Monday Is For Making You Read Back Catalogue

Sometimes I forget that it's been less than a year. A year of life lived differently. I remember handing in my notice on October 2oth, and how I couldn't tell you about it but also could hardly breathe with excitement. And then I told you and you were brilliant about it, of course (thank you, all of you). I remember leaving the office just before Christmas, saying goodbye, a little surprised about how that goodbye turned out. And then, diving head first into the new way, the new me, the new everything, and feeling oh so good about it. Yes, it's been less than year. But what a less-than-a-year it's been. Thanks for being around for every twist and turn in the way. You are patient and kind.

Hello Friday

W is sick. I'm having dinner with my cousins. We're all really tired. Christmas starts on Sunday. Talk to you tomorrow? Thanks for stopping by.

Knitting

My dear friend Ebba called and we talked forever about the big things (crying at the office, epilepsy, vampires) and the not so big (laundry, IKEA, ambitions). Ebba said something brilliant about having dreams, and how they most of the time seem impossible to get around to, even just to get started:

"I like to think of it as knitting" she said (not that she knits). "It's like, you do a little bit today and then you might leave it for a while and then you pick it up again, knit a few rounds, put it down again, and all the while life goes on around you. And then one day you pick it up and, bam! A sweater!"

Bam. A sweater.

Monday Night Lights

B had a temperature today, or rather last night, and we spent the day on the couch watching hours of tv. Richard Scarry and Charlie & Lola and Little Red Tractor and all kinds of animals: birds, sheep, pigs, dinos, you name it. (Take a moment to consider the sheer amount of animals in childrens literature and tv. It's crazy. Like Noah's Ark at the zoo.) When night fell I was actually relieved to go to school for a meeting with the PTA (not really the PTA, we don't have that here, but it's the only word I can think of. Which makes me think of Dolly, darling Dolly, and Harper Valley PTA, such a great song. Oh, I digress.) Anyway, meeting was good and now I'm back at home, enjoying my 21th century Ingalls family evening (fire burning, children snoring upstairs, tea at hand, husband stroking his beard, apples in store, computer in lap). Best there is.

I've been stuck in Instagram since Thursday, it really is quite addictive. And I'm getting better (less awful). Join me if you can stand it.

It's getting late and I just wanted to stop by. I know what I want for Christmas, by the way. A book, a fox, a pair of earrings. Will get back with details. Do you have a wish list, or do you consider yourself too... something? J and I tried a "only gifts for the children" Christmas a couple of years ago, and it was evident within three seconds of me spotting the tree and realizing NOTHING UNDER THERE IS FOR ME that we're not doing that again. No, let there be gifts. Let there be wrapping paper and tissue and a kiss or two when noone's looking. Even Caroline Ingalls wouldn't mind, I'm sure.

Couldn't Live With All The Brown

This is also a bad photo, but at least it's possible to decipher what's pictured. Less brown. So I'm signing out with this instead. And with a quote of the day and a link. Here goes:

Wilhelm wanted to talk about "You know, eh, that word, you know... You know, what it's called when you put the baby inside the woman? That word?" And when I didn't answer immediately he looked at me incredulously, raised his eyebrows and sighed: "Ooooh, mom, you KNOW you've done it!" I give to you my son, Chandler Bing.

And the link. You see, I could embed this, but my Swedish readers (all two of them) would find me incredibly not-cool, since this is old news. Real old. Like three weeks or summat (that's my Emmerdale impersonation, never mind). But I know for a fact that someone very dear to me has a daughter who's a Robyn fan. And I'm thinking that she has probably not seen this version of Call your girlfriend, performed by three Swedish girls singing in harmony and drumming on (empty) cottage cheese containers. It's pretty fantastic. But you know, a bit old.

Ok, that's all folks. Night.

So Not A Good Way To Announce This

But I'm throwing caution – and more importantly this really lousy photo – to the wind to let you know that I'm now on Instagram. And if you'd like to you can follow me there. I'm annaander (clever, huh). I'm hoping my skills will improve (vastly) so the whole sharing thing will be less embarrassing. Ok. Bye. Thanks for putting up with me.

Dear Husband

This is a trifle.
Never to be confused with tripe.
Never.

Sorry, forgot: I did not take this photo. Nor do I know who did. Sorry, unknown trifle master.

Hi From Sunday Night

This weekend we did better. Last one we nearly died of overload, but we live and we learn. This one much improved. We realized a couple of years ago that what we need when Friday comes is No Plans. But last weekend was Wilhelm's eighth birthday so No Plans, not so much. Sunday night found us like beached whales on the couch, too tired to even turn on the tv or make a decent cup of tea. (And we were no beauties Monday morning either.) Tonight much better. So, a bit of random before I stuff myself with the last of the seasalt chocolate:

PanAm (the series). Boring, to start with. I mean, really boring. And stupid in a way that I didn't think tv was stupid anymore. The "ugly" girl is a redhead? The blonde sister is naïve? Seriously? And Christina Ricci's so skinny it makes me want to cry.

Rick Perry (Republican candidate). Oh wow. Need I say more? There's hope for Obama yet.

November (the month). Rushing by. Incredibly fast and incredibly warm (both of these things make J very happy, me not so much).

Bolognese (king of food). Tonights was lamb and pork (from left over salsiccias). Holy macaroni, even my mother-in-law was blown away (and she's more into "traditional" food).

Church (place of worship). Went today for the first time in long. The choir sang Duke Ellington and all was good. So glad to be there.

Father's day (today). We made J a pancake-cake and brought him breakfast in bed. I called my father and sang him a homemade song and talked about butchering (literally). They were equally pleased.

Good night, dear you. I hope you had a good one. Thanks for reading.

Lost For Words

Ok, almost lost for words. But seriously.
CAN YOU IMAGINE.

Not For Realz (But For A Minute)

There's a part of me who wants to live somewhere else. Somewhere greener and quieter. Surrounded by mountains or at the border of the sea, on a green hill or in the middle of great big field. I imagine our life there as simple and beautiful. Polished wooden floors, chickens and chestnuts. Warm in the summer, cold in winter, exploring the seasons together. I probably knit. And ride horses (with red hair blowing in the wind). There's a creek close by and the children get wet all the time and have to hang their socks to dry in front of the fireplace. At this part of my fantasy I usually get back to my senses (you'd think that the hair blowing would do it, but no). When you look around and realize your stuck in Enid Blyton-land it's time to get moving.

Things You Didn't Know

Turns out Ginny Weasley's mother is none other than Laura Linney! Who would've thunk it.
(Thanks to Hank for helping me turn two photos into one, this is so not my field of wizardry.)

I Trust In The Kindness Of Strangers (Not Necessarily Family)

My grandmother yesterday, while looking at photos from this summer:

"Oh, Anna! Your daughter is turning into something alarmingly pretty! She is just beautiful that little one, just beautiful! Such features on a fouryearold, it's amazing. And Wilhelm. Well, he looks just like you."

This is even more funny if you know my grandmother, who's always had a thing for beauty and once stopped me in the middle of a deparment store, right in front of the escalators, to apply concealer to a spot on my chin. I was eleven. Nearly died of shame.

Oh The Love

The holy moly ramma lamma ding dong love.
I cried the other day. Over dreams that never amounted to anything. Dreams that died of fear and insecurities and notknowingbetter. I cried because somehow I've taught myself that I'm a quitter. A lazy quitter.
When the truth is this:
The big one.
My one big dream, the really huge one, my only true wish, you know the one, that one, the one.
I never gave up on that. I never settled. I never made do.
I went for it all the way.
I went for it all the way.
Oh. The love.
Turns out I'm no quitter.
I'm a go getter.
Here I come!

November

Working late, folding laundry, eating egg sandwiches.
Yes, November, you've made your point.