Divorcing Danes

I am 1/8th Danish. It stands to reason then that 1/8th of me - my left leg below the knee, or so - was shocked by the news that prince Joachim and princess Alexandra are getting a divorce. Zzzz...
Wait, what was I saying? Oh right, so they are getting a divorce and guess who gets custody of the kids? That's right, the Queen of course, or, as Alex might say the Queen in-law. How weird would that be?
You get a divorce and your in-laws get the kids. Don't get me wrong, I love my in-laws, but can you imagine being in an emotionally intense state with your ex-spouse and the one calling the shots is his/her mother? Oh the horror.
The kids will apparently continue to live with their mother, so it isn't totally absurd.
All I can say is that in our family this situation would never arise. Nope, we take the much healthier stance of simply never talking to/about whomever was divorced out of the family.
There are members of my family who haven't seen each other for nearly three decades.
Now that is what I call a divorce.

Democracy at Work (in the Workplace)

Funny story.
And this is just pathetic. Democracy? What? Who? Where?
I often, believe it or not, defend the US. As far as the globe's third largest nation goes, I guess the US does a better job of ensuring democracy for its citizens than than number one and two, and probably most of the countries in the top ten ranking. No question about that.
But the war in Iraq was way way shady.
Then again Iceland belongs to the Coalition of the Willing thanks to two men, Prime Minister Halldor Asgri­msson and Minister of Foregin Affairs David Oddson (in what can only be described as a weird political hodge podge, the two actually switched Ministries yesterday). More than 90% of the Icelandic population was against the war. But we are also remarkably willing to indulge our politicians and pretty much hop along with anything they tell us.
I would go as far as to say we are indeed a Banana Republic - I suppose a Herring Republic would be more fitting. In a country where you are grateful if you end up marrying somebody you are not related to, nepotism is almost inevitable.
And for that reason alone I really cannot be all high and mighty when it comes to democracy - we ain't doing much better over here.

There is a Smurf on my Turf

The fridge is making odd sounds.
Not the virtual one you are reading this very second, but the physical, actual one in our soon to be ex-kitchen.
It started a couple of nights ago when I kept hearing a noise that sounded like somebody was playing on a metal grid.
At first I thought it was the dish rack, and emptied it.
Then, I thought it was one of the kitchen cabinets that has a metal grid shelf, and for a horrifying split second I thought there was a tap dancing rat in it. I've had my fair share of tap dancing rats and can well do without for the rest of my life.
Then I realized it was coming from the fridge. But, like in a bad comedy sketch routine, every time I opened the fridge the sound would stop.
Last night it graduated from a merely audible tapping sound to a full out gargle. Basically it sounded like there was a smurf slurping Jell-o every time I closed the door.
Perhaps the fridge is saying good bye?
Or, rather, considering all we ever kept in there was olive spread and milk, it was saying good riddance?

The sound of, well, not music

As far as I can tell there is only one good thing about my husband being away. It does not in any way compensate for the fact that he isn't here, but it provides me with a little joy nonetheless. It isn't that I don't have to fight to sleep under the covers, nor is it the amount of chick flicks I can watch uncensored.
It is the fact that I can sing, because I really cannot sing. I would never inflict such pain and suffering onto anyone as to make them listen to my crooning. But when I am alone, I pull out the old song book and belt away.
Mostly, I destroy old standards such as Pennies from Heaven, Night and Day, pretty much anything from The Sound of Music. There is a repertoire of Swedish songs, psalms and folksongs.
And then there are the National Anthems. Sometimes, I am overwhelmed by this terrible urge to sing National Anthems, my favorites being the Swedish and Finnish ones. Please understand, I am probably the least nationalistic person you will ever meet, but there is something grand about anthems. Even hearing the American one for the umpteenth time at the Olympics has a certain je ne sais quoi. The only one I absolutely cannot sing is the Icelandic one. It is simply impossible to sing for anyone without extensive training.
And it is really depressing.
The last verse is about a small flower with quivering tears. Beautiful, sure, but not the stuff of grand designs.
Then again Icelandic law states that the National Anthem cannot be communicated in any other way except singing. For me to even attempt to do anything with it would probably be a criminal offence.