Sitting in the Morning Sun

There are two reasons why I'm posting this picture of the M-O-E-T-D-O-double-G today. First is the awesome cuteness of it. I can't get enough of my little man, hanging out on the people chair, enjoying the streaming morning sunlight and a steaming cup of java. He really is a person trapped in a small fuzzy body, I tell you.

Secondly, and possibly more importantly, is the fact that this pic was taken up at the cottage on a sunny spring morning. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, the three generations of us Danish women (and the Momes, of course) were working hard on the puzzle du jour. It was perfection.

Maybe it's because we didn't get up to the cottage this fall, for the last blast before a long winter, that I'm missing it so badly right now. Sometime I miss that place so much that it actually aches inside my heart. It's hard to explain in words what that place means to me, so I won't even try today. There's no way I'm feeling literate or poetic enough.

I guess I just wanted to share a little memory from cottage seasons past, something to reflect back on as the winter settles in. I suppose I could still go up for a weekend, anytime before heavy snowfall makes the 4 hour drive too torturous, but without a long weekend it's really just too far to make sense. Besides, waiting it out really does make that first spring visit so much sweeter.

Truth is, the cottage has been weighing heavily on my mind since The Nana had a tumble and fractured her pelvis this summer. She's all alone up there all year long and it increases my desire to go, to spend time with her and with the land itself. A place that may well not be ours to enjoy for much longer. The mere thought of losing it causes waves of panic and tides of grief, but I know there's not much that I can do. So, I'll cling to the millions of tiny moments I've had up there, and share as many as possible right here as time goes on.

When the cottage has been passed on to another family, who will grow up there for generations and cherish it as we have, I will still have these pictures, words and memories.

Somehow it will have to be enough.

Cruisin' Together

Thirty two reasons:

1. He makes me laugh everyday, even when there’s not much to laugh about.
2. He has the most amazing green eyes and the longest, thickest eyelashes in the world.
3. Scorpios are hot.
4. He is incredibly talented. More so than he even knows.
5. He gave in against his better judgment when I wanted to bring a puppy into our lives and now he loves our little dog fiercely and without shame.
6. Tattoos. Are. Sexy.
7. The way he talks to the Momes when he thinks nobody is listening.
8. He loves his mother.
9. He loves my mother.
10. He may not always agree with me, but he always respects me.
11. Rough on the outside, soft and mushy on the inside.
12. The way he bounces his legs and shuffles around when he gets excited.
13. He loves my friends and I love his.
14. He’s passionate about food, and he cooks!
15. He is just as happy as I am to lie for hours in the sun and do nothing at all.
16. He truly enjoys the company of women. Something not so common among men.
17. His names, both first and last, are beautiful.
18. I cry a lot, he wipes away my tears.
19. He is the master at Trivial Pursuit. In fact at every game that he plays.
20. He is my best friend.
21. Did I mention that he is funny as hell?
22. I love it when we’re cruisin’ together.
23. Tricepts, shoulders, tiny bum.
24. Weekend mornings, staying in bed late, drinking coffee and reading the paper.
25. Bundling up for winter walks to the park. He stays outside with the Momes while I run in for hot chocolate.
26. We can speak to each other with nothing more than a quick glance in each other’s eyes.
27. He reads voraciously.
28. He loves music and art, but not in that icky pretentious way.
29. He’s not too cool to totally rock out.
30. He is kind, comforting and loving, not just to me, to everyone that he knows.
31. This list was easy, I could write a thousand more.
32. Just because.

Happy birthday Crown.

The Answer is Blowin' In the Wind

On what is perhaps the assiest day of the year so far -- cold, windy, rainy and dark -- I decided to try and remember another cold, windy, rainy day that was perhaps a little more pleasant. I came up with this most amazing memory of the Momes' first walk on the beach at the cottage. It was a cold, windy, rainy day in fall, not unlike today. Only it was perhaps one of the cutest cold, windy, rainy days that I've ever had. The Momes lasted about one minute on the beach that day, but this memory will last forever.

Blonde Ambition

I am nothing if not loyal. It's a Virgo thing, I think.

Those of you who know me well, in fact those of you who know me at all, will already know that I have a healthy (and I'll explain why it is in a moment) obsession with blonde, female pop stars. This obsession is nothing new, in fact, I can trace it's humble beginnings way, way back to a school yard rumble when I was only 8-years-old.

There were two tire swings in my school yard. One that the girls played on, the other for the boys. The gender division was self-imposed and many of my first stumbling, feminist arguments began right there on those squeaky rubber swings. Who could swing the highest? Who could jump the farthest? How many girls could fit on one swing versus how many boys?

My favourite yelling match by far, still remains imprinted in my mind and in my ears. I can hear the high pitched kiddie voices yelling, feel the hot autumn sun on my face and remember the rush of frustration when the boys could yell louder and wouldn't back down no matter how hard I tried. The topic? Who was cooler: Michael Jackson or Madonna.

We fought all recess long. We yelled and sang, the whole while floating back and forth on those big rubber swings. The bell rang and we were forced to give up, although the debate was far from over. It didn't matter to me because in my mind, there was no question. Madonna ruled. I loved her. The boys were wrong.

It's not that I didn't like MJ. I really did. Lord knows it was his year to shine. There was just something about Madonna. Something about "Borderline" and "Lucky Star" and "Holiday," yes, I loved her music passionately from the start. But more that that, there was something about her. She was bold, she was brave, she was beautiful. And she was blond. I didn't realize it at that early age, but she would become a strong role model and a powerful influence for me as I morphed from child to teen to woman.

It could be that she arrived on the scene, and into my tiny world, at the exact same time that I was a) realizing what a powerful force music could be and b) creating an identity for myself other than just the quiet, shy kid who loved school, animals and my mom. I remember listening to music and absorbing it voraciously. Prince, Willie Nelson, Toto, Duran Duran and of course, Michael. A lot of Michael.

My mom, my sister and I would put on records and dance for hours in the living room. It was a feeling of freedom, of excitement and of pure joy.

There were other female artists that I fell in love with that year. Tina Turner, Pat Benetar, Chaka Khan and who could forget Cindi Lauper? I can't pin point why I didn't latch on to one of those artists, it's probably a good thing since none has had the staying power that Madonna has had, but in all honesty, to this day,
I believe it's because she was blonde. And I was blonde. And I was eight. And at that age, simply having the same coloured hair was reason enough.

But, hair colour aside, Madonna was always different. Right from the start I didn't just want to listen to her, I wanted to be her. There are many people who will argue that she was not the best role model for a young girl to adopt. I see why. I'm not blind to those arguments. But I do disagree. Long before I understood what it meant to be independent, strong, powerful and confident, I saw those traits in Madonna. As I grew older and heard people talk badly about her (she can't sing, she's too provocative, she's a whore, she's just using her body to get famous, she only cares about material things, she's too sexy, she's not sexy enough, she's blasphemous, she's the devil, she's a joke) I was always quick to defend. To me then, and to me now, she was and is brilliant.

There have been many blonde pop stars that I've supported and followed through out the years. All of which I feel a fondness for and all of which I've routed for and defended, even when I know the majority of popular criticisms against them are in many ways true. Dolly Parton, Britney Spears, Gwen Stefani, Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson are a small sample of the blondes I love to love. Not always because of their talent, or their brains or their contributions to society. I am fully aware that they are not all contributing a whole heap to the women's movement, or to music, or in some cases to anything at all. None of them compare to Madonna. But all of them, in their own way, are using what they've got to achieve success. To reach the top of whatever game they happen to have chosen. And so, I route for them, quietly or loudly depending on the moment.

Tomorrow marks the release of what I think is Madonna's 17th full album. I have each one and still listen to them today. I will, of course, pick up the latest, Confessions on a Dance Floor, and I suspect that I'll love it just as much as all the rest. Even though she's become a little freaky with the Kabbalah-talk and the British accent, she brings me joy, plain and simple.

Because of her I won't go for second best, I know that beauty is where you find it, I express myself and take some time to celebrate. Madonna allows me to turn it up, let loose and celebrate my blondeness.

What more can I say? I'm hung up.

Puppy Love

Can you believe that once upon a time my chunky Momes looked like this? Wowsers.

How Much is that Doggy in the Window?

Holy Mary Mother of all Things Cute. I just found this picture of The Momes from when he was around 8 months old and already able to slay me with his sulkiest sulk face.

It actually inspired me to try and learn how to put photos up onto this thingy. I hope it works.

Seriously though. I see this and I melt into a giant puddle of smoosh. Couldn't you just freakin' eat him up?

Also, look how nice the baseboards were in my old apartment. Missing those.

Smokin' in the Boys Room

I have not had a cigarette in eight days.

I'm only bringing this up because the smoking crew at work just got all bundled up and as they were heading out to the polluted, wet, grody smoking area downstairs they were talking about quitting and using all the same bullshit lines that smoker-me has said myself so many times:

"It's not about physical addiction, I just love it so much. I'm not ready to quit, that's all."
"It's really about learning WHY you smoke and then learning to avoid your own personal triggers."
"I don't really smoke that much anyway. Breathing the air outside is probably just as bad for me."

Now. I'm not saying that I'm quitting. Because to say that would probably send me hurtling downstairs to said grody smoking area to lick the nearest ashtray. Here's what I am saying. I got a little sick. The thought of smoking, even just my regular one a day, was absolutely revolting. So I just stopped smoking.

It's been ridiculously easy. Is this all there is to it? If so, yay! Last night, briefly I thought to myself, maybe I should smoke. Then I realized that Crown had taken the pack out with him and there were no butts in the house. Normally this would cause instant panic and end with me running out to the store in my pjs, swaering and moaning all the way and then smoking half a pack on the walk back home.

But no! Instead I was like, "Oh well." And I made tea and ate a few Halloween chocolate bars instead. Surely chocolate is better than rat poison, tar, cyonide and poo or whatever is in butts these days, right?

Anyway. Just want to share. Don't write to me and congratulate me on this, please, because as I said, I'm not quitting. Also, don't roll your eyes when you see me with a glass of red wine and butt on my roof next time you're over. Just take it for exactly what it is.

Eight smokeless days.