Visa Roulette

I find myself sinking further and further into “I hate this fucking country”-mode, which can only mean one thing:

TIME TO EXTEND MY RESIDENCY VISA!!

Whoot.  Whoot.  Joy.

I follow changes in immigration law like other people follow sports teams.  Currently the laws are like the underdog.  You cheer when they suck less and you keep hoping that they’ll get better, even though in your heart of hearts, you know they never will. 

Expats love to compare immigration policies.  People who have brought spouses to the US claim that the US wins for ass-suckery.  They point out that you get questioned in private matters and that many of the questions are outright offensive.

For future reference, American INS: My husband and I don’t have sex nearly enough and I am more than happy to deliver my husband and child over for you for paternity testing because, yes, I am THAT confident that my husband is the father of my child.

But whereas the US INS only ass rapes you the once (and it’s a good buggering, let’s be honest), Denmark likes to do it again and again.  And every year they learn of a new way to fuck you.  Denmark is proud of this.  The people (and I use the term loosely) that work in immigration like to point out how few visa applications there are and how few of those are granted, as if the goal for the country is to stop people from coming all together.

Shhhh, don’t tell anyone, but the goal is to stop people from coming to Denmark all together.

Anyway, after a bit of a hullabaloo about Danish citizens being unable to bring their spouses to Denmark just because they happen to not be EU citizens (the EU rules make it impossible for Denmark to keep EU residents from entering DK, possibly another reason DK would like out of the EU), these laws were relaxed.  Not completely repealed, but relaxed.  The Department of Integration was liquidated.  Now the blame for any immigration shenanigans can be passed from department to department.  By the time you figure out whom is behind any shitty rule, the author has been promoted to a different ministry.  (Finger pointing is a Danish pastime.)  Sure, it is now possible to bring your non-EU spouse to DK.  But Denmark is going out of its way to make sure they don’t stay permanently.

Here are the rules as they stand right now:

The rules that really get my goat? 

1) The working for 2.5 out of 3 years and currently being employed at the time of application (and granting of the permit).  Why is that a problem?  Where I live, most of the Danes don’t have full-time employment.  So I would need to move somewhere where I there’s the possibility of getting a job.  Which means that my husband would have to try to get another job.  Can I just tell you that now is not a good time to be looking for a job in journalism?  Even if you are a Dane?  As an archaeologist, I’m not going to find full-time employment for 2.5 years in a 10-year period.  So I guess a new career is in order.  I’m limited in my degree choices by my Danish language scores.  And I need to take a degree in something that will result in steady, full-time employment.  I’ve got an idea for that - but we’re looking at +3 years of education before entering the job market… so I might be able to apply for permanent residency in 7 years if I’m lucky. *

A lot of expats applaud this law, especially if they are gainfully employed.  This is kind of like how healthy people in the US don’t like socialized medicine, it’s easy to judge the people who lack the right cards when you have a full deck. 

Of course it’s my own fault I don’t have a full time job!  I should have majored in engineering or become a doctor because OBVIOUSLY I was going to meet a Dane and fall in love with him and decide to immigrate and I should have realized 15 years ago that the Danish government would change the immigration laws after I first applied for residency in 2008 and planned accordingly!!  And I certainly have no right to complain now, because I should have instructed my husband NOT to take the only job that he was offered because it required us to relocate out of the big city and be tied to one location when obviously he should have continued to work as a taxi driver so that we could move to wherever I might some day get a full-time job (that I would have already gotten if I had just made better career choices before I met my husband and if I’d just been better at learning languages).

Of course Denmark doesn’t mean to catch little ol’ WASP me in its big bad net.  It’s meant to prevent all those other immigrants who come over here to milk the system. But who exactly are these other immigrants?  ‘Cause I know when you (the uniformed masses, not you the reader, because obviously I don’t mean you the reader, you are the exception to the rule okay?) say other immigrants what you mean is “Somali” and “Iraqi” and “Afghani” and you do realize that they are here as asylum seekers (or my favorite phrase “quota refugees,” ‘cause Denmark doesn’t want them, but you know, the EU makes them take these damn refugees) and not here on a family-reunification visa? So, all those other other immigrants who married Danish citizens, then? 

2) Active Citizenship.  Seriously??  I need to be on the board or an “active member,” whatever that means, of an organization for a year?  Do you require this of native Danes?  No??  The only Dane I know who is involved in an organization is my husband, who also happens to be the head of the housing association where we own an apartment.  I’m pretty sure that having him appoint me to the board is nepotism.  I’m involved in a mother’s group and the local theater group, neither of which has “articles of association” that need to be documented.  Well, I’ll be sure to quit doing things that interest me and bring me into contact with Danes that I have things in common with and start volunteering at the Red Cross with the blue-aired brigade.   I’m sure that with a full-time job, I’ll have tons of time to be an active member!

3) It’s going to cost my Danish citizen husband 2,880 DKK ($483.16) to apply.  That’s just to apply.  If I’m denied, no refund.  If I get through, we get to do this again in a year or two or maybe, if I’m really lucky, three years.  Because the taxes that he pays are for Danish citizens who DIDN’T marry foreigners (excepting the royal family, who are free to marry any damn foreigner they want), so Danish spouses wanting to keep their dirty foreign wives had better be prepared to pay for that privilege. 

4) Biometric cards.  I have to present myself at either the center for immigration or one of a few selected police stations to be photographed and fingerprinted.  For my special identity card.  I didn’t have to be biometricked (new word, Webster!) for my driver’s license or for my Danish social security card.  But you know how us Family Reunification immigrants are, always stealing shit and leaving fingerprints…

Now I’ve been one to counsel patience for this government.  I know government moves slowly and in Denmark, where nothing happens unless there is a consensus, getting 89 Danes to agree to anything is a miracle (that’s a basic majority in the Parliament).   But I’m feeling a bit hoodwinked.  Sure, they softened the requirements to get the temporary residency visa for family reunification (I mentioned this above, it was a moment we all cheered that our team sucked a little less this year).  But then they stopped.  And added the biometric cards.  Yes, this government added the biometric card.  In May.  (If you have applied for extension but not gotten it before May 20^th, you will have to go be biometricked.  This ends your public service announcement.)  Instead of continuing with immigration reform, they’ve hammered out a tax reform that no one likes, forgotten that the last government’s border wars were still ongoing and that the EU Parliament is quite upset with Denmark.  (In case you haven’t been following, Denmark used the it’s presidency [which revolves between member states every 6 months] to change the EU laws so that it can do whatever it damn well wants without EU approval.)   

So there you have it.  Denmark is a pot of water heating up on the stove and we are the frogs, slowly being boiled to death.  It’s still currently more difficult and expensive to move elsewhere, but only just.

*Note: there’s been some talk of allowing education to count towards employment, but the rule still stands for “regular” family-reunification visa holders. 

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 less than stellar idea

I was just out trying to garden.

I've been trying all "summer" (in Denmark, summer is what happens to other countries because sun and warm, dry weather sure as HELL don't happen here) to take part in garden management, because

a) it's good for a person to get outside and I actually like being outside
b) the DB doesn't have time to do it all himself and hates using any tool smaller than an ax
c) I harbor dreams of being one of those women with a large straw hat, humming contentedly while tending my vegetables

But I've been done in by the weather.  And Danish homework.  And an ill child.

Finally, the planets aligned.  I finished Danish.  The child recovered.  The weather turned not-thunder-and-lighting.  In fact, it turned lovely and warm.  They say today is summer.  Not today-is-the-first-day-of-summer but today-is-the-only-summer-day-we-expect-to-have-this-year-go-enjoy-it.

Only it also happens to be the height of the grass season.

I have allergies.  No surprises there.  But this is the first year I've really paid attention to what's specifically blooming during my bad patches.  Sure, I could go in and get another scratch test, but since I don't like to voluntarily subject myself to torture and I know I have allergies already, it seems like a waste of time.

AG at the Allergist
AG: I have allergies.
The Allergist: Let me test you.
AG: Really I have allergies.
TA: Well, let's just see about tha- HOLY SHIT YOUR ARM SWELLED TO THREE TIMES NORMAL SIZE!
AG: I *told* you I have allergies.
TA: Don't scratch.
AG: Then give me cortisone, motherfucker.
TA: Let me prescribe you this ridiculous drug that I'm paid by the pharmaceutical companies to promote.
AG: That drug doesn't work.  I have tried it.  I have also tried these other drugs that I see advertised on your wall.
TA: Don't be silly, it will cost you $2 a pill and you have to take it twice a day, but with your health care coverage, you should be able to use it for two months before running out of your alloted medical co-pay amount.
AG: It won't work, I'll still be miserable.  If I take this generic over-the-counter drug, I'll be fine and it's cheaper.
TA: Nonsense, you are allergic to a long list of things, some of which don't even grow near you, but I tested you for anyway.  You're welcome, by the way.  Obviously, you are dying.  Here is a pamphlet on all the expensive equipment you must buy in order to lead a normal life.  This mask, for example, not only will make it so you can breathe in your own home, but also will let you look like Darth Vader.
AG: Um, it's not really all that bad except during certain times of the year.
TA: You must under no circumstances be out of doors.  Nature is trying to kill you.  Also, you can't be indoors, because mold and spores thrive there.  You should wear natural-fiber clothing because people like you tend to be sensitive to chemicals and you should under no circumstances wear any natural-fiber clothing because you will be allergic to it.
AG: So I need to be naked all the time and live in a bubble?
TA: Yes, and get one with a very expensive HEPA-filter breathing system.  Here's the pamphlet for it, it's sold by another major pharmaceutical company who gives me kickbacks.

Shockingly, I have NO food allergies.

Anyway, I noticed this year that while others were complaining about their allergies, I was doing okay. "Argh," said one friend, "birch season is killing me!"  Odd, thought I, I'm not having any problems.  Maybe I'm getting better.

HA!

I was hit hard last week.  Like a small steam engine crashing into my brain-pan.  Sinus pain, liquid leaking from every hole in my head, small leprechauns up my nose with feathers... misery.

So I went looking for the pollen counts.  And discovered that it was grass season.  Now since every allergist I've ever been to has told me that I'm allergic to everything, I knew I was allergic to grass.  When the DB was shopping for a lawn-mower, I told him that he had to get one with a bag on the back to collect the grass clippings because I have allergies and grass clippings are my kryptonite.  Also, he has to leave his post-mowing clothing somewhere else than the house and take a shower, because I will otherwise sneeze in his food.  But I couldn't have told you when grass season was.  Grass has a season?

Yes, grass has a season.  During June and into July it germinates.  And if you start pulling it out of your flower beds, the seeds or spores or whatever it's called leaps joyfully into the air and covers EVERYTHING.  Twenty minutes is all it took out in the garden, trying to get the grass out from my wild-strawberry patches.  After twenty minutes my eyes were swollen and I was dripping snot out of my nose.

I've retreated to the house, taken MORE medicine, and studied the pollen calendar.  I'm screwed for another four weeks at least.  Doubly so, because with the weather being so bad lately, I've got to throw the doors and windows open to try to air-out and dry-out the house.  All that lovely grass pollen is going to come in and take up residence.

So here is my "note to self": garden in May.  In the rain if you have to.  Garden in thunderstorms and heavy wind.  Remove the grass before it starts to seed.  Because in June you will not want to be wading through it to get to your strawberries or your roses.

Alot in the car

Today is Wednesday (YOU'RE WELCOME).  Wednesdays are my Now-I-Can-Catch-Up-On-Game-Of-Thrones days only we've reached the end of the season so WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NOW??

I suppose I could do the dishes, but how lame is that?

Anyway, the best part about Wednesday is that I don't have to get up early, I don't have to change out of my pajamas, and all I have to do is wrangle the Spawn until she and her father trip merrily off to day-care and work, respectively.  That's respectively, not respectably, because sometimes my child is dressed from head-to-toe in cotton-candy pink because beggars can't be choosers but we sure as hell can be embarrassed.  

And that's what Spawn and I were doing when the Danish Boy went out to the car to make sure that everything that needed to be in the car was in fact IN the car.  

He quickly returned, very distraught.

Alot had been in the car all night.  He'd gotten in yesterday and although this is a common occurrence, as the cat adores the car, the DB had completely forgotten to check before closing up the car.  

You'd think we would have noticed that the cat hadn't been around that evening, but the weather was fairly good and sometimes he's just busy doing whatever it is cats do, so it's not that unusual for him not to be in the house in the evening.

But there he was, frantically pawing at the window when the DB went out this morning.  And yes, twelve hours in a car was too long of a wait, so he'd left us a present.  In the brand-new car seat.

Oh was the DB pissed.  Not at the cat, but at himself for not checking the car.  "The new car seat!  That we just bought!  Oh, gauraghhhhh!"

I was a bit more pragmatic.  "Solid or runny?" I asked.  I happen to be the resident poop expert, not just because I am The Mommy and therefore have a high degree of exposure, but also because I have a great deal of experience with animals and their feces, I've worked in a pet store and a children's "zoo."  I found a book on animal tracks in the in-laws summer home and avidly read the section on poop.  Only the pictures were in black and white and lacked a scale so HOW DOES THAT HELP ANYONE IDENTIFY ANYTHING, I'D LIKE TO KNOW!?  So, yeah, me and poop?  No problem.  

Vomit, on the other hand.  Can't stand vomit.

"Solid," said the DB.  "Do you think he peed?"

At this point if you are reading this and thinking "oh my god, this entire post is about the bodily functions of her cat" you'd be right and you can totally stop reading now if you want.  "But hey," I'm betting you'll rationalize to yourself, "I got this far and I just want to know how it ends.  Not that I'm one of those weird people who like to read about defecating animals, I just want to know if they have to go buy a new car seat, or a new car."  

Keep telling yourself that, poop-lover.  

Anyone who's owned a cat knows, you KNOW when your cat has peed.  So I asked, "Does it smell of pee?"

"No."

"Then he didn't.  You would know if he had."

But of course the DB wasn't convinced, so he brought the seat in for me to smell, after he'd de-pooped it and sprayed all-purpose cleaner on it.  And with my allergies running high at the moment, it was a miracle I could breathe, let alone smell, but okay, whatever, I'll lean over while holding a wriggling child and sniff.

"I don't think he peed.  But use the old car seat and we'll wash the cover, it'll be fine."  

This did not mollify the DB.  He was beside himself with loathing.  If he was any more distraught over the event, he'd be a Brontë heroine.  As it was, he stomped around and slammed doors and sighed loudly and pointedly.

"Don't worry about cleaning it," he declared magnanimously.  "I'll do that when I get home."

Yeah, because what I want is to leave a stinky car seat next to the clean laundry for eight hours.  "It's no problem," I said.

"But, well, it's the washing machine..." his anguish was palpable.  I'm not to play with the washing machine.  Bad things happen.  Like clothing getting washed at the wrong temperature, spun at too high a speed, or other unbelievably horrible sins.  It's not that I've once dyed my socks pink, ONCE mind you, it's that I wash darks at 30, colors at 40, and whites at 60 (all temperatures in Celsius), irrespective of their instructions.  The Horror.  Never mind that because I've played with the machine, I know more about the various settings (he only recently discovered that you can tell the machine that you've got chocolate stains that need removing), I might decide to skip the pre-wash or something!

"Fine.  Whatever."  And after he left, I stripped the car seat, put the cover in the washing machine but no, I didn't turn it on, it's happily waiting to be washed, and then carefully cleaned the foam padding.  I've looked up the washing instructions and have set them out for his approval.  Then I fed the cat, who's looking a bit betrayed, but is otherwise fine.

Then the cat promptly jumped into the closet, because being trapped in one confined space in the last 24 hours wasn't enough.  If he poops on my sweaters, I may just skin him and use him for slippers.

I can't see you... go away!

Who needs the big bad wolf?

The wind!  DA WIIIIIINNNNNND!  I may be the third little pig, all snug in my brick house, but seriously, I'm starting to wonder if another good gust might just pick me up and deliver me to Oz.

Although, if it's warm in Munchkinland SIGN ME UP!  I had to go digging for some woolen socks this morning.  Woolen socks!  It's JUNE for crying out loud!

I dressed my daughter in fleece and wondered if I should have given her tights as an added layer under her pants.  Not that she cares.  She's just figured out where the local playground is and she'll be damned if she stays inside with me and her buttloads of toys.  Wind, rain, cold?  Bah, these are but concerns of the parental units!  Come, the slide awaits!

I have two tomato plants that really need to be potted in a planter if they are ever going to grow.  I even have picked out which of my planters I'm going to de-weed in order to use, only it's right in the maelstrom that is my back patio and at the moment the wind is doing my weeding for me.  My little tomato plants will be naked if i try to put them out there!  I'LL be naked if I try to go out there!

I'm wondering if we'll lose another glass pane in our greenhouse.  I'd like to put the planter and the tomatoes out there, but not if it means being killed by flying shards of glass.

Most of the birds have decided to stay in today.  Every now and again a small black shape goes tumbling past the window and I know a blackbird has foolishly tried to catch lunch.  A seagull just went by... backwards.

I can't be sure, it could just be my over-active imagination, but I think the lamps upstairs are swaying.  Just slightly.  It could be a breeze, forcing it's way into the house through a crack or improperly sealed joint.  Or you know, it could be because the whole roof is swaying.

Once again I have to put aside the summer recipes I've been hoping to make and come up with something cozy and stodgy to keep us warm.  I dream of salads and ice cream, of iced coffee and mint juleps.  I watched a program about barbeque the other day and almost cried.  We got three days of summer over the weekend.  I wore shorts.  And then it was gone!  GONE!!

[in a hoarse whisper] GONE WITH THE WIND!

Danish is going to kill me

So I’ve taken the first half of my Danish exam; the half that covers reading and writing.  I won’t know my grade for a few weeks, but I’m fairly sure I passed.  Probably not with top marks, however. There were problems.  Like, I forgot to put the location and date at the top right hand corner of my “email.”  (In quotes because it was an imaginary email sent to an imaginary foreign friend.)

This will cost me points and while I don’t particularly care about getting a high grade, all I want is to pass, it does cheese me off that a stupid error like this will be marked down.  Because putting the location and date at the top right hand corner of an email is THE STUPIDEST FREAKING RULE ON THE GODDAMNED PLANET!

First of all, NO ONE DOES THIS. 

NOT EVEN DANES.

I went back through buttloads of emails I’ve gotten from Danes, official ones, informal ones, company emails, doctor emails, immigration emails, and not one, NOT ONE, has the following:

København den 25. maj 2012

Kære [name],

Blåh blåh blåh

You get the picture. 

The reason for this is because it’s THE STUPIDEST FREAKING RULE ON THE GODDAMNED PLANET!  Emails are time and date stamped!  You don’t need to write the date in the text because I already know that!  It appeared in my email box with a little tag telling me what day it came!

Secondly, I don’t freaking care where you were when you sent that email!  When the lovely people in my computer store wrote to tell me that my Mac had been shipped from China (we’re talking about an event many years ago), I didn’t care if they were sitting in Copenhagen, San Francisco, or Shanghai.  They gave me the tracking number and an arrival date and really, that’s all I wanted. 

Thirdly, do you have any idea of the time and effort it takes to get one line in an email to align to the right hand side of the page? Yeah, you say, you just have to include “rich text” and hit some buttons and VOILA!  But it’s an email!  You’ve got it set up to include an automatic signature because you are too damn lazy to type your name (and contact information if you are an official person or like to pretend to be one).  My father-in-law wanted help getting his email signature set up so he didn’t have to type “Kind regards, XXXX” every time he sent friends and family an email.  And yet I’m supposed to write information that no one gives a shit about or already is included elsewhere in the email WITH SPECIAL FORMATTING or you will take points away???

That’s BULLSHIT.

Whatever.  I’m going to lose more points because of all the terrible errors I’m sure I made when writing my essay. “Write simply,” advised my teacher.  “Don’t try to write at a high level, keep it to what you know you can say.”  This is all very well and good until I’m facing the clock and an essay question.  Years of academic training mean that when I’m in test mode, I can only operate as I have been trained.  There will be an opening paragraph that ends with a thesis statement.  There will be paragraphs that back up this statement, using personal experience, scientific experience, and historical experience, if I have time.  I will include and discuss whatever various points you tell me to include and discuss.  I will write a concluding paragraph in which I restate the thesis in a different way that points to the evidence I have outlined above.  I will do all of this in the time provided and leave myself 15 minutes to check for errors.

In English, I can whip out a well-reasoned essay of varying length and complexity in a very short time.  I can type almost without pause.  Doing it in Danish is a bit harder.  Part of my brain composes in English and another part translates into Danish.  Great, right?  Uh, no, not really, because Danish grammar is close but not quite the same as English grammar, and sometimes it is violently different.  The position of adverbs, for example, change based on whether or not you are in a subordinate clause or a main clause, whether you have begun the sentence (or clause) with the adverb or a question word or a conjunction or a verb, and whether or not you intend on emphasizing the subject or the verb. 

To write simply, I would need to stop writing sentences JUST LIKE THIS ONE, and instead make sure my clauses were arranged in descending order.

Alas, this turns out to be impossible to do in the allotted time. 

As for the reading portion, I thought that I’d done fairly well.  After all, reading is my strongest skill and I can breeze through a newspaper and get the gist of the stories (except for opinion pieces and editorials, which often use more complex grammar and vocabulary, in any language - check out your newspaper at home and you’ll see the difference immediately).  BUT THEN, the next day, my phone rang a little after 10.  Italics=Danish.

AG: Hej.

S: Hej.  Did you forget that we had a mother’s group today?

AG: No.  You cancelled it.  You sent me a text.  You have work today.

S: No, I have to work later today.  I wrote that I’d have to end it early. “Afslutter” not “annuller.”

AG: Balls.

So yeah, I can read a text on noise pollution and find within that text three examples of things you can do to reduce the impact on your ears, but I can’t understand a simple text message that relates to my daily life.

face/palm

A Day Out With the Family

I really wish this post had photos, but we didn’t bring a camera.  Why should we, we only all decided to go to the recycling center because we were really hoping the Spawn would take a hint and TAKE A FREAKING NAP ALREADY, WHAT ARE YOU TEETHING OR SOMETHING???

And on the way home, having gone to the supermarket (maybe if we just drive a bit farther…), the DB mentioned that the hardware store was having an open house and would we like to stop by?  There’d be beer.

Would I?!  I’d only be more excited if he’d told me that there was a certain Swedish mega-store opening up down the road and they were giving away free kitchen gadgets to American archaeologists!  AND THERE WOULD BE BEER???  WHY DID THIS NOT GET MENTIONED UNTIL NOW?

See, the not-so-secret is, I love hardware stores.  Home Rhymes-with-Meepo?  I’d live there.  If you could graft Home Can-those-tiles-I-keepo onto an I-Swedish-home-store, I’d never leave.  Home Deliver-me-from-Repo lets me fantasize that I can Do It Yourself and then an I-can’t-pronounce-this-style-but-I-wants-it-store makes it a reality, one little hexagonal-headed L-shaped screwdriver thingy at a time.

I think it might be the smell of steel nails.  Or the 101 types of sealant.  Or hearing the following exchange:

Big Redneck Dude to Sales Clerk: I need caulk.

SC: What sort of caulk, sir?

BRD: Hard wood.

SC: Hard wood caulk?

BRD: I need something to fill my holes.

SC: Here, I think you’ll find this caulk will fit your needs.  But you’ll need a more pliable caulk if you have a bigger hole.

Okay, I haven’t actually *heard* that exchange, but I’m sure if I could just hang around "Tiles and Flooring" long enough I would.  I live in anticipation.

I’m also a big fan of small town hardware stores.  The one in my hometown was fantastic.  It’s gone now, but it used to be housed in the old assayers office.  Yes, assayer.  It’s a Gold Rush town; we had mines, miners, and assayers.  In fact, now that one of the mines re-opened, it’s an assayers office once again.  It’s like the circle of life.  Ore not.

Get it, ORE not?  Maybe I should have been more dead-PAN, eh?

Anyway, being the former… uh, and is again, assayers office, it was built with solid stone walls and the windows had solid iron shutters.  The floor was a patchwork of thick wooden planks that had been worn down by the feet of numerous fortune seekers. As a hardware store, it held large bins of loose nails and screws.  There was gold-panning equipment and paint.  I’d go in there during the summer with my dad, who would need a hammer or other odd tool.  No matter how hot it was outside, it was always much cooler inside.  You’d step through the doors and leave the heat behind; I’d always get goose bumps from the sudden drop in temperature.  And there was the overwhelming odor of nails and oil, with a slight hint of pine from the two-by-fours stacked out back.  You would buy nails by the weight, so there was a large scale that I’d use to weigh various odds and ends while my father chatted with the shop clerk.  To this day, the smell of nails makes me think of summer.

The local hardware store here isn’t quite the same.  It’s more modern with clean white walls and cement floor, but it does have the same smells and it has something the old hardware store didn’t: power tools.

Jigsaws, be still my heart! 

This being Denmark, where if you can’t do it slightly buzzed on beer, why bother to do it at all, the free beer was flowing and men in blue boiler suits and garden clogs stood around and chatted.  There was a treasure hunt, which invited the participants to go ahead and wander through all the back rooms and workspaces.  People took tractors for test-drives (I didn’t, alas) and the Spawn sat on one of the riding lawnmowers and said “Vvvvvvv!” while violently turning the wheel.  The DB got a slightly crazed look on his face and I had to remind him that she can’t mow the lawn until her feet can touch the pedals. 

All in all, it was a fantastic afternoon.  And on the way home, the Spawn fell into a nice deep sleep.  Happy days, my friends, happy days.

The Guilt, I Has It. Also, I Has Two Days of Rest a Week.

I always over-think things.  I know I do.  Every single one of the good decisions I’ve made in my life was made spontaneously, from the heart.  Usually followed by a good amount of supportive data collected after the fact, but always first proposed in an “OMG I’VE GOT IT!  I’M GOING TO [insert crazy thing here]!”  And if I try hard to make a good conscious decision, thinking and weighing the consequences, I’m likely going to make the wrong decision.  My past regrets are always ending with “well, it made sense at the time.” 

Sure, there are decisions that were made that made sense at the time that did not turn out to be bad.  This epitomizes that logical saying, “all trees are green things but not all green things are trees.” 

But because I over-think things, I then go back over the decisions that I made that I deemed “made sense at the time” to make sure that they still make sense and that they weren’t one of those bad decisions, because I know that I didn’t make it spontaneously so it could mean, in fact, that it was a bad decision but sometimes they aren’t bad, so which one is this, a bad decision or a good decision and oh, my god, someone hand me a drink ‘cause my head hurts.

If that last sentence made sense to you, you should have a drink too.

So what am I over-thinking these days?  Well, I put my child in childcare at 9 months of age. I could take a year off of school, but I wanted to go back before I forgot everything and when I went on maternity leave I was only a few months from finishing.  So I went back when Spawn was 6 months old and the Danish Boy took his three months of paternity leave to watch her.  But after three months, I wasn’t done with Danish, so once again I had to cross off another “when I have a child, I’ll never X” on my list. 

She’s in a private daycare, with one woman and a total of 5 children (including mine, the only baby), not one of those massive institutions that they have in DK, which may have a better ration of adults to children, but where the adults are often spending time with the other adults or focusing on one child exclusively because they assume the other adults are watching the other kids.  I get some flack for this, not just from Danes, but from other foreigners who say “oh, that’s a lot of children for one adult” but I feel far more comfortable watching our daycare minder keep tabs on her charges than when I see the ten children running wild at the large daycare while three adults sit on a bench chatting away with each other.

We originally chose our daycare minder because of location, but then when we met her, it just felt right.  And it always feels right when I drop the Spawn off (she tends to tear away from me and dive head-first into one of the toy boxes) and when I pick her up (she’s always glad to see me, but she’s never in a hurry to leave).  To this day, I’ve never once had to unwrap a crying child from my neck when we get to daycare.  The DB once remarked on this to a colleague, who suggested that it was because OBVIOUSLY we are such awful parents that our child must be glad to get away.  I told the DB that it would totally have been justifiable homicide, but he prefers to think that that not cutting the bitch is evidence of his highly evolved nature.  As an American, I am by default not as evolved… so she best sharpen her “It was just a joke, don’t you get Danish humor?” defense because I am sharpening my knives.

But why the guilt?

On Wednesday and on Friday, I don’t have class.  And on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, I am out of class at 1:30.  And I don’t go get the Spawn from daycare.  I leave her there, until 4:30, every day.

At first it was because she naps in the afternoon, so getting her at 1:30 was interrupting her nap.  We did that the first week she was there and it SUCKED.  Then there was the problem that her schedule was all out of whack.  She only went three times a week, so establishing a routine was impossible.  See, it totally makes sense.  *Sound alarm bells!*

The truth is, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I really need non-baby time.  Yeah, time to do homework and housework, but also time to catch up on sleep and read and cuddle the cat.  *Open the big bag o’ guilt.*

It was only after I pulled a chest muscle and couldn’t lift the Spawn, which forced us to put her in daycare every day, all day, that I realized how much better it was for everyone.  Sure, I miss her bunches and I’m glad when she comes home.  But that’s just it - I actively look forward to seeing her!   After a long weekend, where I am the Spawn’s main companion (Dad and the cat are fun, but nobody beats the Mommy-lady), I’m exhausted.  Before I had the Spawn, I worried that I would be the kind of mom who just couldn’t wait to go back to work.  I discussed it with the Danish Boy, what would happen if I just really didn’t like being a mom?  What if I felt trapped or felt resentful?  So really, I like being a mom a hellufalot more than I thought.  But then the pendulum swings the other way.  Why can I not be the perfect mom who wants to stay home and nurture the child?  Some moms are forced to go back to work (cultural or economic reasons) and they would LOVE to be able to stay home or have more time with their child. 

So yeah, I’ve got some nice excuses: routine is good, she’s socializing, she’s getting her Danish lesson of the day, blah blah blah.  The truth is I cannot parent full-time.  In order to have that boundless patience, to be able to interact completely, to be able to read the Barnyard Animal book one more freaking time, I need to be able to sit in my pajamas until 3 in the afternoon twice a week.

One Year In

Okay, actually it’s 13 months because I had weeks of catching up to do.

But there you have it.  One year (plus) of livin’ in the Mommy 'hood.  A year of burp-rags and poop-filled diapers.   A year of surprises.  And yes, sometimes poop is the surprise.

You know how there’s this whole joke about babies not coming with a manual?  LAME!  There are a gazillion books about pregnancy and birth and then everyone stands around and goes “boy, I really wish that they had a manual for babies!”  What the hell man!?  I spent half the year googling “is [insert behavior/strange physical manifestation] normal?” A book would have been really handy.

And there ARE books out there on childcare and development and all that other stuff that you might want to know about.  But no one ever gives those books to you.  No.  They gift you with a dozen books on pregnancy and then it’s up to you, in your sleep-deprived, manic-new-parent way to wonder how long does projectile spit-up last and when, exactly, should one begin to worry.

I went with the old stand-by: until there’s blood, there’s no problem.

I still really could have used a book, though.

Here are some things that I’ve learned over the year.  Some of which came as a surprise. 

1) Whatever annoying behavior your child has, he or she will soon grow out of it.  And develop an even MORE annoying behavior.

2) Poop is just gross.  It never gets any easier, in fact it gets worse, but you do get better at holding your breath. 

3) Why the hell did people keep going on and on about doing Kegels?  Push-ups, people, PUSH-UPS!  You can wear panty-liners or Depends, but if you have weak arm muscles, you are in for a world of pain when you have to hold that baby for a few hours.  And you WILL have to hold the baby for hours at a time. 

4) The reason that you lose so much weight while breast-feeding is not because your fat is magically transformed into milk.  No, it’s because you end up trapped on the couch, nursing, while your dinner goes cold and then is eaten by the cat.  You miss a lot of meals while breastfeeding. 

5) When you are pregnant, you always have to pee.  You get very good at holding it and being uncomfortable until you can get to a toilet.  This is good practice because you will always have to pee while breastfeeding and you’ll just have to hold it until the baby a) falls asleep and you can hand her off to someone b) decides he’s done eating and is ready to play.  Either of these scenarios can also end with you holding a sleeping baby or a baby who is determined to beat you senseless with a stuffed bear WHILE YOU PEE.

6) When I was little, I imagined what it would be like if I had no hands.  (Didn’t everybody?  No?)  I taught myself to write (badly) with my feet.  Just in case.  Turns out this was great training for parenting.  Almost everything can be done one handed.  This does NOT include putting on a watch.  Try as I might, I cannot put on my watch while holding my child.

7) At some point, you realize that you are missing too many meals and start making your child more food than they need, just so you can eat the leftovers.

7b) Baby food tastes better than I thought.

8) There is nothing better in the whole wide world than when your child wraps their chubby little arms around your neck and gives you a hug. 

9) The three-second rule* becomes the three-day rule and I’ve decided that cat food can’t possibly be that bad, it hasn’t killed the cat, so it shouldn’t kill the child either.

*Wherein you can eat food that you’ve dropped as long as it has been on the ground for less than three-seconds.  Not applicable in every situation. 

10) Every “when I’m a parent I’ll never…” promise has been broken.  If fact, I’ll guarantee that if you say, “When I’m a parent I’ll never…” you WILL.  It’s like the Murphy’s Law of parenting.  Better not to verbalize what you won’t do.   People who have kids WILL CONTINUE give this advice to people without children and those people WILL CONTINUE to say, “When I’m a parent I’ll never…” It’s a vicious cycle.  It will never end. 

11) Being a parent has not made me less selfish or a better person.  I’m just too tired to give a crap about looking pretty.   

12) Having a child is like wearing a huge sign saying, “Please make snap judgments about me based on the performance of a small, willful, cranky human being with impulse-control issues.”

13) I have discovered a vast reservoir of patience that I never knew I had.  Unfortunately, the husband and the cat cannot tap it.  Neither can the stupid old people who pull out right in front of me when I need to get somewhere and DON’T THEY KNOW THAT MY CHILD IS SCREAMING IN THE BACK SEAT??  DIE, YOU GREY HAIRED BIDDIES, DIE!

14) I do amazing impressions of dogs, cats, sheep, cows, roosters and pigs.  Geese, on the other hand.  Geese are impossible.

15) Everything is more important than shaving your legs.  However, you should trim your toenails because it’s faster and easier to do than darning socks.

16) So far the weirdest thing I’ve had to do as a parent is hold my girl’s hands and whisper encouraging words while she has a particularly difficult poop.  Constipation is a BITCH and I would stab it in the eye if I could.

16b) Prunes work wonders.  And now you’ve been warned.

17) Buttons on baby clothes are the work of the devil.  After a child reaches 6 months of age, no buttons should be in use until they learn how to sit still again… approximately age 18.  Also, after six months, Velcro is a dumb idea.  “Hey let’s put something that makes an interesting noise and is easy to use on this article of clothing!  We’ll put it here where it’s easy for the child to reach!  And we’ll put soft, fluffy, decorations all around it for the Velcro to also stick to!”  Who the hell designs this stuff anyway?

18) There comes a day when you realize that your child is smarter than your cat or dog.  Suddenly, you can no longer assume “out of sight, out of mind” and you have to remember that they have opposable thumbs.  The only safe place for your valuables is in a locked trunk at the bottom of the sea.  Until they learn to swim.  Which they will, clever little monkeys.

19) Develop the “ah, how interesting” face - slight smile, slight lift of the eyebrows, slight nod of the head.  Non-committal and non-confrontational.  You need it for Judgy McJudgersens and it will probably come in handy when your child reaches puberty.

20) I look forward to doing things and seeing things even more because the Spawn will be part of it.  It’s like the whole world has been made new again!  It's amazing and awesome.

Putting the War in Wardrobe

Why does the New Year have to begin on January 1^st?  I think we should move it to April 1^st, get rid of April Fool’s Day (a stupid non-holiday only enjoyed by lame child-like men who find other people’s discomfort or distress amusing) and let the new year begin with the arrival of spring!

I bet more resolutions would be kept.  February was created just to ruin people’s best intentions of bettering themselves.  Valentines Day wreaks diets.  The dreary monotony of the weather ruins everything else.

Anyway, while I’ve been fighting to overcome the flu and a secondary infection (fancy words for shit-full-of-snot), I finally went though my wardrobes.  Yes, wardrobes plural.

The Danish Boy complained that I’ve gone through more clothes than he could possibly comprehend in the years that I’ve known him.

I told him that he was an idiot.

There was the skinny-chick wardrobe (wardrobe 1), that I had when we met, because I was unhealthily skinny when we first started dating, for a wide variety of reasons.  (None of them being the obvious ones.  I didn’t have an eating disorder or a body image issue, I was just a poor student who was in a bad relationship and I’m a comfort reader, not a comfort eater.)  Almost immediately I put on weight, bumping me up to normal weight and requiring a new wardrobe.  So that was wardrobe 2.  That wardrobe lasted until I got pregnant, 7 YEARS LATER.  Maternity clothing was wardrobe 3.  A woman’s body is permanently changed after giving birth, she simply does not go back to the way she was shaped, so I needed more clothing and that would be wardrobe number 4.

I pointed out that there are women who buy a new wardrobe EVERY YEAR.  I don’t think he believes me.  We even watched “Sex and the City: The Movie” (it was on TV, don’t get all excited) and he was all “don’t be silly, it’s a movie, women like that don’t exist in real life.”

Is there anything more frustrating than a man who doesn’t know how lucky he is?  I should switch from an Oreo cookie dependency to Manolo Blahniks.  (Although, let’s be honest, if it was a choice of overpriced footwear or more Oreo cookies… I’d say, pour me another glass of milk, good sir!)

ANYWAY.

I pulled all my pre-pregnancy clothes out of storage and went through them.  Out with the too small, the horrifically ugly (alas, I sometimes make huge fashion errors of judgment), and the seldom worn.  Some people might ask, “why get rid of something that you haven’t worn frequently?  Why not wear it more often?” and I would answer, “Because if I’m not wearing it regularly, it’s probably because I don’t like it and life is too short and my closet too small to keep clothing that I don’t wear.”  This doesn’t mean I got rid of *all* rarely worn outfits.  Obviously my wedding dress remains.  Fancy clothing gets a pass because it is a rare event when I get a chance to gussy up, but I’m not going to buy a new party dress ever time I have a party to go to.  Out went clothing that might-fit-if-I-just-lost-a-few-pounds, because who needs that shit?

Of course, in order to find out what fit, it meant a lot of trying on clothing.

The only thing more awful than trying on clothing is trying on clothing that you KNOW is going to be too small.  And obviously my mirror hates me.  How is it right that 90% of my shirts were too short, so that the post-baby-muffin-top hangs out in THE MOST UNFLATTERING WAY?  Or they were too tight across the shoulders.  Heck, some of them were both.  I looked like a quarterback squeezed into a cheerleaders uniform.  And how come the Hulk can hulk out and still fit in his pants and I go and have one little baby and suddenly it’s like no amount of fabric can cover my ass?

Ugh.

The worst part is that I know what I used to look like in those clothes.  Cute.  Svelte.  Dare I say, sexy?  Okay a few of the tank tops bordered on “trashy” and I wouldn’t wear them now… but at least let me be able to get them over my head!!

I was able to salvage a number of shirts, a sweater, and a pair of pants.  I shockingly still fit in most of my shorts.  I now fit perfectly into my oversized dig clothing (*sob*).  But what is noticeable is how much of my clothing was purchased for a woman who had a flat tummy.  No muffin top.  “Clingy” and “fitted” were apparently my guidelines.  Solid colors, no decoration to draw the eye upward or distract from unwanted bulges (can you tell I’ve been studying “What Not To Wear”?), no delineation of a waistline (because I used to have a pretty obvious one, now, not so much).

It’s become apparent.  I need a new wardrobe.  One that says “yummy mummy.”  Will someone be so kind as to distract the Danish Boy while I go shopping?

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....

I Hate Vacations

Actually, that's not true.  Or rather, while it is to some extent true, it is only true for a given value of true or dependent on the variable Who.  Who is vacationing?

I hate when everyone is on vacation EXCEPT me.

There.  That's a whole lotta true right there.

First it was most of Denmark that was on vacation.  Winter holiday.  Schools are out, so parents who have children and who can (in that their bosses allow them to because their bosses are not also parents with a summer home in Turkey) go away.

For reasons that mystify, we toiling away in Danish class did NOT get holiday.

But my daycare minder did.

She deserved it, really.  Five kids and just her, and since she's a private daycare minder, she normally keeps working through other people's holidays.  So I'm really not going to begrudge her a week off.  And I would happily have stayed home with the Spawn for a week.  But no, I had to juggle school and baby.  I hate that.

Then came the Danish Boy's vacation time.

Once again I set myself up for failure, because once again I envisioned one reality in which he was on holiday and he envisioned a different one.  I see holidays as relaxing times where you get to be with the people you love.  He sees it as time to finally get things done that needed to get done but haven't been getting done because there was no time to get them done.

So last week as we were going over our schedule to make sure we knew where we were going and what we were doing (okay, so *I* could figure out where we were going and what we were doing because I never remember plans that were made six months ago or plans that have changed for the umpteenth time, look, just tell me where to be and I'll bring the baby, m'kay?), I remarked "boy, I'll be glad when all this vacation time is over and I can get back to relaxing" and the DB took it amiss.  Amiss?  No, he was downright pissy about it.  I tried to explain that really, what I meant was that we've been running all over the place and I was barely getting my homework done (and on a few notable occasions, didn't get it done at all) and I hadn't actually gotten to do any of the things I had wanted to get done.  This got me a "I thought you said you were sick of living in a pig sty!"

Yes, I *am* sick of unpacked boxes, piles of unfolded laundry, dishes everywhere, and overflowing recycling bins.  But, as I tried unsuccessfully to explain, my list of things I thought we could be doing did not include "hanging drapery" in the top ten.  I didn't think "oh, joy, the DB will be home - now he'll chop LOTS of wood for me!!"  And while I admit that "finally, someone to help me wash dishes" was in the top three spots, my main project was "spending time together as a family."

Ha.

Ha ha ha.

Hahahahahahahahhhhhhhh.

We did get to go on a walk, which did end in a picnic.  There, you happy, woman?  There was quality family time.  Now get the screwdriver.

And some curtains were hung and some wood was chopped and more wood was schlepped and family was visited (or came visiting) and some dishes were washed and some laundry was folded and the recycling was recycled and I baked a ridiculous amount of chocolate cake for the Spawn's birthday (for which no party was held, but people were still miffed that they weren't invited and other people invited themselves and the Spawn slept through her own non-party, because obviously I suck as a parent [actually, I think my parenting skills are top-notch, it's my hosting skills that are lacking]) and despite repeated vacuumings, the floor is still just as filthy as ever, not that you can tell because it's strewn STREWN with baby toys.

And now, weeks later, I am finally sitting on my own in the house.  Peace and quiet.  Just myself and Alot (who has been bringing semi-live mice into the house for his own fun and amusement.  When I tried to take one away he bit it in two [I luckily caught the back half on the dustpan, so no mouse-bowels landed on the floor] and after I had caught another under a pot, I had to fight off the cat while trying to scoop up the mouse [seriously, who's idea was it to give cats so many claws and teeth?] and the latest one got clean away and we have no idea where it is currently).

But what I'm really looking forward to is Friday, when I will get the WHOLE DAY OFF!!  Finally, a vacation for ME!!!

ZOMG, I think I'm going to pick up toys!!

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.