I get so aggravated by being slowed up when I'm working fast. Especially by things outside of my control like a constantly crashing computer. I want to be able to move quickly and do quickly and think quickly, preferably at several things at once and not being able to do it smoothly makes me crazy. I can do quick so well when things go smoothly.

Something else that drives me crazy is having to do things over or make revisions to something I've already finished because someone else changes their mind or misses something or forgets something. It's human nature, I know, and of course I'm as guilty as the next person, but still: aggravating! Even more aggravating when I have to re-do something because of something that I missed!

And waiting! Waiting makes me nuts! I can feel my hair going gray when I'm forced to wait. The worst is waiting for other people. I wonder how much of our lives is wasted in waiting? Waiting in waiting rooms. Waiting in line. Waiting at home wondering when you'll hear the door open. Waiting for something to happen, to change, to get here.

Also, that people can't plan ahead, that they wait until the last minute, that they don't allow enough time for things. Again, I know, I know: it's human nature, but ARGH.

Forgetting something, that drives me crazy too. When I've just spent an hour at the grocery store, driven home, unloaded and put away everything, and suddenly realize I forgot that one damn thing that I didn't write down because I trusted my brain to remind me in the right aisle. And don't forget the grocery carts that have 4 free-wheeling wheels and a sudden heavy pulling life of their own. You'd think after 12.5 years in Europe, I'd be used to those unpredictable creatures but I hate them more than ever.

Being late, that stresses me out beyond belief. It's tied into the planning ahead and the waiting phobia, of course. I'm pretty good at not being late, in fact, I'm rather anal known for being early (and offering to help chop veggies for appetizers or put things out or whatever) and consequently knowing that I'm going to be late? Crazy-making.

There! That was fun. I don't think I write nearly enough about the things that make me tear my hair out, so that should be enough to get it out of my system for another few years or so.

I feel rather scattered and pulled lately. Too much to do and not enough time to do it in, as...well, not always, but way too often. Here I am with an extra hour of time while the book-blog is uploading to lulu.com for the 3rd time (see above: crashing computer), and I started to read, in fact am feeling pulled to read by lovely, stirring language and intricately interesting characters in the book I'm in the middle of (The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt), but yet the pull to write a post overwhelmed me and yanked me in this direction instead.

I can't seem to settle and find my mind darting off in a hundred different directions: good lord the algae in the fish tank is mutating; is it too late to plant peonies and lupines? Carol would have been so thrilled about the Latin American & Spanish theme at the Gothenburg book fair this year; how worried should I be about the little lump I can feel under my breast?* I really hope that they aren't going to cut the budget for my planned US trip this fall; I really want to see Coraline and Up; what do I do about the things Martin told me the other day? I really shouldn't be so bummed about my friends who aren't blogging right now but I am; Karin's birthday is coming up; can't forget I need a thank you teacher gift for next week; man, we really need to get the boat tickets dealt with for the Holland trip, and oh! I need to do some online research about places of interest near Smögen and near Vaals; and is that file uploaded yet???

O! a million things, a million snapping synapses!

*Already made a doctor's appointment for next week to get it checked out.

All week I've been dreading attending the funeral of my friend, Carol. How do you reconcile the death of someone your own age when there is so much still to DO, so much planned, so many years of experience still to come? When you know that person didn't want to go, wasn't ready to go, and went in such a blindingly fast and unjust way? Maybe no one is ever REALLY ready to go, but I suspect that when you're 90 it's easier to accept than when you're half that.

The weather today was changeable. It kept changing. It rained and sunned and clouded. The lilacs are still out and the pansies are still bright because it's been pretty chilly lately. The chapel was lovely: small and cozy and warm with wood paneling and lots of candles. And lots and lots of flowers. I wore a skirt for her. I haven't worn a skirt since my brother got married and, in fact, it was the same one. I didn't want to wear black, because Carol was all about COLOR. So I wore lavender and even though the skirt had a black background, it was flowered all over with lavender and pink flowers.

There was a violinist that played several songs, one of which, Albinoni's Adagio in G Minor, nearly tore my heart out. But it wasn't until the song chosen for everyone to sing by Carol's daughter: You Are My Sunshine started, that everyone really lost it. I defy you to try and sing "please don't take my sunshine away" at a funeral without sobbing.

I don't feel relief that it's over because all I can think about is the fact that for her family it's NOT over. It's just begun.

And I look around at my own cozy life and my good job and my beautiful children and the circle of friends and family around me and think: nothing is certain. There are no guarantees.

But when I wake up tomorrow, the sun will be shining and the lilacs will still be blooming. And that's something, after all.

Brimming Barrelfuls of Belated Birthday Wishes to nannergo!

There's always hope, right? In the bottom corner of the box, it sits and waits for you and springs up, as glad to see you as you are to see it, when you finally dare to lift the lid one more time.

The hospital visit this evening went much better than I was prepared for and I feel so overwhelmingly grateful that maybe, maybe, hopefully, even if things aren't looking up, they are at least looking a bit better for my friend who had been so steadily going downhill so fast this past week.

It's hard to feel anything but hope when you're driving along the highway in the evening sunshine of a late spring day that began with torrential downpours and gusting winds and ended with clouds playing sunshine peek-a-boo over the blinding sea of bright yellow rapeseed.

***

I get to a certain comfort level of knowledge with technology and sometimes I just want it to STOP there. But no, every single program and gadget and doodad has to be constantly, continually improved, updated, released in new versions with more functionality, more features, more bells & whistles, and you're quickly behind the curve again if you don't keep up. WHY do they have to put out a complete new version of the software I use for work every freaking YEAR? I know that the improvements are good ones, necessary ones, longed-for ones by the people who use the stuff, but sometimes I think: man, give it a rest for awhile. We just updated!

***

If you see my motivation, will you tell it it's past time to get on home?

***

I participated in the annual Women's 5K Run/Walk called Spring Rush (Vår Ruset) in Malmö this past Monday, along with 10,000 or so other women, 12 from our AWC. I've participated every year for the past 12 years except for 2, I think. You can walk, run or jog or whatever you want, and every year I've walked...more or less briskly, usually coming in around the 1 hour mark.

This year I was worried about shin splints because they've been plaguing me more and more every time I walk. :( And with good reason. I warmed up and stretched and everything, and deliberately took it easy at the start, moving at a good pace but not overdoing it and still by the 1 kilometer mark, my shins hurt so much I was almost hobbling. The poor girl who was walking with me must have been completely exasperated though she did a good job of reassuring me that it was no problem and kept me company and distracted me with conversation as much as possible. It helped when I could move off the asphalt path to the edge and walk on the ground instead, but not enough and by the halfway point I had to stop and sit down and rub my legs and stretch them again for 10 minutes before I could move on. OW OW OW.

I thought seriously at least twice about giving up and ditching the Rush, and a couple of shortcuts were VERY tempting, but I managed to keep hobbling along at my snail's pace. By the end my ankles and feet were hurting and my hips because of the weird overcompensating way I was walking, but I made it all the way to the finish line and much to my surprise had come in at only 10 minutes more than my usual hour-ish time, and I got my "medal" and one shin had finally stopped hurting by the time I sat down with the others for our team picnic dinner.

I don't know if I have the wrong shoes, or if I just need new ones, (I've been walking with these gym shoes for several years) or if it's a combination of walking too fast or not stretching ENOUGH or walking on hard surfaces or what, but OW. It hurt so much I'm not sure I want to do it again next year, and even my half hour evening walks aren't very appealing right now. What to do? Stupid shins.

DeLovely DeLightful DeLirious (DeLinquently Belated) Birthday Wishes to same_sky and thinkum!

OMG! I bet you thought I was never going to get my diploma! Where the hell was I? Aaaah, yes, moving from Belgium to Germany! Back when we moved to Germany, there were US military bases everywhere, all over the freaking country. Berlin still had its wall, after all. There were so many other DoDDS (Department of Defense Dependents Schools) that our sports teams didn't even have to play against any German schools, ever. My dad was stationed at Ramstein AFB, but we lived in Landstuhl which was where the military hospital and Army post were, and we went to school in Vogelweh at Kaiserslautern American High School, otherwise known as K-Town. The K-Town military community is the largest one outside the U.S. and we were surrounded by Americans everywhere we turned. It was really different from living on the economy, off-base, in Belgium.

The military housing that we lived in on Landstuhl hill was one of three 12-story high-rise buildings. They were "segregated" —our building had officers, the other 2 had enlisted families, but we all went to the same schools and hung out together. We lived on the top floor in a big 4-bedroom apartment with a balcony. I don't think I mentioned that for the entire 6 years we lived in Europe, we had no television, so we had a great conversation opener for making friends—everyone felt sorry for us and invited us over to watch the 1 English-speaking (military) channel that showed Dallas and Saturday Night Live and other bad programming from the States. I made friends with the oldest daughter (and the youngest) of a family on the 8th floor and their apartment quickly became my second home, and her parents my second set. I'm still in touch with a great many of my high school friends and was thrilled to see them at our 20-year reunion.

	AAAA! The horror continues. I promise, it gets better. Gods only know what happened to me on THAT school photo day—I look like something the cat dragged in. A velvet vest, a lace butterfly brooch and holy 80s, a cravat! A cravat, of all things. HEE! I liked my school, I had friends in every clique: cheerleaders, popular kids, stoners, nerds, whatever. I sang in the school choir AND in an inter-denominational church choir on base. I was such a good girl and was very into religion at this point: Bible youth groups, the works. Funny, when I look back on it now, because my views of organized religion are so colored by this period of my life and even though I have ultimately moved on, I had a GREAT time these 3 years.
	By 11th grade I had had my fill of short hair forever. I went shoulder-length and never went back. I still obviously had curling iron issues that wouldn't resolve themselves for another couple of years, but I was starting to settle into my self. The stickpin cracks me up! Anyone else have a stickpin? I probably still have it somewhere. I don't think I was dating anyone at this point, though I had dated a long-haired rocker boy for 7 months at some point during 10th or 11th grade. I was still pretty much a goody-two-shoes though. I was already planning to major in art for university and was concentrating on art and English classes. My favorite classes were Humanities, Social Studies and Art. I learned how to do calligraphy and had started writing poetry. And was still a reading fiend, of course.
	Finally, senior year! It's funny—I think this one harks back to my 1st & 2nd grade pics somehow. I was a total social butterfly, busy all the time. In addition to all the choir concerts, tours and competitions, I was the manager for the dance drill team, had a singing bit part in our school production of South Pacific and in the yearbook Senior Hall of Fame, I was voted Most Talkative AND Class Clown. (!) In the spring I finally hooked up with a boy I had liked for a long time and we dated intensely until graduation, double-dating to Prom with one of my best friends. My dad tried to find another posting so that our family could stay in Europe but alas, bases were closing and military families were getting shipped home. We moved back to the States in the summer of '82, and I went on to college at Michigan State.

WHEW! I can't believe I made it through all 12 years of school photos. I can't believe YOU did, either! Especially after 8th, 9th and 10th grade! Hope you enjoyed the ride through these memories, bad hair days, Little House comparisons and all. Har!

Previously: Lower Elementary, Upper Elementary, Junior High

The summer before my 7th grade year, we moved overseas to Belgium. I didn't even know where Belgium was on a map beforehand. My dad was stationed at a tiny little Air Force base named Kleine Brogel (strangely, I can't find a translation for Brogel online...any of my Dutch LJ friends able to help?). We didn't live in base housing, instead my parents chose to rent a house on the outskirts of a little farm village called Overpelt which was a few miles away, but we spent nearly a month of the summer before we found the house living in a family-run hotel with our 2 cats who had come over with us from the States. Because the base was so small there was only an elementary school available and so I was to be bussed an hour over the border to an International school in Brunssum, Holland The Netherlands. The school was primarily military kids but there were some Dutch nationals and lots of other diplomatic corps and military brats from other countries including an entire section of Brits. I was to make some lasting friendships during our 3 years here and also take some incredibly scary school photos.

	I'm not sure if I didn't know it was school photo day and that's why I showed up with a faded too-small t-shirt and uncombed hair but this look only deteriorates further the next year so not much else to say about it. When I first met Becky, who would become my oldest, dearest friend, it was in Mr Davis' English class and I thought she was a childish weirdo and she thought I was a snob. But one day I saw that she was drawing a picture at her desk and our mutual interest in art and drawing brought us together in friendship. We called ourselves the Dreadful Duo and played silly games and wrote each other silly notes and drew reams and reams of pictures and comics, many of which I still have. At home in Belgium, our house was huge, and I had my own room for the first time in my life. My brother and sister made friends with the Flemish kids in the neighborhood and my brother even learned Flemish. I loved Belgium and The Netherlands with their trees in rows and canals and Napoleon lemon balls and Tintin comic books.
	Not so cute now, am I? *shudder* The best part is that shirt I'm wearing? It's a PYJAMA TOP. Don't ask me why I was wearing it to school, I have no idea. Becky and I had increased our circle to include several other friends. We were a gang, a club, and we even gave ourselves a name. The initials of the club were LLG but if I told you what it stood for, I'd have to kill you; it was A SECRET. I sang in the school choir but couldn't participate in any other activities outside of school hours since we lived so far away, and was quite envious of my friends who were all members of the amateur theater group. To compensate, my friends and I frequently had sleepover parties at each other's houses that lasted all weekend. Becky had pet chickens and I went with her and her Baptist family to church on Sunday mornings: I had to borrow a skirt to wear.
	The year was 1978 and disco was king and feathering your hair a la Farrah Fawcett was all the rage, except I didn't have a clue, obviously, how to get the right effect and Barky, even in the beginning stages, didn't help matters much. The necklace I'm wearing is a big red apple with a hole and a little worm sticking out. This year, after 2 years of riding the bus an hour each way every day, I was old enough to stay all week in the Student Dormitory just blocks from the school, which was a very eye-opening experience. Being a dormie was fun, though, a special privilege, and it helped a lot when it came time for college later. Halfway through the year, Becky moved back to the States and I felt a bit like a lost soul for the second half of 9th grade. I was glad when it was time to move: to Germany!

Previously: Lower Elementary, Upper Elementary. Next Up: High School

I know the picture of Melissa Then is black-and-white which wasn't the best choice for comparison, perhaps, but it was actually the best one I could find, and the one where you can really see the resemblance. She was 9 years old when she first starred in Little House on the Prairie and I was 9 years old in the picture below. She was born the same year as I was, only 3 months before me. We had the same color hair, freckles, brown eyes, and big front teeth:

Melissa Then

Lizardek Then

( Then it all went horribly, horribly wrong )

Aaah, the middle school years. These were the years where my memories started to stick and become smoother, with fewer gaps in between. There is a lot that is still a blur, however. I only remember the family across the street, for example, and none of the other kids in my classes or neighborhood. I tried long hair, and though you don't see it in these pictures, I had glasses, though I hated them and took them off at every opportunity, and at one point had to wear a patch to help correct my amblyopia. My mom would draw eyes on it with one of those pencils that is red on one end and blue on the other to try and make me feel better.

	4th grade was my favorite year of elementary school. My teacher's name was Mrs Amendum and she encouraged my reading to the point of insanity. I remember nothing of the entire school year because all I did was read. The year was 1973 and we were living in Omaha, Nebraska. We had a German Shepherd named Heidi and a Siamese cat named Tish and my sister had a black & white rabbit named Thumper. Sadly, both the dog and the rabbit died at some point before we moved from Nebraska. I set up endlessly elaborate doll houses and doll living spaces but never actually played with the dolls and listened to The Carpenters OVER AND OVER. Also, Little House on the Prairie was not yet on the air.
	There are NO EXCUSES for this dress, Mom. None! *shudder* It's Dorothy crossed with Peter Pan, by way of Laura Ingalls Wilder in her Sunday Best. Which show, by the way, was NOW ON THE AIR. Thank goodness, I had cut my hair in a Dorothy Hamill bob like the rest of the world, so that the references to Melissa Gilbert would be staved off for a short while longer. 5th grade was our last year in Omaha. I had a case of severe strep throat in the middle of the school year and missed something like 5 weeks of school. My teacher, Mrs. Brown, was a complete witch, and my math skills were traumatized for life after her influence. Plus I turned in an awesome book I wrote for an assignment (with illustrations) and she NEVER GAVE IT BACK.
	AAAH! Laura Ingalls LIVES! haaa! What a hoot. To make things even more funny, I had a mad crush on Michael Landon. My father was at some year-long military officer course and we had moved to Montgomery, Alabama for a year. We lived in a walled community, and each set of townhouses had an inner courtyard with a pool. I grew my fingernails really long against my mother's wishes and devoured books like The Witches of Worm and House of Stairs both of which still give me the willies to this day. We explored the creek outside the housing community for miles under the Spanish moss and my sister and I were both obsessed with making jewelry out of colorful plastic-coated telephone wire.

Previously: Lower Elementary. Next up: Junior High School

It's taken me longer than I thought to start these posts. I've been waffling over whether to break them up or put them all together and I think that I shall break them up. Not because I want to draw out the suspense or drive you crazy but because there are things I want to say about the persons I once was at different stages and it's a harder process than simply shooting out a couple of flippant descriptive paragraphs would be.

Thanks to my mom and sister and brother-in-law for facilitating the madness!

	This is me in kindergarten. My teacher's name was Mrs. McDowell and the year was 1969. We lived in Knob Noster, Missouri, where my dad was stationed at Whitman Air Force Base. I have very scattered memories of Missouri. I remember the basement which was our playroom and nothing else of the house. I had the mumps in Missouri, and my stomach pumped after eating what I thought was grapes found in the wood and turned out to be undissolved pesticide pellets, but I don't really remember that, it's just something I've been told. I was shy with strangers and bossy with my own friends but I don't remember who any of my friends were from elementary school at all, except at some point an older girl named Judy who was the incentive for me to learn how to ride my bicycle with the sparkly green banana seat. Let it be noted that despite the psychedelic zigzag stripes and the Peter-Panny collar, this dress is pretty good as far as my school photos go, fashion-wise.
	I am rocking the fuschia polyester here and how about that lace neckline? It's weird to see these photos of myself as a child and realize how short my hair was. It refutes my notion that I don't look good with short hair, hence the long-haired looniness that I subjected myself and the rest of the world to later (just wait). We were still in Missouri here, and this is one of only 2 school photos that I had myself (and which I've actually posted before). My teacher was still Mrs. McDowell, and I was mis-remembering her name as Downy. Now I'm wondering if one of my other teachers at some point was named Mrs Downy, because I was SO SURE in my head that that was her name. In the class photo of my whole 1st grade, right under my photo, was the picture of a little girl who ended up being in my gang of girlfriends in junior high in Holland, a fact we would discover then to our mutual astonishment.
	I quite like this photo, despite the patriotic check and bizarrely buttoned sweater without arms in the sleeves. All I wanted for the Christmas of my 2nd grade year, obviously, is my 2 front teeth. This was our last year in Missouri. I don't remember the name of my teacher, though I do remember taking my India Madame Alexander doll to school which resulted in the loss of one of her golden coin earrings and her gold snake bracelet with the red glass-chip eyes. A few other memories from Missouri include being grossed-out by my sister touching tongues with David Partridge, and a party my parents threw, at which they covered the basement walls with brown butcher paper and drew comic strips on, and then left big markers lying about for the guests to help decorate the rest with. They put the appetizers down there in leaf-shaped dishes and my brother and sister and I ate up all the black olives (after decorating our fingers with them, of course) before being banished upstairs to bed.
	I totally blame my mother for the clashing pink bows, but the snazzy ski sweater was probably my own fault. I was a particularly determined dresser and often brought my mother to despair by some of the clothing items that I fastened on with love and admiration (gold bat-wing sweater, denim clogs, giant cabbage-rose-patterned dress). Those hair ribbons make me laugh—can you still find that fat kind of ribbon? Later, my parents used those to tie onto luggage handles for easy identification on baggage carousels. This is 3rd grade, school year '72-'73, and I have my front teeth back, but have lost my lateral incisors. We had already moved from Missouri to Omaha, Nebraska and our school was across the street and up the hill from our house. A favorite book around this time was Pippi Longstocking—I thought her life was über-romantic and regularly went on thing-finding expeditions around the neighborhood.

Next up: Upper Elementary!

I got the scanned school photos from my mom and sister and I'm not sure I can bear to inflict this horror on the Internet. Why did no one teach me to STEP AWAY FROM THE CURLING IRON?

EEK

With rushing winds and gloomy skies
The dark and stubborn Winter dies:
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries,
Bidding her earliest child arise; March!
—Bayard Taylor

If you don't like the weather in Sweden, just wait five minutes—that was certainly true today. We woke to blizzardly sideways snow and over the course of the day, we had sunshine, blue skies, grey skies, rain, clouds, snow again, and sunshine again. March comes in like a lion and goes out like an LOLcat. A capricious and frivolous month, for sure.

The fact that it is nearly April—April!—3 months down in the year already, is blowing my mind. Look what happens when you put your head down and forge blindly through your days! It's not just slipping away, it's positively melting. Look what happens when your mind is on what's coming up, what you're looking forward to, instead of what is happening right now. I shake my head at myself. Stop, look, listen. Sit down, slow down, take a breath, enjoy the moment.

It's those pre-spring blues, that when-will-it-ever-get-here feeling of dejection and yet, it was light until nearly 7 p.m. tonight, that brilliant fading orange across the blue of the sky as we drove to Karin's karate class, through freshly turned fields, past new construction, over the bridge behind Skarhult castle. Soon, when it's still and clear, we'll see paragliders landing in the grasses of Eslöv's little airfield. Soon, I'll be able to take my walking shoes and do the rounds on the jogger's path up behind the hill among the trees. Soon it will be more than crocus and snowdrops. That's the nice thing about the waiting for spring: it's always rewarded.

This stretchy, drum-hollow feeling will pass, as do all such things. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, not at all, it's not that...it's more the small punches that rock your world more than you expect that have me feeling this way: a friend's diagnosis, another friend's farewell to blogging, a colleague you like that is going on maternity leave thus leaving your days that little bit less lively, the load of work, the uncertainty of financial turmoil that murmurs like an underground stream everywhere.

It's the sniping of the children at each other and at you, your gut reaction overwhelming your parental abilities and your usual good sense. You react to every flare and strike at every threat, flinch at every movement in your peripheral vision. Some days, some weeks, some months you must just put your head down and forge through, regardless of the consequences of suddenly finding yourself in April. April's not so bad, even if it rains a lot (as when does it not in Sweden). April is a harbinger, a herald and the threshold we carry ourselves over to spring. It's a reminder and a reward.

And while I know it, too, shall pass, I'm looking forward to it, even while I remind myself to live in the moment. :)

Springity Sproingity Billowy Blizzards of Belated Birthday Wishes to johann_metzger and emmabovary!