måndag, april 11, 2005


Over two years ago, I bought Linguaphone UK's Swedish translation program. First thing I ever bought in pounds. I have no idea how much it cost, exactly, but it was a ton o'dough. I did not care. See, my husband will not speak Swedish with us. I have begged and he has promised, but instead of simple commands and slow repetition, he blurts out whole paragraphs at a time. "That is how I understand immersion works," he explains.

Immerse this.

Then, because I challenge his methodology and he is a man and he is a Nordic Man, he shuts up. Then, because I am a woman and a rare pain-in-the-ass type woman, I retaliate. We would show him. We will learn it without him. This means horrible pronunciation and a snobby Stockholm accent instead of his southernly Malmö one. My plan was proceeding on course until I lost cassette 4.

I searched everywhere. I even called the lady who bought my old car and asked her to look under the car's carpeting (she swears she did, but I have my doubts). Without it, I could not go forward. I could have read the materials and move on with my life and cassette 5, but every attempt I made to leap frog over cassette 4 met a dismal, anemic end.

Getting ready to toss out an old gym bag, I went through ever pocket, even the invisible one on the front that is useless for anything but a hair clip or a man's comb. There it was, cassette 4. I was so happy even my daughters smiled. At 6:45 am on a Monday morning before a school day full of tests and raging teenage hormones, they smiled. "This is going to be one great day!" I told them, too happy to be sane.

Then I grabbed a load of laundry for the basement and fell down the stairs.