i had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee

"Like my profile picture? I googled fat lemur."
-Lexis

**

Yesterday night, the 4 year-old girl I was babysitting wouldn't go to sleep, so I unscrewed her lightbulbs and locked her into her room.

This was in accordance with her mother's instructions. Yes, apparently Anna won't sleep unless locked in a dark room (and she can turn the light on when the bulbs are in).

"I know it sounds cruel, but it's the only thing that works," her mother said and explained that there was a baby monitor that I could listen to in another room. Fun times.

**

Anna's older brothers were really awesome. They are both fluent in English and Greek, and can speak some Italian, Swedish, and another million languages. This meant that I got a free Greek lesson – my name looks fabulous in Greek. " A bit like Elvish but more like Greek." (Yes, I wish I hadn't said that). Unfortunately Greek, like many other languages, hasn't managed to create letters for all the sounds in my name. They missed out on the "sh" and "v" sound, but made up for it with like three "O's."

The boys (10 and 11) told me about how they used to get bullied at a school they attended in Italy. Pavlo said he and his friends would hide from the bully in some old tires near the playground.

"What about you? Have you ever had problems with a bully?" he asked me.
"No. I was the bully."
They both stared at me.
"Just kidding. I'm a girl...we don't really do that."

They disputed this and I agreed and admitted that I was the kid in the corner with a book when I was in elementary school. I have no idea if bullying went on at my childhood schools.

**

I watched The Social Network last night and really enjoyed it. Movie ticket prices in Stockholm vary both by theatre and film. At the cinema in Hotorget, The Social Network cost 100 SEK ($15), Inception cost 110 SEK ($16.50) and other films went down to 90 or 95 SEK.

When I lived in L.A., I got used to La Mirada's dollar theatre prices – most days $2.00, Tuesdays $1.00) – and the Stockholm prices initially seemed really high. But that's just Stockholm; it's a European capital, and everything is a bit more expensive here. Also, big cities in the States hit comparable cinema prices, especially with 3D glasses.

**
Simply Sweden

Grocery shopping is definitely more expensive here. The US embassy puts out a biannual order to the commissary in Frankfurt, and staff are allowed to bulk order all the American goods that they miss (or are too expensive here).

Our family has been with the State Department for a million years, and we're used to not having American goods; in Yemen we didn't have pork, cereal, candy bars, McDonalds, etc. The order we placed was fairly small; a turkey and a pig for Thanksgiving/Christmas, a box of HeadNShoulders dandruff shampoos (you can only buy in bulk), etc.

Other families were clearly feeling a lack of America in their shopping. I was housesitting for a family, and they received a giant order (30 boxes?) which included a box of chewy bars, a box of bisquik pancake mixes, and a box filled with Ramen Noodles. They missed Ramen Noodles so much that they ordered them from Germany (and by extension, the States) in bulk. I still can't get over this.

**

me and my friends made comic book

Things I Like

- When you start out not liking something and grow to love it. Examples: all of my friendships (kidding!), onions, mayonnaise, chocolate, transferring unis, tiny dogs, saunas.

- Yellow leaves

- One word hilarity triggers. Every time I say "Buster," one of the kids I tutor starts cracking up uncontrollably. We just sit there laughing because we think the name is funny.

- Finding things in coat pockets. Money, phone, unused Kleenex

- Being on the right side of an insane exchange rate (yes, I get paid in Krona)

**

Sometimes I write stories in my head as I'm walking. The other day, a couple of characters were having a dialogue in my mind and one of them said something funny. I laughed out loud. I then realized I was laughing at the voices in my head. Problem?

**

Swedes are all about saunas. Alright, maybe that isn't entirely accurate. But compared to Americans, Swedes have a lot of saunas. Many of the buildings (at least in Ostermalm) have them, and private homes have them too. Americans seem to prefer jacuzzis.

"To get rid of the chill you have to take off all of clothing and jump into a wooden box heated to over 100 degrees. It sounds a little drastic but once you’ve tried it, you know the meaning of the phrase ‘toasty warm’." (repairhome.)

There is nothing that thoroughly heats your entire body like a sauna does. It's really fun to watch the beads of sweat rise on your skin and tickle as they trickle. And the phrase "beads of sweat" is also really fun. It's so perfect.

it's a cancer fatal to my soul

I got rejected as a volunteer today. This is a fun form of rejection, as they are essentially telling you that they don't want you even though you're free.

Or, as Emma Cole put it:

"You're like a box of kittens on the side of the road that nobody wants. You come with your cage and food and shots, but nobody wants you anyway."

Thanks Emma Cole.

**

In the English lessons I teach, I've started having the kids listen to songs and fill in the blanks of a lyric printout.

Next week I'm doing "Yellow Submarine." I took out all the "yellow"s. I'm really excited.

her mind is tiffany twisted

Today I walked into Carl and Edvin's home for English tutoring. I was met by a very hyper Carl and his equally hyper grandfather who sang at me something along the lines of, "Sheevon, we've been waiting. I'm so happy I got to be here today."

Carl was doing a funky little dance while holding an iPhone playing "Hotel California."

"What are you doing?" I asked, laughing.

"Guess what song this is?!" Carl exclaimed.

"Hotel California."

Both Carl and his grandfather were ecstatic over this reply. Apparently they had specially chosen the song because I had come to Sweden from California. It was really adorable. I was glad they had chosen The Eagles' California song over Katy Perry's.

**

A church friend of mine recently online posted her need for a dog sitter. Christophe, who does not know her, replied to the ad and she figured out that he was my brother. With a bit of information I supplied her, she replied to him with this email:

With some of the details you gave me, I was able to do a bit of research and I do have a few additional questions...I talked with someone who seems to be well acquainted with you and he mentioned that you are really into Animal Collective and Vampire Weekend? I don't know much about those bands, but the names make me a bit nervous? Also, the Robert Plant poster? My dog really prefers a quiet environment and is very low energy, so I am not sure if this is a good fit? What do you think?

He got a bit spooked. Sho 1, Christophe 0.

**

I occasionally think about horrible ways to break up with someone. Mostly these ideas are from the experiences of various friends and acquaintances. But noone plans a breakup, right? They just happen. Wrong. I recently had a conversation with a friend who told me she had not only planned her breakup, she had planned it with her boyfriend. As in they negotiated a date ahead of time.

OK, fine. My odd friends aside, I've started compiling a list of ways to "win" your breakup. This means breaking up with them in a horrible "Got you last!" way.

How to Win Your Breakup: 3 Ways to Dump Someone

1) Associations. A few weeks before the breakup, start creating strong memories with their favorites: Start making their favorite foods for dates, start wearing their favorite scents, start playing their favorite band, etc. When you eventually break up, make it a messy one and these favorites will be ruined for them: they won't be able to smell lavender without hearing your screaming voice, or eat pork without seeing your angry face, or listen to Coldplay without wanting to throw something.

2) Pick a good date. Birthdays, Valentine's Day, the day before Prom, the day after they get into a motorcycle accident: these all work. Personal suggestion: April Fool's Day. Because then the actual breakup lasts for at least two days in their head.

3) Don't Actually Break Up. Just get really half hearted about everything and avoid confrontation like the plague. You could actually make this last for years.

(Right, so the last one doesn't really fit in the list, but I had run out and it was donated by someone who said it worked for him.)

**

OK, so just to let you all know that I'm really a good person – I don't actually suggest any of the options on the previous list. Think of it as a social commentary. Also, I've seen all of these happen in the personal lives of my friends/family members. So you could think of it as an extremely vague piece of history.

for papa, make him a scholar

Today the dog I was walking thought it would be a good idea to prove that the ice on top of the pond would hold his weight. It didn't.

Today the fingerprint guy said my fingers were like bird claws.

Today I met a woman from Norwalk, Connecticut. This wouldn't have been a problem, had she not heard that I was from Wilton, the neighboring town. I had put Wilton on my bio hoping that it wouldn't draw attention because it was such a small, random town. I had fun explaining to her that I had never actually lived in the town where I was "from."

Today winter started. It ends in May.

**OR**

Today, while walking Adam, I was fascinated by the thin sheet of ice sitting on a pond. I poked at it, threw snow across it, and admired the branches that were half under, half above it. Adam became curious and jumped onto it, immediately breaking through the ice. Luckily it was really shallow, and he jumped right out. Also, he looked hilarious with part of his body half the size of the rest of it.

Today, my siblings told me that the fingerprint guy said my fingers were like bird claws. I told my sister that he had said hers were like sausages. I win.

Today I met a woman from Norwalk, a small town bordering Wilton, the town my mother and grandparents are from which I've visited every summer my whole life. It was neat thinking that we had probably eaten at the same restaurants and probably knew some of the same people.

Today it snowed and Stockholm was transformed from a place of coldness to a place of cold beauty. It is hard to describe the feeling of peace to be gained by sitting by a window, warm in your room, watching the snow fall to the street below.

the freckles in our eyes are mirror images

Last week, Adam's owner asked me if I'd like to have tickets to the dress rehearsal of a dance show her company was putting on.

"They like to have a small show beforehand. You know, so they don't have to go naked in front of Stockholm on the first night," she explained.

Naked on the first night? I decided that this was a figure of speech – they didn't want to be exposed without having tested an audience. It was a dance show; surely there wouldn't be nudity.

I was wrong.

It was a modern dance performance, and on the whole really enjoyable. The first act included a crazy Bollywood number, a couple of pokes at the audience on our need to pay money to be entertained, and some up close time with the dancers (they donned Rudolph noses and walked into the audience, standing still and staring). The choreographer/writer was clearly going through some sort of existential crisis when he/she penned the piece: one section was devoted to bizarre dancing, dark lights, flashing words, and an increasingly dramatic voice repeatedly asking about beginnings and endings, life and death.

The second act got crazier. A lady sat upstage with a glazed look, repeating the word "Expectations" in a monotone voice. Clothing was shed with every light change, and the final scene had a naked body lying on stage right (just the back of it) and a naked man writhing across the stage on his belly (again, no frontal view). His body was moving madly, but on his face was an extremely realistic looking happy mask; the whole time he crawled/writhed across the stage, his face was in a huge, frozen smile.

in december drinking horchata

"Once it decides on a destination, it propels itself by thrusting its body up and away from the tree, sucking in its stomach, flaring out its ribs to turn its body in a "pseudo concave wing"[8] all the while making a continual serpentine motion of lateral undulation[9] parallel to the ground[10] to stabilise its direction in midair in order to land safely."

–Flying Snake description on Wikipedia. I love English.


"I don't have a girlfriend. I just know girls who would be really angry if they found out about each other."

–Christophe

**

English sounds like a crazy person language when it uses words like:

– surds
– gerunds
– ints

i don't mean to seem like i care about material things – like social status

Through a D.I.Y. Foreign Aid NYT article, I recently discovered Maggie Doyne, a 23- year-old from New Jersey who took a gap year before college and ended up living in Nepal, starting and running a children's home and school. My favorite part of her story is when she won a CosmoGirl Leadership contest and they sent her $20,000 for her school. They also flew her to NY for a makeover, which she laughed about, saying that at the time she had lice in her hair and rarely wore makeup.

Her story is awesome. Watch the video.

**

"Last week you had it out, and the week before you had a hat, but now it's up –" Carl made a gesture, pretending to pull his hair back.

Yes, my eight-year-old pays more attention to my hair than I do. This weirds me out because a) he's a boy and I'm all about gender stereotypes and b) he's eight.

My friend Natalia, also a teacher, frequently posts statuses about comments her children make on her physical appearance – clothing, hair, eyes, everything.

"Yesterday one of my little girls patted my tummy and said "wow, big!"--great. Today, however, a different little girl said, "miss Natalie has nice eyes, and nice mouth, and nice ears!"--THIS is why i teach little kids...they're good for the self-esteem--at least most of the time. hahaha :P"

**

Simply Sweden.

"I love this ad!" Amadeus showed me a Snickers advertisement from her student issued scheduler. "Snickers is amazing!" I looked. "Peanut power!"

The ad had a Kama Sutra book with a bunch of post its inside it. "Got a big job to do?" was the slogan.

"That's the Kama Sutra!"

"What's that? One of those holy texts?"

(snickers kama sutra ad)

So the photobooth shot I took is backwards, but you get the point.

Welcome you Sweden.

turn my head with talk of summertime

Numbers in Sweden are different.

I have strings of memorized four digit door codes floating about in my mind. (Almost every apartment/work building has a four digit code required to enter.)

Time is done in 24 hours. Really it's efficient because you never have to specify a.m. or p.m., or rack your brain trying to remember if 12 midnight is a.m. or p.m – it's 0.00. Of course, a.m./p.m. is rarely needed for context (no, school doesn't get out at 3 a.m.), but when it is needed, things can get confusing. I've known many people who have missed flights over these confusions.

Time is also different because Swedes are on it. They are always on time. They are never late, and if they are early, they drive an extra time around the block so that they arrive exactly on time. (The embassy's briefing words, not mine). You can see this obsession with time in the bus system – buses often hit arrival time to the minute, and if they're running late, they're libel to drive right by you to make up for time. (Haven't experienced this, but heard it happens). Not convinced? Perhaps the omnipresent giant outdoor clocks will help make my point.

Numbers are also different in the dating game. Well, perhaps not, but I thought I'd use the segway. Every Swedish girl who has met my 21-year-old brother has fallen immediately, madly, and aggressively in love with him. This includes quite an age range – high school (19) to well-established (late 30's). They call, text, invite him out, invite themselves in, cook him dinner, introduce him to rock legends, the list goes on. He seems almost bewildered by the attention, but, like any reasonable man, quickly attributed it to karma; "Girls didn't like me when I was young." Not quite true Christophe.

**

It's 8° C here (46°F). To my Middle-East/Californian internal expectations, this is very cold. A glance at the weather forecast gives the joyful news of the degrees marching steadily down; by Thursday we're hitting 2°.

And I've handled it OK so far. No bad weather, only bad clothes. I get that. Problem is, if it gets much colder, I'm going to start thinking that there are a lot of bad clothes out there, because I'm barely getting by.

Of course, when I bring up my weather worries, people always remind me that the actual hard part of Swedish winters is that it is dark all the time. Oh yeah, and that winter lasts for about seven months. S.A.D. Fairly high suicide rates (#28 in the world).

They have "happy lamps" here which give off sunlight type rays and include possible side effects of "being wired."

**

Funky Story:

The benign thief. This is thief we all aspire to be stolen from – he stole a laptop from a professor, and then returned the contents in a magic stick. (Yes, that's what I call them.)


All I ask of you:

Watched part of Phantom the other day. Emmy Rossum was 16 when she played this part. My ex-roomie was called Christine, and she looks quite a bit like Christine in the movie. I occasionally sang Phantom songs at her, but I don't think it had the same effect as Gerard Butler/Patrick Wilson.

smell the wine and cheap perfume

"Prater du Engelska?"
"Yes."
"My sister and I are making a book, and we're asking people 'What is love.' What do you think love is?"

This was the exchange we had multiple times as we interviewed locals about the meaning of love. Ammadeus was wearing her 30's looking oval hat and cream colored coat. I wore her long, shiny black jacket with the buckle in the front; on my head sat a poofy green hat that Llama had knit – it made me feel artsy.

Ammadeus toted the pen and notebook while I manned the camera. As we headed out, I warned her that interviewing people can be a tricky process – some people do not want to talk, and many people refuse to be photographed. They would probably not want to give out personal information such as name and email, and they would most likely regard us suspiciously. I had conducted many spur of the moment interviews as a journalism major in California and Swedes are generally much more reserved than Americans.

Naturally, after my little pep talk, we ran into the friendliest, open, willing-to-be-photographed-and-give-email-and-name-and-where-they-were-from people imaginable.

And what do Swedes think love is? You'll have to read the book.

Just kidding. Here's some of what we came across.

Nature. A mid-thirties dark-haired Swedish woman, dressed casually and sitting on a dock, staring over the lake and sipping coffee. She says that love is in nature. It's being able to come outside after being sick for a few days and re-experience the scenery.

Physical. A middle-aged man, sitting on a bench with his iPhone, tells us that love is about a physical connection.

Togetherness. We serendipitously stumbled across a newlywed couple. They happily laughed when we asked our question, and the woman explained that love is about just being together.

These were a few of the answers we received. I really do want to follow through on the book.

lucky to be coming home again

There's a giant clothing advertisement here that features four young (under 10) children, immaculately dressed and posed almost suggestively. When I see this poster, I am bothered by the barely disguised sexualisation that seems far too early. And then I wonder why we are so much more concerned about protecting children than adults. Certainly, they are born innocent, tabula rasas, impressionable – we want them to be preserved and shielded as long as possible.

So what's the magic age? What's the age when we decide that youth are old enough to be plunged into the dirt? Why don't we try to protect ourselves as much as our children? Must knowledge and exposure to grays mean that adults do not deserve an attempt at purity/preservation? Child porn is not OK but adult porn is? A 40 year-old with a 17-year-old is not OK, but a 40 year-old with an 18-year-old is? An 80-year-old with a 25-year-old?

I know we need to be able to make our own choices. I just don't understand them sometimes. And it seems as though society as a whole only seems to care about aiding the moral choices of minors.

**

Butterflies

Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.

So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.

Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, "Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.

"You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead." . . .

"Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,"
The three-dimensioned preacher saith;
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche's birth. . . . And that is our death!

–Rudyard Kipling

**

I love dogs because they get excited about sticks. And funky smells. And every other dog in the area. And they're so transparent – tail wags furiously when excited, tail droops when sad. But while I enjoy dogs, I have always loved cats more.

I love cats because they love sunshine and warm laundry. And sleeping. And sneaking up on birds. Mostly though, I'm a cat person because cats make you feel like it's their choice to stay with you. Dogs seem to give away their affection to anything with a hand to feed them and throw their sticks. Also, you never need to fake excitement with cats.

she's a good girl, loves her mama

A couple of the Swedish kids I tutor are nine-year-old boys. This means that they are far beyond me in all video/computer game knowledge, even with their limited English. When discussing video games, their voices speed up, their eyes brighten, and their hands start gesturing.

They introduced me to Steam (not 'Stream' which I, understandably, thought they were saying), and explained their love for Half Life, Oblivion, and various other sequeled games (Dark City 4?). I tend to be fairly unenthused about any gaming, mostly because I'm terrible at everything except Tetris, but also because it doesn't seem like the healthiest of addictions for little boys. However, these boys also have other hobbies (they love reading), and it's hard to condemn something that brings so much excitement into their faces. I did make an attempt at addressing the possible violence exposure.

"So do you guys use guns in these games?"

They looked at each other in a half 'what planet is this lady from,' half 'I can't wait to answer this question' way.

"Yes! In lots of them. In '.....' and '....' and '.....' "

"Maybe you should go around hugging instead of shooting. Or giving flowers." (Yes, I tease. I'm so cool.)

"But...we kill Zombies."

"Oh. Well I guess that's OK then." Really, there isn't any other way to deal with Zombies.

**

In my experience, Swedes have odd taste in American media. Ammadeus tells me that the kids at her school constantly sing Toto and other random old bands. The radio stations keep us entertained by playing Dusty Springfield, Billy Idol, Gnarls Barkley, Guns&Roses; all in a row.

My kids have funky movie taste too. Their list of favorites include Men in Black, Star Trek, Star Wars, I Robot, I am Legend, Ace Ventura Pet Detective, and the Scooby Doo movies.

**

Life Advice: Don't take public transportation home at midnight on the night of a Beer and Whiskey Festival in Sweden. Piles of puke. Stumbling, staggering, sickly people.

A mid 30's pale man with curly blond hair, glasses, zigzagged his way toward me and sat down too close, mumbling something in Swedish.

I smiled and shrugged until it became clear he expected an answer. We switched to English – he was fairly incoherent, but this might have been his extreme intoxication, not his language abilities.

"I'm so stupid," he looked distressed.

"Oh." I tried to sound sympathetic as I put a few more inches between us. I don't mind having these conversations as long as they maintain a certain distance.

"I only listen to my own things."

"Ah. That's alright."

"Nooo. I am so – " he said a foreign word I didn't recognize. I looked blankly at him.

"You are not Russian?"

"No," I shrugged. "American."

He spent the rest of our conversation trying to convince me that we were the same age (I denied), and telling me that he liked music. Just...music.

"You are...nice," he leaned to touch my arm. I stood up. "My train is here."

"Sorry!" He called after me.

I got home and told Ammadeus the story. She said I should have gotten his number and texted him in the morning about all the stupid things he had said. I think that would have been 1) harsh or 2) completely ineffective. (ie he would have found it funny.)

**

"Lady Gaga sings strange songs, but she doesn't wear many clothes." Tristan (age 9). Quite well put.

flipping your fins, you don't get too far

What's the name of the restaurant?

His text reply was prompt.

Vapiano. By Zara.

Zara. A reasonably priced Spanish clothing store that reminded me of shopping at a branch in Oman. Shopping. Ammadeus.

Hey, where's Zara?

Her reply was to be expected.

Are you going SHOPPING without me?

No. Chris and I are meeting some babysitting parents for lunch. The restaurant is near Zara.

Oh. It's in Kungsgatan.

I hopped off the metro at Sergels Torg, the city center, and started walking in the direction a bus driver had pointed at when I asked for Kungsgatan.

There it was; Zara. I kept walking. And walking and walking. After I had thoroughly covered the area around Zara, I called Christophe.

Fun Conversation 1:

"Hey, I'm near Zara but I can't find the restaurant."

"Where are you?"

"Um. In a flower and fruit market. There's a giant PUB sign."

"What?"

"I took a right after Zara's."

"Why would you take a right after Zara's? He said 'Go right past Zara'"

"I tried that and it didn't work, so I figured maybe I should turn right."

"Okay, go to the Maxburgare." (Maxburgare = Sweden's version of fastfood.)

"I don't see one."

"Do you see a McDonalds?"

"Yes."

"There's a Maxburgare across from the McDonalds. Do you see it?"

I was far away, but I thought I saw the telltale red markings of a Maxburgare.

"Yeah."

"Okay go there and I'll meet you."

**

Naturally, we soon discovered that we were at a Mcdonalds in two different parts of Stockholm, near two different Zaras. Neither of us could see Vapiano, our restaurant destination. I hopped a bus to Kungsgarten (where he was) and called him for Fun Conversation 2.

He picked up with, "I was wrong. I just spoke to the guy we're meeting and it is in Sergels Torg, not Kungsgarten."

"Great. Well I'm in Kungsgarten now."

"Okay, I'm here too. What do you see?"

"Umm...an H&M?" (This is like saying you're near a tree in Ireland...or a Starbucks in LA.)

We discovered that we were both near NK, Sweden's version of Saks Fifth Avenue; a giant, classy clothing/everything store. We decided to meet under the big NK sign a la Sleepless in Seattle. This led to Fun Conversation 3.

"Hey. I'm under the NK sign."

"I'm under the NK sign."

"Uh, no you aren't. I can't see you. I'm under the sign. It's a huge NK."

"I know. I'm under the huge NK sign."

"Like right under?"

"Well, I'm a bit to the right."

"What right?"

"Like, looking out from NK's viewpoint, I'm to the right."

"Okay, stay there. I'll come."

Naturally, we finally figured out that there are two huge NK signs, about 30 feet apart – the very distance, it turns out, that removes the other from sight.

**

We arrive 40 minutes late after discovering a 3rd Zara within the same two mile radius. Apparently Zara is a big hit here? This was the type of comment we used as we profusely apologized to the man, woman, and four toddlers who were waiting for us.

We then continued on to Fun Conversation 4.

CH, the father we were eating with, asked Christophe what he was doing in Stockholm. Christophe told him about his tutoring/babysitting/housesitting jobs. I decided to pitch in.

"And he's writing screenplays!" This was true, and I thought it made him sound pretty cool, like a struggling writer.

"Oh really? What kind of screenplays?" CH asked.

Christophe smiled, "Oh, you know..."

"Horrific ones," I chimed in. I meant to say "Horror ones"– Christophe has written a very dark, disturbing story about a serial killer which I thought was really well done. Possibly not great conversation fodder for a first meeting with a babysitting client. Other, better topics, might have been his comedies

Oops.

**

Classic Monty Python:

lay you down in six feet of ground, 'cause we were born to raise –

Try explaining "tacky" to an English speaker. Then try explaining it to two eight-year-old Swedish girls who don't know the months of the year in English.

This is what I ended up with (after many faces and half started sentences):

"It's like if you go to a birthday party, and everyone brings beautiful gifts. –– Do you bring gifts on birthdays here?"

They nod.

"Right, and everyone brings a beautiful gift, but you bring a stick."

They giggled.

"Kind of like that."

I told mumsi and Ammadeus about definition.

"But that's not what tacky means!" Ammadeus said.

"I know! But kind of. And how would you do it?"

Mumsie chimed in: "Read them "Tacky the Penguin!"

"That's what I was doing! That's what got me into this!"

**

Inevitably confusing explanations aside, Tacky the Penguin is a marvelous book. It follows the adventures of Tacky, a back-slapping, funky marching, belly-flopping penguin, and his friends Goodly, Lovely, Angel, Neatly and Perfect.

**

"So how are you liking Sweden?" This is one of the first questions I get when people learn that I'm a foreigner (the moment I open my mouth) and fairly new to the country.

My general response is "Oh I really like it here, it's so beautiful." True.

If they ask more questions, I delve into my appreciation for the extensive public transportation, the glittering lakes, accessible nature.

"If you like it that much, why are you leaving?" They never ask this question because I never tell them that I'm planning on heading out in the Spring. It would be a fair question though.

**

Ammadeus is 17 and in her final year of high school. She is at a Swedish school, and constantly makes silly complaints about how it's hard to understand concepts in Physics and Higher Math when taught in Swedish. Apparently the symbols used in the math here are the same but have different meanings. What a complainer.

She keeps changing her mind about college. And when I say "changing her mind," I don't mean the way normal people do it – getting enthused about an idea for a few days and then switching to another one.

No, she gets dead set on an idea and dives headlong into researching and understanding it. First it was chef. She bought cookbooks, started making recipes from scratch, set up a profitable homemade pasta business, and researched the New York Culinary Arts school.

Then she decided Neuroscience. She would be a doctor and help people. She constantly brought up questions about the function of the brain, and came to dinner with the weirdest facts. She declared it as a desired major on all of her college applications, and chose schools with appropriate programs.

Two days ago, she announced that she wants to go to business school and has to rewrite all of her essays extolling the merits of neuroscience.

The problem is, I can't make fun of her. Well I can. But six years up the road and I still daily change my mind.

**

I'm currently tutoring a 4 year old named Buster. This is very difficult for me, as I am a huge Arrested Development and have certain, indelible, associations with the name. Also, maybe name the dog Buster and name your kid Jack.

you're so lovely, are you lonely?

I cradled baby Lila, rocking her slowly. Her eyes were closed and her lips forcefully sucked the bottle of milk as though afraid it would be removed at any moment. Three quarters of the way through the bottle, she sighed and her arm involuntarily lifted until her tiny hand rested on mine. A tear rested beneath her eyelashes, a lone tribute to her earlier cries of hunger.

**

Babysitting is actually the best job in the world. You put the kids to bed and then get paid per hour to read/watch a movie/go online.

**

"You hate it when people just don't care about things." My professor, Dr. L, was telling me about myself after reading some of my opinion articles. "You just want to shake them up." He went on to describe me further, all settled statements, some accurate, some oddly off, all unsolicited. Still, it was interesting for me to hear an analysis from someone who barely knew me except through my writing.

**

In Los Angeles, I got around by bus which occasionally worried my roommates and friends. One night after riding the bus home with a guy friend who usually drove, I explained to him that the bus system was quite safe.

"Everyone I've spoken to says it's pretty safe. I've never had any problems, and there are always lots of people."

He looked at me. "Didn't you notice some of the people in the back? The ones who have no connections?"

No connections. No one tying them to a sense of purpose.

**

History class. 11th grade. It was a discussion based class, and our conversation had delved into what we wanted to do in the future. I announced that I wanted to make a lot of money so that I could use it to help the poor.

After class, the history teacher, Mr. J, pulled me aside.

"One of the reasons I teach is because I get to meet students who give me hope for the future," he said warmly. "You are one who gives me hope. Hope that things won't always be like this, that things will one day be better."

I felt like I had been knighted. Words are powerful.

**

Dreams From My Father:

" 'Don't you think, Francis, that sometimes Christianity not so good? For Africa, the missionary changes everything, yes? He brings...how do you say?'

'Colonialism,' I offered.

'Yes –colonialism. White religion, no?'

Francis placed the Bible in his lap. 'Such things troubled me when I was young. The missionaries were men, and they erred as men. Now that I am older, I understand that I also can fail. That is not God's failure. I also remember that some missionaries fed people during drought. Some taught children to read. In this, I believe they were doing God's work. All we can do is aspire to live like God, though we will always fall short.' "

– Barack Obama describes a conversation during a safari he went on with his sister.

**

it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea

I am house sitting for a beautiful Schnauzer named Bob. He is smallish and soft with lovely gray fur that shimmers like a silk pashmina (his face is darker as per photo). He is quite comical looking after a recent shearing which left a buzzed body, long curly-haired legs, and a face covered in extensive furry eyebrows and an adorable dog-beard.

I'm pretty sure Bob loves me more than any person ever has – when I'm on a couch he isn't allowed on, he whimpers and looks up at me, begging me to sit somewhere closer to him. Also, his entire body shakes with excitement when we get ready for a walk. Sure, his affection is based solely on the fact that I feed him, but people have gotten married for worse reasons.

**

Today one of my 5-year-olds managed to cut a hole in the crotch of his jeans before I grabbed the scissors out of his hands.

**

This week I had some of my older kids write out "I can" sentences. They started with "I can play," and "I can read." A few minutes after writing "I can read" perfectly, Carla erased it and wouldn't tell me why. I then remembered that she had told me she can't read, and had probably erased it because she didn't want to write a lie.

**

On Monday, I gave Carl and Edvin a career vocabulary list. I started running out of ideas, but decided against garbageman and bus driver in case their parents thought I was encouraging underachievement. Instead I used jobs like doctor, dentist, and lawyer.

"What is lo-yer?" Carl asked.

"A lawyer? Well..." I tried to think of 1st grade ESL descriptors. "You know the man with the big thing he hits?" (I made a gavel-like gesture.)

His eyes brightened. "Oh! It's him?"

"No. That's a judge. But he's in the same room. He's one of the ones who talk."

"Oh. Does he...make the ––what are they called?"

"Laws?"

"Yes!"

"No."

He looked confused.

"Ummm. Okay, do you know what a criminal is?"

He shook his head. "No."

"A criminal is someone who does something bad. Like murders or steals."

"Okay."

"And then the police catch the criminal."

"Yeah."

"And then the lawyer is a man who says "No! This person did not do that. He tells the man with the loud thing (another gavel gesture). Do you understand?"

He scrunched his nose and shook his head.

"Oh well, that's OK. Maybe you can ask your parents later."

I think I'm going to start ending all my conversations with that line.

**

I'm writing this from the house of a little boy and his baby sister who I'm babysitting – Benjamin (4 yrs) and Lila (11 mos). It's been a little odd hearing Benjamin chatter nonstop; I've been used to Swedish children, who, if not naturally more reserved than Americans, certainly are quieter simply because they don't know much English.

I feel a bit like my ex-roomie Rebekah who couldn't get over a friend's verbose toddler sister after working with deaf children every day.

Benjamin's parents were a bit nervous about how he would act with a babysitter because he's only ever been watched by family members, and not at all since moving to Sweden. Turns out there was no need to worry; he was so excited showing me his toys that he barely said goodbye to his dad.

"And these are my trucks! And this opens like this! And here are some cars! And here's an engine!" His words were tripping over themselves in his excitement. He laughed like crazy while he talked for five minutes straight.

He looked at his baby sister, sitting in her bouncy seat. "Lila is very interested in watching me. She loves me very much!"

I realized that I had called him Ben even though his parents had referred to him as Benjamin.

"What do your friends call you? Ben or Benny? Or Benjamin?"

"They call me Benjamin, because that's what I like to be called."

"Oh. Why's that?"

"Because that's my name. It's the name God gave me."

Hard to argue with that. And probably not my place to be giving nicknames, so Benjamin it is. He is an energetic sweetheart with sandy brown hair and vivid blue eyes. Tonight he is wearing a green NotreDame Fighting Irish shirt (which he says is big enough for a 6-year-old), and he is reluctant to change out of it into his pajamas. I convince him that it is necessary, and step out of the room for privacy.

"Miss Siobhan, I have to go potty!" he bursts out of the room pantless.

"Okay," I say. "You can do that on your own right?" The last time I helped a boy go potty turned into quite a literal mess.

"Yes." After potty, he washes his hands. He then uses the towel to mess up his hair because he "doesn't like it at night." Then he decides he wants his hair nice, after all. Water is applied – "to make it straighter" – and he runs a comb through it.

I finally get him into bed, where he informs me he must say his prayers, but that we aren't going to cuddle. An Our Lady, Our Father, and ? later, and he's done.

"I won't tell you my sins because I'll tell mom and dad."

"Okay," I smile.

"I threw a temper tantrum at breakfast."

"Ohh," I say seriously.

"But I'm not going to tell you the rest. I'll tell mom and dad."

I assure him that this is fine and bid him goodnight.

"But we haven't talked about the day." No, we haven't. I sit down.

"Well I woke up. And went for a walk. And had breakfast. And then didn't have no lunch. And then played. And then dad went and picked – what's your name?"

"Miss Siobhan."

"Shu-von?"

"Shivon."

"Shivon. Shivon. Picked Miss Shivon up."

"What a fun day," I say (or something to this effect). "Well, goodnight Benjamin."

**

The rest of the night passes without incident, aside from baby Lila squirting pee right when I take her diaper off to change her. How can her timing be this terrible? Also, why don't mothers go on Fear Factor? They deal with a lot of grody stuff.