I have a dream.

I've been out with Marianne 4 times tonight. Then an extra time with Georg. We finished the paintjob on the patio(not sure what it is called, really, it's a wooden veranda at ground level with 7 ft windbreaks around 2 of the sides) and I had to keep Marianne upstairs. We keep her in our bedroom(on the floor only, yes I am a hard woman in these matters) with the garden door open. It works brilliantly and we have never experienced more than one accident, when she peed on Georg's blankie the first night). We are going to keep at it for as long as we can stand it – seeing that temps already drops to 10 C, that might get difficult in a month or two.

I'm too tired to write, really, but it is always then! I get creative and have fun writing.

I dream of a new sofa up at Vintland. The old one we have now, is a sofa that lived his late years down at my parents' old house. They got him from their elderly neighbours who were getting a new one. Let's call him Truls. Truls is living his AFTERLIFE with us up there. I swear you can feel the strain of every pair of bollocks that has put their imprint on this poor ugly thing. 

By now I bet half the stuffing left is doghairs. And he IS hideous. It is exactly the kind of sofa a dog would love. Georg loves it. I'm prepared to bring the ugly corpse home to Mandal and let my house be his mausuleum, as long as I get a new sofa in the cottage. It will mean no dining table, but faaak! 

I want one more like this

I want a soft sofa with high backing so bad. It's just that, even though I generally don't want the dogs in the furniture at home, Vintland isn't home. It's our haven. It's been Georg's haven. It was Marianne's first home and her haven. It should continue to be so. There is absolutely no way I could ever deny Georg climbing up on our lap on the three-seater. No. Fucking Way! I don't want to, either. I love having a monster of a laptog drooling all over me. I know it sounds insane and I know I am a walking contradiction of terms, but there you have it. It's just how I am knitted together. (I don't think we should try to understand me, it will give you headaches, believe me, I've tried for years. ...bad headaches)

I like a clean house, but I also like a house you would immediately feel comfty in. I think most people actually do. Visitors rarely sit in our sofas, they slouch in our sofas. I do have a very relaxed relationship with mess. I can let it flood my table and not care one bit. And then BAM! it's enough and I can't STAND IT ANYMORE! And I race around speed-cleaning like I'm the energizer bunny in those old commercials, before I collapse back like a sack of potatoes, again, taking part of the conversation, watch TV, whatever. 

Mental much?!? 

I've given up a bit on the floors. I vaccuum on average 3, or times a week. Depending on weather. I wash them once, or twice. I don't think I have had a house where doghairs aren't floating around in the air, behind and under furniture, in the corners, behind doors, you name it! since we got Doris 18 years ago. I don't allow babies on the floor unless I bring up a clean blanket for them to lie on. 

We kept Simen in a crib the first months of his life. They would have eaten each other up. Literally. Their language as babies was synonymous with mouth. It was disgusting. By the time he was 6 months, I was like; Meh! Eat each other and share food for all I care, we've all got the same shite anyhew! It may have had to do a little with Simen having had the whooping caugh and wasn't healed until then and I had suffered 6 months on very little sleep. 

My mother was ready to throw the child service peeps down my throat. “ELI!” That kid isn't going to talk when he turns 1, he'll bark! Are you aware of that?!?” 

He didn't. He did pant as one to get Doris' attention when she walked into the room. It was hilarious. And a little creepy. They were the best of friends who helped each other do mischief on a daily basis until they were 3 years old. 

When he started school and came home to an empty house, he had to open the door while hiding behind it. He said it was because Doris would be standing waiting and jumped out the door in such excited joy she ran down whomever(whoever? No, that doesn't sound right) was standing there. 

I think she made Helene feel safe too. She was very protective. In a happy whimsical way.

Simen has told me that he never felt like he was coming home to an empty house. “Because Doris is there, of course, mom.” He used to exclaim with a tired-of-life look that did so not fit his age, whenever I asked him if he ever felt alone as a kid. Hey, I'm a mom, all working moms will enter the pit of guilt a time or millions!

Oy, I'm rambling. Why didn't any of you stop me?

What I really meant to say is I need your help.

I need some advice. I want to make a sheet cover of sky leather, or something similar and just as easily cleaned, type of sheet cover. Problem is, I have no idea how to make one. Have any of you guys done this? Seen it done? Know a good site?

I can't afford it yet, but that doesn't mean I can't make plans. [satisfied evil low cackle] I am totally going to manipulate hubby into agreeing to this. 

Oh, yeees.




PS! Helene and her boyfriend came home for the weekend. It was also the weekend of the annual sea food festival. The 3 of us walked to town and ate lunch. I had the best sea food soup and fresh baked bread I have had in a year. It was heavenly, I tell yahs! Simen stayed home with Marianne, because he was going out with friends later and didn't mind staying behind. It was a nice weekend. I think the boyfriend at least didn't hate it, even though he suffered terribly from his allergies. Thankfully there has not been dogs in their bedroom and he was able to seek refuge there when it got bad.

PPS! Oh, and Marianne is well again. No more UTI.

The embarrassing confession of a middleaged white crazy woman with too much imagination

I have been stuck up at the farm all week. Runar was supposed to come back up on Monday, work a few hours chopping fire wood and then we'd all go home. 

That didn't happen. His job got in the way. 

Tuesday I was out of most groceries, tobacco and all dog food. Runar would come pick us up in the afternoon. I would manage on wholegrain bread and chewing tobacco until he came. 

It didn't happen. Again. 

Instead Runar's parents came up with groceries+++. We couldn't ride with them home, because there is simply not enough room in their car for Georg. 

Wednesday came. I had again packed and cleaned and we were ready to be picked up. This day his brother's broken down car got in the way. Georg and I went hiking in the woods in the pouring rain instead. It fit my mood perfectly. 

I had a weird, scary dream that night. Probably due to my fear of being alone in a cottage far away from everybody and watching too many scary movies in my teen years about axe murderers, in combination with hearing the news on the radio, about bands of eastern European bandits molesting old people living in remote areas. Naturally I dreamed about being visited by evil axe murdering bandits and by the time I awoke wimpering in a fetal position, it had escalated to a full blown war between Georg and I and all the evilness in the universe. I was rather jumpy all morning. So much so, that Georg noticed and was rather jumpy too. 

What do you know, I got visited by a ...salesman. 

Just to imply just how odd that is, let me inform you that in my soon-to-be 44 years of life I have never experienced or even heard of anyone else experiencing being visited by any salesmen up on there in the mountains. There simply is no market for traveling salesmen among the mountain farmers. 

1) They usually don't have the money to spare for buying anything other than the bare necessities

2) There aren't but two-three farms on the entire mountain that are inhabited all year. It is mostly cottages and summer  houses.

3) Those that do live there hate all strangers and foreign strangers with a vengeance. I'm pretty sure if they were asked, they'd put foreigners right up there along with aliens and devil spawns.

Back to Thursday. It was a nice sunny day. The doors were open. Georg was sleeping with his head on the door sill as usual and I was cross stitching a pillow case - I had ran out of yarn and finished crocheting two summer hats and had found one of my older sisters' cross stitching from decades ago, hidden in the bottom of a wardrobe. Yes, I was that desperate. I had cleaned everything, weeded everything, mowed everything, I had done all the work that I could possibly do.  Radio was on. I was humming along a happy tune. Georg and I had more or less refound our calm, the dream with axe-murdering bandits were but a pale memory, when a kind voice in broken NorwEnglish said 

"Haelloo?" 

I don't know where he was from, other than he was clearly from the African continent. He had an honest kind face and a bright white smile. 

I completely freaked out. I'm embarrassed to say. I jumped  up, cross stitching flying and I shouted

"NO! No, no, no, no, no. NO!" and stupidly waved a hand in front of my face. 

I  somehow lost the ability to speak any other words. 

Then Georg stood up and I grabbed hold of him as he was acting on my freaking out, more than a visit by a stranger. 

I saw the saleman's eyes widen. 

"Nice...?" He said and pointed a shaky indexfinger at the dog.

I also pointed at the dog and found two new words apart from "no", which I still seemed to mumble nonstop under my breath. 

"WATCHDOG! MINE!"

GEORG THE WATCHDOG

The poor visibly shaken nice man only looked at me. Mouth slightly agape. 

I searched my mind desperately after something to say. Something that wasn't shouting threats. something calm, nice and polite. 

"GOOD BYE!" 

He ran. 

I have no idea what he wanted. I'm not even sure he was a salesman, other than that he carried a black suitcase often used by traveling students from 3rd world countries trying to sell their arts so that they can afford to eat while finishing their studies in this insanely expensive cold country. It could be that his car broke down and he needed help, to borrow my phone, some water...I will likely never know. He is quite likely now become 110% certain of white middle aged women's utter lack of sanity. 

I walked out to the road to see if I could see him, but he must have just continued running for his life. Maybe he thought I'd let Georg kill him and then we'd eat him for supper...

I am guilty of all the horrible prejudice that I thought only belonged to my parents and their like, that I swore I would never fall victim too. 

Runar did come that afternoon. We actually finished the wood chopping. This season's firewood  work for us, family and sale is done. Whee. 

I admitted my horrendous meeting with the stranger. He laughed his ass off, of course.  Then he was silent for a while, having that pondering look where his brows gets all furry, before proclaiming loudly:

"I'mma make you a sawed off shotgun that I'm going to place on a secret shelf above the door. Just in case a band of axe-murdering bandits does show up when you're up here alone. I mean. Come on, Georg saving you? How? Drowning them in drool?" 

I was too shocked to speak. I had a terrifying image of my crazy freaked out self with a sawed off shotgun - illegal one, made out of two old before-WW2-old semi broken shotguns armed with buckshells - going completely TEXAS up in the mountains. Not a pretty sight, I tell yah! Oy vey! 

 

Me in one of the summer hats I crocheted. Taken before the bad dream and the embarrassing meeting with the stranger, while I was still happy-go-lucky ignorant of my dark prejudice side

How the felted slippers turned out. 

We're heading up to Vintland again today. For the weekend. We're going for an uneventful and blissfully boring weekend. Runar will be sorting out his tools, etc. I'm going to start on my secret project - knitting socks with thorn pattern. Sort of like a barbed wire thorn pattern. I have no idea how to do it, or how it'll turn out. 

Story writing - A challenge

I am starting a new project. Or that is, I am restarting an old project. Writing down some of the many stories residing in my head.  As those of you who have known me for a while know, I love stories. I love reading them and I love making them. I just don't love writing them down. My written words seem to steal away all colour and magic from my stories.

I read an interesting blog the other day by the author of The Termite Queen; Lorinda J. Taylor http://termitewriter.blogspot.no/2013/04/some-thoughts-aimed-at-writer-with.html  Where she expresses her curiosity for those who are afraid, or lack the confidence to publish their stories. She never worried about this, she says. She writes stories for the love of doing it. Not caring much about the rest.

I saw this post on Neil Gaiman's site http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/47903123398/bigdamncalligraphy-so-i-did-this-pair-of-quotes Where he says to make art and not to worry about whether it is good or bad.

Maybe the reason I don't love actually writing down my stories, is because of fear. Fear of the stories being bad. Fear that my grammar and sentence structure is not up to par.

Maybe another reason for my writing being bad and stealing away all the magic and the colour is because I lack practice.

That just won't do.

I'm going to start posting some of my stories on this blog. I'm going to start writing down some of the stories that are still only existing in my head and posting them here. I'm going to stop caring about all the rest. That is probably a big lie, but I'm going to do it anyway.

You can read them, or not. I'll label them so you can choose to avoid them. You can comment on them and help me improve my writing, or not.  you can leave a link to your own stories if you like in the comment section. It's up to you. Just as it is up to me to write and post them. The beauty of blogs. I get to decide what gets posted and you get to decide what gets read.