The mystery of the gnome

For those of you that have been awake at night wondering where our garden gnome went, now we know!

We were invited over to the house of the two Italian Angels who take care of the house for us, for some "apero". And there he was, sitting in their garden! I did not say anything, as these are not the kind of people that would actually intentionally steal anything, so bringing it up would be just plain embarrassing. I guess they just thought he was a left-over from Monsieur Duct Tape, the previous owner of our house.

Well, now he has a view of the bay of Mandelieu. Definitely moving up in this world, I would say. Good for him.

The last pair?

I saved the best pair for the last day. My Jimmy Choo golden strappy kitten-heel sandals. Given to me by Mr. Incredible during a weekend trip to Stockholm with some friends. Something tells me that he really must like me.

Today a year has gone by since I started this blog. Meaning that this is supposed to be my last post. And I know that you are dying to know if I really managed to use all of my shoes this year. Yay! Well, it might not come as a complete surprise to you, but - no - I didn't. When I started off I had this plan that I would have to get rid of the shoes I did not use this year, but I can't. There are in fact exactly fifty pairs left, including some really nice ones.

It feels a bit sad ending this journey, and it surely has been a year full of adventures. As I started off, it was not really my the intention to share so many details from my personal life on this blog. But somehow I did, and it did not feel to scary. Sometimes it even helped me sort out my head when I was a bit of a mess. So, thanks for being out there.

Bye.

Oh, I think I'm gonna cry! This is so sad!

Now. Bye. Really. I mean it.

Wine tasting - by the bucket

Red strappy sandals from Högl. A brand for old ladies focusing on comfortable shoes. I will be there in a couple of years anyway, so I figured I might just as well get used to it. Souvenirs from that shoe-purchasing-bonanza in Kiel.

My dad got MIA* at our local hypermarket in Grasse on Thursday. I found him frozen on the spot in front of a shelf full of ordinary** sparkling French wines. Looked a bit like a hunting dog that has found its prey and is waiting for the hunter to come pick it up. I do not think he was drooling, though. Or maybe he was.

The "prey" was a whole shelf of sparkling French wines in the price range of 99 euro-cents to 2 euros. One of them allegedly cost 15 euros at the government owned (crikey!) wine store in Norway. Living under such harsh conditions up in the cold north with only over-priced wine and booze to comfort us through the long and dark winter evenings has of course made some serious damage to our souls. We just cannot resist cheap alcohol when we see it. There. I said it.

Friday night we decided to give our wine bargains a try. I mean, how bad could it be, even at less than one euro? What would we really prefer? Twentyfive bottles of this crappy bubbly, or - one delicious bottle of the staple every day champagne from Möet et Chandon?

Actually, I would say it is hard to come to a true conclusion here, as nobody I know would really be able to test the twentyfive bottles and live to tell the story. But, if the effect of the four bottles we tried between us is anything to go by, my hunch is that I would rather go with the one bottle of real champagne over the two cases of the cheap stuff. I just think it will be better for your health. At least judging by how I felt the morning after this rather small sample.

Poor Monsieur Incroyable. Returning to France today to find his Madame in such a state. Can somebody get me a bucket, please?!

* Missing In Action.
** Not from the Champagne district.

Being French

My yellow "Replay" souvenir sandals from Croatia! Purchased in the town of Pula. I am not good with names, neither with people or places (I am a bit like Dory in the movie "Finding Nemo"). But the name of this Croatian town sticks like glue, as the name is written and pronounced the same way as the Norwegian work for f***ed. I guess this says a thing or two about my unintentionally selective memory.

These yellow shoes are a typical "holiday romance". You totally fall for them after walking around in the sun for three weeks in a brightly colored sun dress (messes up your brain big time). You even fall so hard that you go ahead and buy TWO PAIRS, because you simply cannot decide on red or yellow. Then you come back home, and your yellow patent leather platform sandals (hellooooo!) just do not work in "real life". At least not for me, as pole dancing is not part of my job description (I think). Still, it makes me happy to look at those yellow shoes sitting there at the bottom of my closet.

I love France. I really do. Perhaps to the extent that - in theory - I could live there permanently. Still, it is quite a strange country. In some areas they are way ahead of other countries - especially when it comes to gastronomy and fashion. But then they have other things that are just plain backwards. France is for instance one of those countries with a banking system still relying heavily on check books. Then there is the traffic. People are so much in a hurry. For being such a "sophisticated" or "civilized" country, people are pretty rude! Also, parking is allowed anywhere, just as long as you turn on the hazard warning lights on your car. Works every time. When it comes to gender politics, France is also a country where women are still women, and men are men. Or rather - cheating bastards, as you also may also refer to it. You see, having a mistress - or - as they call it - "a second wife" is perfectly normal. Even the presidents do it, so then it must be ok….

Come to think of it, I do not think I will ever really blend in in France, if that is even an objective. Being blonde (chemically at least), rather "big boned", and not being a smoker, I do not have much going for me. That last point is "tres important". All French women do smoke. That is in fact the way they avoid getting anywhere near being defined as "big boned", even in spite of their serious croissant-and-latte habits. Another problem is that I tend to smile a lot. Perhaps even more so when I am actually in France. In France, smiling is for children and tourists (people who does not know how to act cool). So, even though I sometimes take up the morning habit of carrying baguettes forced up my sweaty armpits, my silly grin while doing so will always give me away. Merde….

Mozart et la

My white Havaianas. Purchased in Brazil. Not my favorite pair of flip-flops, as these are apparently not meant for Norwegians with broad feet and an abnormally high instep. Note to self: Always try on shoes before you buy. Now these shoes live in exile in France.

Which brings me to this: We have this great pizza take-away place down the road from our little French chateau. This is where we go to pick up our "diner" if we:

A) Run out of propane for the barbecue
B) Have forgotten to buy groceries
C) Just cannot be bothered to cook, a.k.a. throw the remains of some dead animal on the barbecue

This pizza-joint is just starting up (I think), so they have these "generic" pizza boxes. Which makes me wonder: What on earth is George Clooney doing on a PIZZA BOX IN FRANCE? Is this his "dark past"? We know that all great actors/actresses always needed to take some shitty job before their careers took off. Serving coffee/flipping burgers, or - if really desperate - doing porn movies. But - "pizza boy"? That's a new one!

http://mozart.ipizzaphone.mobi

Mister Cleverpants

My lovely, but impossibly high-heeled Marc Jacobs sandals. They make me tall, but as they are incompatible with champagne, they mostly stay in my closet. Sad.

Back home in Oslo, I have this neighbor. Everything he does ends up a success. I just can not decide whether I should just let go and allow myself to be utterly impressed by this guy, or whether I should just feel annoyed (this is by the way THE Norwegian way of handling other people's success, and it is deeply embedded in us all).

Listen to this: He has played football on a fairly high level, he has a great education (happened to study at the same school as I…), and he landed a great job at a huge bank. Then, his band project during his student years turned into one of Norway's best-selling bands. Just to try it out, he starts writing crime novels about this thirsty policeman called Harry Hole. And, guess what? A huge success. Children's books? Oh yes, that too. In addition to this, he does not look too bad either (huge understatement). Argh!

This summer, I have given in. As I think I was the only grown-up person In Norway who had not read any of his books. Now I have read them all in the course of close to six weeks. And I just have to give it to this guy. He is good. He is really good. I just wish I could come up with something as brilliant. Perhaps I should write my own crime novel? About an old apartment building in Oslo, where people start to disappear after entering the huuuuuge daaaaark basement. The first one to go, in a very violent way, would be our next-door neighbor, Mr. Grumpyface! (Ok, I can sort of understand why he hates us so much. There has been a few loud parties over the years.) Then we will all disappear, one by one. And then they catch the killer, and - "ta-daaaah" - it is the famous novelist living up in the attic. Seems he is testing out his ideas for the next book in real life….

I think this book could most probably make me a millionaire, and then he would surely sue me for all I am worth (and then some). I better not risk that.

I do, however, have another great idea. As I have had far too much time on my hands this summer, I have had the chance to dive into some French literature, too. Or rather, a French crime series, written by an Englishman. The main character, Inspector Bruno, is a bit different from the Norwegian policeman Harry Hole. The French hero is a nature lover and a hunter, goes for walks in the fields with his dog, is friends with everybody in the village, and he cooks the most incredible food. Of course, he also drinks on duty, but just a little Sauternes. Even though the books about Bruno are crime novels, they are "feelgood" crime novels in a way. And although I also love to read about the deeply depressing world of Harry Hole, my dream crime novel would be the one where Harry Hole has to go to France to help his colleague Bruno solve a case. Harry could definitely use a touch of Bruno's "joie de vivre". Me and my brilliant ideas!

http://www.brunochiefofpolice.com

Chapon for one

My Mexx sandals. Purchased in Kiel, that Easter I have mentioned so many times. Referred to as "The-Easter-when-we-could-not-go-skiing" (boo! hoo!), as Mr. Incredible had a "sort-of-self-inflicted-issue-related-to-his-ankle". So instead we took the ferry to Germany. Awesome shoe shopping, anyway. Surely, nobody can argue against souvenir shoes, right?

Saturday night we had reservations at my favorite seafood restaurant in Cannes. Oh la la! I just cannot eat fish that looks like…fish,  so I just always just order my very safe battered ("meuniere") dover sole (no head, no skin, no fins). The lovely Miss J. is more of the adventurous kind. AND her father grew up in the northern part of Norway, so she is used to seeing - and trained from early age to EAT even the "violent" parts of fish. (You would not believe it, I mean, she looks SO innocent with her blonde hair and all!)

Her selection for the day was a "chapon". A real ugly S.O.B. The problem was just that these ugly creatures are to share, as they are kind of HUGE. So, after some "oh-la-la"-ing and "mon dieus" all about, our waiter managed to locate a one-portion-sized "chapon" somewhere up the street. (I do not want to know where he got it from, most probably there was this guy standing on a street corner in a grey trench coat, selling fish out of his inner pockets).

The proud waiter tip-toed over to the table after showing the freshly grilles sea monster to Miss J. "Coupe, Madame?" He started giggling when the lovely mademoiselle did not want him to cut the fish to remove all fish-resembling parts. There were no more giggles when he came back to clear our plates a while later…

http://www.chezastoux.com

Dick

The more sensible sibling to my Alex wedges, the Alexlo from Stuart Weitzman. Part of same shipment from the US via my mail forwarding service in Jersey. (Every shopper with a black belt should have one. And, guess what? I found out about this service from a GUY at work. Beat that. So shopping is not just a girly thing.) Easier to walk in, but not by far as glam as the taller version. More of a Monday or Tuesday shoe.

As you might have noticed, we are not entirely happy with our gardener/pool boy, a.k.a. Quasimodo. One thing is that he does not really meet my standards of what a French pool boy should look like, but I could live with that if he at least was a good pool boy. Or gardener. Or ANYTHING other than a real sleaze bag, really.

Last Friday he managed to mess up things properly in the pool utility room. As he wanted to prove to me that the plumber I had hired had not fixed the leak, he had to start poking his nose in things far beyond his competence level. You see, he does not like the fact that we can fix things on our own, or with the help of people he has not "approved". So, he stated that there was still a leak in the pool room, as the pipes were a bit damp (which as far as I could see was just condensation, but what do I know...). The story peaked with him unscrewing the main valve to the pool. Clever. As the water pressure was quite high, he managed to SOAK himself as well as the entire room, and he had a real struggle getting the valve closed again. And when he did, guess what? Now we had the MOTHER OF ALL LEAKS. Awesome. Mr. Incredible arrived, and instantly hit the roof. Clearly telling the pool boy what he thought of his work, in a phrase I will just refer to in Norwegian ("Din jæææævla kuk!)" and not translate, in case someone under age is reading this. The guy got the message. He said he would be back to fix the mess Monday, and left.

With the help of our housekeeper's husband, we managed to close the leak the same evening. It turned out that Quasimodo had put the lid of the valve back on without the little rubber ring that firmly closes it (sorry, this is where my English vocabulary ends).

Still, we waited for Quasimodo to turn up again on Monday.
And Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
And Thursday.
And Friday.
No sign of him.

Yesterday I decided to call him. He did not answer, so I left a message telling him we were expecting him. In the afternoon, I heard a car in the backyard. And with him being the only other person with a key to the gate, I knew it must be him. So I quickly asked my friend Miss J, who was visiting from London, and is - very conveniently - fluent in French, to be my back up in case I was not able to make myself understood.

When asked where he had been all week, the moron managed to put on silly grin and stated that he had been ON VACATION. That did it. I just asked for his keys back, and told him he was done.

His muttering of "no problem, no problem, no problem" all the way back to his car, and the way he rocketed off our premises in his little pick-up truck told me otherwise. But it felt really good. From now on I can even take a dip in my very own pool without being afraid of the pig suddenly appearing from behind a bush. Or, as our real-estate agent should later put it so eloquently. "I am so sorry. I did not know, but that guy is AN ANIMAL."

The moral of the story is, if you find someone to work for you that quotes you a fixed price that is too good to be true, it normally is. You should always expect to get exactly what you are paying for.


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A long way from home

Yesterday was such a shock. I really don't have words for it. My husband called me from his office just after the bomb had gone off in Oslo. It was just surreal.

Then the news of the shootings reached us later in the evening. Even more surreal. On one side I wish I was at home with my husband, on the other side I was relieved to be safe in my little sheltered cocoon in France with my good friend and my parents. No TV, no internet, and the news on the radio I could not make a lot out of since it was all in French. Just one of the French newspapers showed photos of wounded people on the front page, the others had nothing.

I do not think Norway will ever be the same again.

The stamp of approval

This week we received "The Letter". The letter from the Norwegian adoption authorities allowing us to apply for adoption from China. It is a huge relief to finally have this, but still it is just one small step towards hopefully being parents one day.

Now we need to start gathering paperwork for the big application to Chinese adoption authorities. That is going to be a walk in the park compared to the next part of the process, though. The waiting. The estimated waiting time is now five years. Five years! I will be an old mum, but I will definitely be a very happy one.

Lost in translation

My Timberland wooden wedge sandals. Purchased in Barcelona years ago, on a shopping trip that turned into more of a sightseeing trip after my friend and I managed to select the one weekend when most shops were closed due to public holidays. As you can see, I still managed to buy some shoes.

Waiting for the plumber seems to be my main occupation these days. One day it is the pool, another day it is the toilet leaking. And waiting for someone you do not really know WHEN will turn up, in your house that seems to be the ONLY house on this planet without a DOORBELL, can be quite frustrating. As you cannot really relax in the garden, in case you do not hear the guy coming. The whole process involves a lot of running up and down stairs, opening and shutting doors, and gazing out windows.

Every fifteen minutes or so, I would go outside to the parking lot next to our main entrance to look for the guy. Then, out of the blue, a total stranger appears at the top of our staircase. He has a bit of a desperate look to his face, and he has a serious case of sunburn - his nose peeling. He approaches me and exclaims:

"Je suis perdue!"

Hm. Perdue. Perdue? Perdue. Hm. I know we had that in French class. My first thought is that the is SORRY. He sure LOOKS sorry at least. Hm. No. That cannot be it.

Then it hits me. Of course. Overjoyed that I am actually able to understand what this native Frenchman is saying to me, I exclaim - in English:

"Oh, you are - LOST!"

Like that was the greatest news I had ever heard. The guy looked truly puzzled. No wonder. Here he is - lost in this labyrinth of a small village, the sun is burning, and this crazy person is actually HAPPY to hear about his great distress?

I somehow managed to pull myself together and give the man directions for his way back go the main (well, there really is just one, but still, the village is large enough for people to get lost anyway) square in our village.

I definitely need to install a doorbell sometime soon. I cannot imagine how the previous owner of our house survived without that for twenty years. I guess Mr. Duct Tape did not have that many friends coming over to visit. Or handymen, I guess. You don't need that when you have enough of the extremely versatile duct tape....


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The soundtrack of my life

My Mexx sandals. I had no idea that they made shoes, but apparently, they do. Purchased that infamous Easter when we could not go skiing due to Mr. I's sudden aquavit-triggered osteoporosis, and instead ended up going to Kiel on a "cruise"- buying shoes in bulk.

Listening to French radio can be frustrating when you understand somewhere around 5% of what is going on. It makes me feel totally left out, like I am the only one in the whole wide world NOT getting the point, and I hate that. Not that I ever experience that a lot, ohno.

Anyway, the French are indeed very protective of their "oh-so-sacred-yet-totally-incomprehensible" language, so - all French radio stations face strict regulations on to which extent they are allowed to pollute the air with "international" music. With the result being that quite a few English-speaking musicians feel that they need to make special French versions of their songs to allow them to be played under the French quota. A phenomena that sometimes makes you want to hurt yourself. Badly. I have a theory that this is what might have REALLY happened to the late Mr. Van Gogh, actually.

Still, after a few weeks feeling like complete morons whenever we turned on the radio, we realized that there are in fact a few radio stations that elegantly surpass these rules, simply by broadcasting from somewhere outside of France. Smooth, right? One of these radio channels is the "Riviera Radio"*, which is very conveniently aired in English only. "From Monaco to St. Tropez - and all the way out to sea". Nothing less.

Apart from providing you with a mix of the current Riviera hits (the trashiest of Eurotrash) mixed with all the songs you used to love when you were young, but that are now for some unexplainable (or perhaps not?) reason long forgotten, you get to know the inside of the everyday life of a deeply suffering group of people, namely some disgustingly rich people populating the Cote d'Azur. (We are not talking about the ones that are just fairly well off here, absolutely not).

This means that you gain insight into everyday struggles like:

• "If it's not your work or your wife giving you a headache, it must be your YACHT. To get rid of this you need a proper YACHT MANAGER." (But, of course! Why didn't I think of that?!)
• And - "You are not able to find business class tickets for your upcoming vacation? Please call us, and we will take care of all your travel needs!" (Wow, thanks! And that will be, like, FREE OF CHARGE? Well, then my days of flying coach are ALL over...right.)

It surely is frightening to listen to these horror stories of how life on what the rest of us believe to be "The Sunny Side", actually is an ongoing battle. Fortunately I get in a much better mood as soon as they switch to something light and less serious, like this year's Riviera mega hit:

Oh, Friday night
Too much money in the bank account
Wave your hands while you scream and shout
Welcome to St. Tropez...


http://youtu.be/M1V4mlaF_UU


Ah. Does THAT make you feel better, or WHAT? At least when your brain finally manages to stop unconsciously repeating that song in, let's say, about three days from now.....

*http://www.rivieraradio.mc/home.asp

The Human ATM

My Alex espadrille wedge sandals from Stuart Weitzman. Most probably the only thing Jennifer Aniston and I will EVER have in common. Unfortunately for me, fortunately for her. I guess. I totally fell in love with these online just after Christmas. Then I waited TWO long months before I ordered them - as part of my new year's resolution not to buy more shoes. I just love them. They make me tall. And they make my very short legs look better in shorts. On the negative side, they are not shoes you could run a marathon in, but why would you? (As if I would ever do that in ANY shoes - and remind me of that when I turn 40, please).

Owning a house is very expensive. I am learning that the hard way. And, getting used to the monetary system of a new country is frightening. Very scary, indeed. A couple of weeks back, I received the very first sign that I am now OFFICIALLY an adult. I got my very first check-book. Yup. We stopped using that in Norway about 15 years ago. But the French still cling to this. So, armed with my check-book, and a bank account filled up with fresh oil-money from Norway I felt prepared for whatever might hit me.

What I didn't expect was that most people that come to work on your house do prefer CASH. And loads of cash. So I am now on first-name terms with the clerk at my local bank. Where I turn up every morning to get my cash. I simply feel naked without 2000 EUR in my secret drawer. As you never know when you might need money for a new toilet. Or an electrician.


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Falling down

My incredibly ethnic sandals from two years back. Purchased at the departments store Illums in Copenhagen on a little spring break with my dear sister-in-law and her husband. Just another example of shoes that I find truly BRILLIANT at the time of purchase, but then they turn out to be not quite so in real life. The strap between the toes hurts. Still, they look quite awesome accessorized with a black kaftan and a glass of champagne, on the deck of a yacht in the Med. Absolutely.

Today is our informal deadline to get the house in shape, as we have guests coming. Six of them. Including our nephew and niece! They live in South Korea at the moment, and our niece is actually BRAND NEW, we haven't even seen her since she was born in January, so you can imagine that we are very excited.

Still, this last week of French labour camp has taken it's toll on my mood. And, most certainly, the mood of the otherwise SO OPTIMISTIC Mr. Incredible. (For those who know him, you know that I am being VERY ironic just now). The very last thing on our "to-do-list" before hitting the showers to meet and greet everybody at the airport was.... drumwhirls.....

Putting up the baby travel cot in one of the guest rooms, presumably a very easy task. (If you are in fact a parent of a small child and familiar with these navy folding travel cots, I guess you are now already laughing on the inside. Because it is SO EASY.)

I know, it is just four clicks and the cot is up, BUT REALLY IT IS NOT AT ALL THAT EASY.

In fact, it did not work at all. No click. Just a pile of metal and stupid, sagging, navy fabric. 

So. We just lost it. Both of us. Simultaneously. Attacking the stubborn bed with all our force. Which at the time was fueled by a week of frustration with the general "stickiness" of France. The delayed furniture. Towels. Getting the right gas bottle for the barbecue. It all came out.

Did our joint forces help putting the cot together? Of course not. But, boy, it still felt pretty good getting that aggression out. At the time, at least. Afterwards, we felt kinda silly. Attacking a piece of furniture. How mature is that?

Well, now we have two baby travel cots. Fortunately they had another one over at our local Casino mall. So we have one nicely assembled one in the upstairs guest bedroom. (Very easily assembled, I took a deep breath - and it took just four clicks). And then there is the other one. The one in the garage in the basement. The one we are not talking about, the one we are hoping that our guest do not notice, at least not until enough time has passed for us to:

1) Be able to get rid of the evidence, so the topic will never be brought up

2) Time has made it possible for us to laugh at this as well. Although I think that might take us a while.

It's not just towels!

Sandals from our honeymoon seven years ago. The Mauritius leg of it, NOT the safari in Tanzania (in case you wondered). From mock-Italian brand Enzo Poli. Used to be a favorite, together with the same in black. Now in permanent exile in France, maybe hoping to get back in fashion again, who knows (as you might have realized by now, yours truly is not particularly good at throwing away things she does not really appreciate anymore).

Things are starting to come together at our house. Finally. I must admit that it has not exactly been a walk on the park, though. I suspect this might be a cultural issue, but if you want to survive in France without growing an ulcer, you will need a good portion of patience. Any deficits in the patience department can - fortunately - be balanced out with just the right amount of chilled rosé.

For instance when the internet guy that you set up a "rendez-vous" with more than a month ago does not turn up, and - of course - does not bother to call and inform you about it. And when the three (!) incredibly romantic canopy beds that you ordered online in March (!) for delivery on July 1st suddenly cannot be delivered because the truck is to big to be allowed to pass through the village. One would think that wouldn't really come as a surprise after close to three months. After all, I DID provide my address when I placed the order, didn't I? Fortunately, the truck disaster incident was swiftly solved when I (not enough rosé, I guess) called the carrier and CRIED, begging them to find a smaller truck. No French male can resist helping a damsel in distress.

Now, at last we are down to the smaller details. Who are not really any less frustrating, as - since I have really put my heart and soul (yes, I might have one of each) into furnishing this house in my "French-countryside-meets-Scandinavian-minimalism" way for months now, I refuse to let things slide now that we are so close to MY idea of MY perfect summer house. So, poor Mr. Incredible is dragged all over Cannes and it's vicinity looking for The Perfect Beach Towels to match our Perfect Sunbeds (acquired after several rounds of optimization).

I found them. And, as so many things I tend to like, most of them were designed by this clever American dude called Ralph. Which is another word for "expensive". When Mr. Incredible saw the price tag, he just marched out of the store and back to the car.

Back in the car, I decided to go "all-in". It is a ruthless thing to do, but sometimes a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. I played the IKEA-card. Faced with the threat of having to drive to IKEA outside Toulon to buy more decently priced, but absolutely very acceptable towels, he jumped out of the car again. All of a sudden, we could buy ANY towels. Regardless of price.

I do not loose my temper very often, but that was when I drove off. Leaving a very sorry husband in the parking lot in the pouring rain, no money and no cell phone...

Of course, I returned and I picked him up, and we got the towels (surprise!). Although it would surely had made a much better story if I hadn't, I am totally aware of that.

Sigh. Why do men have to be so difficult! They know deep inside that we always get what we want in the end anyway, so why do they bother....?


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The runaway

My Roman gladiator sandals. Purchased years ago. In Rome, of course. YEARS before these were deemed even remotely fashionable. I am SUCH a trendsetter, right.

After the shock from the algae-infested-pool-incident had settled, we finally had the time to start looking more closely at the rest of the house. To our great shock, something - or rather SOMEONE was missing. The garden gnome. The one I had so carefully brought to France in my hand luggage for him to get a better life. Had he now run away, the ungrateful little piece of sh**? Or had he been kidnapped?

Of course, I have seen the fabulous movie about the fabulous Amelie from Montmartre. And how her gnome suddenly disappeared, only to start sending her postcards from all over the world. So maybe he is just on a little self-realizing trip around the world, and I can start looking forward to postcards from faraway places in the mail?

You know, these things DO happen. Someone I used to know had it happen to her gnome. He suddenly disappeared from her balcony in Brussels. And then suddenly she received a photo of it sunbathing in a huge green field a whole year after. So these things do happen in real life, too.

I just hope he is happy.

The devil

My totally worn-out silver sandals purchased on my trip to Brazil in 2008. No idea what brand, but they where terribly cheap.  So, you see, I am not really a shoe snob. Right.

Returned to our little cocoon in France again, after a hellish week. This time - we are back for the summer! Yay! Opening the doors of the winter garden on to the terrace we catch the first signs of the disaster. The pool is GREEN. Yup. Very much so. A very HAIRY kind of green. Shit-shit-shit.  I instantly call the gardener / pool man. Managing to explain in my quite limited French that "la piscine" is "pas bon" (I am starting to realize that my house and gardening vocabulary in French is also "pas bon"). Still, somehow he gets the message, and arrives five minutes later. There is a lot of "oh-la-la"-ing and "oh-lo-lo"-ing.

Then, he starts chain-smoking, and staring into the pool. Like STARING at algae will make it go away. In retrospect, I guess he was just waiting for me to offer him a cold beer. While he was working. Oh. So. Hard.

After standing there for fifteen minutes - fifteen minutes that felt more like an hour, he gave me instructions to go buy some anti-algae stuff for the pool. Before assuring me that it was absolutely no problem to swim, the algae is not "dangereuse". All while giving me his sleazy grin combined with a not the least discrete version of his "knowing" elevator look. Eeeeeek.

I really don't know what is the matter with this guy. Everytime there is talk of the pool, he is making gestures for me to jump in. IS this because I am Scandinavian? And blonde? Funny this. You know how Americans perceive the Europeans to be so "natural" and "free". I once visited a hotel beach (!) in Vegas that had a EUROPEAN dress code. Which meant that girls were allowed to sunbathe topless. Very European, yeah. So, when you get to Europe - more specifically FRANCE, all of a sudden it is the SCANDINAVIANS that are perceived as the "wild ones". Apparently, we are totally happy to jump in an algae infested pool with a sleazy gardener watching. Oh yeah. Know what? In Scandinavia, the general opinion is that it is the SWEDISH girls that behave like that. Hm. I wonder what they say in Sweden then. Perhaps there is some tiny remote village in Sweden where there are girls that really behave like porn stars? Just wondering.

Anyway. As Madame did not seem to want to go swimming, Quasimodo decided to leave the premises. With the green pool left very much in the same condition as it was upon his arrival.

The morning after I waited outside the "jardins et piscines" section of the huge Castorama (the go-to-place for anything practical) in Le Cannet. BEFORE 8 in the morning. Scratching on the door. Together with two older guys that were most probably retired (or should have been). You know how old people always get up early. Is it because they fear that they might die soon, so they need to make the most out of the limited time they have left? I have no idea.

I returned to the house with the green pond a good hour later. Armed with three huge plastic cans containing an anti-algae solution that I guess is good to kill algae, but mot probably it is not what you would want to SWIM in. Won't do much for your skin I guess. But most importantly -  I was joined by the most impressive machine ever seen by humans. THE DIRT DEVIL. Nothing less. A robot that randomly moves round the bottom of the pool sucking all yuckiness into a small filter. (That needs to be cleaned by a MAN afterwards, as it is TOTALLY yucky with a mix of crawling LIVE ALGAE and dead insects in it). The incredible robot even climbs and brushes the walls of the pool. I think somebody ought to give the the inventor a Nobel Prize.

So, Mr. Incredible has a bright red new friend. Robert the Robot. As we did not really like the devil-name. And we have a much cleaner pool.

Of course, Quasimodo returned in the afternoon. So that he could take credit for all the work that Mr. Incredible had done on the pool. The work we had already been so stupid to pay the French little rat to do THREE MONTHS IN ADVANCE.

Ok, making that prepayment WAS a bit blonde. I have to admit that.

The. Party. Shoes.

My lovely golden wedge shoe from the cute little shoe shop I have mentioned so many times you must think they are giving me a discount. Oh, I wish! Very dangerous party shoes, as they always get me in a good mood, they look cool, AND you are able to walk properly in them - in spite of being slightly intoxicated. At least you THINK you walk like a model on the catwalk, while IN REALITY, you walk like a COW. In heels.

I guess I should not really go into detail about last night. We were having a really quiet night in, when some of Mr. Incredible's old team mates from his handball team (we are talking some time just after the war here) suddenly called to tell us they were having a small gathering. In Oslo. And that they had champagne.

Blimey.
I never learn.
My hair hurts.
I am never going to touch that stuff again.

It was fun though. I think.
Anyway, I blame it all on the shoes. Totally.

Doing nothing

My new trainers, purchased during our trip to NY in May. Permanent residents of La Republique Francaise, as of now. I decided that I need to have a pair of trainers available, in case I suddenly feel like exercising. Would be a disaster if that suddenly happened, and I just was not able to because I did not have the proper shoes at hand. Or, "at foot" would perhaps be a better expression under these circumstances.

Sunday. After working to get things in place for two long days we decided to have a day off. And do NOTHING.

"Nothing" has so far involved:

Riding our brand new bicycles down to the village centre. This took us three minutes. We then had double espressos. Watching the locals leaving the church where they had attended the sunday service. I went to the local "boulangerie" and bought some forbidden carbs, riding my bike home with a baguette sticking out of the basket on the front of my bike. VERY French, right?

After breakfast, we crashed on our sun beds. Baking for a couple of hours, only interrupted by very short swims in the pool (cold!), small plates of Pata Negra, ice cream and a little dash of Sancerre in between.

My very Nordic skin soon had enough, so now I have been lounging on the sofa with my iPad for hours. Hm. Time to eat something again soon. If I can just gather the strength to get up and walk over to the fridge. Hm. Nope.

Saturday (k)night

My brand new Swedish wooden clogs. Intended as gardening shoes, but they need some serious breaking in before that is even remotely possible. They look cool, though. Very much in line with the bohemian / seventies look I will be tuning into this summer.

Mr. Incredible turns out to be even more incredible than I thought. He has hidden talents. I might have made fun of him in the past for not being very "handy", but now I will soon have to eat my own words. Yesterday, he fixed the upstairs toilet that did not flush. In other words, I have an in-house "plombier"! Awesome!

And, he has talents as a knight as well. Saving damsels in distress. If you consider being scared shitless to be "in distress". Might be a bit of an understatement. Or me to be a "damsel" for that matter.

Nevertheless, tonight we had a bit of an incident after dinner. I must first point out that I am not a blood-thirsty killer of any sort, but after being bitten by SIXTY mosquitoes last weekend, I decided I needed to put some restraints on the local insect welcoming comittee. I am not by any means meant to be their evening buffet. So. I bought this big mosquito-killer-lamp. With a radius covering 300 meters, no less. A very wise purchase, as the number of mosquito bites for yours truly has dropped by 97% from last weekend.

Anyway, we were lounging on our new outdoor sofa after dinner. When a huge bug appears. We are talking a MONSTER bug. It starts dancing around the lamp like it was a shrine of some sort. And, of course, the inevitable happens. It gets fried. We heard the regular "pop". And the thing falls to the floor. As Mr. I is very aware of my "issues" with most insects, especially when they hit a certain size, he instantly volunteered to remove the corpse. Meaning, he scraped it up with a piece of plastic, and threw it over the hedge. To the neighbor's garden.

Just for the record, he chose the neighbor with the hugest garden, the one with an Olympic standard swimming pool and a separate field for playing boule. And not the other guy with a garden equalling four tomato plants and two heads of lettuce.

So far, so good. Only, about ONE HOUR LATER, the creature suddenly comes back to life! It is rumbling (yes!) around inside the hedge, and suddenly it flies back onto our terrace, ending up on its back like some real-life version of Gregor Samsa*, crawling around on his back, not able to get on his feet. I instantly hid under my blanket.

Mr. I saw that he had to take immediate action. Cheering from under my blanket, I encouraged Mr. I to go for it, but NOT to use a shoe (getting bug-goo on shoes is a no-no**). Covering the monster in plastic, and then REPEATEDLY stepping on it seemed to do the trick. When Mr. I was finally 100% sure the thing had checked in at "Bug Heaven", over the hedge it went. Again.

And nobody has heard from him since.


* The guy turning into a huge roach in "The metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka. A book I wish I had never read. But I have. In German, even.


** I killed a huge flying ant in the upstairs bathroom last weekend. But as I did not want to get ant-goo on my flip-flop, I went downstairs to "borrow" Mr. I's flip-flop for the purpose. Worked wonders. Until, of course, I told him afterwards. Stupid.

Catch 22

A small step for mankind, perhaps, but a huge step for me. Today was a real milestone. Yes. I have now, finally, managed to open a French bank account. This might not seem like such a big deal. But it is, I can assure you.

In France, you cannot do anything without a bank account. No car. No electricity. No water. No phone.

Guess what sort of documentation you need to open the bank account, then! Yes, a copy of your electricity bill. The one you cannot get without the bank account, or the RIB, as they call it.

So, armed with copies of my electricity, cable and phone bills from Oslo, combined with my tax return and a paper from the French notaire stating that we have a property in France, we were able to open a special bank account for foreigners. Which can in turn be changed to a normal French account as soon as I can show them my first electricity bill.

It's not supposed to be easy, I guess.


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The City Gnomes

"Before" (Oslo) and "After" (Somewhere-in-France)

This sure is one lucky garden gnome. He is a gift from my dear sister, who acquired a taste for these weird creatures while studying/working in Belgium and The Netherlands some years back. After "living" on our balcony in Oslo for years, he has now gone to a better place. He will be the only permanent resident of our summer house. A treat he has truly deserved after guarding our balcony for years. You could perhaps say that he has been more of a city gnome. A bit like Mr. Incredible.

The last few years I have even forgotten to take the little gnome inside during the winter, the poor little fellow. I consider him moving to France to be his retirement. But really, this will be the first time this GARDEN gnome is in a real garden. So, I guess this will sort of be the start of his career, rather than the end. As he will most probably be gnoming about in the garden for many years to come. Whatever that is.

I took his picture under the olive tree yesterday, and one by the pool. Somehow, he looks oddly happy. He has a bit of the same silly grin on his face as Mr. I has when we are here. That surely makes me one happy gal, too.

Le Viking

One of the pairs of sandals that I had made to measure in Sorrento last summer. Among the first pairs of shoes to move permanently to my French "offshore" shoe department. Perfect for long lazy days in the sun where the longest walk you do is to the kitchen to fetch another can of Orangina. Perhaps accompanied by some ham or olives to stuff your face with.

Time for our last weekend in France before the REAL summer vacation starts. It might sound very glamorous to be "commuting" between Nice and Oslo on weekends, but I can assure you, it is not. Yes, we have some great evenings, with lovely food and wine / gazing at sunsets, but mostly these weekends tend take the form of a labour camp. And - on this particular weekend I sacrificed TWO parties. Since you know that I hate missing out on anything, missing the summer party at work - AND my 20 year graduation anniversary (yikes, I am old!) is a lot.

We are running around like headless chicken all day, working on getting everything ready for the summer. Good news are that we are getting there. Most of the outdoor furniture is now in place, and - we have managed to assemble the huge Weber barbecue without the word "divorce" coming up. A great success, I would say (sometimes I just have low expectations).

If we could only get the boiler in the basement to start producing hot water for our showers, all would be good. I am starting to get tired of being a good sport showering (and washing hair) in ice-cold water every morning coming up with the same stupid jokes about being a bit of "a Norwegian viking". Because, I really do prefer hot water. Just call me a chicken, but I do.

Dinner with Miss Universe

My ultra-flat sandals from Francesco Moreschi. Purchased at "Lille Vinkel" in Oslo. The cute little shop my old schoolmate once referred to as something like "that place where you stumble down the stairs, tearing down a couple of pairs of Hunter wellies on your way down, before you end up in shoe heaven". So very true. Unfortunately, these far too expensive sandals have not been used as much as they should, because the heel strap is too loose, so they keep falling of my feet. Not so much today as I seem to still have "flight feet" after Sunday's return from "Notre Petite Maison". And, they were a perfect match with my very bohemian maxi dress picked up in St. Barth's during Christmas.

Time for a long overdue dinner with the lovely "Princess K" last night. At Nodee. An excellent place for both lunch and dinner, if it was not for their extremely tight table reservations. Paired down with their slow service, this is NOT a good combination. On far too many occasions, we have had to limit the number of courses ordered (not good) and the bottles of wine enjoyed (perhaps not as bad) as we ran out of time. I have many times joked about whether I should try to once book a table from - let's say - three minutes to six until eight minutes past eight. This would be the place to do it. In a way they are Oslo's answer to Jerry Seinfeld's "soup nazi", only in terms of Asian food. "No crispy duck for you!"

If it was not for the excellent food, I would NEVER tolerate being treated this way at any restaurant, but I am addicted to their black cod. And the duck. So I keep coming back for more. What I seem to forget is that sometimes the service can fall to even lower levels than normal, as the staff likes to cater for celebrities of all categories. If you happen to be present when one of the real A-listers in Oslo turn up, you need to be patient. As the service level for us mere mortals will then plummet to levels you did not think possible at such a top-rated establishment.

Unbelievably enough, the service today was tolerable. In spite of having the incredibly beautiful former Miss Universe (definitively an A-lister) seated a few tables away from us. And, just a few tables away from her again - some "over-the-top" finance guy that could once have been considered to be some kind of celebrity. A typical C acting like an A.

Still, we actually got our dessert before it was time for us to leave. Yay. I wonder how it would be to go this place and FOR ONCE not be on a dead-line.

L'Eau de vie

Water. You really cannot do without it. Still, there is GOOD water. And there is BAD water. An obvious example of bad water being - rain. However annoying, rain is actually important for plants and flowers to grow. But there is another form of bad water that you CAN very well do without. This is the concept of "water all over the basement floor of your new house". Exactly.

Walking downstairs on Friday morning, I noticed this funny splashing sound as I came down the stairs. Hm. Not good. Then I saw the water come flushing out of two holes in the wall. Straight next to the fuse box! Not a very good combination. Shit. Shit. Shit.

So, we started testing where the water could come from. Running the tap did not result in much, but showering and the flushing of toilets, on any floor of the house, caused cascades of water to hit the basement floor.

Later, the painters arrived to look at the house, and they instantly became "plombiers" (with Euro-signs in their eyes, I'll tell you), and offered to break down the whole wall in the toilet room on the first floor to see where the water was coming from. As if we did not know. Duh. Flushing toilet = water in basement. Not a very difficult equation? (You need a hint?) Of course, the water came from the toilet.

The gardener arrived, and there was much cursing. But he could not figure it out either. After everybody left, we decided to go down to the basement to try wipe up the remaining water before we started searching for a hotel. As staying in a house with water is flushing into the electricity mains is not so high on my list.

That was then we realized that there was a separate fuse for something referred to as "poumpe". Hm. We could recall the previous owner briefly mentioning that the "poumpe" should always be off when people were not using the house. For some reason, it was now it was still in the "OFF" position. We put the fuses back in, and - just for the hell of it - went to flush a toilet. Guess what! NO WATER. Yay.

So, we had cracked the code that four locals had not been able to, with two of them being "plombiers" (yeah, right!), and one being the gardener who had worked with this house for 20 years. Promising.

As we now could turn the water supply back on, AND there was no need to find a hotel anyway, we completed filling the swimming pool with water. A task that had been going on for THREE DAYS. Yup. I do not really know how many liters of water has been involved, but it will surely show up on our next water bill.

Somehow I much prefer water in the pool to water in the basement, though. Any time. Pool water is typical good water. Well, at least as long as it stays in the pool. I hope I will not have to come back to you on that again at some later stage, but so far we have not seen any leaks in that department. Wheew.

Forget-me-not

My first pair of Havaïanas. Purchased at the excellent travel accessory shop Nomaden in Oslo. Which, for years, was the only place (that I knew of, at least) where I could get these extremely versatile flip-flops. These sandals have been chosen as the first pair of shoes to move to France. Permanently. I do not have a shoe closet there. But I do not think I will have one either, as the humidity makes shelves a better solution. It will all be ruined without proper ventilation.

I really don't understand what is happening here. Because I have been known to be SO much in control it could sometimes be seen as a bit compulsive. I NEVER forget stuff, and especially not vital things like keys, phones and wallets. But this month I have managed an oval weekend in NY without my wallet, and now I am facing a weekend without my mobile phone. It hit me while getting my stuff ready for the security screening at the airport yesterday morning. No. No! NO! My phone was at home. On our kitchen counter. My umbilical cord - linking me to the rest of the world - is cut off. Temporarily, but still. Ouch. I can even recall looking at the phone on the kitchen counter and thinking "must not forget that one", while having breakfast. Great.

Of course, I could perhaps benefit from being "offline" for a few days. But NOT this particular weekend. We have no less than THREE huge furniture deliveries arriving today. And the new painter. We are, by the way on our third painter already, as the first one got another / bigger and more profitable job in Cap Ferrat, and the one we met on Monday decided he wanted to go on vacation and could not finish according to my deadlines. Seriously, I would have been able to paint those walls myself in a week. If I could be bothered to do it myself, I mean. And I gave the guy a whole MONTH!

Ok. So Mr. Incredible got a bit upset about the left-behind phone. And snapped at me. I snapped back. As I hate-hate-hate having it pointed out to me on the rare occasions (right!) that I have done something stupid. Because - I am already perfectly aware of that fact. There is no need to rub things in, is there?

Then, this elderly woman, someone I would normally have found truly adoring (pink Chanel tweed jacket, pearl stud earrings), exclaimed - with true despair in her voice: "Are you already starting to fight this early on on your trip?" I gave her my worst look, and a very brisk "YES." Before marching away. I did not really feel like explaining the situation to her. I felt more like hiding in the restroom crying. Which I didn't. I am a grown-up. But it is ok to want to do that even for an adult. Me thinks.

Well, I am not one to focus on problems, really. So, I soon had TWO contingency plans in place. My sister picked up the phone at our place so she could answer any incoming calls until I was finally able to get my mobile service provider to put an automatic forward on my calls to one of Mr. Incredible's THREE (!) mobile phones. Worked like a dream, when I could just manage to GET THROUGH to their "customer service".

Calling from abroad I do not appreciate being held up for minutes regarding some customer service survey. And then being informed that "the waiting time is estimated to...... TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES". Seriously!

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Dominoes

My butterfly bling sandals. Seven years old (yes, purchased for honeymoon), and are starting to become a bit worn down. But I love the cute little butterfly, AND the memories attached. So they can stay for a while longer.

Today it happened again. As we got on the plane, two "in-duh-vi-duh-als" had - very conveniently (for them) decided to take our seats. The seats I went online to secure for us 22 hours ago. I always select the second emergency exit row, as the chairs in the first one do not recline. We have learned that the hard way.

Of course, we were asked if we did mind swapping with the actual seats of the morons. Eh, how about - "NO WAY"?

This resulted in a lot of shuffling of people. And hand luggage. And - of course - everyone looks at ME as the DIFFICULT person. Cannot be a bit flexible here, can we? Actually, no. I can't. I refuse to sit somewhere else because some amoeba is not able to see the difference on their boarding pass between 15A/B and 16A/B.

So everyone is seated again, and the boarding continues. Then a new person shows up. With a ticket to 15C. Which is now where the guy that took my seat is seated. Guess what?! THAT was not his actual seat either! I mean SERIOUSLY! What is wrong with some people? It it really that hard to get these things right?

The story continues. As it turns out that a female of the very same "wherever-I-put-my-a**-that's-my-seat"* species is - oh, help me (!) - occupying the guy's actual seat. We are talking the airplane seating version of the domino effect.

Again, offers of swapping for a less optimal seat was suggested. But, no, the girl with a ticket to seat 15C insisted on her aisle seat. Yay! That's my kinda girl ! Good for her! Of course, she was given "the look" by the imbecile and his wife, who again had to swap their seats. More shuffling. Of people. And luggage.

And the super-moron who had managed to mistake her actual 15F seat for 15A now had to move across the whole row. I do not know whether I think this is impressive, or just plain scary. I just hope I do not ever meet these people when (if?) they are driving. Left, right, who knows - or CARES? A, F, 15, 16 - IS there a difference? Actually, I do not think these people are considered fit to be operating any kind of motorized vehicle. So there should be nothing to worry about, really, unless they are driving without a license, that is. Woooo.

This sure is an eventful flight. I just had an encounter with the most polite airline steward in history. Was not expecting that from an employee with Scandinavian. Hm. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that he was actually being sarcastic. You see, he was asked to bring some milk and sugar for someone's coffee. Then suddenly, we see the guy running to the front of the plane. And coming back with the weird combination of an oxygen flask - and a CIABATTA. Yes!

At the back of the plane a stewardess is working to unpack a defibrillator, and there is a lot of commotion. Then, suddenly, the steward is back. Offers the cream and sugar. And - get this - he APOLOGIZES for the delay. What?!

Things have settled down now in the back here now, so I hope the guy they were attending to is alright.

I am not sure if I should tell you this, but the first thought that ran through my mind as I saw the defibrillator was: "Oh no, please do not make it necessary for us to make an emergency landing somewhere now. I do not have the time." As the thought hit me, I realized that I am now at a stress level that is not good for me. Or my surroundings, for that matter.

* Stolen and modified for own use based on the song lyrics by Paul Young, "Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home". Where did HE go, by the way?

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Notre Petite Maison

My brand new beige peep-toe espadrilles from Enzo Poli. Could not decide on which color to get, so I got them in black, too. Perfect summer shoes, and the wedge heel makes them wearable throughout a long day. Only drawback is that they make me taller than Mr. Incredible.

Spent all Sunday doing nothing but lounging by the pool on the roof terrace of our hotel. Ouch, sunburn! My last night in a French hotel in a while, I guess, as we - as of today - are the insanely happy owners of a villa 10 kilometers north-west of Cannes. My usual "yay!" does not quite cover this. I hear that people say that the greatest moment of their life was when they had a baby. Well, I wouldn't know, would I. So I guess I would have to say that owning (well, technically, there IS a bank involved, too) a house in Southern France also feels pretty awesome. It is somewhere up there on the top of my list together with marrying Mr. Incredible seven years ago. In case you were wondering.

Met up with the French real-estate agent this morning, at the house. The owner then explained to us all the technicalities of the house. Like the heating, which I did not think we would need to know much about, but it turns out that this is also the source of hot water. And it might be that we would want to take a shower at one stage.

I was also introduced to our gardener / pool boy. I hate to disappoint you, but real life is nothing like you see in the movies. Ours will hereby go by the name of "Quasimodo", although that is not his real name. But I guess you get the picture. And he does not wear tiny bathing shorts. He wears tired old soccer shirts. Today he was Figo. The most frightening thing about him, though, is perhaps that he does not speak a word of English. Or Norwegian. So, I have a very good reason to start taking my French lessons very seriously again.

Long flight home now. With Luftwaffe via Frankfurt. Our travel habits seem to be changing from now on. The normal thing for us is leaving home with two pieces of luggage. And returning home with five-ish. Now we arrived in France with five pieces, returning to Norway with two pieces. Being two EMPTY suitcases. Weird.

Still, it feels ok to have a second toothbrush permanently stored in a different country.

Yay.

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Location:Ankunftbogen,Frankfurt,Germany

Gonflable

My last pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes. And, the first really expensive pair of shoes I bought. For a wedding in June 2000. Good party shoes, not so good walking shoes. As my feet were still a bit swollen after Friday's flight, they were good for the walk from the hotel over to Astoux for another seafood massacre. But as the wine drained my body of water, they kept falling off on our way back. So, I ended up walking down the Croisette barefoot last night. Very hippie-chic, I guess.

Today we spent all day shopping for stuff for the house. Unbelievably enough, we managed to get through this without any major discussions. Mr. Incredible hates shopping, but when shopping for things we actually need, he somehow manages to stay calm. I, on the other hand, has been known to love shopping. But not really for stuff we truly need. I worked hard not to fall into the optimization-trap, where I need to evaluate every single item I buy thoroughly to make sure everything I buy is perfect. No time for that with a ticking bomb husband in tow. You know perfectly well that he will only last for a limited number of hours before he has had enough. And then the shopping spree is over. Period.

In five hours we managed to purchase: a washer, a dryer, a Nespresso machine, a regular coffee maker, two hairdryers, an electrical toothbrush, an iron, a vacuum cleaner (nothing sucks like Electrolux), a refrigerator, a wine cabinet (important), a tool box, a hammer, a Weber gas barbecue, a barbecue cleaning brush, barbecue cleaning spray, an apron, a set of barbecue tools, a barbecue cover, an electrical screwdriver thingy, bits for that one, a wrench, pliers, a water (is that the actual word?), a measuring band, four sun beds, two small tables for the sun beds, two sun umbrellas, covers for those, an outdoor dining table, ten outside dining chairs (with armrest = optimal), a Fatboy buggle-up for lounging in the garden or in front of the TV, an inflatable extra bed (since the beds I have ordered do not arrive until the end of the month), and very importantly, an electrical pump for my inflatable toys.

Now, that last item I think I should elaborate on, as I know that certain in-duh-viduals will surely - ON PURPOSE - misunderstand what sort of inflatable "toys" we are talking about. Yes, I know you are out there.

The people that have been on vacation with yours truly before will, however, know that I love these huge silly inflatable toys that you can float around on in your pool. Precisely. The bigger, and more silly, the better. The last few years I have preferred this huge island with a palm-tree on it. Not easy to float around on, but looks amazing. The drawback with these toys is that it takes some breath to inflate one of them. Now, however, we do not need to take that issue into account when purchasing new ones.

The sky will now be the limit. Or, rather, the size of the pool.

Location:Rue Frédéric Amouretti,Cannes,France

Paper, rock, scissors

My second pair of Minnetonka moccasins. Soft suede shoes was perhaps not the best choice in rainy Oslo this morning, but there was a plan behind it. I saved these specially for today, as they make really good driving shoes. And - we were at one stage worried that today would be the day that we had to take to the road. And DRIVE down to France for the weekend. The volcano ashes floating around Europe earlier this week had us scared for a moment there. So, when we got stuck in traffic out of Oslo this afternoon, we just laughed. As we could easily have been stuck in traffic outside Copenhagen by that time. Knowing that we had 21 more hours to go.

A day of great achievements. Finally took the second car to the garage and had the tyres changed for the summer. Then, I had to go to the police station to pick up copies of our non-existing criminal records. Having a thing for (certain types of) uniforms, this was, of course, a highlight of the day. I do not know what it is, but certain types of uniforms can make someone that - in reality - looks like S. H. I. T. look quite hot. It does not work with all kinds of uniforms, though. Airline purser? No, thanks. Pilot? Ok, maybe.

Lost my concentration there for a bit. Ok. Next on my agenda was dropping the police documents off at the child welfare centre. Their report recommending us as adoptive parents was completed this week. And the papers from the police was the only piece missing. The process took us about six months. Which I guess is not too bad. Not particularly fast, but not very slow either. We have heard of worse.

Our application will be forwarded to the main adoption authority in Norway on Monday. Which hopefully will end up with a "yes". I do not think I could handle anything else, to be honest. But I do not dare taking anything for granted.

So, big day for us today! And that was even before I got to work. Where I struggled with an update all day, finishing the upload two minutes before Mr. Incredible came to pick me up. I still feel like I have a small knot in my stomach as things went a bit fast there in the end. Well, I will be back to fix any discrepancies next week, anyway.

Now I am enjoying the great people-watching in the business lounge at Oslo Airport. Or, perhaps even more, listening in on all the VERY LOUD phone conversations around. We just lost one of the better ones, a guy that was flying to HOOOONG! KOOOONG! On business. And he was calling everyone in his phone book to keep them updated. As if they would be interested. Well, he is off now. In case you wondered. To Hong Kong, I think it was.

Was a bit bummed out that there were no hotdogs being served in the lounge today. But for once they served bubbly wine. Which I could only take a small sip of, as I will be the one picking up our rental car tonight. Bummer.

I know, I should have followed the advice I got during lunch today. Having two glasses of wine BEFORE being picked up today would easily have eliminated the possibility of me driving at all tonight. Instead, I ended up loosing a stupid game in the car.

Superwoman

My "I-wish-I-was-young-(or-at-least-born)-during-the-1930s" shoes. From Bianco. Fits well with the current retro trend following "Mad Men" and "Boardwalk Empire". But they are actually quite old. I think I bought them during the previous round of retro-glam, following the release of the movie "Chicago". In 2002. For some reason I haven't used them that much, but for heels they are not too bad. Although I must admit that I brought back-up shoes for today. Just in case these got painful.

Things have been kind of crazy since I got back from New York last Wednesday. Funny thing, apparently I am not supposed to take time off from work, because what happens is that I have to put in TWICE the hours that I take off - before I leave. And then the same amount of hours after I get back. How can that be? I guess the true answer to that question is that having fun motivates me. Work hard, play hard.

Still, the result is that I now feel like a dish-rag. A very tired dish-rag. That some dog has been chewing on for a good while. All day I have been looking forward to getting back into bed, and sleeeeep. In fact, I really feel like hiding under a blanket. And maybe cry a little. I know it is just stress. Because, really, I have nothing to be sad about. At around 9 PM tomorrow night I will be somewhere in the air above Germany, sipping a glass of champagne. Yay. On my way to France to close the transaction on the house. Finally!

But before that - I should really build some automatic reclassifications of intercompany transactions for a client. How terribly exciting.

I put a spell on you

Comfy flat working shoes from Rizzo (again!). They were almost ruined this morning, when I decided they needed a little polish before work. I managed to mistake our "quick polish" sponge in a plastic box with CROCS BUTTER. Yup. The yucky grease that you perhaps did not know existed, but which is a must if you want to keep your Crocs in shape. Does NOT look too great on leather shoes. Trust me.

What a morning! It did not end with the Crocs-butter episode, ohno. I do not know what it is. Whether things like these also happen to other people, or whether this is all just me. Me - the walking disaster area.

On my way to the tram stop, I happened to look down. Just to discover that my blouse had very conveniently unbuttoned itself. In a very strategic area. Leaving approximately 50% of my décolletage on display. Just terrific! I closed the button, only to discover that it had slid open again as I was leaving the tram. Being in a hurry - and on my way out  to see a client - the issue at hand had to be fixed. Immedately. I instantly thought of "The Larry-bag"*. The bag I in a moment of desillusion decided to leave at the office a couple of weeks ago. To celebrate the fact that I finally have an office again. Or at least a designated desk that I share with the rest of my team. Accompanied by My Very Own Locker (it even has a lock and a key!). Which was depressingly empty. And screaming to be filled with SOMETHING. So I left my precious Larry-bag in there. Very stupid decision, yes. I see that now.

Ok. What now. No time to run into the office to fetch my emergency kit. So I entered the nearest pharmacy. Hoping that they would have something, anything that I could use to keep my stupid blouse shut. I was even willing to go for TAPE at this stage. As you know, tape - or more specifically DUCT tape - will fix ANY problem, just look at MacGyver. Fortunately, the pharmacy sold safety pins. So I did not have to walk around with sports tape covering my front all day. Genious!

So. I enter our client's office. Very careful not to upset the misbehaving button again. I did not even dare stopping by my client's desk. I just popped my head in - very quickly - saying "Hi" and "Can I use Roberto's office today?". Which turned out to be a very wise decision. Because, just as I entered the above mentioned office, I hear a sound.

"Pop."
The sound of a button. Coming loose.
Then...
"Click. Click-click-click."
A loose button falling to the floor. And then bouncing away.

No. This is NOT happening! I dropped all my things, and started searching for the stupid button. Which was nowhere to be seen. A consultant crawling around the floor looking for a button does not look very professional. So I soon had to give up the search. Safety pins really are a great invention, though.

My 12 safety pins got me safely through the day at the client's office. Our office meeting in the afternoon (at which time I carefully picked up the Larry-bag and put it safely back in my back-pack again). Dinner with my sister. And FINALLY. The highlight of today. Rocking with a 65-year-old. Bryan Ferry.

By the way, do you think Lady Gaga will still be touring, selling out her concerts, when she turns 65? Just wondering.

* http://dayinshoes.blogspot.com/2010/12/larry-bag.html

The King of Smalltalk

Shoes from Rizzo again. Swedish brand that has a flagship in my neighborhood. We are talking SAME BLOCK. Located less than 100 meters away from my bedroom. That close. It has been brought to my attention on several occasions that WHITE SHOES are a big no-no. I do not really care. I like white shoes in the summer. Today, however, I guess I went a bit over-the-top as I wore them with a skirt, a white shirt AND my NYC Women's Yacht Club "blazer". "Heeeeel-loooooo?" I should know better than dressing like the queen of preppy for a full day session of training close to where I grew up. Really, I do. If you dress like a presumed a-hole, you will most certainly be treated like one. Nobody, I mean NOBODY, talked to me during lunch. I guess I did not look that approachable. Even though I wore my "approachable" glasses today. The pair without frames. Will definitely go for jeans tomorrow.

Stopped by the local grocery store to pick up some lunch on my way in this morning, as the variety of "no-carb" food at the client cafeteria is pretty limited. Unless, of course, I would dare go for the buffet with the fillings for everybody else's sandwiches. Which would not be a polite thing to do, being sort-of a guest at this place.

It is always nice walking into our local grocery store. It is now run by a guy I went to school with. Who now looks exactly like his father did when we grew up. AND - he has - after being brought up to be "The perfect shop-keeper", attained some skills that I truly envy. He can talk. To ANYONE. About ANYTHING. I do not know how he does it, but it surely is a special talent. That runs in this guy's family. Strangely enough, this guy was quite shy in school. (But then again, so was I. I guess you grow out of some things.)

Mostly, I appreciate this smalltalk. It is nice coming into the shop and being asked how you are doing (not in the "American way", where they do not really expect/want an answer). But, sometimes, sometimes it gets a bit too much.

There are a few things I have learnt from (years of) experience - NEVER to purchase in this particular store. As you do not always need conversations like:

- TKOST: "Oh. Buying sugar and yeast? Gong home to bake bread, are we?"

- Customer (not me!): "Eh, NO. We are actually setting up a batch of MOONSHINE."

- TKOST: "Ohohohohoh! Condoms, ey?"
- Customer (SO not me!): "Pssst. We are going to fill them with cocaine, swallow them and smuggle it to Honduras."

 - TKOST: "Aaaah. Buying sanitary napkins! That time of month again, is it?"
- Customer (me!): "!?"

In retrospect, I see that I should have used the CLASSIC phrase from Monty Python / "The Meaning of Life" / The restaurant scene, where one of the female restaurant guests exclaim:
"Gotta dash. You see I am having a raaaaather heavy period. Bleeeeeding all over myself!"*

I never tend to handle awkward situations like these right. I always do come up with the PERFECT reply. About SIX MONTHS later.

* http://youtu.be/BlK62rjQWLk (around 3:08)