Toilet Humour. In Sweden.

Permit me to be crass or vulgar for a few moments. Now, if you're reading this and you're Swedish, well you may not see this post as either.

Now "apparently" here in Sweden, it's perfectly fine to make the business you have going on in the bathroom public knowledge. It's ok to announce exactly what you plan on doing when you head on over to the toilet. And if you have a raging case of diarrhea, feel free to let your co-workers in on the frequency and consistency.

Was having a discussion on all that is the washroom with my Swedish teacher, who happens to be from Armenia. Not exactly sure how we got on the subject but there we were. Now in Armenia, if you need to "go", you never actually use the words "toilet", "washroom" or "bathroom". Even if you're a young student in class and need to be excused to take care of your business, you just ask the teacher if you can leave the class. Noone questions your destination. You could be going anywhere really, to meet up with your bf for a makeout session, grab a quick ciggie with your friends or home for a nap. But it is assumed that if you're asking to "go", it means, well, you're on your way to the bathroom for a #1 or a #2.

Uttering any such word associated with what comes out of your body is taboo.

Where I'm from, we DO indeed say the words "bathroom" or "washroom" or not-so-frequently "toilet" when we need to go. We're a bit more specific on that front.

But I cannot imagine an occassion where I turn to my co-worker in the middle of frying up some burgers and exclaim matter-of-factly, "Gotta run and take a dump. Cover my station for me? Be back in 5 or 10 depending on how hard I have to push and how intriguing my reading material is."

Apparently that's the way it is here in Sweden though. My appalled Armenian friend, a real classy young lady btw, explained to me that her co-workers, whom she is not particularly close with, frequently update her on their bathroom habits. They didn't share a womb, don't necessarily share the same social circle and have really only known each other for a year or so. But, "Dominika, can you run this sushi platter over to table 4 so I can take a shit? That's the last time I'm mixing a litre of Absolut with Tomato Juice."

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

Another expat girlfriend recently told me her boss called in sick the other day. "I have diarrhea so bad I've been on the toilet all night." Let's give her the benefit of the doubt here. Maybe she was really playing hooky. You know when you're pretending to be sick, you always give WAY too much detail about your illness in an always failed and exagerrated attempt to convince your boss and others that you really are sick? Never works.

But c'mon people, who goes THAT far?

Well, by all of two accounts so far, the Swedes do. Fellow Swedes, am I right here? Can we extrapolate these two isolated incidences to a national epidemic? And if so, what the hell? Keep your shit to yourself. Pun intended. :-)

Thanksgiving in Canada

Well, we're not in Canada. We're in Sweden. Another holiday passing without the comfort and craziness of being surrounded by those we love. And this is also the first holiday in a long time without our dear Tanja (little man's Montenegrin Nanny). So, just me, the boy and Dada and an 8lb turkey. I've always had a turkey mentor close to me on such special occasions. But this time, it was me on my own with the big bird.

It went well. The bird was great. All the side dishes perfectly timed. I am the champion my friends. We stuffed ourselves and now, it's over.

For over three years now, with the exception of being home for the holidays on a few occasions, we've celebrated our traditional holidays in other countries. And this is the first time we were truly alone. It was nice and it was sad. Thank God for Skype though.

And speaking of being thankful, here's my list of things to be thankful for. Of course I'm thankful for the usual: health, happiness, husband, child, parents/extended family, roof over head, food, etc. so here's a list of stuff I'm thankful for lately.
1. Thanks to the makers of Play Doh for inventing a product that is forcing me to create bad interpretations of a Stegasaurus, a turtle, a tiger, a shark and...repeat. Oh and also, big thanks for that distinct play-doh odour.
2. Thanks to my brain for finally realizing that the little guy's bad potty aim was a direct result of him standing on a bench to pee. Removal of bench = pee IN toilet.
3. Thanks to the neighbour lady for letting me crash my son's first official playdate with her daughter. She actually thought I was leaving..bahahahahahhaaha.
4. Thanks to my husband for being creative and making Play Doh creatures that actually resemble the real thing!
5. Thanks for living in a country where a clothes dryer and a dish washer are staple appliances. I challenge ALL you friends in developed countries to live without either of them for over two years. It CAN be done, but it's not pretty.
6. Thanks to all the North Americans in Sweden who overhear me speaking English and immediately begin chatting up a storm.
7. Thanks to the lady I cornered in the grocery store today for a) not freaking out because a random stranger was speaking to her, and in English and b) for being 100% sure that the box she pointed out to frantic me was indeed cornstarch. FYI: It was NOT.
8. Thanks Swedish businesses for booking appointments for me. "You have an appointment for your winter tire change at X o'clock on X date." "Your child has a dentist appointment at...." I seriously love this. I always leave these things to the last minute anyway. Swedes are so bloody efficient.
9. Thanks to all those wonderful law breakers who post free streams to my favourite TV shows.
10. Thanks to me for remembering to pack that little liquid strainer thingy from Montenegro. Otherwise, we would have had gravy flavoured with turkey bits and clumpy flour.

What are you thankful for lately?

The Notebook

In case you haven't noticed, I've been doing a lot of writing lately. Whether it’s company-related, the odd note on facebook, blogging or just changing my FB status, the verbal diarhea is running rampant. I can never spell that word..diarhhea? no...wait, let me check Google. D-I-A-R-R-H-E-A. Just in case you needed the spelling for this awful word. And of course now you have the visual too and are thanking me.

I love publishing Notes on Facebook the most because, depending on the topic, I always get wonderful feedback from fellow "friends". The best part is, I get to hear everyone's story. Another great part, I won't lie, is getting encouragement from friends to "write a column/an article/a novel". That just brings some pink to my white freckly cheeks. I never thought about doing it, the writing thing that is, for anything other than work or self-expression to be honest. And I only write when I have something I feel compelled to say, something I'm passionate about like oh, potty training woes or getting ID'd at the liquor store or most recently, the sex abuse scandals in the Roman Catholic Church. Or the idiot who engineered the Swedish shopping cart (that post is coming)!

So really, my writing coincides with my ADHD (which my Mom has, in all her great wisdom, diagnosed). How does anyone expect me to write something as complex, time-consuming and focus-demanding as a novel? And you also need imagination for that. I write about my life. I'm all about non-fiction, but in passionate, short outbursts. And then, I move on.

Now my husband, to his credit, has humoured me and my writing fetish. He reads what I write, offers suggestions but generally takes a backseat. He stays "mum" on the issue. Until yesterday when his actions spoke louder than my words ever could.

Yesterday he went to London to have tea and strumpets with the Queen and to discuss the state of the monarchy. No he didn't. He did go to London with a box of kanelbulle (Swedish cinnamon buns) for a meeting with a big company, whose biz dev guy has a love affair with kanelbulle from a specific bakery in Stockholm. So, of course, my charming husband brings the guy a box. It was a fly-in-and-out-the-same-day mission. I waited up. He walked in bearing gifts, mainly for the little man, who was extremely disappointed when he realized the nicely decorated box of kanelbulle we took with us in the car to the airport was NOT for him.

After going through a sweet assortment of toys and shirts, he then presented me with a sturdy baby blue gift bag adorned simply with the words "Smythson of Bond Street Est 1887" in an understated, old-fashioned font. And directly above, four emblems representing the highest offices of the monarchy, “By appointment of his/her majesty...”

The bag, tied together with a black ribbon, was impressive enough. Then a matching blue thick cardboard box inside. And inside THAT, a soft blue cloth bag nestled delicately in tissue paper. And inside that?

A fushia leather bound notebook filled with empty pale blue lined pages. It is gorgeous. It took my breath away.

On the back page of the notebook is The Story of Smythson Featherweight Paper and Bindings. It details the severe craftsmanship that goes into the manufacture of this brand of notebook, including its copyrighted floppy leather exterior (that apparently can be rolled up and squashed and will improve with age) and handmade “stitched spines and gilt-edged pages” (say THAT five times fast). And then there’s the extreme difficulty in creating a watermark on paper this thin. Who knew?

“Smythson Featherweight Books are internationally popular with many distinguished writers, journalists, travellers and explorers. Used by ‘the great and the good’ over many generations, they have been called a ‘secret social passport’. “

They have been used by Queen Victoria, Diana, Princess of Wales, Sigmund Freud and Grace Kelly to name a few.

And now, I have one.

What will fill its pages? I don’t know. I didn’t realize the impact of this notebook until I began to write about it. This gift is so precious. I both fear and revere it. So many thoughts running through my brain. Like, "Crap, I need to work on my penmanship. What if I make a mistake? white-out vs. scribble out. Should I use it for story outlines or the real deal? Where should I put it? Does this mean I'm a 'writer'? Am I worthy of owning such a coveted treasure?

One day I will open it and put pen to paper (yes, he got me two graceful pink pens too). I don’t know when this D-day will come. But what I do know is that I love my husband for this incredible symbol of his faith in me.

With this gesture, he has given me my very own, but not-so-secret, passport. "Permission to officially enter the wonderful world of prose?" "Granted."

And so begins a new chapter, in life and in love.

www.smythson.com

Not Me Mondays

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.

This will be my first ever Not Me Monday post. This weekend I did not stay up late Friday, Saturday and Sunday night with my husband to catchup on the last season of Big Love. We certainly did not watch three episodes each night. We have better things to do with our time than sit through some mindless television show centered around the lives of a polygamist family. Nope, not us.

There is no way I would make a trip to our local IKEA and pick up 5x what was on my original shopping list. The list I had promised myself I would not, under any circumstances, deviate from. And even if I did, I would most certainly blame IKEA for the overspending. All the fun stuff for kids to do, the perfect setup and display of must-have items. A shopping conspiracy. The Swedish Mob. Damn IKEA.

I did not book tickets for my 3-year old son to go see Walking with Dinosaurs that cost well over $250 for three tickets, just because he loves dinosaurs and I wanted to see the look on his face. I know in my heart of hearts that he would be absolutely petrified and would never understand that the lifelike dinosaurs were not real. I am smart enough to realize the odds of tears vs. cheers are heavily stacked under the tears column and would never take such a stupid risk. And then I most certainly did not discuss the matter with my husband, who did not proceed to reason that our son got scared of a shark he drew with bathtub crayons in the bathtub. And then I did not spend 20 minutes on hold just to cancel the tickets I never should have purchased in the first place. None of it happened because I'm smart and know all about age-appropriate material.

Not me. Not ever.

The faith of religion

I am baptized and confirmed Roman Catholic. Both of my parents can be classified as "devout". I guess I can be classified as "non-practicing". Though Going-to-Church growing up was a cherished part of my life, all of this country hopping and well, general busy-ness, has given me the convenient excuse of missing Sunday morning mass for years. Though whenever I find myself home at the folks’, I look forward to accompanying them to our family church and sharing this special part of my faith with my son.

Recent and not-so-recent events have made me question The Roman Catholic Church, not my religion. Not my faith. The latter, my friends, is unwavering. Whether we're Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Jewish, Protestant or Catholic, we all believe in a higher being, an afterlife and the promise of a heaven should we choose to live our lives in accordance with a fundamental set of rules. It's only these rules that distinguish one religion from another. I won't go into the wars raged over religious supremacy, the innocent lives lost, etc. All seemingly a product of, "My religion trumps yours".

I think religion helps us feel a sense of belonging. It forms communities centered around these common principles and gives us a network of support, channelling our universal faith.

We look to our religious leaders for guidance, understanding and knowledge where our faith is concerned. We trust them, we bow to them, we honour them as holier than ourselves. They set themselves apart as examples of what a true INSERT RELIGION follower should be.

And what, my dear faithful friends, happens when these leaders fall from their thrones, prove themselves to be sinners (and worse so) than the flocks they claim to shepherd? What if instead of protecting their lambs, they prey on them and victimize them? What then becomes of our faith in being a Roman Catholic or INSERT RELIGION?

Well when I read the news today, again, of yet another Catholic priest accused of pedophilia, I could no longer ignore the impact it has on MY religion. Because this particular priest was a Bishop (a high post in the Catholic Church) and one who worked tirelessly to bring fellow priests to justice for their crimes. He was an authority on the subject, an advocate and it turns out, a likely wolf in sheep's clothing. Caught at a border crossing with child pornography on his laptop. http://www.cbc.ca/canada/nova-scotia/story/2009/10/01/ns-lahey-charged-sydney.html

There is research out there that suggests this is no more prevalent in the Catholic church than in other religions..the abuse of power by church officials in such a horrible way. But with all the media focused in on "my" church, it certainly casts doubt on the research, for me anyway. Does the celibacy required by Catholic priests breed this kind of behaviour? Some argue it does. More research suggests it doesn't. One also has to wonder if the Catholic church is a safe haven, a breeding ground and/or a hideout for the lowest forms of life that walk among us, the pedophiles.

Would relaxing the celibacy law prevent these monsters from penetrating our institution? Is that the answer? Sure you could say that the few bad seeds taint the entire population. And yes, I'm positive there are some wonderful priests ministering. But the increasing number of bad seeds sprouting is killing the garden.

I know fellow Catholics who have stopped going to church, stopped supporting their churches with financial contributions and because of this widespread disease have fled to other religions.

Where does that leave me? I really don't know. But what I do know is that my church is not doing enough. Their reputation for sweeping cases under the rug, providing counselling to these molesters and simply transferring them to other institutions and/or forcing them into retirement as opposed to bringing them to justice is dumbfounding, disappointing and disheartening.

My trust in my church has been broken and it would take a miracle to re-establish the bond. We believe in miracles. We believe Jesus Christ died for our sins on the cross and was resurrected. I'm waiting for a miracle. And in the meantime, I'll continue to believe in Him, pray with my child and worship with my family.

In the end, I believe we all answer to “God” and as for the Catholic Church, well they have an awful lot to answer for.

From StepMom to Mom

It's an interesting job, that of a step mom. You don't own the rights to the child through a birth canal and you often enter their lives in later years. You long to become accepted, part of someone else's already established family unit. And when you're a young stepmom, like me, you wonder how you can provide the guidance and nurturing necessary when you're only beginning to experience adulthood yourself.

And how much "parenting" can you really do? Will they let you do? Do you have the right to do? You walk a fine line.

But if you're lucky, like me, you end up with a wonderful stepson, one who warmly welcomes you into his heart and into his family. One who respects you, loves you and accepts you. One who talks to you openly and confides in you without fear.

Though you may not have changed his diapers, sang him lullabies or pushed him on a swing, you've witnessed his voice "crack", experienced his first girlfriend, cried as he spoke eloquently at your wedding, saw him take his first drink (ok, maybe not that part), and watched him trip and fall. And sometimes you let him make stupid mistakes and fall on his face. Because you remember very clearly it was only a short time ago you made, and learned, from the same ones.

And it's because of the way your husband is with him, the unbreakable bond they have and the kind-hearted and talented soul he has grown to become, that you make the brave decision to have one of your own.

You then worry how your relationship will change once you officially cement the status of "mother". Will you love #1 less? Will you have room in your heart for two? And then a few hours after #2 arrives, your husband gives you a special gift. A handcrafted gold necklace in the shape of a heart. And inside that big heart are three little hearts, one for him, one for #1 and one for #2. So you see, you do have a place in your heart for all three of the men in your life.

Not only do you not become less of a "mother" to #1, but you become a better one. You suddenly have an instinct you never quite had before. The desire to nurture and protect and love becomes so much stronger. And saying goodbye and letting go becomes harder than it's ever been.

Nana's Sauce

Let me start this post by admitting the following, I am not a good cook. I generally need a recipe and not just any recipe, a step by step guide with definitions for thing such as "whip lightly" or "sautee" or "fold in X ingredient". When I was back in Canada, I had a trusty beginner's cookbook and relied heavily on any recipe based on a Campbell's soup. Sure there were times I got adventurous and attempted cheesecake. And to my surprise, it turned out amazing. I even had my photo taken with it and constantly prodded tasters with questions like, "No, really, how good is it?"

But then I moved to Montenegro with no Campbell's soup in sight, surrounded by authentic homemade goodies and a serious lack of easy-peezy ingredients. Luckily, around that time, I decided to become an Atkins girl, which meant I had a free pass from kitchen creativity and cooked lumps of meat with stir-fried whatever veggie.

My mother-in-law is an amazing cook. Well, duh. All those Ukranian, Croatian and Italian inspired bellywarming dishes. Cabbage rolls, homemade chicken soup and the all-time family favourite...Nana's spaghetti sauce.

Nana is Ukrainian/Croatian but was married to an Italian for some years and obviously picked up a talent for Italian cuisine. There isn't an Italian on this planet that can compete with her sauce and the Italian side of the family have admitted it.

Whenever we go home, you can bet there's a pot of sauce on the stove..tomato based with hearty meatballs bouncing around on the surface.

I've never attempted to make said sauce and for two reasons: 1. It's Nana's claim to fame so I vowed not to attempt it until the day she can no longer make it. 2. Fear of failure or perhaps worse, what if by some miracle, it's better that the original?

Circumstances have changed.

I find myself with no Nana around, a pack of nostalgic boys AND a tribe of preteens about to enter my house tonight for dinner and a sleepover (one with an allergy to gluten). And the Nana is thousands of miles away. The last time the girls came over, I served up some yummy homemade burgers and this time, I'm super busy and need to make something fast and "easy" and different. I broke my vow, called Nana on Skype and asked her for THE recipe.

I was only half paying attention as she was giving it to me as flashbacks for a particular "Everyone loves Raymond" episode were running through my head. Do you remember the one I'm talking about? Well here's the synopsis. Deborah, like me, sucks in the kitchen. Marie, like my mother-in-law, is always cooking up generous portions of hearty soulfood. Deborah decides she wants to learn how to cook Marie's famous sauce. They spend a day of bonding over the stove making the sauce together, with Marie telling her the most important ingredient is LOVE. It's beautiful. These two frenemies finally becoming friends. It's suppertime at Ray's house and they all sit down to Deborah's attempt at Marie's sauce. She's excited. They're scared. The sauce, as you may have guessed, is awful. Marie spends the evening wondering what could have possibly gone wrong, thinking she doesn't have the LOVE. She checks and rechecks her recipe, breaks into Marie's house and checks the original recipe. Nothing. Then she sees a spice jar label losing its grip. Marie switched the ingredients! She actually sabotaged Marie's sauce. Deborah's fuming. To make a long story short, Marie did in fact do this deliberately. She did it because she believes her food is all she has and she didn't want Deborah to take it away from her. Kinda sad and funny. They made peace, which I believe included Deborah promising never to make THE sauce.

Back to today. I don't have the Marie/Deborah relationship with my mother-in-law THANK GOD. But regardless, here I am making HER sauce. A recipe, which like all Nana recipes, calls for a can of this, a dash of that and no measurable amounts of ANY ingredient. Perfect for someone who ONLY follows recipes.

So there it sits on the stove waiting for a hungry brood. I've watched her make it a hundred times. And the meatballs have NOT fallen apart, small victory for the daughter-in-law. But my mother-in-law has nothing to worry about. It's not the LOVE I'm missing but personal control over dispensing of SALT. Looks like they'll be LOTS of water glasses to refill tonight...