I have had a few conversations with Norwegians I know about what I experienced at the hospital and the general reaction has been sympathy mixed with a deep understanding of the frustration I felt. Almost everyone had a story of something similar happening to them or someone they know but, at the same time, almost everyone told me that once I actually get under the knife, the care I receive will be very good. So, okay, that makes me feel better while I wait for my next appointment. And I did have a good feeling about the surgeons I met at the hospital. They seemed to know what they were talking about and they were very, very nice to me in that serious, surgeon kind of way. I’ll keep you posted about all of this.

In the meantime, husband and I finally got around to watching “Max Manus” last weekend. What a fantastic movie! It’s a Norwegian World War II film about a group of Norwegian resistance fighters led by the tragically courageous Max Manus. It came out last summer and was crazy popular all over Norway but especially in Sandefjord because the director and one of the writers came from right here in our little town. In Norway, I think that’s like saying Steven Spielberg used to live next door. Pretty exciting stuff.

Husband and I skipped seeing the movie at the theater because we were afraid we wouldn’t be able to understand all of the dialogue. We knew that if we waited for the DVD, we could just switch on the Norwegian subtitles and be able to follow along without any problem, and that’s exactly what we did. Really, what a terrific movie.

I do have one complaint, though. As I was watching the film, I found myself uncomfortably attracted to the evil Gestapo commandant, Siegfried Fehmer, who was trying to capture Max Manus. Why oh why do the people making World War II movies cast hot, sexy actors to play Nazis? First there was Ralph Fiennes in “Schindler’s List,” then Tom Cruise in “Valkyrie,” (although maybe that doesn’t count because Cruise was playing a “good” Nazi?), and now Ken Duken in “Max Manus.”

I think there ought to be a law that, henceforth, any actor playing a Nazi in any movie should be very, very ugly. As ugly as possible. It’s only fair to us viewers who want to concentrate on the plot of the film and not be distracted with thoughts of, “Wow, I can totally see why the Norwegian secretary became a collaborator. I’d like to collaborate with that guy.” Right? Am I right?

It’s November already! Unbelievable.

I had my very first experience with a Norwegian hospital last week and, sadly, it didn’t go very well. This could be a very long story but I’ll try to keep it as brief as possible…. Two years ago, my Norwegian gynecologist discovered what she thought were fibroid tumors in my lady parts. At the beginning of this year, she decided they should come out and she sent a letter requesting an appointment for me at the county hospital in Tønsberg. In September, I finally received notification that I was scheduled to come to the hospital for my surgery on Tuesday morning of last week. The note told me to bring my toothbrush, a robe, and any medication I take regularly. I packed all of that but hoped I would just be able to come home that night after my operation.

No such luck. I arrived at the hospital and was told I would be there all day, “prepping” for my surgery the next day. I would be examined by the surgeons, meet with the anesthesiologist, and basically just hang around. Bummer! I hadn’t anticipated this, didn’t have enough to read, and thought it was a stupid waste of time. Oh well, now I was stuck. I went through my exam and was shown to my room by a nurse’s assistant at around 13.00 (1.00pm). She told me to make myself at home, showed me how to work the TV, said dinner was served at 15.00, and that the anesthesiologist would be in after 16.00 to talk to me. Great. I changed my clothes, got out my Norwegian children’s book, sat down by the window (it was a nice room), and promptly dozed off. I woke up at 15.30, very hungry. Where was my food? Did I miss dinner? Why didn’t anyone wake me?

I should have got up and wandered out to see what was up with the food but I wanted to be in my room when the doctor came by, so I continued to laze around. Nothing happened until some time after 18.30, when a prim, bitchface nurse came in, glided over to my chair, leaned in, shook my hand, and started babbling away på norsk. I must have looked shocked because she abruptly stopped talking, draw back, and asked if I could speak Norwegian. I said yes, I understood her, I just could not believe what she was saying. “Are you telling me to get out, that you need this room and I have to sleep in the hallway?”

“Yes, we have a sick patient who needs your room. Are these your boots?” She was pulling my clothes out of the closet.

“Of course they’re mine. I’ll get them.” She dropped my shoes and moved into the bathroom, picked up my toothbrush and toothpaste, and brought them to me. “And this? Is this your face cream? Did you sleep in the bed? Did you use the bed?”

“No.” I hated her. I grabbed my cream out of her hand, threw it into my bag with the rest of my things, picked up my book, and walked out into the hallway. I was barely out the door before a team of nurses wheeled in a gurney upon which lay a woman who did, indeed, look a bit poorly.

I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I went to the end of the hallway and sat down in a chair, thinking, “This is total bullshit. I’m not sleeping in this hall. What the fuck?” I texted my husband that things were going a bit haywire and he might have to come pick me up. I watched as the nurses slowly streamed out of my old room, all of them looking in my direction but no one making eye contact or stopping to speak to me. Finally, fifteen minutes later, a woman walked over and sat down next me. I think she said was a priest, but I could be wrong; I was kind of upset and didn’t understand everything she was saying. She proceeded to explain that they had to take my room for the sick patient, that I must understand, I’m not sick, just here for an operation, and others must have priority. I tried to explain that I did understand but, geez, this isn’t an emergency room, they invited me here a month ago, they’re the ones who said I had to stay here all night. She said I could choose to go home now and come back the next morning at 7.00. I said no problem, you should have told me this six hours ago.

Okay, so now my story is getting long---sorry. Ending: Husband drove 30 minutes to pick me up, we did the same the next morning at 6.30, I checked back in, complained about how I was treated the day before, laid around all day (no food or water but I did get an IV drip!) until finally, at 15.30, was told the surgeons had got too busy and I would not have my operation after all. I would be rescheduled and could expect a letter in the mail with a new date. At least on this day, the nurses had gone out of their way to communicate with me throughout my stay and I wasn’t surprised by the news of my postponement. For me, no surprises = happy patient. Very simple, actually.

I did get to see my surgeon before I left the hospital to catch the train. He apologized, which I didn’t expect, and said he’d see me when I returned for my operation. I said maybe, he said I must come back. I joked with him that, in America, people can't get into hospitals while, in Norway, everyone can get in but nothing happens. He actually laughed but in an ironic way, since, you know, that’s not really very funny.

When I posted about my experience on Facebook, a lot of my friends in the U.S. commented that this is exactly what they worry about when people talk about socialized medicine. I don’t know what to think, to be honest. I don’t like the way I was treated, and the disorganization among the hospital staff was a tad frightening, but at least I have access to the system, which is more than millions of American can say. People who have had good experiences with hospitals in Norway will think what happened to me is a one-off, and Americans who have good health insurance will say, “What do you expect with government-run health care?”

I think I’ll reserve judgment until I actually do have my operation. I’ll see how it goes and I’ll let you know. I just really do hope that Nurse Bitchface isn’t the one holding my head over a barf bag when I come out from the anesthesia. Because that would truly be an unpleasant surprise.

Sorry to be so quiet over here lately. I’ve been working a lot again, and, between you and me, have become hopelessly addicted to FarmVille on Facebook. I know non-FarmVille people make fun of us Farmers and that’s okay, as I can see how a game revolving around planting and harvesting virtual crops and caring for virtual barnyard animals might seem silly to the uninitiated. Laugh all you want, deride me for my obsession, I don’t care. I love FarmVille. I find it oddly soothing. I’m at level 24 now, will soon move up to 25, and cannot wait to get to level 30 so I can buy a greenhouse like my FarmVille friend Scott has on his farm. And maybe I’ll get a special cow barn, although I’m not sure about that as I sort of like the idea of my cows being free to roam with the horses, sheep, and chickens. We’ll see.

Everything is good in my corner of the world. The fall weather has been lovely for the most part, and the foliage colors are magnificent. The cats have become quite good friends now. We’ve begun to let Harry go outside with Frida and it’s so much fun watching them play together in the garden. Harry has learned to return to our front porch when he’s ready to come back inside, so we’re feeling confident about leaving him out for longer and longer periods of time. Our furniture thanks us.

I was in my favorite grocery store last week and was shocked to see Christmas food---cookies and candy---out on display. I can’t remember this happening so early in the three and one-half years I’ve been here. Christmas stuff for sale in October is normal in California but I think this is a new, and unwelcome, phenomenon in Norway. I don’t like being rushed toward Christmas. My Polish friend told me that, in Poland, shopkeepers are not allowed to put out Christmas items before November 1. That seems like a good rule to me. In a related note, I was also surprised to see two stores, Nille and Europris, awash in Halloween gear. Costumes, decorations, candy---you name it, they have it. I swear, three years ago, Halloween barely existed in Norway. What is happening? Is Norway going American? Me no likee.

A big item in the Norwegian news last week was the annual open publication of the 2008 skatteliste (a list of personal tax records for everyone in Norway), or as most people here know it, the yearly opportunity to sniff around in your neighbors’ beeswax. There is an argument every year about whether or not it is time to stop this practice and this year it got a bit heated, with the conservative party leaders screaming about privacy, identity theft, and other internet-related crime, and the socialist government repeatedly insisting that the tradition is important to an equal, open society. I can see both sides. I very much respect the ideal of social equality through wealth redistribution, in which case it is reassuring to know how much tax people are paying. But I also feel sorry for the high school students whose parents’ income and tax records are on display for all of their classmates to see.

I think a compromise is in order. The idea of charging three kroner for each internet search of the skatteliste has been batted around, and I think it’s a fine one. I would raise it to 10 kroner, though, and donate the “snoop” money to charity. I also think it’s fair that one would have to register with, for example, the tax office to access the skatteliste. That might put the brakes on indiscriminate nosing around and it would provide proof (or not) that people really do need the list to be public. Brilliant, yes?

I don’t know if anyone remembers how I wrote in my blog last Christmas that, even though I was frustrated that I had to work all through the holidays, at least I was going to be able to afford to buy a new sofa. Well, it took six months to find a sofa I liked but I finally did, at a local store called ISAK. That was in June. We just picked up the couch last weekend. I’ve been so busy and in such good humor I forgot to complain to you all about the poor customer service at ISAK, about how it took them four months to get our sofa after originally saying we would have to wait only four to six weeks. And about how they never called to tell us what was happening, just offered lame excuse after lame excuse when we occasionally stopped by to ask about our couch. They’re lucky that we’re mellow people and that the saleswoman who works in the store is so, so nice, or the whole experience could have been nasty for everyone involved.

So, anyway, Husband and I have our new couch. And the timing couldn’t be worse. Because of Harry, the-most-destructive-cat-on-earth. Okay, that’s an exaggeration; I’m sure there are cats that cause more havoc than Harry. And, all in all, he’s turning out to be a very nice companion animal to us and to Elfrida. But dang! The cat is ruining our furniture. He’s scratched the hell out of our barely-year-old IKEA brown leather couch, which makes me sad because I like that couch and we’ve hardly even used it. He’s scratched the floor, the dining room table, a couple of dining chairs, the kitchen table, a side table, and a few kitchen cabinets. And I can’t get him to stay off of the kitchen counters, which is gross. I’ve never had so much trouble with a cat. Mr. Baggins never scratched stuff, and Frida limits her scratching to one kitchen rug.

We moved all of the dining chairs into a room in the basement, covered the leather couch in sheets and blankets, and trimmed Harry’s nails twice but it hasn’t made a difference; in fact, he seems to think the blankets are something to burrow under and dig himself out from. We built him a semi-fabulous cat post, which he likes and uses but that doesn’t keep him from running all over the house and the furniture at breakneck speed, leaving a trail of rips and scratches behind him. Sigh. What are ya gonna do, right? He’s a nice cat and he doesn’t do any of this on purpose. He’s just a rambunctious kitten who needs some training. Nothing he’s damaged is so irreplaceable that I want to cast him out into the forest. Yet. And luckily for Harry, Frida seems to have succumbed to his boyish charms, or has at least realized the entertainment value of having a crazy ball of energy in the house. Plus, in the mornings, when we all wake up, Harry licks our heads, which is sort of gross but also quite sweet; it's as if he thinks we're cats, too.

Husband and I were thinking of taking a little vacation next week but we’re afraid to leave the cats alone in the house for three days. So it looks like we’ll be here, rubbing lemons on the kitchen counters (supposedly cats hate the taste of citrus?) and trying to ignore everything else. And it helps to look into the future. As in, when Harry grows old and dies, we might just look at our ripped and punctured couches and shed a tear as we think, “Oh, little Harry did that. I miss him.” Maybe.

I got a little negative on my Facebook page on Friday when I heard the news that U.S. President Barack Obama had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize by the Norwegian selection committee. I was just so shocked---that news came out of nowhere, didn’t it? But I do feel bad today about my grammatically incorrect FB update: “Obama won the Peace Prize? What for? I’m stunned.” I feel bad because I know a lot of people love, love, LOVE Barack Obama and they want to be happy about this news and they don’t need one of their cynical FB Friends raining on their parade.

I also feel bad because I know better than to get emotionally involved in politics. That kind of passion always leads to very dark places for me because of the disappointment and despair that inevitably occurs when you trust someone in politics to make life better for people who need a break. It never happens. Rich bankers get bailed out, people lose their houses and their school loans, wars continue, and the big bad guys in charge hardly ever get held accountable.

It’s funny to think that it was just about this time last year when I was working hard to mentally prepare myself for Obama’s election, since I was so horribly disappointed that we weren’t going to get our first female president. But everyone said, “Get over it, Michele,” and I tried, and then Obama invited Pastor Rick Warren to his inauguration and I said, “I’m over it.” And I just felt really happy not to be living in America so I could turn off that news and concentrate on European news and thank my lucky stars that I was living in a country where an office cleaner like myself can earn enough to live in a nice house and eat healthy food and take the occasional trip to Germany or England and where I can go to the doctor when I’m sick and where the leaders of five of the biggest political parties are women. It’s such a great place for me to be right now.

And now Barack Obama is coming to Norway. And I’m going to be hearing a lot about hope and change and “Isn’t he the BEST?” for the next two months and it’s going to drive me nuts because I don’t believe any of it. But that’s okay. So many people all over the world love and admire the man and I’m going to concentrate on that and be happy for them. After all, that’s a lot better than it was for the eight years before President Obama got into office. Back then, no one said, “You should be very proud of your President,” which is exactly what a Norwegian man said to me at work yesterday. So, hey! Wait a minute! That is CHANGE!

Wow, have I been out of the loop lately or what? Two months of working two jobs six days a week, plus a raging case of bronchitis left me way too little time for my own blogging or reading any of my favorite blogs. Ordinarily, this would feel like a personal tragedy for me and maybe even cause a dip into the pool of self-pity but that hasn’t happened this time, thank goodness. I guess because, even though the schedule was tiring (and being sick didn’t help), I had a ton of fun working with the kids at the barnehage (kindergarten), I got to meet loads of very nice people, and I got paid to boot. And filling in for my vacationing cleaner co-worker last week resulted in an awesome thank-you gift of Polish sausages and Polish beer---delicious!

So, as the rest of Norway settles back into their regular schedules after a week of vacation (last week was høstferie/fall holiday), I’m settling back into my regular schedule of slacking off in front of the PC. I mean, I still have work to do---five days this week---but that’s nothing! Two days free, to do whatever I want to do? Bliss.

Hey, speaking of høstferie, have any of my living-in-Norway readers heard the mayor of Kristiansand talking about the elimination of that weeklong holiday? He says it’s an outdated tradition from back in the day when families needed a week to pick potatoes. Norway is not a nation of farmers anymore, says Per Sigurd Sørensen, and children should be in school that week. According to him, students do not need a week free only six weeks after starting school, and the interruption is difficult for working parents to deal with. Can you imagine trying to take høstferie away? I mean, I can definitely see his point about the seeming ridiculousness of a weeklong vacation after only six weeks of school. If I was a kid, I’d rather have school start a week later in August so I could enjoy another week of the very short summer season. But I don’t think very many Norwegians are going to buy his argument and give up their week of relaxing in their mountain cabins and/or hunting moose.

Anyway, back to me. All is not naps and internet browsing in our house. Things are the tiniest bit hectic because, one week ago, Husband and I adopted a young cat from the local kattepensjonat. I know it’s very soon after Mr. Baggins’ passing but we want our remaining kitty, Frida, to have a friend and we thought she might be more accepting of another cat if she didn’t get too used to having the house to herself. So I’d like to introduce Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson:





We call him Harry for short. We named him after the most famous sailor we could think of because---according to the nice man at the cat shelter---Harry is descended from cats who spent a lot of time on ships catching mice. Cat Shelter Guy said he knew this because Harry has six toes on his back feet and giant thumbs on his front feet, and this is a sign of a ship cat. I’m not altogether certain of this story of the origins of the polydactyl cat but we like it and thought Harry should carry an appropriate title.

He is the sweetest, most gentle cat we’ve ever met and we love him already, even if he is terribly destructive, amazingly curious, and a tad clumsy; he wasn’t here two days before he fell through our open stairs, poor fellow. Must be those giant clown feet… Unfortunately, Elfrida has been much slower to warm up to the little guy. For the past six days, she has refused to acknowledge him except to hiss at him or run away and hide under one of the beds. Luckily for all of us, Harry has been a complete gentleman about her behavior. He doesn’t hiss or strike back, only follows her around or lies just under the bed staring at her until he gets bored. Then he runs off and tears a curtain or chews up a wire or something.

There has been a slight thaw in Frida’s attitude today, though. She has emerged from under the bed and even consented to chasing Harry up and down the stairs a few times. We hope one day they will be the best of buddies and everyone can relax. We hope and wait. I’ll keep you posted.

Norway's national election is over.

Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg and his Labour Party (Arbeiderpartiet) won the majority of votes, and his coalition socialist government will continue for another four years.

This is good news for me, as Husband says this means we can stay as well. Whew!