determine if it *IS* a fuel leak first?  Because I'd feel really stupid sending the car that far away if it's nothing.  Because in order to get it back, we'd have to spend a weekend up at his mom's and really, who wants to do that?

Okay, maybe it wasn't the best reason, but since my MIL has been known to drive us both batshitcrazy it's a valid reason.

But but but, he argued, blah blah blah fuel leak!!!

We compromised when he finally said he could have the emergency guys come out and look at the "leak" and if they thought it was a fuel leak they could take it far far away and if it wasn't they could take it to the mechanic in the next village.

So today the Falck guy came and looked at the car.  Not a fuel leak, he said.

But but but, said my dear husband (whom I love, really, I do), fuel leak!!!

Okay, said the Falck guy, I will take it to the local mechanic and if he says it's a fuel leak, I'll take the car to your mechanic, okay?

The DB agreed.

And the mechanic said: Condensation.  No fuel leak.

I'm sure he managed not to make the DB feel stupid.  A bit of manly "you were right to be concerned" and all that.  In fact, I'm positive of this because he came home and said "thankfully, it turned out not to be a fuel leak, but just condensation" and he managed to say this without betraying any embarrassment or damaged pride, but with a touch of defiance, as if I was somehow going to challenge his proclamation.

I tried not to shout "I told you so!"  But his tone was a bit "I told you so" and a bit "now, now, dear, I knew there was nothing to worry about."  And well, I couldn't just let that go.  I'm not that good of a wife.  So I smiled beatifically and said "Well, I'm all pleased with myself.  My car skills are pretty good, if I might say so.  Did I not say that it was condensation?  Why yes, I do believe I did!"

I'm pretty sure he would have preferred "I told you so!" and a fist pump.

He doesn't know the half of it

The other day the DB and I had... a discussion.

In the course of this... discussion... I explained that I tend to get irritated quickly but then I get over it whereas he tends to become annoyed by something slowly and then he obsesses about it.  And that this irritates me.

He panicked.

Another irritating trait of his.

He was worried that I was voicing some deep-seated problem that would fester in our relationship and, if left unsolved, would somehow destroy the very fabric of our marriage.  More worrisome, by far, was that I stated that I didn't see this problem as being solvable.  Because that would be the end of our marriage.  OH MY GOD I WANTED A DIVORCE!!

Okay, maybe he didn't get that far in his reasoning, but there was definitely panic and "what do you mean you don't think it can be solved???" Because in his world, when there are problems in a marriage you solve them and being irritated with one's spouse is obviously a problem.

Immediately I wanted to hit him over the head with a cast-iron skillet.

Then I got over it.

'Cause I'm calm and collected, y'all.

I explained that we're different and that being different does not mean I'm going to divorce his ass.  I mean, he eats bananas - BANANAS - and I had a baby with him.  I just ask him not to kiss me after eating a banana.  SO GROSS!  Slimy and *gak* I think I just threw up a little in my mouth!  Bananas!  Did I demand he give them up?  Nope.  Did I say, "bring another banana in this house and I'll see you dine in Hell?" No.  Did I dramatically fling the bananas from the house and ask for compensation for my mental health? No I did not, but I totally should.  Ugh.  SLIMY!!  Bananas!

And he calmed down.

But the whole conversation left me with this surreal feeling.  Like, seriously, did he think that it was a problem every time I was irritated with him?  Did he really think that if we didn't discuss it or figure out how one of us could change to be less irritating our marriage would fail?  Because, honestly, I want to hit him with a cast-iron skillet at least once a DAY.

And he wants to have a discussion every time?  Oh hells noes!  I really will take a skillet to his skull should he try that shit.

Just now he took the Spawn off my hands for a bit, so I could have a break.  He then asked "okay, so what's the plan?"  Plan?  Uh, you take the Spawn for a bit and I sit here and have a break, that's the mofo plan!  I don't care what you do with her, but I am doing SOMETHING ELSE.  I'm still not sure what he wanted.  I folded the clothes.  I'll do dishes with him in a bit.  I'll get on the sorting of the bathroom boxes at some point, just not right now.  Right now I am having me a Spawn-free moment.  Go away before I hit you over the head with this skillet!

But him asking about The Plan is only a little bit irritating.  Having a half-hour long discussion on why I'm irritated would be VERY IRRITATING!  By the time that I'm done writing this post, I'm going to be over it, so what is the point?

The point, he would say, is so that this situation doesn't happen again.

Right.  Okay.  Never talk to me again!  Then you can't possibly say something that might irritate me!  Except I'll probably be irritated by your silence!  Or the way you stand!  Or your breathing!!

DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?  YOU CAN'T WIN!  I WILL ALWAYS BE IRRITATED!!  I'M IRRITABLE!  IT'S PART OF MY CHARM!!!

I need more than 30 minutes a day

A while back I told my BFF that all I really wanted was 30 minutes to myself.  But I totally waste it sleeping or showering when I get it, so what that means is…

I totally need more than 30 minutes a day.  To myself.  Minus a baby.  And minus a husband.

Don’t get me wrong - I absolutely ADORE my child.  And I suppose, the Danish Boy… but…

OMG I want some time ALONE!

Let’s take dinner.

An average dinner is one of us eating while one entertains the baby (we’ve had a rare meal or two where she entertains herself, but alas, dinnertime is also Cranky Baby time) and while I take the baby upstairs to play or something so she doesn’t fuss, the DB stands by my chair while I eat, bouncing an increasingly unhappy baby.

Ever try to eat while your child makes unhappy grunts?

Damn near impossible.

I try to not be That Mom who tells the unfortunate father what to do… but COME ON, walk with the baby, talk to the baby, do something with the baby that IS NOT IN THE DINING ROOM!  Let me eat in peace!

Let’s take last night.

Last night I scarf as fast as I can while he sits with the grumpy baby, across from me, so she can stare at me with plaintive eyes.  “Mommy, this man will not entertain me!  I’m bored!  Hold me!  I miss you and your funny faces!!  Please?” And having Not Finished My Beer, I scooped her up and away.  An HOUR later, I head back to the dinning room, cause you know, my Not Finished Beer remains to be finished and I’m thinking, maybe I can bounce the baby while drinking it, I’m multitalented.  I rock.  I’m THE MOMMY!

He’s read the newspaper.

The newspaper.

Dammit man, I eat in 10 minutes flat so you can take an HOUR for a leisurely meal? 

ARGH!

*** To be fair, I could also write a post about how a few nights ago the DB washed all the dishes while I was trying to feed the baby to sleep and how on Saturday mornings he often takes her for long walks so I can sleep a bit longer.  I kept repeating this to myself last night so that I didn’t take a frying pan to his head.  He's still alive, so I guess it works. ***

It's Not My Fault!

He talks with his mouth full!

(Normally, this would be a big "ewwww MANNERS MAN!" moment - but since having a baby, we've had to combine as many things as possible to try to get it all done.  If I could figure out how to drink coffee and shower at the same time, I'd do it.)

DB: And the title was something like "sunshine and islands"...
AG: Sunshine and VIOLENCE?
DB: No - ISLANDS.
AG: I heard VIOLENCE.
DB: No, it was definitely ISLANDS.
AG: That's kinda too bad... I really like "and VIOLENCE!"
DB: Anyway...

You know what I love about our relationship?  That this conversation doesn't even make him blink.  He wanted to tell me about his day and NOTHING was going to get in his way... not even his wife's verbal tangents.

To be fair, it wasn't like I was actually paying attention...

A few days ago...

DB: We need more of that tea.

AG: What tea?

DB: The one with the tiger on it.

AG: With the what?

DB: Tiger.

AG: You mean "Bengal Spice" - the box with a tiger on it.

DB: Yeah, that.  And that's what I said, "tiger."

AG: Oh, I heard "Thai girl."

DB: No, I definitely did NOT say "Thai girl."  I said "tiger."

AG: Yeah, well...

Now, I was slightly distracted during the conversation, but he does have an accent and swallows his R's. Tiger and Thai girl sound completely different when *I* say them... but him... not so much.

There's probably a Thai girl behind that tiger 

or possibly *in* the tiger, who looks a bit shifty to me.

(I have not received any money from Celestial Seasonings for this... but they are totally free to send me buttloads of their Chai Tea which I heart more than Bengal Spice. *hint hint* *wink wink*)

Shampoo shenanigans and stuff

How is it that my husband can go through shampoo so fast?

A quick aside for more information - my husband has a skin allergy that renders him completely scaly and pimply and gross from regular soaps.  (I'm sure he's going to just LOVE that I told you all about his eczema.)  *I* (insert preening) figured it out and found him a soap that he could use as well as a shampoo and conditioner.  But that left us with all the other soaps and shampoos that we'd bought in our mad attempt to cure him and I've been steadily using them up, one after another, for the last two years.

You'd think I'd be done or that we must have had a MOUNTAIN of soaps and shampoos going at the time.  And I'm starting to think that your assumptions must be right, because DAMN I am *still* working on that last bottle of regular shampoo and I am no closer to getting rid of the two half bottles of Head & Shoulders (copyright trademarked blah blah blah) than I was a few years ago.

Part of the problem is that when I go off on excavation I can't take the HUGE bottles of shampoo and soap I have sitting in the shower and so buy smaller bottles to start me off and then I get stuck buying more while I'm abroad and then I bring it home and now I've got TWO bottles to finish instead of one.

You could suggest that I throw it away... but that goes against every fiber of my being.  Obviously, $20 worth of shampoo, soap, conditioner etc. is not going to bankrupt me... but a very large chunk of my soul wants to scream "it's not like we're rolling in cash, either, sweetheart" and I just can't do it.  I also keep left-over pasta (you can re-heat it by dropping it into boiling water for 30 seconds and you'd never notice that it was older than newly made pasta) and my husband will not throw away the tube of toothpaste until he's absolutely sure he's gotten the last bit of toothpaste out.  Usually this results in less and less toothpaste actually getting on his toothbrush, until I point out, "uh, honey, I don't think there actually *is* any toothpaste on your toothbrush" and he sheepishly admits that maybe, just maybe, he's gotten all the toothpaste out... at least all the toothpaste that can be gotten out without resorting to surgery.  If he didn't know that I'd kill him dead, I'm sure he'd use my nail scissors to gut the tube for that last little bit.

We joke about it.  We laugh over how he scrapes the last of the toothpaste out of the lid and I add water to the last of the soap dispenser to make sure we get EVERY LAST BUBBLE.  We laugh at my propensity to empty hotels of their soaps (hey, they're going to throw it away anyway, I'm just saving them the trouble) and his practically invisible socks (so thin that one of these days a load will go into the wash and NEVER RETURN!).  Sometimes we'll throw away the leftover pasta (but only if it's not enough to make a meal of the next day and NEVER if there is leftover sauce) because we aren't REALLY that poor.  I mean, there was The Month Of Cabbage a few years back.  *That* was poor.  We can afford organic eggs now.

But.  Still.

Why does my husband have to go through shampoo so fast??

It really boggles my mind.  He's got far less hair than I do.  And SOAP!  Okay, he's bigger than I am.  Or was.  Because at this point, we weigh about the same amount and I'm pretty sure I've caught up with him in overall surface area AND YET it has taken me four months to go through a little bottle of soap, during which time he's gone through THREE bottles that are THREE TIMES the size of my little bottle.  WHAT IS HE DOING IN THERE??  I've been in the bathroom when he showers.  I know he turns off the water, like a good environmentally contentious young man, to soap up, so I know he's not rinsing it off faster than he can slap it on.

But I'm starting to have the suspicion that he's possibly forgetting that he's washed and he's repeating himself in the shower.  Like he enters some time-loop and keeps repeating the same motions again and again, only time is not repeating, it's continually moving forwards and the soap is simply getting used up.

Evidence:
1) He takes twice as long in the shower than I do.

I'm a woman.  We're designed by nature to take longer in the shower and yet I take 10 minutes (okay, it's inching up to 20 because I can't bend over or stand on one leg for very long, so reaching the soap on the lower shelf and getting my legs up high enough to be scrubbed takes some slow careful maneuvers, if it wasn't so utterly grotesque it might be considered performance art - but his showers have also gotten proportionally longer).  I'm in the bathroom when he's showering three days out of the week and I know that he spends the entire time in there lathering and scrubbing (I tend to spend the majority of my time rinsing) and seriously, it should not take that long UNLESS HE IS WASHING EVERY PART THREE TIMES WITH VAST QUANTITIES OF SOAP!!

2) He has no memory of what he's doing in the shower.

Conversation from a few weeks ago -
DB: (in the shower) Um, so, baby, can I ask you something?
AG: Yeah...
DB: Water seems to be getting into the soap and it makes it really watery and hard to use and so, um, if you could, you know, remember, to... uh, close the lid, you know, after, uh, you... uh, use it... that would be, um, really great...
AG: Honey, I don't *use* your soap, remember?
(Pause)
DB: Oh, so I guess it's me then.
AG: Gotta be.

And since then, 9 times out of 10 when I get into the shower, I end up closing his soap because HE STILL FORGETS TO DO IT.

So there, if he's washing himself and then forgetting that he's washed himself, this could in fact lead to the kind of shower loop that increases soap and shampoo usage to the point where I'm buying him a new bottle of soap from the organic shop every two weeks.  They must think I've got a particularly large family that all uses the same bottle of soap.  I've bought them out of their stock.  I've got to go in there and ask them to restock, please, because we're about to be out again and I wasn't able to get any more on the mainland (having, I think, possibly bought THEM all out of this soap too).  Really, at this point, I ought to call the manufacturer and ask to purchase a case because we go through it so bloody fast.

Or really, I should make the DB do it because he's the one using it all up.  The soapy beast.

Vignettes with my husband

The AG Learns Why Moms Say Really Annoying Things Like "Did you look in [insert obvious location]?"

DB (in the bathroom): Do we have any eye drops?
AG (in bed, reading): Um, yeah, in my purse, downstairs in the plastic ziploc baggy in the main pocket.

Later, DB climbs into bed for AG to administer eye drops.

AG: So are we out of eye drops in the bathroom then?
DB: Oh, I don't know, I didn't check.
AG: You were in the bathroom and didn't bother to look in the medicine box?
DB: No, I figured it was easier to ask you if we had any.
AG: Arrgh!

---

The DB Has A Revelation

Alot: Meow.
DB: What? (Yes, he speaks to the cat in English.)
Alot: Meow.
DB: Do you want food?
Alot: Meow.
DB: You have food.
Alot: Meow.
DB: See, look here, in the bowl.
Alot: Meow.
DB: Do you want Daddy to do the trick?
Alot: Meow.
DB (picks up food bowl and stirs the food with a finger before setting it back down): There, look "new food!"
Alot: Meow.
DB: Argh!  What do you want cat!?
Alot: Meow.
DB: Do you want to go out?
Alot: Meow.
DB (gets down closer to the cat and rubs the cat's head): What is it?!?
Alot (flops down on floor and presents belly to be scratched): Meow.
DB: You want to be rubbed?  Is that it?
The DB rubs the cats belly vigoursly, Alot purrs and stretches with obvious contentment.
DB (to the AG): This is just like having a baby, you don't know what they want and they can't tell you and you just have to keep guessing until you get it right!

---

Yay, You Aren't Depressed

AG (over dinner): So I started my novel today.
DG: You did!
AG: Yup.  I think I wrote over a thousand words.
DG: Drat, we finished drinking all the apple juice - um, well, there's a bit left.  Cheers!
AG: Uh, oh, cheers.
DG: I am SO PROUD OF YOU!
AG: Why are you getting teary eyed?
DG: Oh, I am just so happy for you!
AG: Oooookaaaay.
DG: And I'm so glad that you aren't depressed!

---

And When We Run Out of Wood, We'll Just Burn Money

DG (having stuffed the stove with wood and set it alight): Now that's what I call a fire!
AG: Yup.  Definitely a *big* fire.
DG (disgruntled): But you're always cold!?
AG (taking off her sweater because it's now reached the first circle of hell in terms of heat): I'm not complaining.  I'm just saying it's a big fire.
DG: Harumph!
AG: I really appreciate it, I do!  I'm just sayin', maybe we don't need such a big fire.  I can wear sweaters!  And maybe it will make the wood last longer.
DG (definitely grumpy): We're going to run out of wood.
AG: Yes, see, so maybe a smaller fire?...
DG (practically vibrating with dismay): It doesn't matter, we're going to run out of wood anyway, and I'll have to do something about it at some point, but at least you're WARM!
AG (flings arms around husband, extreme grumpiness is often cured by over-the-top displays of affection): Oh thank you, baby, thank you for keeping me so warm on these cold nights in this horribly cold country!
DG: *sniff* (hugs back)

---

One of These Days, He's Going to Get a Kick to The Head

At least once a day the following conversation is heard in the house -
DB: My god you're pregnant!
AG: Yeah, I know.
DB: But really, baby, WOW!  You're huge!
AG: Thanks.

---

The Pellet with the Poison is in the Flagon with the Dragon

AG (opens the orange juice carton): Whew!  Dear god almighty!  I think the orange juice has gone bad.
DB: *sniff* Nah, it's just the stuff around the top.
AG: Eeeewwwww!  Well I'm not drinking it!
DB: It's fine!  I'll drink it. (Pours good sized glass and takes a large swig.)  It's fine!
A little while later.
DB: Maybe I shouldn't have drunk that orange juice.
AG: Well if you die, don't come whining to me.

The horror, the horror...

I hate spiders.

I really really hate spiders.

I hate them because they scare the heebee-geebees out of me and I don't like to be scared.  

I hate their little beady eyes and their fangs and their eight legs all moving independently of each other.  I hate the way that they shoot sticky web out of their butts.  I hate how they scuttle - zip, pause, zip, pause.  I hate how they weave their webs with their back legs while they clean their mandibles with their front legs.  All while watching you.  I hate their multi-jointed legs with too many knees and their bloated abdomens and their little horrible heads.

I hate spiders.

I suffered some spiders in my home for the last few weeks because I wanted something to take care of the mosquito problem and the gnat pestilence that followed.  Despite there being a huge number of bugs in the house, all of the spiders seem to be dying of starvation while the bugs died of old age.  I have never seen such a useless branch of evolution in all my life.

And then, last week, the most horrible species of spider began showing up in the house.

Okay, no, they aren't venomous (nothing in Denmark is venomous other than the Danish People's Party) and I've been told the whole "it's more scared of you than you are of it."  But their brains are the size of of a 12 point Times New Roman period!  That's not the brain of something that fears or gets angry.  They are going to bite everything because anything could be a threat or possibly lunch!  Why ponder the existential difference between a mortal threat and the large warm bodied thing that bumped your web?  I doubt they refer to wikipedia to decide if what they see before their tiny eyes is edible or dangerous.

Get it, there is no fear or aggression in a spider, just biting!!

So when this very large, very active species of spider began invading my home every evening, I got rather upset about it.  They are about the size of a Snapple lid or a round Danish plug (that's including the leg span).  They have orange knees.  They have two huge black fangs.  And they love to bungee jump from the ceiling on silken thread, legs extended, probably shouting "weeeeeeee!"  We had five of them in the bathroom one night, swinging from the light fixtures and the air vent.

If they stay still I try to wait until my husband wanders by and I can borrow his spider wrangling skills to de-arachnid whatever room I wish to be in, but over the last week he's been very busy wrangling a larger pest: possible tenants for a room in our apartment in Århus.  Over 200 phone calls, text messages, and emails.  Calls coming in before 8 am until after 10 pm.  Ugh.

But the spiders....

So I can't always wait for him to finish sending an email downstairs.  Especially if I need to pee and there is a bouncing spider in my way.  This has resulted in an increasingly frustrated husband who wanted to know why I didn't just come back downstairs and use the spider-free toilet.  Because, I patiently told him, I had to keep an eye on the spider until he got rid of it.  WHAT IF IT HID WHILE I WAS AWAY??  It could TOTALLY come back and get me in the middle of the night!

Every night for a week I had a grumpier and grumpier man trudging upstairs to answer my calls for assistance.  He wanted to know why I couldn't just wait for him to be done with his stuff downstairs and I wanted to know why he couldn't just come upstairs with me, remove the spiders, and then go back to do whatever it was that he wanted to do.  I like to read in bed for a bit before turning off the light and this is the only way to not inconvenience him when he'd like to go to sleep.  His sighs of frustrations and annoyance could be heard every night as he trudged up stairs to yet again remove more spiders from the bathroom.

It may have gone on like this for quite a while, but then, just a few nights ago, as we were washing dishes, a spider bungeed down from the cupboard just inches from my face.

Do you know what happens when the Archaeogoddess is startled?  I scream and jump.

Do you know what happens when the Archaeogoddess is startled by a large nasty spider inches from her face?  There was a piercing shriek from the depths of my soul.  I think they heard me in Berlin.  I shot straight up in the air and then levitated backwards about three feet before landing with a resounding thump.

My husband was standing next to me at the time.  He was, shall we say, startled by my reaction.

DB: OHMYGOD!!  What the hell?!

AG: *bursts into hysterical tears and point at the spider*

And after that, not another frustrated sigh was heard from his lips.  He goes upstairs every night before I do to check for spiders in the bathroom and the bedroom.  He hurries to my aid if I holler "honey, there's a spider in here" and he has a special spider-catching-cup and lid both upstairs and downstairs, to quickly and safely capture and remove the spider from my presence.

Apparently, 7 years of me telling him that I'm scared of spiders did not really sink in until I had a proper hysterical breakdown.  I guess he finally realized that if his wife, who can calmly bandage wounds on herself and others, give injections, remove dead rats from traps, move to a country where she couldn't understand a single word, who in many other ways is very very brave, is THAT scared of spiders, then she is REALLY FREAKIN' SCARED OF SPIDERS!

Conversations With My Husband or Why Facebook Saved Our Marriage

AG: Our anniversary is on Monday.
DB: I know.
(Pause)
AG: Facebook told me so.
DB: I thought it might have.

It's not cat pee

AG: You know, science has supposedly proven that women have a better sense of smell than men, but are worse at spacial reasoning.  But seeing how I'm a whiz at parking...
DB: I know, I know, more proof that you are the man and I'm the woman.
AG: Well, you'd better hope so, otherwise you are having olfactory hallucinations.

My husband is insisting that one of our mattresses smells of cat pee.  I have sniffed and sniffed and all I smell is that chemically fresh mattress smell.  I keep telling him that if a cat had sprayed or peed in the spare room WE WOULD TOTALLY SMELL IT!

I'm half tempted to lock Alot in one of the rooms until he pees just to show my husband that cat pee is a smell unto itself.  A powerful one-two punch that can only be outdone by the +80 rats that the rat catcher has racked up in the basement of the building in Århus.  (Seriously, the rat catcher sends the DB texts every week with the latest numbers.)  Cat pee is not a slight scent that one can catch from time to time.  It assaults the nose, makes the eyes run, bleaches carpet.

To top it off, the man has never owned a cat.  His father hates cats and instilled a fear and distrust of cats in my husband at a young age.  Seriously.  He finally confessed to me that there was a neighbor's cat that used to follow him home from the bus stop.  It would run in front of him and sit in the road and my husband would have to CROSS THE STREET because if he didn't he *knew* the cat would "get him."  It would often sit at the end of the driveway and he'd have to dash past it to get safely home.  I now feel slightly bad that I subjected him to my family's cats without any warning, but how did I know he was uncomfortable around cats?  It does also prove how much my husband was determined to make a good impression on my family.  He let our cats sit on him.  (To be fair to the cats, you try to keep a 20 lbs cat off you.  The hubs had pretty much no choice on that one.)  It was years before I found out about his discomfort.  By then my family's cats had slightly desensitized him.  I mean, how can you fear a drooling cross eyed cat who puts out a paw and asks "merow?" before climbing into your lap?

Anyway, his only knowledge of cat pee was once when he stayed with a relative who had a cat and that cat peed on his duvet.  He was 8 or something.  It was further proof that cats were evil monsters in fur coats, as far as his father was concerned.  But does not change my opinion that the DB has NO IDEA what he's talking about in regards to cat pee.

There is NO cat pee smell.

IT'S NOT CAT PEE!!

Sometimes I wonder what other people think when they overhear our conversations

I just wonder, mind.  I'm not agonizing over it.  I'm not worried that people think I'm weird or that people don't think I'm weird.  Okay, I'm a little worried that they secretly hate me and will go home and pray that I'm struck down by a weird disease but that's only because these are STRANGERS we are talking about and we all know about "Stranger Danger"!

Actually, you might not know about "Stranger Danger" if you didn't grow up in Paranoid America.  You can find some awesome videos on YouTube.

Anyway, moving on.  The following conversation took place last night as we strolled about town.

Danish Boy: (exasperated because we have again stopped to take a picture) Can we do this later?  I thought we were on a walk!
Archaeogoddess: What, I can't stop and take a picture of cool stuff?
DB: But it's going to be dark soon and I wanted to go for a walk.
AG: Good god, I didn't know that when you said "walk" you meant "Bataan Death March"!

At which point two teenage girls rushed past, fearfully looking over their shoulders.  I doubt they know anything about the BDM and half of me wanted to shout out the historical reference I was making and the other half wanted to shout out "and no I will not use my indoor voice" because my husband was making that uncomfortable-face, the one he makes when I'm embarrassing him but he knows that he can't say anything about it without me REALLY embarrassing him, which I can do without batting an eye.

DB: (as we walk past the harbor) shhhh... not so loud.
AG: What?
DB: I said shhhh, not so loud.
AG: I can't hear you.  YOU HAVE TO SPEAK UP!
DB: I said "not so loud."
AG: WHY THE HELL NOT!?  I CAN'T GODDAMNED HEAR YOU! FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! YOU TALK SO DAMN QUIETLY!  SPEAK UP!!

I'm pretty sure that the universe has a horrible sense of humor and I'll end up going deaf, because that would drive my soft spoken mumbling husband absolutely insane.  At which point I'm going to start wearing underpants on my head, 'cause that'd just be funny.  Yup, I was put on this earth just to drive him mad.  Completely round the bend bonkers.

DB: (As we stop again) *le sigh*
AG: You know, when you take pictures, I have to stand around waiting for ages while you take a gazillion shots FROM THE EXACT SAME PLACE of the EXACT SAME THING and do I complain or force you to hurry up?  NO I DO NOT.  All I ask in return is the same common courtesy when I stop to take one or two very quick pictures of something before moving on.
DB: mumblemublemuble
AG: What?
DB: I SAID I'M SORRY!
AG: Jesus, baby, you don't need to yell.  I'm not deaf you know.

This is that post...

I've been waiting and waiting to use this image (unless I've used it already, but I'm not going to go back through all my posts, no sir-ee-bob) and this is that post.

From Pictures for sad children.  I'm pretty sure John Campbell isn't Danish, or married to a Dane, or have had any reason to sit through a Danish party, and yet he really nails the experience.

This post may be a bit touchy, so I'm putting a break in it - continue reading after the jump.

It's times like these that I miss those happy pills!

Just saw my husband off.  He's on his way back to the Netherlands.  I'm off to Qatar on Sunday, making a trip through Copenhagen first.  We're hoping that we'll get to see each other for Christmas - either in DK or in Qatar or in somewhere in between.

This time watching him leave today was much harder than 8 weeks ago.

Two reasons:
1) Last time I knew exactly when I'd see him again (give or take 24 hours, as it turned out)
2) Today I have PMS

It's completely unfair to have PMS when your loved one leaves.  Especially when you are prone to weepiness and melancholia.  At least I won't be laid low by cramps until at least Thursday.  My stomach is upset enough with stress and dismay as it is.

I'm certainly going to write a strongly worded letter to my congressman.

Just as soon as my heart stops going plop-a-thump, my stomach unclenches, and I can stop grinding my teeth.

A rather eventful day

Yesterday was rather eventful. There was the obligatory 3 1/2 hours of Danish, followed by a power nap. My Dane and I then headed off to look at this camper that he'd seen on the side of the road.

[Insert flashback special effects]

My husband, who leaves WEDNESDAY, for Holland (I have part II of my Danish test that day, how unfair of the universe is THAT?) had still not found a place he was willing to live. Most of the places that were almost affordable were shared rooms or in a dormitory-like environment. My husband, bless him, is a little old for returning to college life. I could see him coming out of his dorm room and shaking his fist at the noisy kids. Or giving the evil eye to a roommate. He only puts up with me because I'm cute and I show him my boobies.

(Off topic note: He is forbidden to call them anything other than "breasts." I hate when people refer to someone else's breasts with some stupid pet name or childish term, but I also retain the right to call my breasts whatever the heck I want if it will imbue a story with a bit of levity. I'll stop talking about breasts now. This could be the post where my parents finally get around to reading my blog and I would hate to embarrass them.)

Anyway, so on the topic of husband travelling/lacking a home, he'd made cracks about living in the car. I, however, do not get Danish humor, and so promptly pointed out that if he were to live in the car, he'd have to live at a campsite so that he would have bathing and toilet facilities. I'm really big on people not peeing freely. I'm not sure who pointed out that the most sane idea for staying at a campsite would be to have a camper, but it came up as a frighteningly good idea. He did a bit of research and discovered that campers are insanely expensive in Denmark. I swear, you could put wheels on a dog turd and sell it for millions. He even went to a used camper dealership, where they were selling campers held together with duct tape for 50,000 kr. Heck, I'm going to start putting wheels on my OWN poop!

(Toilet humor getting to you? Sorry, blame the mad storm of yesterday, I may have been struck by lighting.)

That would have been the end of it, except that while driving home from Grenaa the other day, he saw a camper for sale on the side of the road. He looked it over, called the guy, poked, prodded, did whatever two men do when they contemplate an exchange of wheeled objects (my poop not included) (SORRY) and came home to talk with me about it.

Ever so practical, I asked him if there EVEN WERE campsites near his school. That's what I'm here for, killing the joy. Oh yes, I can kill the joy. [Insert lots of boring details here that I won't... er... bore you with.] Yes, Virginia, there is a campsite... open until Oct. 4th and in the woods. After that he might have to get creative, but that will be his anxiety, not mine. He decides it will be a great adventure, I see it as a way to go camping in France. I hear they have good wine. So, because it was under 15,000 kr., and in good condition, we bought it. It's little. It's bitty. It dates from 1980-something and so goes great with the Volvo station wagon. (I tried to find a comparable one on-line... but I couldn't.) It's got a bed, a table area that could become a second bed, sink, two gas burners, a fridge, a toilet (an empty yourself kind), and an attachable tent with walls (thereby doubling your living space... when it's warm outside). It's very brown and green, but doesn't smell at ALL. This is vitally important.

I swear we are now the perfect middle-class American family... without the kids. Lousy Danish family though. We lack privet hedges and a summer house.

Right. So, now we've caught up with where I started (and slightly overshot, but do I look like a hollywood director?). We had a date with some friends back in Århus, but since we were running late, we took the camper with. It was a hit and our friends' adorable little girls declared that mum and dad should buy one with their DanKort (think Debit Card meets Visa).

And then it started raining. Whoa boy, did it start raining. And there was the lighting and the thunder and all in all it was a very impressive summer storm. We thought it was over by the time we parked the car and camper half a mile from our home (free parallel parking where you don't actually have to maneuver between two other parked objects is not that easy to find in Århus). We were mistaken. We took shelter in the doorway of a lonely store in the middle of nowhere.

Note to all: It is acceptable to pee freely when it is pouring rain, you are far from home, and surrounded by closed non-residential buildings, provided that you pee somewhere where it will be washed away by morning. Also, always accept an umbrella from friends. Always.

Just as we were starting to wonder if we'd have to swim home, my husband saw a bus. I couldn't see the bus stop, but my Dane said there was. We actually chatted about this as the bus pulled up on the other side of the road and sat at the stop. Realizing that we'd be kicking ourselves if we didn't take it, no matter where it went, it had to be drier than this, right? We ran across the road. Correction, we splashed across the river that just happened to be partially navigable by car, and got on the bus. Bless that bus driver, he'd seen us and waited. We determined that he was actually going to go right by the street our house is on (yippee!) and we were so grateful we bought bus tickets. (Note: in Århus, you buy the tickets in the back of the bus at a little automatic ticket booth. Think of it as a strange honors system. The bus drivers do not check the tickets. But there are special bus police that do, so you do have to watch yourself.)

Where was I? Tickets! Okay, so we bought tickets. Then the bus driver dropped us as close to our house as possible, not where there was a bus stop (the closest bus stop being farther away). What service!! We were impressed. We were soaked. We were having a ridiculously good time for people caught out in the rain with only a borrowed umbrella to protect us from pneumonia.

I think it was the excitement of purchasing a camper, eating a good meal with friends, drinking wine with friends, and that it was not that cold out which made it so much fun. The thunder and lightning didn't bother me a bit! I think if we hadn't had a loaf of fresh homemade rudbrød (SO YUMMY), a bag full of important papers, and the fancy camera we would have pulled a "Singing in the Rain."

Or at least I would have. I'm kind of a freak like that.

Conversation stoppers

When my younger brother was much younger than he is now, he had this really adorable habit of answering the phone, "Hello," and if it wasn't anyone he knew, setting the handset down on the counter and wandering away. I imagine this annoyed telemarketers and charities to no end.

I am always trying to be polite to these people, because we all need jobs and frankly, they are far better than car salesmen (apologies to readers who are, but the next time one of you slimy bastards oozes up to me and tries to sell me something with a sun roof when all I want is to know is the gas milage, I swear on a stack of Danish dictionaries someone is going to learn the definition of "smerte").

Anyway I had the following conversation yesterday:
Phone rings.
Archaeogoddess: "Hello?" (I never answer the phone with the proper Danish greeting, it just does NOT come out of my mouth until after "hello" and most of the time not even then.)
Danish woman: Garble garble garble garble garble....
AG: *interrupting* Oh, um, jeg kan taler lit dansk. ("Oh, um, I can speak little Danish.")
Danish woman: Oh. Kender du Fotex og Bilka? ("Do you know Fotex and Bilka?")
***Quick aside: Fotex and Bilka are Safeway and Walmart-ish stores***
AG: *slightly confused as to where this conversation is leading* Fotex and Bilka? (Interior monologue: crap, if she wants directions she's got another thing coming, I have NO idea where Bilka is other than NOT IN DOWNTOWN ÅRHUS.)
Danish woman: *switching to English in frustration* Did you get the advertisement (pronounced the British way: ad-VERT-is-ment) for Fotex and Bilka this week?
AG: (Interior monologue: why did you lose yours? Is there some sort of mysterious shortage of Fotex and Bilka flyers?) *still confused* I don't know.
Danish woman: *detectable note of rising frustration* You don't KNOW?
AG: *happily, because I am finally able to add something intelligent to the conversation* No, when I get ads I just throw them all away!
Danish woman: *quickly realizing this is a lost cause* Oh, never mind then, thank you! *hangs up*

My husband points out that we have a "no, thank you" on our mailbox so we don't get those ads. The ads I'm throwing away every week are those that come through the mail and are in the newspaper. Don't ask me how we can request that we don't receive ads and then still get ads anyway, I'm a stranger here myself. (And please don't explain to me why this happens in the comment section, this mystery of Danish commercialism is filed under "don't really care.")

Other conversations of note:

After a long day, following a previous night of restless and intermittent sleep, my husband and I, exhausted and quite out of our heads, retired to the bed. As one does, I put my head on his chest.
Danish Boy: Your head is really heavy.
AG: That's because it's full of smarts. *Moves head* You know, a head only weighs 8 pounds, the same as a baby. I'm just trying to toughen you up for when we have one.
***Quick aside: Before you all get excited - NO, I am NOT pregnant and NO we are not trying, so stop bouncing in your seat and waving your hands about excitedly.***
DB: Yes, but a baby is all spread out and not round like a ball.
AG: My head is not round like a ball.
DB: Okay, like a cheese then.

Normally, I do not mock my husband's accent and normally I do not correct his pronunciation as long as it is close enough to be understood. This is because 1) I think it's rude to correct pronunciation if it's just slightly off and 2) I really HATE it when people do it to me. However, it seems I need to work with him on a few small things, like the letter V.
DB: I had some nice people in the cab today.
AG: Oh?
DB: Two women and a little boy. The women were originally from Africa, but now one lives in New York, wore western dress and spoke English, and the other one spoke beautiful Danish and wore a whale.

***These conversations have been approved for posting by my husband, who is beginning to have dreams of me becoming a world famous blogger who will be able to support us both with my cunning wit and mad typing skills.***

Marriage: a year later

Here's something I didn't expect: to be called by all and sundry to be wished a happy anniversary.

Not that I'm complaining, no one called before noon and the fact that we were still sound asleep when people did call, because my Dane worked the night shift at the taxi, is no one's fault but my own for forgetting to turn off the phone.

But how was I to know that people call and wish you a happy anniversary? We don't do that where I come from. Well, at least not in my family.

****UPDATE: My family did call to wish me a happy anniversary. Good heavens! I guess this is something one is supposed to do!! I now feel incredible guilt for not contacting friends and family to wish them happy anniversaries. To all of you out there who have an anniversary to celebrate, no matter what it is or when: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!****

---

The Dane is working taxi today, but has called and informed me that he's gotten us a table at my favorite Mexican restaurant, because he knows me and my stomach.

That's love.

I imagine that had we more money, he'd be taking me somewhere fancy, but we are currently holding back on spending because we are finally taking a honeymoon.

Sorta.

Is it a honeymoon when one person gets to go see a bunch of archaeological sites that interest her and the other person is along for the ride? I'm not sure. But the Dane has indicated that we should take this extended weekend vacation because we have yet to honeymoon.... so I'm thinking this may count as it.

Does that mean I should buy something sexy?? Not that he'd care, particularly. This is the man who can't figure out why I bother to shave as it is time consuming and sometimes bloody and he doesn't mind either way.

But back to the "honeymoon." We have a wedding to attend in the UK. Cambridge, no less. Yes, I move in exalted circles. Or know too many academics. And I may have mentioned before my Anglophilic tendencies. My one regret in life is that I never went to school in England. (Really, is that all I regret? Yeah, cause if I'd gone when I wanted to go I would have saved myself much heart ache and stress... but then I wouldn't be married to this lovely man.... but then I wouldn't have to be learning to speak Danish.... but then.... screw it, no regrets! I regret NOTHING!! You hear me?? NOTHING!!)

Lost my train of thought... Speaking of which, have I told you the story of the time I was on a train in England and it got lost?? Yeah, totally went down the wrong track at a switch and instead of going to Birmingham we went to Shrewsbury. (Great set of mystery novels set in medieval Shrewsbury. Brother Cadfael. Played by the delightful Sir Derek Jacobi, who was a GENIUS in "I, Claudius" and possibly the reason I decided to go into Roman archaeology.) Had I not be completely confounded by this change of events I might have wandered off to have a look at the cathedral, but I was trying to get to Wales that day. Got there eventually. But, seriously, who heard of a train getting lost??

So my darling husband, who knows that I have this small obsession, suggested we take a few days and go see some things in England that I may have always wanted to see.

Does he have any idea how many things I want to see? Yes, he does. Now. Poor thing.

He started it! He asked me if I could go to England for a week, with a car, what would I like to see? I said: Roman stuff.

Now, in a week, I suppose I could go from Dover to Hadrian's Wall, but that sounded a little intense. And there are LOADS of Roman remains spread all over England. So I opted for Roman England - South. Or as it is entitled on my itinerary: From Canterbury to Cambridge.

We'll be seeing:

• The Canterbury Roman Museum
• Canterbury Cathedral and Canterbury itself
• Dover Castle/Roman lighthouse
• Dover Roman Painted House
• Pevensey Roman Fort/Castle
• Brighton (hear they have fantastic fish and chip shops)
• Bignor Roman Villa
• Fishbourne Roman Villa
• Cissbury and Chanctonbury rings and the South Downs
• Old Sarum/Salisbury
• StonehengeandAvebury
• Bath
• Chedworth Roman Villa
• Cirencester aka Roman Corinium
• The Cotswolds
• Cambridge

It's actually a combination of Iron Age and Roman and Medieval sites, heavy British history pre-Tudors. (Sorry Laura, I am not going to any Tudor castles. Maybe some other time.)

I'm thrilled to bits and ever so excited. My passport has returned with new name and snazzy photo. Of course, now my name on my passport does not match the one on my license, so I hope they'll let me drive the car anyway. They might not on principle, I am a little too eager to get behind the wheel on the wrong side of the road!

So there it is. I've been married for a year and THIS time I don't need heavy medication or therapy. I'm going out for Mexican food tonight and I'm off to look at old piles of rock and eat mountains of fish and chips in a week! Best of all, I'm married to a man who finds all of this not only acceptable, but enjoyable and encourages my habit.