When I call my husband on my iPhone, I yell: “Call Mikkel” to Siri. It will take her a few tries to get it right, usually her first answer will be: “I don’t see McKay/McKelle in your contacts”, or “I did not quite get that Julie, or “I’m not sure what you said”. Today, walking with baby strapped on me in a baby carrier in the street, when I yelled “call Mikkel” to Siri, she replied:

“Ok Julie, from now on I will call you cunt”.

Yes. That really happened!? Happy Friday!

My new morning routine: Putting on makeup before work. No stress 😳

Only expats will probably understand the groundbreaking turning point that happened this week: 

In a conversation with a colleague from work, I said that I moved “home” instead of “moved back”. A defining moment for me. A Freudian slip. Which I should be happy about, right?

Yes, I feel more at home after starting work. But “home” is still San Francisco. Sigh. Our apartment in Copenhagen and our new summer cottage in no way feel like home, but my old workplace does. My work place is the only place that feels like home. Weird.

In the back of my mind, I’m wondering: “Do I really want to uproot my family in a few years and get even more confused about “home”?

I must be messed up, because right now – despite understanding the implications – I want to return to the U.S. for a few years.

Shit.

That day your tween has his first playdate with a friend from school (that you kinda set up because you met the friend while out and about), and then your tween skypes and plays PlayStation with another friend from school at night.

Good things happen to those who hustle (Chuck Noll)

… Now, on to some more repatriation hustling!

When your landlord together with a lawyer inspect your house and you risk losing $5.800 in security deposit.