Sometime late last spring, my father-in-law told Dr. Darling that he had volunteered to serve as chauffeur for his wife and her best friend who were attending a Cliff Richard concert in Malmö this past weekend. The ladies were making a big "Girls Night Out" of it, including hotel accommodations, and he wanted to know if he could stay at our place on Friday night.

Given that they live two and a-half hours north of here, it made sense that he wouldn't want to drive back up to Falkenberg after the show. So even though we are usually wiped out at the end of the week and would never intentionally plan to have overnight company on a Friday, Dr. Darling told him he was welcome to stay at our place and then promptly forgot about it. (It was six months away after all.)

I know the subject came up again in August when Dr. D was trying to coordinate getting him a key so that he and his wife could stay at our place one night while we were cycling the Lofoten Islands (which became enough of a logistical nightmare that I was ready to pay for them to stay at a hotel). And knowing my father-in-law, it was probably mentioned at least in passing virtually every time they've spoken since then.

About a month ago he called with a more formal reminder, at which time he provided a few more details about the ladies' plans (a bit of shopping on Saturday morning). Then last week he called to say he'd be dropping "the girls" at the hotel in Malmö early Friday afternoon, and was surprised (as usual) when the Swede told him we would both still be at work at that time. Seriously, both he and his wife seem to have some kind of mental block on this issue because the fact that we both have full-time Monday-Friday jobs (for the moment, anyway) NEVER factors into any plans they make involving us.

In addition to this little peculiarity, he has a well-established habit of not listening to Dr. Darling very closely. Combine that with my Swede's seeming inability to ask a follow-up question, and you basically have a perfect recipe for regular occurrences of miscommunication that are invariably annoying, often inconvenient and occasionally hilarious. So I probably should NOT have been surprised to learn, while eating the home-cooked meal he thoughtfully brought along for dinner Friday night, that the concert wasn't until the FOLLOWING EVENING.

He was in another room when this somewhat relevant bit of info came to light, causing me drop my fork and mouth silently to Dr. Darling, "Does this mean he's staying until Sunday?!" She assured me in a hushed whisper he wasn't and that she had NO IDEA the concert was Saturday until after she met up with him on her way home from work. So we would basically be hosting him until about 10:30 Saturday night...at which point he'd fetch the Cliff Richard fans from arena and start the long drive back up to Falkenberg. What the hell? Wasn't avoiding that drive late at night the whole point of...oh never mind.

Fortunately we hadn't made any other plans for Saturday, so him hanging out until the concert was over wasn't a problem. It just would have been nice to know about it in advance so that we could have at least had something on hand to make for dinner. (The weekly grocery run usually happens on Sunday, so the cupboard pretty darn bare on Saturdays.) The concert had been on their calendar for six months...you'd think the fact that it was a Saturday night performance might have come up during the multiple conversations he had with Dr. Darling about his visit.

Now as I mentioned earlier, this type of misunderstanding between Dr. Darling and my in-laws is so commonplace that it's borderline comical. And I realize that I have to take some responsibility for my own frustration because I continue to rely on her to handle 95% of our communication with them...especially the stuff that involves any kind of coordination and pre-planning. CLEARLY, THAT. MUST. STOP.

One my favorite former ex-pat pals passed through town on Saturday and had arranged a mini-reunion with those in her former circle still living in Malmö. And because the Kallbadhus experience is something she has been unable to replicate since moving back to the US (even in the Swedish immigrant mecca of Minneapolis, Minnesota), it was the natural place for us to get together.

So it was with much enthusiasm that I shared news of the event with Dr. Darling, a relatively recent convert to the charms of the traditional Swedish sauna and cold plunge ritual, and a big fan of the guest of honor. The plan involved about a half-dozen of us gathering at the adjoining cafe for brunch and a big visit before hitting the sauna.

To my surprise, the Swede was a bit reticent about committing, saying that that she'd be glad to meet the gang for brunch but would prefer to skip the sauna/cold plunge.

"What's the deal?" I asked. "I know you're not big on group socializing, but it's going be a relatively small party. Besides, you know and like everybody who is going to be there."

"Well that's the problem, I'm not very comfortable with the idea of being naked with people I know."

"Present company excluded, I hope."

"Well, you don't count, of course."

"Oh, thanks alot. But seriously, I thought we Americans were the ones with nakedness issues. I'm pretty sure the Swedish government could revoke your citizenship over this."

"Very funny."

Fortunately Dr. Darling got over her selective modesty by the time we finished brunch and joined us for a naked sauna and plunge into the Öresund. Not only that, but she actually helped me re-enact our recent run-in with Rude-vig Entitled-sson (self-proclaimed Queen of the Kallbadhus) for our friends...prompting another friend of mine who knows the shy Swede fairly well to ask:

"What the hell were you guys drinking at brunch?"

It's been a rather tough week at The Penthouse Nordic. It started off with a scary medical test (the bi-annual liver scan for possible spread of the cancer that claimed my right eye two years ago...we're still awaiting final results) and that *should* have been enough to deal with, don't you think?

But on Wednesday evening, Dr. Darling met me at Malmö's Central Station (which is somewhat unusual...she normally passes through there much earlier than I do) and said, "It looks like you'll be getting your Ph.D housewife back pretty soon."

SAY WHAT?!

Turns out her company, Bring CityMail, will be closing down operations in Copenhagen on January 1. Management of the Norwegian-owned operation blames the current economic crisis and Danish trade law that subjects its delivery services to 25% VAT, a tax its only competitor, Post Denmark, does not have to pay. That law is actually slated to change sometime in 2011, but not soon enough to help the 440 people who will get to start 2010 unemployed.

Needless to say, Dr. Darling is dreading the job search...a task that pretty much sucked the life out of her the last time she did it. The job market for research scientists in Scandinavia was non-existent *before* the global economy tanked, which is how someone with a doctorate in molecular medicine ended up delivering mail by bicycle in the first place.

Ironically, Dr. Darling had already enrolled in a couple of university distance courses for the spring term, geographic information systems and operational efficiency, two interests she developed while working for Bring CityMail. Turns out she has something of a flair for logistics and figures a little *more* education won't make her any less employable than the Ph.D already has.

At least now she won't have any excuse not to ace them.

I seem to have crossed some kind of magic threshold on "the Google" recently, because in spite of the fact that October of 2009 was one of my laziest blogging months EVAH (12 entries total, only half of which were original material), ShazzerSpeak miraculously managed to accumulate the 2nd highest monthly hit count in its (almost) five-year history.

Of course the very fit Swedish PhD with long blonde hair and impressive collection of imported single malt whiskys who has been my partner for the last 8 years might beg to differ.

(P.S. She also looks HOT in the black ribbed L Word tank that Showtime sent along with the DVDs.)