50/50

My mother's brother, who I have been meaning to invite over for dinner all summer, finally made it, the last night Palmer is in town.  Once he got here, I found out that Keflavík was playing HF in Íslandsmeistari keppni, in an elimination round. They are the best team in Iceland, and have beat everyone except Keflavík.  My TV does not work, so instead he kept getting periodic updates on his phone. It was a fun way to follow the game, which ended up well, that is to say, Keflavík won. I mean of course. We rock. 

Palmer named two of his wooden trucks while he was here, one Tommi (a boy ambulance) and the other Lóki (a girl fire truck). He's taking them home with him to California.  When they get there, they won't be able to spend much time with Sissy, since my parents are planning on towing Sissy the Saab from San Francisco down to San Diego this week, loaded up with most of my stuff. Dave is moving his stuff to a new apartment, but I don´t think any of it has a name (expect maybe the baseball signed by Hank Aaron).  Yes, the next few days will see a lot of things coming and going.  

I was just trying to download a scene for Palmer from Beauty and the Beast (the one where Cogsworth says to Belle - "Nasty, dirty, dusty. Nothing at all of interest in the West Wing" to which she replies, "Well, then it wouldn't be off limits"). Instead I ran into this blog, to which I think I must contribute at some point in time. But I see one of my former students (just kidding) has done well enough . 

I was just laying in bed, thinking about yesterday, and realizing that, once again, I was slightly misunderstood. This happens a lot to me, since of course my communication skills in Icelandic are not so stellar. I had mentioned to two of my cousins that they could borrow my car while I was out of town. Fanney actually has a car, just her husband uses it a lot. The other one, Hjördís, does not have a car at all.  So it seemed to me only right that the cousin that has no car at all should get it, and the one that already has a car should contact Hjördís to use it. This however was extremely hard to get across to both of them, each one confused about why I was mentioning the other, and it was almost to the point that I would have to just drive myself to the airport! I suppose one should not propose something so complicated, since people like to have a car at 100% availability. Or at least not over cell phones in a foreign language.

My friend Koleen and her husband David are going on a date tonight. They have two kids, a third one on the way, and have been married for 8 years I think. And tonight they are going on a date.    When I was married the first time, sans offspring, all my ex-husband and I ever did was go on dates, practically. Out to dinner three times a week, brunch on Sunday, walks on the beach. And I was sick of him, really, by the time we got divorced.  But dating after a person has kids, that is a whole different thing. I remember babysitting for married couples when I was a teenager, and the woman being all excited to have a chance to get dressed up, and the husband so proud to see his wife looking the way they did when they first met. Usually once a month or so, a bit of a sign of upperclass to be able to afford the sitter, and the dinner and the wine and the play.  I don't know if that is a tradition here in Iceland. I think kids are out of the house more anyhow, more likely to be staying at ...

When we had our ceremony here at Vikingaheimar, we treated it a bit like a funeral for Íslendingur, the end of her sailing days. In point of fact, she last sailed into port in October of 2000. Everything since then has just been splashing in the water here or there, no actual journeys. It has been a bit hard on Gunnar I think, the end of an era, although he is talking about building more ships. In a way it reminds me of the scene in White Christmas, with the General that has retired, and finds himself out of place in civilian life. That is what happens when objects are put on permanent display in a museum. They become a memory embodied in a thing.  

America does one thing much better than Iceland does: encourage a charitable ethic. This is in fact a necessity in a country lacking a good social welfare net, but cynicism aside, the non-profits that develop in this atmosphere are really admirable organizations. Especially this morning I am thinking about Habitat for Humanity, one of the best of American charities. Habitat for Humanity is a non-profit agency that builds houses. They have had a particularly ambitious project in New Orleans since the flood, but have actually been working on urban renewal projects for many years. Unlike many other non-profits, they accept three different kinds of donations. Monetary donations, which is of course the main thrust of most charities, is not at the top of their list. Rather, working closely with housebuilders , they arrange an inordinate amount of material donations--wood, nails, fixtures. Lots of times these are extras that the companies ended up not needing, and they are glad to find someth...

On Saturday, I had my cousins over for a barbaque. I was quite sure it was implied in such an invite that the event would be outside, and casual. Well, my female cousins all showed up in dresses and heals. I was in jeans. Hmm. Today I got an invite to coffee at my cousin's, to celebrate her daughter's 16th birthday. I put on a shirt and heals (more difficult than it sounds because I have not done any laundry in days, and thus it was down to slim pickins). So, I show up, and well, no surprise. Everyone there is in jeans and a sweater. Hmm. The good thing is that I trust they will forgive me.

I am a pretty vicious editor, even when I was a graduate student instructor, my students complained I was a hard grader, because the fact is their papers had to have structure, argument, support, and style before I would consider it an A paper. It wasn't a matter of just having a few good points. Then I met a really vicious editor, and boy did I love working with her. I got just as good as she was at rewriting whole paragraphs authors would send in. And guess what? Most authors really liked the improved papers. Thanked me for my efforts in revising the paper. Thanked me for the opportunity to clarify and strengthen the argument. That to me is the point of an author/editor relationship, intellectual engagement with one another over the same topic, with a goal of making it as good as possible. Editors have a real responsibility, that the final product that is published--and which will be, afterall, accessed under the editor's name for all eternity--at least meets, if not exceeds,...

We just got home from my aunt and uncle's house. The conversation was suitably unsettling, on a day when a wind storm suddenly kicked up and there is talk of a huge earthquake tonight.  My uncle got really upset talking about the whole banking mess. And the situation really is dire. Iceland has completely succumbed to the oldest trick in the book, and is now head deep in enormous debt. There is just no two ways around it. 

Growing up in Southern California, I was really used to smog. The sort of stuff that makes it hard to breath sometimes. So when I started coming to Iceland, it just amazed me how clear the air was, how far one could see and how deep one could breath. Shortly after I moved here, two years ago, I noticed a layer of brown air laying over Reykjavik. Smog? Seriously? In Iceland? This summer it seems to me the air pollution has also been bad, because it has rained so little. Thank goodness there is not quite so much construction going on this year, because all the dust they kick up would just been hanging in the air.  I was genuinely happy that it rained yesterday. More of that would be just fine. 

Palmer's day was a bit messed up today, what with the puking in the mall and then napping 2.5 hours thing. So it was perhaps not a big shocker that he decided not to eat dinner (especially since I, um, gave him icecream when he woke up from his nap at 5pm).  But still there are rules about having to take a bite of everything, and taking 3 bigs sips, before getting down from the table. Nothin' doin' tonight.  What should the appropriate punishment be? Sure he was being willfull and defiant, so perhaps that warranted a time out? Perhaps I should just have ignored it? But then he had no lunch and had even said he was hungry, just did not want pork. Should I send him to his room without dinner? That seems cruel. Spanking is of course out of the question. And although it is not beyond me to bribe, I was not about to give him more icecream if he took 1 bite of mashed potatoes.  A parent's only recourse is guilt sometimes. "I cooked all this for you." But then childr...

Today I heard a mother saying to her son something in Icelandic I have said to Palmer in English many times: "The answer was no last time you asked, and nothing has changed since then." I suppose it is a constant of children that they do not believe this answer. It probably also does not help that with enough persistence, parents will occasionally give in. I would say that the odds of that happening are only about 10%, although that may not be a universal. 

I have tended to consider my general lack of decorum a result of growing up in Southern California, where anonymity affords a person a great deal of freedom. Since moving here to Iceland, I have tried to be a bit more aware of the fact that other people may know who I am. But just now, Palmer puked all over Serrano at Smaralind. And so it occurs to me that a lack of decorum may just be something inherent in me, that he has inherited also. 

I'm a fan of black and white films and musicals. Call me old fashioned. And American. I have not met any Icelanders who know Hollywood musicals as well as I do.  So I have introduced Palmer to a few classics. And this morning we are on a chitty chitty bang bang kick.  I was actually trying to find him the moon landing. But these things happen when you surf the net.

I suppose no one at the party this afternoon was entirely surprised by the fact that I did not really know how to grill. I mean, they have all known me a long time, and even Palmer picked up on the fact that a woman's place is not at a grill (literally said to me, 'How can you grill mommy? You are a lady'). His prognostication was entirely correct. The chicken just laid there on top of the smoking coals, no grilling taking place at all. Each squirt of lighter fluid only gassing out my guests more and more, doing nothing to actually get the embers hot. Turns out you need to dose the coals with plenty of lighter fluid, then let it slowly sink in while one patiently waits, throw in a spark, and after the fire flares up, wait, and wait some more, until the flames die down. And then you can actually start to grill.  Short cuts do not work. That is the process.  And now I know.  

Icelanders are of course avid readers, and I always feel a bit sheepish, when I am asked what I have read recently. This year, it has not been much, and last year I was probably writing more than I was reading, so that also does not quite count. I have my fingers crossed through, that with time, this too will right itself. 

Not only did Palmer get to speak to his daddy just now, but as we were online, we noticed his friend in Prague was also on line. So he is now all caught up on the status of the various toy cars he has interacted with internationally. One broke a wheel, and he said to me we should get glue from the museum and go fix it.  Yes, my museum is the place where things get fixed. Perhaps not one of its better known functions, but I believe he may be on to something there. 

Much to my delight, Nettó had everything I needed for the grill party I am throwing tomorrow. Charcoal sitting out, grill tongs and spatulas prominently displayed up front, colorful party supplies, tons of fresh vegetables, exactly the marinated chicken legs I was hoping for, and other grill-appropriate meat conveniently together in one cooler. Umm.  And then I realized this means I am actually doing something lots of other Icelanders are also doing. That doesn't happen to me all too often, that lovely feeling of belonging. 

I have had the same Nokia cell phone now for four years, and I think it really is time to get a new one. The battery does not seem to last as long, I am hearing a crackling noise on the line sometimes, the key pad is a worn, and it does not have the conveniences one wants in a cell phone these days. So I have gone into three different stores trying to buy one. The first was at Smaralind, and the prices seemed way too high, especially since I had not yet gotten my grant money! Then I went into Elko, and Palmer insisted on driving his car on the floor and over every item on the shelf, and thus, well, standing still at any one spot long enough to even see what brands were offered was not possible. The other day he was being better when we went into BT, so I asked to see their selection of cell phones. They had 5, none of them with email capability.  Of course, every little task is harder with a 4 year old in tow. But the recession, and my own slight "dear in the headlights" resp...