The Giraffability of Digressions

On Decisions and the City

2012-02-13T17:04:00.000+01:00

...as I walked down the streets of the forlorn city, I couldn't help but wonder: have the 21st century made us unable to make independent decisions?

I've been watching a lot of Sex and the City lately. Carrie Bradshaw surely must be one of the great philosophers of our time. At least she manages what other philosophers fail at: presenting a world view that makes sense to me, from which I can try to make sense of my own confusing life.

Using Carrie & CO as a reference point is fun - and disturbing. Is he a Mr. Big? Or an Aidan? And am I a Carrie or a Miranda? A Charlotte? Or - at times - a Samantha, even? And most importantly of all - do I need this many shoes? (Of course I do!)

I realize it is fiction, and I realize that the life of four glamorous 30-somethings in New York City does not translate well to my own 20-something life here in boring, old Oslo. Still. There are some things that appear to be universal, and Carrie the Philosopher offers some interesting perspectives on that great mystery women have been trying to figure out since the beginning of time: the man. Who is he? How to approach him? And why do we (as in "we, women") have so many twisted expectations for him, and the life we want him to provide for us? (Which, I might add in this "female power"-inspired post, I find completely ridiculous. First you need to provide your own life, find your own goal and become a confident, independent person. Then you can find a guy who is compatible with this life and this person you've become. Or at least that sounds more ideal than changing for the guy; or worse: expecting him to change for you. Change might be good, but it is at the very least unlikely.)

Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and to a certain extent, Charlotte, are confident, independent women (though with the mandatory confidence issues and hiccups like the rest of us). (And - yes - I realize they might not be realistic characters, but instead stereotypes. That is a whole different discussion, though.)

Independence is a virtue in the 21st century, even (or especially) for women. And yet - this is my claim - we frequently find ourselves unable to act independently. The SatC-girls have a touch of it - no problem is left unturned in their famous NYC brunches. They debate and discuss everything from penis sizes to the exchange of keys with new boyfriends. They depend on the advice from friends to make their decisions.

This is not a bad thing, but with modern technology comes modern problems. We no longer have to preserve our problems for Sunday brunch - our advisors are present 24/7 through Facebook, Twitter, or cell phones. Earlier today I found myself consulting a friend about a rather mundane topic. I won't go in details (despite it being mundane, it would also be too self-incriminating to mention here...), but the point is that it made me realize I've forgotten the ability to make decisions all by myself. My recent experiment to ensure that I still am able to function properly without Facebook IV directly plugged to my arteries (I managed four days completely off, and I missed it surprisingly little), forced me to make certain smaller decisions - what to wear or whether to eat bread or yoghurt for breakfast; things like that - without consulting my team of online specialists.

I'm only exaggerating a little.

I remember watching an episode of House, M. D. once (a show I am sad to see cancelled, even though I don't watch it myself anymore, since it made me a total hypochondriac), where a patient was an enthusiastic blogger. She was up for a sugery to have her heart valve replaced (I think. Not entirely sure what the surgery was, come to think of it). In order to make the decision of whether or not to have the surgery, she consulted her blog readers.

The episode was supposed to show a crazy example. Who would do something like that? Ask random strangers on the Internet to make life or death decisions?

The scary thing, though, was that the thought of doing just that wasn't so foreign to me. Okay, I wouldn't consult whomever reading this for questions about my health, but that is more a matter of privacy. Communication and consultation with others, through blogging or Facebook or whatnot has become so common that I don't immediately see the problem even though I know there's supposed to be one.

I think once I have identified the problem, though, my conclusion is different than the House-writers probably planned. They wanted to say something about the crazy online society we've constructed. I want to say something about society in general.

A hundred years ago my ancestors lived in the deep Norwegian forests, not being able to communicate with friends or relatives every second of every day. If they were lucky they probably saw one another once every ten years or so. I can assure you they did not have problems making decisions! Because part of the issue here isn't just that we make ourselves dependant on someone else - no, adding to that problem is the fact that most of us make ourselves dependant on several someones. And trust me - if I ask my team of online consultants what to wear or what to eat for breakfast, I will get more than one answer! I'm asking them to make my decisions easier, but in reality they often only provide more options, thus making it even harder!

Let's pretend this post isn't as long as it is, and that you've actually bothered reading all the way down to the bottom. There is a life lesson down here, somewhere. Something to do with Facebook, perhaps - how being away was good, and being back is good, and that somewhere in the middle probably is the golden direction to take. Something to do with how I communicate - of remembering that sometimes having all the options and making a qualified decision isn't the rational choice, if nothing else because it takes too much time. And something about Sex and the City. It's not a perfect show, and the philosophy is definitely not perfect. But it is comforting, entertaining.

As I wrote the last few words towards completion of this strange and confusing post, I couldn't help but wonder: has our inability to make decisions led us to accept a philosophy based on product placement and idealized lifestyles to excuse our otherwise chaotic existence? Yes. Yes it has. Stop asking rhetorical questions.

On this

2012-02-08T11:19:00.000+01:00

This is irony. I overheard a conversation last night. In a restaurant, in Norway. The party having the conversation was a 50/50 mix of Norwegians and non-Norwegians, so the language employed was English. They were talking, eagerly, about many topics not appropriate for this blog (for instance, let me non-appropriately mention that I now know that these ladies thought it should be called "IT engineer's crack" rather than plumber's crack). What feels more appropriate, though, is to refer to the part of the conversation I meant to address in this paragraph:

(only now it's not in that paragraph anymore)

(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)

"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"

This is irony.

Let me translate.

"What's vocabulary in English?"

This is irony.

This is not:

I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.

Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.

Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).

What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?

Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.

Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.

And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.

Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).

On Botswana

2012-02-01T11:15:00.000+01:00

This post has nothing to do with Botswana.

I just needed a title. A working title, if you will. But if you won't, you'd be more correct, because it has effectively ceased to be a working title now that I've commented on it. Otherwise the comment wouldn't make sense. And then I'd have to change the introduction to this post. I'd be a working post.

I won't change the introduction or title of this post. Even though it has exceptionally little to do with Botswana.

It has exceptionally little to do with most things, actually. Though, "actually", it's not that hard to not discuss most things. Even if I were to discuss coffee filters, telephones, snow, sunsets, polka-dot dresses, cartoons, albatrosses, fiddlers, mid-century furniture, lollipops and single-cell animals - which I am not - the things-packed post I'd have written would still not discuss "most things". All the above mentioned things are, after all, a minority when it comes to things in general. All the things. This wasn't even a sizeable sample.

A post that has nothing to do with Botswana or most things.

It also has nothing to do with Lionel Richie. (Well, I suppose now it sort of does...)

I can see the postman. But the non-Botswana post also has nothing to do with that. Maybe I should write a post-post sometime? And then the day thereafter I can write a post post-post. Ha. Sometimes I'm too funny for my own good...

I am too [insert multiple adjectives] for my own good, actually. My mind is everywhere else than where it should be. Or... "Should" should be a matter of definition. One should have one's mind where I have mine right now, occasionally. (That sounded naughty. It isn't. Not really. The answer to the question I'm sure y'all are desperate to ask - "where??" - is not "the gutter". For once.) But one should perhaps not have one's mind there when one is trying to work. Or write posts that are or are not about Botswana.

Work. Concentration. Reading. Thinking. Planning. Planning... Hoping? Dreaming? Wanting?

Sheep.

Cookie.

Actually, here's a Botswana-related thing (out of all the things) after all. I learned yesterday that Botswana has a remarkably well-functioning economy, with the highest growth rate in the world. There. Title justified.

On Manhattan

2012-01-09T12:25:00.000+01:00

I wish I was on Manhattan.

Not just because Norway is exceptionally cold and snowy today, and a vacation would be just what I need at the moment...

Imagine walking down the streets of Manhattan, running into Carrie and Mr. Big. Or maybe you can drop in on some old friends in "Central Perk". Or the more physical Central Park.
There is something about Manhattan - how it is portrayed in popular culture - that paints such an interesting and amazing picture (like the one above). The rest of New York has its merits too, I'm sure, but Manhattan? The home of the rich and beautiful and cool and successful? Who wouldn't dream of going there?

Why, then, did they have to ruin this picture-perfect place with taking its name for one of the biggest atrocities in human history? I am reading up on "The Manhattan Project", and I don't much like what I'm reading. Military-industrial complexes, Big Science, world politics, a quick end to an already too long war - I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that people were willing to develop and construct a weapon that spread into two separate bombs killed 150,000-250,000 - about half of them immediately, and the rest within the next few months. Not to mention the after effects from the radiation. Add to that how nuclear weapons held the world hostage during the next fifty years, and how it is still considered one of the worst threats should it fall into the wrong hands. (Or, as I'm prone to believe - all hands are wrong when it comes to nukes. The question is whether those hands will pull the trigger.)

I know. What a turn this post took. I'm complicated that way.

On 2012

2012-01-03T14:25:00.002+01:00

Happy New Year!

That's all.

No, wait

There is also a post. Lurking. Somewhere. Around here.

Cheers for 2012!

On old-year resolutions

2011-12-20T16:30:00.000+01:00

2011 has been an absolutely crazy year. It feels like it has gone by extremely quickly. At the same time, January must be a decade ago. So much have happened in my life - good things, bad things, meh things, unexpected things, if-you-had-told-me-this-twelve-moons-ago-I-wouldn't-have-believed-it things. I wouldn't define 2011 as a "good" year. Nor a "bad" one. It's been - interesting. Exhausting. Amazing. And many other words that end with -ing.

Now that it is coming to an end, however, it feels appropriate to take a look back. Set the record straight and clean the slate for the new year, so to speak (in mixed and mauled metaphors).

I won't bore you with the details. I've already covered much of it on this blog: Tokyo, work, earthquakes, trauma, Tokyo again, confusing times, wonderful times, back home, OsLove, unemployment, resignation, fresh beginnings. And so on. To save time (and details), however, I thought it might be interesting to look all the way back to the very beginning of this year. To the post titled "On resolutions".

I said I didn't do New Year's Resolutions, and I meant it. In an attempt to make a twist of the ordinary variety of them, though, I did write some:

1) I will do [blank] that I have never done before.

2) I will strive to stop [blank], and begin [blank].

3) I will [blank] without [blank].

I can honestly say I've met them all. Some several times. And I didn't see it coming.

At the start of 2011, I had no idea what sort of year I'd have. Fortunately. I probably wouldn't have been able to handle it.

At the end of 2011, though, I am glad that I did handle it, or at least survive it. That I got to face all the life lessons I've earned this year. That both good and bad things happened, and that they mixed together most likely will make 2011 stand out as the most extraordinary year of my life (so far). In terms of personal growth, I wouldn't be without it - any of it - for the world.

Thus, it's time to make some new resolutions. In the spirit of 2011 being manageable only because I knew nothing of most of the things that would happen, I think I should go for a similar approach to 2012.

1) I will make sure to [blank] at least once.

2) I am going to [blank] until I reach the goal of [blank].

3) I will continue to get even better at [blank].

2012 - I am ready for you, whatever you will bring (but please don't let it be the apocalypse. Let's prove those Mayans wrong!!!).

On keeping it together

2011-12-16T10:33:00.000+01:00

First of all. Don't read damnyouautocorrect.com at work. Even if you're in your own office, behind a closed door. You *will* laugh loud enough for your collegues to suspect that you are not grading papers. Also, grading papers rarely make me tear up (yet).

Secondly - the weather. Yeah, that's right. I'm putting on my old man pants for a minute. Let's dicuss the weather. We're having snow. And then not snow. And then snow. And then ice. And melty-hell. And wet shoes, slippery, dangerous ice-melty-hell. And then snow again. Right now, the view from my window is not-so-bad:

(Not-so-great either, but that is mainly due to a) poor picture quality since my phone is ancient; and b) it's not that spectacular a view. That's reserved for the people on the 11th floor.)

Anyway. Today it was slippery-hell when I left the house, it was raining by the time I changed trains, and when I got to the office I was soaked. 30 minutes later it was snowing like mad. Hence the Winter Wonderland-ish-ness above.

Speaking of....

I kinda love this. (And my old man pants are off again!)

(Pants should, generally be off. At least this is what the Michigan contingent of my shrinks tell me)

(I haven't asked the rest of the world. Yet.)

I'm stressing, A LOT, lately. With everything. Life. Living situation. Work. More work. Christmas shopping. Finding the right kind of music for the holiday mood to tick in...

(This helps, a little)

Basically, it's all about keeping it together, right? Not letting the stress get to you. One day at the time, or, even, one breath at the time. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I will try, at least.

On decency and safety: how playing it safe occasionally is hazardous

2011-12-08T14:00:00.000+01:00

This is a tale of the importance of a safety pin, and how choosing safety in one department, very well might put you at risk in another.

Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.

For instance. I have a reflex.

Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)

The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!

Yes, what about Alaska?

Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:

"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"

Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...

I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)

Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.

However, that might be subject to change.

On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.

Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?

I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.

So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.

The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.

As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.

And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)

It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.

At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.

This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.

It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.

Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.

In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.

Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.

So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.

The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:

"Reflexes save lives"; and

"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."

I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.

The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.

On ducks

2011-11-29T14:22:00.001+01:00

Seriously. Look at it!

Yeah, so I'm still alive. Alive and looking at ducks.

Seriously!

On clementines

2011-11-20T21:41:00.001+01:00

I have many dreams - big ones. Hopes, plans - life long ones. The kind that affect your major life decisions.

But sometimes life is all about the small things. About having a snoring, one-year-old sleeping on your chest because she doesn't want to be alone. About having a nice cup of tea that makes your sore throat slightly less sore. About finding a dress that fits you better than the mannequin wearing it. About spending time with great friends you know you can rely on, no matter what.

Or about eating the season's first perfect clementine, knowing you'll be eating 1,5 kilos of them the next month, if you're anything like the average Norwegian.

On randouvites, part three

2011-11-09T17:45:00.000+01:00

These are a few of my current randouvite things:

Cucumbers. Small ones.

My most recent playlist on Spotify. Not that I'm letting you in on the songs thereof.

Danish newspapers. Haha. Seriously, though.

The colour mustard yellow. And how it totally goes with green. And navy blue.

Candles.

My creepy mp3-player. It's creepy because even if I keep it on "shuffle", every day when I come from work it starts playing Simon & Garfunkel's "A Hazy Shade of Winter" as I pass the exact same house. Seriously. This has happened four times now. (And no, that song is not on my playlist. Ha!)

A hazy shade of wintery sunrises even if it's still autumn. But our light is leaving. So it's nice to cherish the sunrises we have. (Okay, our light isn't leaving, per se, but we have less of it now. We're reaching the point where you leave the house in darkness, and come back home after work in darkness.)

Mmmoney. Let's be honest. We all love it. I love having some again. Even if I'm still quite broke.

Reading time with my nephews.

Having a beer with friends after work. That I have friends. And work.

Fleet Foxes. (Went to their concert - they are seriously AMAZING!) (Fine. Yes. They are represented on my playlist)

That November is moving forward, at a reasonable pace.

My red lipgloss. Rrrred!

That the Oslo-metro system is all in the same price zone now. Man, that bothered me before!

Dates. As in the fruit. Dried. Other meanings of the word? Meh.

Candles. (Yes, I know I already said that)

Daydreaming.

The smell of cold in the air in the morning.

That it isn't raining. Not always.

That I can be as weird as I like in the privacy of my own office (and on my own blog, apparently).

The word "seriously".

On Denmark

2011-11-02T21:13:00.000+01:00

I'm prone to speak of one of Norway's neighbours - Sweden. If you have been following this blog for a while, you know all about my love-hate relationship with Norway's "older brother". Or rather, how I pretend to hate Sweden, while in reality I love it (except when it comes to sports. That's the only arena where my Swedenmosity is genuine...).

Our other close "relative", however - Denmark - I haven't spoken much about. Denmark is a little further away. You actually have to cross an ocean (albeit a narrow one). Also, Norway and Norwegians are strangely concerned about Sweden, while Denmark occasionally falls out of our conscience.

Even if we write Danish.

Even if our flag is the Danish flag with a blue cross in it.

Even if we imported our royal family from Denmark.

Even if practically every flight anywhere in the world to/from Norway goes via Denmark.

Even if they ruled us for 400 hundred years.

We forgave that...

I know I've previously mentioned how strange it is that while our union with Denmark was four centuries of absolutist rule, Norwegians are only bitter about the less than a century with Sweden in a much looser constellation where we had our own constitution, Parliament and flag. We like to think of Denmark as our protector, somehow. Perhaps not a brother or sister - more like an uncle, perhaps? The uncle that always is a little tipsy and brings you presents from abroad. That's Denmark to Norway. Slightly less close than Sweden, but infinitely more appreciated. Poor Sweden.

I've grown to appreciate Denmark more recently, though. First of all, some of the very excellent people I met in Tokyo were Danish. I've had Danish friends before - the first one was on a vacation when I was five, and I didn't understand a word she said. Language is a problem with Danes, you see. Despite the fact that our written language (or one of them - yes, we have two. No, they are not all that different. No, don't tell my Neo-Norwegian patriot friends I said that...) basically is a Norwegianified Danish, oral Danish is quite difficult to understand. Norwegians commonly think Danish people sound like they speak with a potato in their throats. Some of my Danish friends agree... With some practice, though, I can usually understand Danish if. They. Speak. Slowly. Slooowly. It cuts through the potato, then.

Written Danish, on the other hand, is not problematic for a Norwegian to read. Thus, it poses no particular challenge when I in my current job have to read a lot of Danish newspapers. In fact, by now I think I prefer reading Danish - it sounds much more poetic and elegant than Norwegian does! Also, the Danish debate I am reading up on is much more "spicy" than anything you'll find in Norway. While we consider the Danes to be mellow people, they certainly have much more zing to their public commentary than what we have. It makes for more interesting reading material, for sure.

They may be bold in their debates, but the Danes are also surprisingly polite. For instance, I was surprised to find myself addressed with "De" and "Dem" in an email in reply to some inquiries I had. We have this polite version in Norwegian too - it compares to the German "Sie" or the French "Vous" - but we never, ever use it anymore (I don't anyone has since the 1960s). I commented on this to my Danish friend, and he replied that it is not very common in Denmark anymore either, but that is is used for "customers, elderly people and Norwegians". Obviously, the latter was a joke, but it says something about the relationship between our two countries. In many ways I think Danes think of Norway as the prodigal son - they fondly awaits that we will come back under their influence once we've tried all this "independence" nonsense... (I might also add that another Danish friend commented that had I been Swedish, I probably wouldn't have gotten a reply at all... That says something about the relationship between those two countries, I suppose...)

Oh, it's all fun and games, of course. Norway, Denmark and Sweden - Scandinavia (and if we include Iceland and Finland we've got the whole Nordic family) - we're good friends. We begrudgingly vote for each other in the Eurovision Song Contest. We occasionally cheer for each others' teams in sports competitions (perhaps that is why we like Denmark better, by the way? We generally don't do the same sports...). We cooperate in politics and economy, we read each others' literature and watch each others' movies. We have similar values and ideas and systems. We get along pretty well, despite our historical differences. And we looooove to make fun of each other. As evidenced below.

On tears

2011-10-31T17:09:00.002+01:00

Right from the start, human beings are taught that there is one thing that will get us what we want: tears. Babies use it to get food, toddlers use it to get toys, young girls use it to get money from their fathers, middle-aged men use it to get victories from their football teams...

There are sad tears, happy tears, tears of frustration.

Crocodile tears.

Tears for fears.

Blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Or just blood, sweat and tears.

Tears in heaven.

Personally, though, I'll do my crying in the rain.

On wordless week

2011-10-29T14:39:00.000+02:00

I was blogging according to the NaBloWriMo schedule. And then I wasn't. Suddenly, I stopped.

I've never not completed a blog challenge I've committed to before. I've written short and/or crappy posts, yes, but I still posted daily. This time I didn't. Not because I couldn't. Not because I didn't have the time. I have had less time than usual this week, but I still would have found a way if I wanted to. But I didn't want to. So I stopped.

I hardly think anyone missed me. Even the eager readers that still stop by here every now and then out of old habit, won't have minded a few days off. Let's face it, there isn't people out there whose happiness relies on daily posts from me. The only person whose happiness that should be even remotely tied to that, is my own. And I didn't miss me either.

Blog challenges often suit me, because I have a talent for writing about nothing. Spinning yarn from imaginary wool, it's my thing. But really. Sometimes the world only needs so much yarn.

I've lately pondered the concept of talking about nothing. Of talking to, or with, someone if you don't really have anything to say. In relationships, romantic ones or friendships, this can be crucial. Few have so much happening in their lives that they constantly find topics to talk to their spouses with. And so the ability to make meaningful conversation over small things - things that doesn't matter - becomes important.

Blog wise, I'm not sure the same applies. It does if you insist on blogging daily. You will inevitably run into a dry spell, and unless you are willing to repeat yourself, it is highly likely that you'll have to result to a few posts about nothing.

If you don't insist on posting daily, however, many would benefit from posting only when they actually have something to say. And by "many", I mean me. Naturally there will still be the occasional "nothing"-post - I am me, after all - but I think I am done with blog challenges for now. When I first got into them, they were a brilliant way of practicing dependability. Learning how to post daily. Later ones were brilliant networking-wise. Finding new blogs, earning new followers. And some of the blog challenges have been tests for myself, to see how much I can realistically expect to achieve when I deliberately put too much on my plate.

This last one, however, may be the most important of all. It taught me that I have finally found a mode of blogging I am comfortable with. I don't feel the pressure to post daily, or on a regular basis. I don't feel the need to follow any blog "rules". I won't visit more blogs than I have the time to, and then only the ones I want to visit. I don't do pity-visits, and certainly hope no one does to me.

If I have nothing to say, I won't blog. Unless I want to say something about nothing.

On heresay

2011-10-24T09:00:00.000+02:00

I'm not here.

Oh, don't you worry. I don't mean literally. Well, actually, I do. Assuming that "here" is defined by where you are at the moment, since you are reading it, and a text automatically belongs to the reader once it has left the authors hand (or so the post-structuralists say) (or maybe they don't say that, but bear with me) (in fact, don't. I'm not here. As the author of this text I am dead, post-structurally speaking, and I am also physically not in the same place as you, real-world-istically speaking. Unless you also happens to sit on a train on the way to Oslo. But I highly doubt that.)

I'm on a train to Oslo. This train may or may not have wifi - I don't know that now (now being the time of writing of this text), even if I will know by the time "now" becomes now (now being the time of you reading this text, since that realistically have to be at least eight hours after I write it, since that is when I am scheduling it for). Regardless of whether I know now or "now" if my train has wifi, though, that still won't interfere with my statement "I am not here", because I still will have written and scheduled this post now (before), and not now (after). So I am not - physically, obviously, but also metaphysically and mentally - here, if "here" is the blog, or the place from which you are reading this blog, or perhaps the Internet in general. I'm not there. Here. Whereorwhatever.

It's complicated, I know. Barthes and Derrida would have been proud. Except for the fact that I am making a thorough effort to place myself in the text by defining myself out of it, so in fact it seems as though I am here, now, even if I claim that I am not. Instead, I will claim I am elsewhere. On the train, yes, you already know that. On my way to Oslo. To where a job (a job!) is awaiting. A temporary job, but still. You will be free of the endless complaints of my unemployedness for a few weeks, at least. Hooray!

But also. My intention for defining myself out of this text by stating the obvious "I am not here", was not simply to confuse you or make you question my presence/existence/mental state. I meant to direct your attention towards the places where I do define myself as present. Such as the Burrow blog, where I have written a slightly less (but not by much) silly post that this one. It won't post till noon GMT, so if you are looking for me there before then you won't find me. I'll still be on the train, of course.

The other place, however, I wanted to direct your attention to, is here - in a sense - but it is here in a past "now". In yesterday's now in fact. The now that was (is!) a now when I wrote (am writing!) this. Yesterday I wrote a much more sensible post about an important topic I feel the need to share again. So, if you're tired of looking for me here, you might as well go here to find a more serious me.

In the meantime I need to get off this train and try to figure out where I am and what I'm supposed to do here. It is not unlikely that it might involve the death of the author.

On land mines

2011-10-23T09:00:00.000+02:00

Back in the day, when wars were considered something you could win, one of the techniques developed to maim as many as possible, and thus come closer to the goal - "winning" - was to dig a tunnel under your enemy's fortification and then release all hell by collapsing the tunnel. Mining. With time and technology these tunnels were collapsed by use of explosives, causing even more death and destruction. More "winning". The tactic of literally pulling the ground out from under an enemy's feet was dangerous, and efficient. For a hauntingly gruesome and beautiful description of the life of a World War One miner, I recommend Sebastian Faulks' Birdsong. It's a terrible and fantastic book, but not for the fainthearted.

Inspired by the above described techniques, another weapon was created. Land mines are explosive devices, usually triggered by weight. They are designed to damage a target, a target that doesn't necessarily have to be human, but it often is. Because, the real problem with land mines isn't the destruction they cause during wars - wars have so much destruction going on anyway, that whether you're killed by a gun, a bomb or a land mine doesn't make much of a difference. The problem with land mines is that they are often left behind long after the war ends. They can lie idle for years, completely or partially hidden, and still function as intended once that unfortunate someone steps on the trigger.

A left-behind land mine thus becomes what one fancily calls an "indiscriminate weapon" - lack of discrimination may sound nice - but when it means that it as readily kills a child as soldiers in an armed car, it is obviously not a good thing. Land mines can injure and kill civilians long after the conflict for which it was intended for ended. Around 2000 people, many of them children, are injured in land mine accidents every single month, many of them fatally.

The International Campaign to Ban Landmines (ICBL) is - as the name implies - working towards a ban of landmines. Since this coalition of non-governmental organisations (NGOs) was established in 1992, it has achieved incredible success, for instance by bringing about an international treaty (the Ottawa Treaty) to ban anti-personnel land mines - a treaty with 157 members as of today - for which the ICBL and its founder Jody Williams received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1997.

As mentioned, however, banning the current use of mines isn't sufficient. Old ones still cause destruction. Thus an important part of the work against land mines internationally is demining. One of the NGOs heavily involved in this is the Norwegian People's Aid.

Each year since 1974, the Norwegian Broadcasting Company (NRK) holds a fundraiser for a charity. It is said to be the world's largest fundraiser, in the number of participants (around 100 000 volunteer, and about half of the population contribute with money) , and in the per capita funds raised. This year, the charity of choice is the Norwegian People's Aid.

I often wish I was better at doing something for all the causes I think so much about, so this year I signed up as a volunteer. It's not much - I get to spend two hours of my life for a clearer conscience - but it is a start. In addition I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage all of you to do a little something too. If you're in Norway, it's simple. Every krone helps, so make sure to donate whatever you can spare when the doorbell rings later today. If you're not in Norway, though, there is still a lot you can do. Donations are of course also welcome from abroad, or to other charities supporting the same cause. But perhaps equally important is awareness. Is your country a party to the Ottawa Treaty? Find out - and if not - why not? Could you contact your authorities and ask? Encourage them, perhaps, to consider whether land mines is important enough in wars, to risk civilian lives for decades after peace is achieved? Sign a petition (there are plenty online)? Ask your friends to consider doing so as well? If sufficiently many of us start asking those kind of questions, there is a realistic opportunity that we can make a real difference.

It is, after all, not an unlikely possibility that by universializing the land mine ban and assuring effective demining, that we can rid the world of this atrocity altogether. This is a war we can win.

On whiskey

2011-10-22T09:00:00.000+02:00

It's Saturday.

Yesterday was Friday.

That's why.

On what I want

2011-10-21T09:00:00.000+02:00

I want the world to be a better place for everyone in it. That's right. Everyone.

I want a job.

I want people to realize that expressions such as "the war to end all wars" are futile. Wars don't end wars. People do. If we want to end wars (and I know I do - don't you?), we need to end them ourselves.

I want lush, thick, curly, shiny, long hair.

I want the motivation to get up earlier in the morning. A job would help.

I want to have the opportunity to hang out with all my friends whenever I want.

I want snow. And then I'll want it gone again approximately ten past January.

I want an apartment in Oslo. I'm even willing to pay for it, once I get that job.

I want more nail polish than I can realistically ever hope to use. Actually, I already have that. I still want more.

I want to read a book that is well-written, optimistic without being condescending, well-reviewed but not hyped, with an exciting plot and fleshy characters. I wouldn't mind suggestions.

I want less complexity in certain areas of my life, more in other areas. Like the job part. Definitely want complexity there. I like a challenge.

I want to not cry so often when I watch the news. Not because I become tougher or the news are edited for my viewing pleasure, but because the first point on this list is achieved.

I want coffee.

I want tea.

I want to hear laughter, every day.

I want to enjoy the small things in life, even when the bigger picture is blurry.

I want the bigger picture to become less blurry, though.

I want a fairer distribution of the goods in this world. I guess that means I want the Occupy Wall Street movement to succeed, even if I haven't read enough about it to have an educated opinion of their methods. I agree with the idea that 1% of a population should not distribute the majority of the wealth, but I also see the point about big business needed as an economic engine in a society. I suppose I am mostly eager to see if the 99% can manage to shift some mindsets, as that might be the first step towards a solution.

I want solutions. For an international climate regime that actually works. For the conflict(s) in the Middle East. For the conflict(s), famine and underdevelopment in Sub-Saharan Africa. For missing funding for speedy diagnosis and treatment for cancer patients in the world's best welfare state. For economic problems in Greece, Italy, Spain. For democratic development in Syria, Yemen, Libya. For political prisoners in China. For tsunami victims in Japan. For drug war victims in Mexico. And I want them to be good solutions. I'd demand it, but I don't know where to ask.

I want to know where to ask.

I want a free haircut. Or at the very least a cheap one.

I want peace of mind, and peace at heart.

I want all the items on this list to come true.

On unmentionables

2011-10-20T09:00:00.000+02:00

I've been cupgraded.

The other day I went into a lingerie shop. A slightly-more-fancy-than-what-I-usually-visit type of shop, but still within my budget. (Sort of.) The kind of shop where the staff actually asks if you need any help, rather than letting you work your way through the jungle of alternatives all by yourself. The kind of shop I usually hate. But this time I was determined. It was time to figure out some basics.

The last time I had my measurements taken, was in the US.

I had - out of pure curiosity - wandered into Victoria's Secret. Turns out Victoria isn't very secretive, or at least not very discrete. Before I knew what was happening, a girl was standing with a measuring tape around my bosom. That's right. They do that in lingerie shops in the US (or at least in that one they did).

It wasn't all bad. Aside from being assaulted by a stranger (and then visually assaulted by some random guy who happened to stand close by, witnessing the whole thing AND hearing my measurements, walking out with a smug look on his face...), it was handy to know what my US measurements were. It sure made shopping easier (their sizes are nowhere near European ones. Like most things US/Europe when it comes to measurements and such). It was nice to have someone tell me what size I was supposed to have, rather than what I'd through trying and failing (and failing some more. Failing a lot, actually) had landed on. Bra-wise, I had a good stay in the US (there were other good things as well. But this one has been neglected on this blog).

When I got back home, however, I returned to trying and failing (because naturally, I'd forgotten my normal, European size by then. Naturally).

Look. I know I not long ago promised to keep this blog free of nail polish and other girly stuff. I like to stay true to my promises. But I feel this topic is important. It is impossible for guys to understand how women struggle with this. Finding a good bra - one that fits, looks good (both with and without clothes over it), feels comfortable, offers the right support and (let's face it), gives you the cleavage you want - it's difficult! Near impossible! Every woman's struggle - and so few men are aware of and appreciate it. They only seem to hate the damn things because they are difficult to take off.

I digress.

I really do.

In the shop I visited the other day, the lady asked before she took my measurements. But there ends the demure of lingerie shop ladies in Norway too. I don't know why ladies have this job, by the way. I can think of several men who would be quite happy to be able to examine and poke and pull and adjust breasts for a living.

The lady in question was very professional, though. Besides, she was the one that upgraded me. "Take in a few inches on the circumference, and go up on cup sizes," she said. Not one size up, even, but two. I feel - there is no other words for it - busty.

Want to see a picture?

Yeahnoabsolutelynot. You didn't really think I'd post a lingerie shot, now did you? I'm still hoping to land a job sometimes soon, after all...

On R

2011-10-19T09:00:00.000+02:00

What R U looking at?

On 351

2011-10-18T09:00:00.000+02:00

This is my three-hundred-and-fifty-first post.

I know.

What a number.

Why is it that we only celebrate certain numbers? Why is 60 a "better" birthday than 61, or 59?

Why should I celebrate 350 posts, but forego 351?

The simple reason I'm doing the opposite isn't my conviction that any number can and should be celebrated. It's that I didn't pay attention. I didn't realize I'd written 350 posts. "Written." Some of them are just pictures. But then others are lengthy as (relatively short) novels.

Yet. 351. That is a lot of posts. A lot of words I organized into a certain order, and then decided fit for a wider audience than my own two eyes.

I've gone through many phases of blogging. The enthusiastic beginner. The too-soon confident veteran at two months of daily posting. The resigned, yet optimistic "my original task and purpose of blogging is gone - now what?" The hiatus. The gradual normalization of "everyday life" posts. The random. The random random. Another hiatus. Acceptance of my own limitations. Begrudgingly going on, despite insecurity in the motivation-, relevance- and audience departments.

At 351 I have a sober view on what I can and wish to accomplish with this blog. I take no interest in the popularity-part of blogging. I publish these posts, so obviously I don't mind people reading them, but I am not advertising them. In fact, don't read it. I don't mind. Mind. I mind a lot of things, but whether or not you read my blog isn't really one of them. At least not if you don't read it... 351 posts after I started, I still feel funny about finding out that people I know - in real life-know - are reading my blog. I don't speak about blogging unless forced into a corner. And then only until I can think of a change of topic.

I'm currently in the market for jobs. This blog is - despite the pseudonym - tied to my name. Google me, and it's hit number three. Again - I don't mind. I accept it. But I also don't feel completely comfortable with it. If a potential employer googles me, they will find this blog. If they bother reading it, they might learn certain things about me. Things I (again) don't mind people knowing, but I also wouldn't mind them not knowing. None of these are bad things. But they are slightly different things from the key qualities I try to promote as the part of me I prefer letting people know first. By reading this blog, you are entering my world through a side door traditionally reserved for people that know me quite well.

It's funny, really. 351 posts portraying a version of myself I frequently avoid showing at all. My creativity - a well-kept secret for most. My desires to use this creativity, preferably writing, more actively - definitely a well-kept secret. For almost everyone. Or at least I like to think so. People who do know me well, and who also read this blog, claim the two personas aren't that different. I suppose I, in my feeble attempts to protect what I consider private, in real life assume I have more control over what I share than what I really do. (I do apologize for that sentence. It is overly complicated, I know. You might want to go back and read it again, now that you've come this far.) Here, in writing, online, I can control everything - of course - but I have voluntarily given up control. In reality the end result might be the same: hello, meet me.

So. Through 351 posts you have been given the opportunity to get to know me. I'm willing to wager than no one has read all 351. That's okay. Chances are you didn't miss any key lessons in Cruella 101 by skipping a post here and there. Chances are you didn't miss any key lessons if you missed most of those posts either. It's up to you whether you want to go back and find out. I don't mind. I also don't mind if you choose to stick around for the next 351. I hope I will.

On nail polish

2011-10-17T09:00:00.000+02:00

I'm gonna have a shallow-moment here, and recommend all the lovely ladies out there (and those of the men in touch with their feminine sides, I guess) to invest in a MAT TOP COAT to reinvent all those nail polishes you are tired of. Red? Try matte red. Black? Matte black. Sparkly? Matte sparkly! Everything goes with matte, and it looks so - elegant. Worldy. Sophisticated. Lush velvet matte nails. Your hands will thank me.

(Also - I know that it is perhaps more commonly spelled "mat", but that just doesn't scream elegant, worldly, sophisticated, and lush like matte does. So there.)

Picture proof:

(For the record, none of these nails are mine. I couldn't be bothered to take a picture of my - equally velvety, but less perfectly manicured - nails)

(For the other record, this has been a public service announcement in no way sponsored [seriously. It was expensive as crap. I mean crack. And no one offered to pay me to write that. I would totally let them. But for some reason, this seems not offered to me. Hrmf!].)

(If someone is keeping a record at all - for that record - this blog will return to non-shallow, non-girly topics tomorrow. I promise. I know I said that with the ecards too, but this time I mean it. Really. I think.)

On frogs and smartphones and tomato soup and automatic cameras

2011-10-16T09:00:00.000+02:00

I'm confused. Why can't you just come out and SAY IT? Whatever it is??

Frogs are cute. Not real frogs. They are - slimy. Or at the very least they look like they are slimy. I'd put that "they look slimy", but that isn't accurate, because that implies that I can actually see some slime. Which I can't. I'm simply assuming it. Not that I've seen that many frogs. And of the ones I've seen, many of them have been so small that their possible sliminess is difficult to determine without touching them. I'm NOT doing that. Eugh. What if they ARE slimy, eh? So yeahno. No touching. No kissing. Kissing a frog - I don't know if the prospect of finding a prince at the other end of the kiss would be enough to initiate one, really. Especially if there is slime involved.

Besides. Princes. Bah. Unless they are able to say things as they are, I'm not that interested.

Smartphones are not very smart. They are tricksy, perhaps. Tricking us into being far more mobile and online and available than we actually want. They make all sorts of information available at the touch of a finger tip. But that's not smart. It's convenient. It's fast. It's fun - at least for a while. But it's not smart. Smart - smart is the invention of the wheel. Or a spork (the spoon-fork hybrid, and not the lesser known water-pig. Long story). Or cleaning windows with vinegar. Now that is smart. A phone that has no keyboard and whose fancy thingamabobs are so time-consuming you don't have any time left in your day to actually do cool stuff? Not smart.

Besides. Phones. And people who use them. Or don't use them. Bah.

Tomato soup is really neat, y'all. It's made of tomatoes. And it's a soup. You can totally eat it. You can totally make it, even. If you use canned and crushed and skinned tomatoes, a grated carrot, some garlic and olive oil, and then a touch of salt and pepper (plus whatever herbs you fancy), it's even quite healthy - as you have complete control of what you put in your mouth. Not a bad idea.

Also not a bad idea - to have control over what you let out of your mouth. Like clear-cut, non-confusing messages. That would be as awesome as automatic cameras.

"Smile!" FLASH!

And yet they somehow always manage to catch you with you eyes closed, or just as you were about to say something, leaving your face all distorted and funny and not in a good way. They leave your face looking as though you were waiting for someone to say something, but then they didn't, and thus it was left hanging in the air, making you both feel a little awkward. And then you end up wondering what in the world they want from you, and then they stick the picture in your passport and there you are. Every single time you enter a new country, you have to look a mixture of confused, annoyed and heartbroken for them to believe it's you.

So maybe, just maybe, you can just say it as it is, instead of talking about frogs or smartphones or tomato soup or automatic cameras, yes? No?

On e(if you're gonna say ecards again I will punch you)car... On pictures with funny captions

2011-10-15T09:00:00.000+02:00

On being ambushed and interrogated by nine-year-olds

2011-10-14T09:00:00.000+02:00

GIRL IN PINK: Hello, what are you taking a picture of?

ME: The school.

GIRL IN PINK: Why?

ME: Because this used to be my school. A long time ago.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Why is she taking a picture?

GIRL IN PINK: Because this used to be her school. A long time ago.

ME: Maybe someday this will be your school too?

GIRL IN PINK: Yeah, but in a really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really long time. We're only in the third grade.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Even if I should be in the fourth grade, because I am nine.

GIRL IN PINK: But you're in the third grade.

GIRL IN PURPLE: But I'm nine. Because my mom says so. And she knows better than anyone. There's this girl that says that I'm only seven or six, but I'm not.

GIRL IN PINK: What is she talking about? You're not!

GIRL IN PURPLE: And I'm moving in just five weeks and that's not a long time.

ME: No, that's not...

GIRL IN PINK: What's your name?

ME: It's..

GIRL IN PURPLE: How old are you?

ME: I'm twenty-fi...

GIRL IN PINK: Do you have any kids?

ME: No.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Do you have a mommy?

ME: Yes.

GIRL IN PINK: Are you married?

ME: No.

GIRL IN PURPLE: What's your mommy's name?

GIRL IN PINK: Why don't you have kids?

GIRL IN PURPLE: Do you have a husband?

GIRL IN PINK: She doesn't have a husband.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Oh. Why don't you get married to your boyfriend?

ME: Well, I don't...

GIRL IN PINK: When will you have kids?

ME: I don't know if I'll...

GIRL IN PINK: You must have kids! It's much funner with kids!

ME: Funnier. It's much funnier.... And some people don't want kids or don't want to get married.

GIRL IN PINK: Don't you want to get married?!

ME: I don't know, maybe, someday.

GIRL IN PURPLE: What's your boyfriend's name?

ME: I don't have...

GIRL IN PINK: Do you work?

ME: Not right now, no.

GIRL IN PINK: Good! Because then you can stay at home with the kids, while your husband works!

ME: Now, hang on. It's a good things for mommies to work too, you know. Then you can make your own money, and do something worthwhile and fun with your life.

GIRL IN PURPLE: My teacher works all the time, she is really awesome! She makes trees out of paper.

ME: That's great!

GIRL IN PURPLE: And then we can make them too, because she shows us how.

GIRL IN PINK: But we're done with making those now. So will you think about having kids?

ME: I'll think about it.

GIRL IN PINK: Think hard about it, okay?

On fashionable affairs

2011-10-13T09:00:00.000+02:00

Last week the Norwegian government presented the National Budget for 2012 (that's right - we don't believe in Mayan predictions here). It wasn't exactly a thriller - a budget presented by a majority government that has been sitting for six years, in a country where the economy is reasonably healthy and stable, the unemployment is low, while the rest of the world seems headed into a new financial crisis. Hardly the time to make dramatic changes. No one were overly excited.

That being said, it's still our National Budget, and regardless of how small the changes may be, there are some changes, and they will impact our daily lives. Thus, I found it slightly disturbing that what the media seemed to focus on was not the numbers in the budget, but rather, this man:

Actually, this pic is from last year. He wore a hat this year too, though

This is Mr. Sigbjørn Johnsen, our Minister of Finance. An esteemed politician, long-term member of Parliament, several-time Minister, former County Governor of Hedmark, the list goes on. He is famous in Norway for having such a jovial dialect and charisma that even when he says scary stuff like "the world economy is going to crash" or "we don't have any more money", it sounds okay. Nice, even.

He's an important guy, and definitely worth the attention of the media on the day of the National Budget presentations. That is hardly what bothered me. What made me question the priorities of our media was what they focused on about this guy. His outfit.

Take another look at that picture. The man wears a hat, and a long coat. "Norway's Don Draper!" the headlines read. Uhm, right. Look, I like the guy, I really do. But Sigbjørn is no Don Draper.

Later the same day, another newspaper - in the economy section no less - reported that not only was Mr. Johnsen the king of hats, he also knew how to ensure variety in his ties!

By changing ties throughout the day, he managed to look serious for the speeches, but quirky and fun for the interviews. What he actually said in these speeches or interviews, didn't seem to matter all that much for the newspaper.

I considered writing angry letters to the papers in question, or at the very least post a semi-annoyed Facebook status about it, but then I realized something. While these papers were clearly reporting about something far less significant than the National Budget they should be concerned about, they were also doing something not-so-insignificant: they were commenting on a man's fashion choices.

Female politicians are constantly badgered for what they are wearing, and why. They have to suffer through "the fashion police" commenting on their outfits in glossy magazines. If they wear the same dress twice, you can be certain the media will notice, and report. While we might not like that either, we don't think much of it. Because they are women, we accept it. Now that it was a man, I reacted.

So, instead of being annoyed, I decided that it was about time the media started caring what men wear. I'll be the first to applaud when they also start asking the Prime Minister where he bought his suit, or why the Foreign Minister is wearing the same tie two events in a row.

On bicycles

2011-10-12T09:00:00.000+02:00

Time to get a new bike?

On giraffventory

2011-10-11T09:00:00.000+02:00

This weekend I bought a giraffe scarf. Of course I did. I had to. It's not as bad as it sounds, though - even if it's specked with giraffes, it's not too quirky to wear for - work - for instance. Slightly depending on what your work is. I might not wear it for a job interview, just in case. But I could definitely wear it on a date. If I knew the guy was cool (but then he'd have to be for me to consider dating him in the first place, right? Right).

Anyway. This scarf. It is but the latest addition to a collection that is getting out of hand, frankly. People know I'm a crazy giraffe lady, and thus they buy me stuff with giraffes on it. I don't mind - by all means - but by now giraffes are so prominent a feature in so much of what I own that I worry I won't be able to convince any newbies in my life that I am sane. Oh, well. That milestone might have been passed a long way ago. Just take a look at the following list of giraffe-related stuff I own:

Giraffe scarf

Giraffe earrings (two pairs)

Giraffe tote bag

Giraffe bed sheets

Giraffe "charm" for a charms bracelet (but since I don't wear a charms bracelet I tend to use it on a necklace instead)

Giraffe bookend

Somewhere between 6 and 9 stuffed plush giraffes, and one knitted.

Giraffe photo holders

Giraffe socks

Giraffe coffee mugs

Giraffe salad cutlery

Ornamental glass giraffe

Giraffe wall poster

Giraffe lollipop (I know, this shouldn't be part of a collection, but it's been sitting in my window sill for so long that I hardly doubt it's edible anymore. In fact, I doubt it ever was.)

Giraffe eraser

Giraffe made of beer cans

Giraffe picture frames (yes, more than one)

Giraffe key chains (actually, this is just one, as I had another that broke. But it used to be more than one)

Giraffe diary (one of the few I ever completed has a giraffe pattern on the cover)

Giraffe pencil

Giraffe Pinterest board

Giraffe chopsticks

Puzzle giraffe

Giraffe nail brush

Giraffe post-its

There might be more - for instance, people keep sending me giraffe postcards, pictures or stickers - but these were the ones I could remember off the top of my head. So yes. Crazy giraffe lady, indeed.

On even more ecards

2011-10-10T09:00:00.000+02:00

(I'll stop soon, I swear. But first...)

On more ecards

2011-10-09T09:00:00.000+02:00

On ecards

2011-10-08T09:00:00.000+02:00

I'm not really fond of ecards. I feel they were a thing waaaay back when the internet was still a novelty, when the average person received less than 20 emails per day, and when our needs for non-flesh social interaction wasn't covered by social media. The last ten years or so, however, whenever I receive emails that say they have ecards in them, I automatically assume they are spam.

Still. Now I'm kinda hooked at these meme cards that are flying around the interwebs. They. Are. Freakin'. Hilarious. I've probably spent hours browsing that site to find the perfect card to "send" to every person I've ever interacted with. And you'll find them. someecards.com has a card for any occasion. You want to send a thank you note to your cousin who took the blame for you when you got caught stealing sigarettes in the fifth grade? Should be there. You want a unique way of telling your neighbour you're sorry your dog bit his foot off? Pretty sure you'll find one. You want a card expressing that extra-special feeling you have for a guy you almost slept with, but as you were about to take your top off you remembered that you hadn't shaved your legs and so you made up a silly excuse and now it's all awkward? Yeah. There is a card for that.

Plus, they make the perfect blog fodder for days when you don't really have anything to write about.

On wisdom (your mother should have told you, but I obnoxiously will instead)

2011-10-07T09:00:00.001+02:00

Tights are not pants.

Don't make eye contact when eating a banana. Unless you're prepared for the consequences.

Always use the bathroom before leaving the house.

If your relationship has to be a secret, it probably shouldn't be at all.

Your cell phone is not better company than whomever you're sharing a table with.

Splashing puddles is not just okay; every now and then, it's necessary.

Punctuation isn't redundant.

Smile!

How you feel about yourself is much more important than (what you think) others think about you.

When someone says "No offence, but..." that is code for "I'm about to offend you, but don't get mad."

Remember that you deserve appreciation.

Bad hair day? Wear a low-cut top.

Venture outside your comfort zone every now and then, but never let anyone push you to do something you cannot stand for afterwards.

So there wasn't an iPhone 5. It's not the end of the world.

Always bring a towel.

If you trim your hair every now and then, it will not grow faster, but it will look healthier.

Life is too short to read crappy books. Even if they are classics.

It qualifies as a crappy book if you don't like it. Even if it is a classic.

Never underestimate your need for sleep.

Music should make you feel something. If it doesn't - turn it off.

Don't drink and drive. Or text and drive. Or drink and text.

Wear sunscreen.

On US of (f)A(ll)

2011-10-06T09:00:00.000+02:00

Actually, that title should have been "US of A(utumn)", but then it just looked wrong using the British term when writing about the US. (U.S., if I'm being consistent in my AmericanEnglishness. Which I'm not. Of course.)

Autumn/fall (okay, since I'm on the topic. "Fall" is a silly word. It means something else, people. Having it both as the name of a season and "to drop or come down freely under the influence of gravity" makes things unnecessary confusing. "That was a great fall!"). Autumn/fall is for me the season most closely tied with the United States. Partly, it's because when I was there, I experienced fall (of the seasonal and not gravital kind). I saw beautiful foliage in several parts of the country, I tasted fall specialties such as pumpkin pie or candy corn, and I witnessed stores decorate for the most American of holidays: Halloween and Thanksgiving. Even before I visited the US, however, it was firmly established that fall is the "national" season.

Halloween and Thanksgiving helps. So does pictures from the North-East, of tall, gorgeous trees competing for personal bests in the "show your colour"-competition. The idea of fairs and festivals, pies, harvest, gigantic fields - again very much a part of my idea of the US before I went there.

All these things considered, I don't think it's surprising that it is during this time of year I mostly want to go back. I want to celebrate Halloween, the American way (would you BELIEVE that I left the country the day before Halloween?!). I want to hang out with a stereotypical sit-com family that watch football on TV while mom cooks the turkey for Thanksgiving. I want to have more pumpkin pie (even though I didn't like it much). I want to walk along a Minnesota field while admiring the colourful forest ahead. I want to smell stuff like maple and cinnamon and other things comprised into "pumpkin spice" in a Starbucks latte.

On graffiti

2011-10-05T09:00:00.000+02:00

I'm not generally a fan of graffiti, unless it is legal and/or art, but if you're going to do vandalism in a public space, I suppose this is a message worth sharing.

On golf

2011-10-04T09:00:00.000+02:00

Serenity. Or, as you might know it:golf.

What is up, what is down, what is real, what is dream? What is crap floating in a golf course pond?

Such an odd mix of sports...

Lucky clover? Or just a bunch of unlucky weeds?

Someone must really love golf. Or is it only me that can see the heart?

"No, I said tee!"

I don't golf. I've tried mini golf (once or twice), and Wii Golf ® (once, and I lost spectacularly to my entire US family). But I've never played real golf. Not that the opportunity hasn't been there - my hometown has the most beautiful golf course I've ever seen (but then you all know I'm comparing it to mini golf and Wii).

On where trolls roam

2011-10-03T09:00:00.000+02:00

My hometown, though small, has throughout history been the home of several artists, writers and musicians. One of the sons Kongsvinger is the most proud of is the famous painter and illustrator, Erik Werenskiold. He grew up here, due to his father's job as the commander at the fortress. Werenskiold is mostly known, today, for his illustrations in the Norwegian folk tale collection by Peder Christian Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe.

Kittelsen's creepy one-eyed troll almost
looks real, don't you think?

One of the other illustrators for this collection is Theodor Kittelsen. I cannot vouch for the truth to the following anecdote, but supposedly Kittelsen criticized Werenskiold for being too bound by conventional restraints in his folk tale illustrations. "How can he, who has never seen a troll, draw one?" Kittelsen wondered.

I don't know if Kittelsen actually believed in trolls, but having spent some time in the Norwegian forests during my life, I think I know what he was talking about. And local patriotism set aside, I have to agree with him. His work seem to reflect a much more "realistic" mythos, where the trolls and other supernatural creatures blend in with their surroundings in ways that *almost* make you believe they could exist, out there, off our radar.

Werenskiold, on the other hand, haschosen what I'd like to call a "Shrek-like" approach, where thetrolls basically look like ugly, overgrown humans.

I have to say I prefer Kittelsen's version. After all, it looks so much more like the many "trolls" you can see with your own two eyes in any given forest:

"Try to look like a stump! Look like a stump!"

On misattributing

2011-10-02T09:00:00.000+02:00

If you ask my friend Tami, she will tell you that misattributing is her super power. She is, undoubtedly, correct. I'm not too shabby in the misattribution department myself, actually, but unlike Tami I cannot claim it as a super power, since it's frequently not intentional.

Would flying still be Superman's super power if he didn't mean to do it? Hmm... Maybe.

Anyway. Today's misattribution can be found in the top right corner of this blog. It's a pumpkin that says "Join us!". And then above it, the title says "Na BLOW Rimo". I don't know who Rimo or Na is, but I have a feeling that by encouraging you all to joining them, this just went from a family friendly blog to whatever the alternative is...

(Actually, it's not a misattribution. See, I don't even know what it is! Would flying still be Superman's super power if he didn't know what flying was?)

Seriously, though. Don't read the title of that little pumpkin with your head in the gutter like I did. It says NaBloWriMo, but the seEminGly RanDoM capital letters gets all wonky because my blog design is set on ALL CAPITAL LETTERS for gadget titles. So there. NaBloWriMo is ON, baby, because by now it's a tradition. And Heather promised cupcakes.

On denial

2011-10-01T09:00:00.000+02:00

It's not October. No it's not. I know you think it is, but you're wrong. It's not October. If it had been, it would mean that it is no longer September, and September just started. In fact, I'm not even sure it's September yet. Wasn't it just August? Or July? It's not October.

It's not October. October would mean that it is really, properly, inevitably autumn. And clearly it is not. I mean, apart from the colourful leaves, the dark nights, the cool air, it hardly feels like autumn at all. If you just wear a little extra clothes - two pairs of woolen socks, tights and pantyhose, and extra shirt, double jacket, a scarf, hat and gloves - it's quite warm. Clearly, it's not October.

It's not October. October is so - last year. Last October was October. This year? I think we'll just skip it altogether. Who says we cant go from September to November? Or maybe not even do November? December is nice. Let's do December soon.

It's not October. It's just - not. Besides, if it was October, that would mean NaBloWriMo, and that is just crazy. Blogging every day for a month? Nah.... It's not October.

On fortresses

2011-09-23T13:57:00.000+02:00

I grew up in a city that once was constructed around a fortress. The fortress was meant to defend the citizens of Kongsvinger - and more important, perhaps, the rest of the country by securing the border - from Sweden. Built in the 17th century, the fortress served its purpose (it was never captured by any Swedes), but almost four centuries later it has now become obsolete in its original task. There isn't even a military presence there anymore (but shhh - don't tell the Swedes). Instead, the proud attraction is being rebuilt into a hotel and conference center. It will always be a fortress in the collective mind of the people living here, though, and it will always be the origo around which our city was built.

There's a crane sticking out of our fortress! Is it the Swedes?

At least the flag is still Norwegian

Really old windows

Really old door

When I was a kid they used to tell us those hooks were for hanging naughty children.
I think they may have been for hanging non-naughty lamps, actually.

The crane and a soon-to-be hotel

Looks like the upgrade is needed

This might not mean anything to you, but I know this spot is supposed to have a cannon.
Now how will we defend the fortress?

Crane of doom?

There's a cannon. I think it's hiding...

Not too clear from the pic, but even this grand, old tree looked worn and forlorn.

Perhaps a general upgrade* of the area is called for? It's still pretty, though, in its slow demise:

*And by "upgrade" I don't mean update. The history in the walls and moldings of these houses could never be replaced.

On peas

2011-09-21T09:30:00.001+02:00

If you're here looking for insight about peace (since it's the International Day of Peace and all), you've come to the wrong place. Better check out this post instead.

Peach out.

On rowan

2011-09-20T15:04:00.000+02:00

The riping of all sorts of fruits and berries might be the first sign of fall (or autumn if you like), but nothing is so inevitably a message of summer's end as rowan berries. There is a saying in Norway, that if the rowan tree is laden with berries, we won't have much snow that year, since the tree shouldn't carry that kind of heavy load twice in a year. Actually, it might be the other way around... That the tree is tempered or toughened by the berries, and thus is capable of carrying more snow when winter comes. It doesn't really matter anyway, since the amount of snow we'll get is much more likely to be influenced by climate and weather conditions than the state of the local rowan trees, but whatever. Whether it's a sure weather sign or not - it's a sure sign of autumn.

I meant to take some grand pictures of the red, lovely rowan berries (which were plentiful and beautiful this year), but I missed my chance. The heavy rain we've experienced for weeks and weeks have made photography difficult, and the rowan berries are now soggy and not their usual glorious self. I missed a narrow window due to bad light conditions. Another time I didn't have my camera with me (and the pics I took with my phone are a) crappy, and b) stuck in my phone because I've lost the chord).

So we're left with the only semi-decent, slightly out-of-focus, berries-looking-more-orange-than-red shot I've got. It's hardly enough to build a blog post around.

But there you go.

On this day

2011-09-11T23:17:00.001+02:00

Lately, Facebook started wooing the nostaligiacs of us...

"On this day in 2009..." My Facebook status on this day in 2009? "In Boston." I was visiting fellow Burrower Leanne, we had been touring D.C., and then I came back with her to Boston. We took the night train, and none of us really realized when staggering off at the station in Boston what day it was. I seem to remember it even took a while for us to notice.

On this day six months ago I was having a busy day at the embassy, helping out with the last few details before our Prime Minister visit. Then the earth started moving, we crept under the table, the world turned upside down (figuratively) and several inches off its axis (literally).

On this day eleven months ago, I wrote a note of encouragement to myself. It was three minutes to midnight, and I was up, working on my master's thesis. I hated my thesis. I hated everything and everyone. Including myself. But I had the wisdom to realize that I hadn't hit rock bottom yet. The note - when I re-read it two months later - was appreciated.

On this day last year, I was on my way to a hotel in Lillehammer, where my entire family were gathering to celebrate my parents' 40th anniversary. It was a lovely weekend.

On this day ten years ago I was home from school, watching some mindless show. It was interrupted by a news report, about the first plane. I remember thinking "accident". Then the second plane hit, and the idea of an accident was obsolete. At the age of fifteen I hardly knew what the concept "terrorism" meant. That was about to change.

On this day in 1904 my great great great grandfather observed the landing of two ships in Geiranger, Norway. One of them was a war ship, Sparton, but the more notable was the ship it was accompanying: Alexandra and Albert. On board was the Danish-born, British Queen Alexandra, wife of Edward VII. The queen and her party were sightseeing, and they left Geiranger two days later.

On this day in year 9, the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest ended. An alliance of Germanic tribes defeated the Romans, and this was the end of any serious Roman attempts to conquer Germania beyond the Rhine.

This day didn't start being part of history in 2001. It didn't end then either. But some events make deeper marks on their aftermath than others.

On "Flightless Birds, American Mouth" and more

2011-09-09T16:56:00.002+02:00

I start things. I stop halfway through. I curse forms. I glare. I want to "See the Sun". I watch Mad Men instead. I try to dress ála Joan. I fail. I paint my nails. I have gathered all my memories from Japan and try to consolidate them into a single scrap book of sorts. I - I want to say "I fail", but it's not true. It's a success. I find that my memories can be transferred to paper and stored between textile bound covers. I listen to songs of the melancholic variety. I always do that, though. I find things amusing. I find other things tragic. I believe in changes, I fail to accomplish them. I daydream. I paint my nails again. I look at my phone. I check Facebook. I curse Facebook. I check it again. I try Twitter. Twitter rubs me the wrong way, still. "I Will Follow You Into The Dark". I whistle a descant to a song I've never heard before. I find a lost memory that needs to go in my scrap book. I clean the bathroom. I consider cleaning my room. I don't. I'm chilly, and realize that I'm wearing too much clothes to be cold. I would no longer be cold if I'd really cleaned the bathroom like I said I did. I will. I think "You Could Be Happy". I know I will be. I just don't know if it will be every second of every day. I think that's okay. I laugh. I do that a lot, even if I don't always find what I'm laughing at very funny. I am tired of my new projects already. I miss being somewhere, being something, someone. I paint my nails again. I wonder briefly what "Casimir Pulaski Day" is. I google it. I could post a link, but you can google it too. I consider opening up Photoshop, but the mere idea is exhausting me. I think the logic of Photoshop as a program is severely skewed. I still see the appeal, and I find it inspiring that even small abilities can do great things. I will have to practice again tomorrow. I need to clean the bathroom now. I want to procrastinate some more first.

But then I can't find a way to incorporate "Detlef Schrempf" in any logical way in a sentence that start with the word "I".

(On) an excuse for a post...

2011-08-29T14:07:00.000+02:00

Why girls shouldn't be disappointed if they can't find a Disney prince...

Source: 9gag.com via Lila on Pinterest

I know, sorry excuse for a post (I didn't even make this - I merely found it, through Pinterest, of course), but I did write another post today. Still a bit of an excuse, actually, but at least that one has actual words... Wanna read these words? Go check them out, here.

On Mike and social networking

2011-08-22T14:27:00.000+02:00

So, I'm writing more job applications than blog posts lately. I guess that's a good thing. Except that I've been writing so few posts that the comparison isn't really all that valid. I've been writing *some* applications, though. And *some* other stuff too, actually, though most of it was on Facebook or Twitter, so don't get all excited yet.

Anyway. Until I find a job my lazy (and fairly eventless - is that a word?) life goes on. It gives me the opportunity of getting extremely caught up in petty things. Like spam. The following is an actual email I wrote, not ten minutes ago:

I realize this is a noreply address and that this email thus probably will disappear into the cybersphere where it'll float restlessly around for all eternity, for no one to read, unable to reveal its message (which must be truly terrible for an email, since its entire existence is all about delivering messages).

But. I still had to write this, to - someone. Because. Ohmygoshcanyoupleasestopsendingmestuff, DUDE! This guy, this Mike* someone. I don't know who he is. I don't know what he is. Heck, I don't even know why he is. At least I don't know why he is sending me emails all the time, about - lord knows what - recipes? Maybe? I am fairly sure I have never subscribed to his mailing list. I could be wrong. I subscribe to stuff all the time without knowing what exactly it is. If it turns out it annoys me, I unsubscribe. But Mike. Oh Mike. He is freaking impossible to unsubscribe to (from? You don't unsubscribe TO something, do you?). I have tried. Trust me.

First I blocked those pesky emails, telling me to decorate for Easter and Halloween and whatnot (so maybe not recipes? Still not sure). It took a while to figure out how, but I managed. It was quiet for a while, and I thought maybe Mike and I had split for good.

Of course I was wrong. Mike then sent me a request to join him on LinkedIn.

Had I not already been sick of Mike, this would have pulled me over the edge. LinkedIn - I think my nostrils are flaring from just the thought of it. First of all - the idea of another social network is more than enough to make me shake my head. Secondly, I raise my eyebrows to the combination of the words "social network" and "professional". Peeps. Seriously! Social networks are for procrastinating. That is not professional. Don't pretend this is any different. Finally, what's the DEAL with the capital I that looks exactly like a non-capital l? HUH? That is capital "i" and non-capital "L", if you're confused. You should be. If nothing else, I'd boycott LinkedIn for the fact that it made me pronounce it "LinkedLn" (however one pronounces that) for the longest time. *facepalm*

Basically, LinkedIn causes A LOT of involuntary movement in the head&face area for me. It's exhausting. So no, I won't be joining any time soon.

The GOOD thing about LinkedInInvites, though, is that they come once, there's a reminder, and then you're done. Wish I could say the same about Google+...

It had been a while since I'd heard from Mike when suddenly invites to join Google+ started cluttering my inbox. "Mike shared a post about personalized greeting cards with you!" (Soo, it's DIY? What do you DO, Mike?!)

He did? But..? I'm not ON Google+! How can he share stuff with me when I'm not even there to share (rhyme!)?

You see, Google+... I have all the same reservations against this as LinkedIn. Well, not all the same. I can pronouce Google+ (but I am increasingly annoyed with the wonky punctuation you get when trying to place a comma, full stop or any other mark after a brand that comes with a symbol in the name. *snort* If you try to put a dash [or actually, a hyphen as I tend to use, because I'm too lazy to figure out how to get dashes outside of Word, where it's corrected automatically] you get Google+ -. Plus and minus equals minus. Google minus. Ha!). Also, Google+ doesn't pretend that it's not a regular social network. Its entire strategy appears to be to take on Facebook, so that is pretty honest at least.

BUT. The whole "do I really need another social network to steal my time?" part applies here too. In addition, Google+ has several other disadvantages too. Such as the fact that I'm googlified enough as it is. I've already pretty much sold my soul to Google, and I feel more comfortable knowing that Facebook also holds a share of it. Also, you need a Google account to log onto Google+. I have one, of course. I am writing this in gmail, after all. But my Google account is tied with my Cruella-personality, and Cruella already is too "out there" (no pun intended). If Google+ were to replace Facebook for me, Cruella and my other self would have to mix friends. I'm so not ready for that. As a final "besides", I can't just put Cruella on Google+ and keep my other self on Facebook either. Oh, no. Because Google+ is doing what Facebook failed to do (or didn't bother, perhaps) - restricting users to real, actual people. Thus, Cruella probably wouldn't be accepted. Shame on them.

Right. So as you can see (well, I don't know if you can see anything, actually. "You" being the eternity of cyberspace and all), Mike didn't make a wise move in trying to Google+ me. Now more than ever I want to Google- him. It's just that I don't know how. There is a link at the bottom of the email saying "unsubscribe", but when I clicked it, Google helpfully provided a "something went wrong. That's all we know". Aaaaargh!!!

Maybe I just have to learn how to live with Mike contacting me every now and then. Whether it is for home, home decor, repairs and renovation, gardening, food, desserts, beverages, entertaining and delish (whatever that is), as I just realized the Google+ description explains. At least I know that, now.

Thank you for listening.

Cruella.

*He's not really called "Mike", of course. I'm still too nice to actually put up his real name, there...

On randouvites, part two

2011-08-16T16:18:00.000+02:00

If you're wondering why I am not using the more conventional "favourite" (or why I insist on spelling both with a U), you might want to check out last year's post on this topic. It was summer, sun and (thesis) stress then. It is summer, sun and (everything but thesis) stress now. So I figured it was time to do another round.

These are a few of my randouvite things:

Not sure why, but this song really puts me in a good mood in a "dance all night with nothing but mango margaritas and cabana boys to keep me company" kind of way.

Speaking of which - MANGO MARGARITAS! How awesome is that? Very, that's how. I haven't tried this recipe specifically, but it sounds yummy. The ones I had in Tokyo were divine, but then they were made by someone who sells tequila (and not the crappy stuff) for a living. Can't promise divinity with this one.

Long, flowy (yes, I know that's not a word. You know what I mean, though, right?), colourful dresses. I hate being a slave of the current fashion, but this one got me good. They're so PRETTY! The more colourful, the better! In fact, the crazier the (floral) print, the better. I want a ton of them! (And I want more summer so I can actually wear them...)

And since I'm on the topic of girly stuff. I'm waaay into nails lately. No, not those you use for building houses. Those you (hopefully) have on your fingers (and toes). With nail polish on them. In every colour (though currently mine are so deep purple they are practically black. In fact, I think they actually *are* black. Hm.

This also shows the sleeve of my purple raincoat which helps handle all the rain...

Finally, a new love. These and other randouvites (or, actually, they are less random over there, as they're all categorized. So I guess they are just regular favourites. Still with a U, though) can be found at Pinterest.com, which is one of the more brilliant sites I've come to love. It's similar to StumbleUpon, but then not. You can make your own virtual pinboard for whatever cool stuff you find online, whether that is interior design, inspirational quotes, ideas for novels, or whatever you like. A must-try! (I think you may need an invite. If you send me your email, I can invite you!)

On proletarianization

2011-08-11T22:01:00.000+02:00

I'm finally making some use of myself. My parents - who are being extraordinarily generous by housing, feeding and catering to my every need in a way only parents can do without it getting awkward - will occasionally ask me to do small favours in return for the hospitality they are showing me. Naturally, I do these things. Clean the bathroom, make dinner, go grocery shopping; it's the least I can do considering how kind they've been and are to me. Yet, I never feel that it's adequate - the favours they do me easily add up to much more than I can ever hope to repay them. So when they asked me to do a large-ish favour - help paint the house and garage - I was (if not thrilled...) happy to oblige.

Since I've been writing job applications lately, I've focused on stuff I'm good at. Like writing reports, or being a loyal employee and colleague, or being able to work both in teams and independently. I've been focusing very little on stuff I'm not good at. Like painting houses.

I felt terribly, terribly out of place. Like the stereotypical city girl, with her high heels and pink nails, trying to do good, old-fashioned manual labour. (I did not have high heels. I did, however, have pink nails...) I couldn't figure out how to secure the ladder. I didn't know how much soap to use for the water (like any good painter should do, I cleaned the wall first, of course). I showered myself in cold water in an attempt of getting the water pressure on the hose up to proper levels (I eventually managed. Okay. My dad eventually managed).

And yet, it felt pretty good. I was outdoors, working, being useful. Then it struck me, how interesting the experience actually was, from a historian's point of view.

The garage was originally built by my grandfather - who has been dead for eighteen years - some fifty, sixty years ago. He was a conductor in the national railway company, but he grew up on a small farm deep in the Norwegian forests. As the son of a farmer, he doubtlessly had to learn all sorts of manual labour - including building houses. So when he had gathered the means, he built one for himself, his wife, and two sons. My grandmother still lives in that house. We live next doors, on a lot bought by my grandfather with his eldest son - my father - in mind.

The garage was built a few years after the house. After all, they had to have a car first. And not just any car. I still remember the smell of my grandparent's Volvo Amazon. The shine of its bright red hue. The lack of nonsensical things such as seat-belts in the back seat. The ash tray, which was always filled with candy since neither of my grandparents smoked.

By the time I was old enough to pay attention, the Amazon lived in a new garage that had replaced the old one, and our house was built on the aforementioned neighbouring lot. The original garage, which now was closer to our house than our grandparents', was turned into a shed. My father - handy in many ways, but not build-your-own-house-handy - did lots of work on our house. But so did a team of 15 carpenters, plus my two grandfathers.

With time the old garage is not as impressive as it once was. Still. It impresses me to think that my grandfather actually did build it. He had those kind of skills. Half a century later, his granddaughter, pink nails and all, struggled to wash and paint the walls he once put up. I doubtlessly have skills he did not - I'm sure he'd be rubbish at writing reports, for instance - but it's a two-way street. It's humbling, really, to think of everything people used to take for granted, that now have become huge tasks because we've let go of the knowledge previously transmitted from generation to generation.

In the end I suspect it's fortunate for me that the times have changed. If I ever build a house, I probably will not even touch a hammer. I won't take much part in the construction process post-planning at all, and I wouldn't have the skills to do so even if I wanted to. On the other hand, I might be able to pay for that house because I got a good education and (hopefully) a job.

At least I've learned a thing or two about painting houses today, should I ever have one of my own. All thanks to my grandfather.

On everything else than what I want to not write about

2011-08-10T00:29:00.002+02:00

Not that I want to write about anything in particular. Or not write about anything in particular, for that matter. I acknowledge that the title of this post is more than a little confusing. But then again, that's what you've come to love about this blog, isn't it? I strive to confuse. Or digress. Or something or other to do with giraffes.

Anyway. I'm not really writing this. I'm pressing my fingers against the keyboard in hope that they will produce words in seemingly coherent order, preferable in a sentence-based structure. If I'm lucky I might produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Or maybe some monkey next to me will. Not that it matters - as far as I'm aware those are already published, so it is hardly that much benefit to writing them again. You can probably download the Kindle edition for free, so it's not even worth the time.

Instead, then, a blog post. About nothing. Nothing is the deal. I could tell you about job applications - and what an expert I'm becoming in filling out online resume forms - but it would bore you. It already bores me. I could tell you about how it's nice to have "vacation" (but it's not when said "vacation" really is "between jobs"), or about how I'm not as disillusioned about finding a job as I sound (I just really hate online forms). I am fairly optimistic, still. I've had a few interviews. I find listings where I am qualified. I'm becoming a self-proclaimed expert on mixing up a quick application. (I told you it would bore you.)

But still. It's not the best of situations. I want to be in Oslo. It's nice of my parents to house me, and feed me, and provide my every need. But still. I want to be in Oslo (déja vu much?). And I want to work, now. I want to be useful, now. I want to see my friends, visit my regular hang-outs. I want to have an apartment in Oslo. Now.

Waiting - I'm not at my best game. I tend to forget to live in the moment when I wait. Limbo doesn't suit me. It goes for job hunting, it goes for temporary living, it goes for personal relationships. If I know what I'm waiting for, it's another story. I can be Patience embodied then. But insecurity? It gets to me.

I'm waiting for a whole lot of things at the moment. And while I wait, I should write. I wrote this. It will have to do, for now.

On... Love?

2011-07-30T22:14:00.000+02:00

What is this - love - you're talking about? A grand word. Not often employed where I hail from. Many of us would consider it a floskel (google it). It's even grander, more unattainable in Norwegian: Kjærlighet. Å elske. I remember a song from when I was young(er): "It's easier to say 'I love you' in English," it said, in Norwegian. It's true. "Love ya!" Much more casual than "Jeg elsker deg" or even "Jeg er glad i deg".

Norwegians may be known for their naivety, innocence, peacefulness or good-natured pastorality (I like making up words that end with -ity. Deal with it). But also for a certain skepticism to new things. For being withdrawn, stiff, hard to get to know. Foreigners coming to Norway find themselves surprised at the empty streets after closing hours (and the fact that those closing hours are so darned early). "I'd forgotten that the whole country shuts down after 7pm," said a friend after an extended stay abroad. It's not far from the truth.

I think this is part of the reason that the last week have been particularly inspiring for many of us. Suddenly we're allowed to show your emotions in Norway. The Prime Minister, with tears in his eyes, admitting that he has cried over the recent tragedy. Grown men - tough, poker-faced men, normally - allowed themselves to be moved by the many ceremonies and memorials. Strangers hugging on the street. And all these words. Solidarity, community spirit, togetherness. Love. Even in Norwegian.

The world has been impressed, perhaps, with the Norwegian reaction to the atrocities. However, it is nothing compared to how impressed we are with ourselves. We had almost forgotten we had it in us. The quiet, everyday type of love that's been around the whole time, and the more "special occasion love" that only surfaces in weddings, birthdays and for those who celebrate Valentine's Day - it's all been spectacularly overshadowed by =LOVE=. #OsLove. Rose love. Love for each other, in large, shiny, glamorous letters in the sky.

Maybe these words are empty, floskler. Or maybe they are not. Maybe it doesn't even matter. It seems we needed them, now. I saw a tweet today, that made me nod: "This is the time to forgive benevolent floskler." (Pardon my French, er, English. Translations aren't my strong point, and I've grown fond of the word floskel today.)

I love that.

This is Norway

2011-07-26T13:10:00.000+02:00

The past few days I have seen the worst and the best of mankind.

It started with the worst. With terrorism, hate, fear.

But it quickly turned around, into a show of strength far superior to that of one individual's hatred. It was the will of an entire people - and with us an entire world - who chose love, solidarity, democracy to battle terrorism.

"We meet terror and violence with more democracy and will continue to fight against intolerance," our Prime Minister said. And the people replied. By organizing hundreds of events in support of the victims. By speaking out in public, or by use of social platforms like Twitter and Facebook. By standing together, in rain and sunshine throughout the weekend, in Oslo and around the country (and also abroad). The sea of roses in front of one of Oslo's churches grew from a few hundred to thousands and thousands in the course of a few days. And then the rose march yesterday - taking place simultaneously in Oslo and the rest of the country. We're a small country, of only 4,6 million people. About 1 million of us were out marching with roses or candles yesterday. Even though we're not many, though, even though we're small; we're also big. Together we are more than 1 million roses, more than 4,6 million people. We're a nation coming together in a time of grief.

Another inspiring quote that has circulated these past few days is from one of the young politicians who was at the Utøya camp on Friday: "If one man can show so much hate, imagine how much love we could show, standing together."

This is exactly what we are now doing.

Matching our solidarity and love, however, must also be what our Prime Minister called for: democracy.

According to our laws, the maximum punishment the culprit from Friday's terror actions can get is 21 years (though there is the possibility of charging him with "crimes against humanity", which might make him eligible for a total of 30 years). In addition, these are not calendar years, but "prison years". Which means that in theory, he could be out of jail after 16 years.

16 years does not seem much considering the many lives lost. 16 years does not do justice to the loss of these young lives, the dreams and hopes. But then again - what would? Prison for life? Capital punishment? Public lynching?

Of course not. Nothing will ever do this justice. The best we can do is to make sure that the terrorist's intention will not prevail. He attacked our democracy. Our democracy will fight back.

So it is important to me to answer to what I've seen of international (and national) skepticism with regards to the "mild" sentence. Yes, it is mild. 16 years in a comfortable Norwegian prison is not much. But it is what we have at hand, determined as we are to not let him win by changing us.

In addition, even if his official punishment ends at 21 years, his time locked up will not. We have a system in Norway called "forvaring" (involuntary commitment), reserved for criminals who are considered a particular danger to society. There is no doubt that he will end up there, probably for the rest of his life.

It's still not justice. But neither would changing our society and somehow find it in us to execute him. It would not help. It would not bring back those who died. And if we did, then it really would be appropriate to consider this a "loss of innocence".

I trust my country and the people ruling it. I have faith in our ability to get past this without changing for the worse. As many have pointed out - this will change Norway. But it is us - not him - who decide how.

Finally, some impressions from the rose march, which wasn't a march after all, since 200 000 people showed up in Oslo. It was simply impossible to logistically organize it, so we stayed put in front of the city hall. Here there were speeches from Prime Minister Stoltenberg, Crown Prince Haakon, the leader of the Labour Party Youth Organization, and several others. There was music, togetherness, and roses. Roses everywhere. Every few minutes someone raised their rose to the sky, and this triggered a wave of roses all over the crowd. It was stunning to see what resembled a meadow of flowers growing from the hands of the people. And it was impossible to fight back the tears when the crowd spontaneously erupted into song.

This memory will be with me for life. I can only share with you the pictures.

That is how much love we can show each other, standing together. OsLove <3

maria mena "Mitt Lille Land" by maria mena

Another before. Another after.

2011-07-23T16:50:00.001+02:00

Oslo has been my home for seven years. I have left it, occasionally, but always returned. Yesterday, on 22/7 as it will be known in Norway for decades to come, I was back after six stressful, traumatic, amazing, life-changing months in Japan. I don't yet have a permanent place to stay, but I was visiting friends and family, keeping a tight schedule to make sure to see as many of them as possible within a few days.

I came from lunch with a friend, and had an opening in my schedule. I figured I might as well walk to the government quarter, where I had recently been called in for an interview, scheduled for next week. As I was walking around downtown Oslo, I decided to stop by a couple of shops. This may have saved my life.

About half a kilometer away from the government buildings where I was heading, I stopped to look for a CD. Suddenly the loud music in the shop was disrupted by a bang, and a pressure wave made my ears pop. Inside the shop. People looked around, wondering what could have caused this. Some started making phone calls. I thought "construction work?", then "thunder?", then "bomb..?". But no. Not in Norway.

I made my way out on the street, where more and more people were randomly walking around like I did, looking for the source of the noise. I continued walking in the direction I had been headed, making sure that there was no smoke erupting from the Parliament or the closest subway station as I passed. People still looked distressed, but thus far nothing was very different than usual.

But then I saw the crowd. In movies you will occasionally see running crowds, usually followed by Godzilla or a UFO. In real life, it is surreal. It certainly seemed like the cue to turn the other direction.

Still I had no idea what had happened, but I realized it wasn't good. Thus I phoned a friend I was supposed to meet later on; partly to hear if she knew what was going on, partly to warn her not to come downtown. "A bomb blast near the Prime Minister's office," she informed me, incredulously, after having consulted some online newspapers. A bomb? In Oslo?

Before hanging up we decided that going to the movies as originally planned was probably not such a good idea. My instant thought was that if there had been a terrorist attack, public transportation might be affected, and chances were that downtown Oslo would be chaos. Using the metro felt like tempting fate, so I went to find a tram and then a bus instead. Leaving the city center was top priority. My mind went into survival mode, and only when I was safe aboard the tram did I notice the fear creeping up from the pit of my stomach. It felt a whole lot like the fear I felt in Japan on 3/11.

My part in the story ends here. All things considered, not so dramatic for me. I managed to get in touch with family and close friends quickly, and by intense use of Facebook the past 24 hours I've established that no one I knew well was affected. I still worry about the final death count, and the potential release of identities of victims. The bomb was scary, and it hit the political Norway incredibly hard as people working in several ministries were killed or injured, plus the infrastructural damage on site is terrible. Still, the bomb hit after office hours, and it's the middle of summer vacation. The death toll from the bomb - so far seven are confirmed - could have been far worse.

However, the horror was only starting with the bomb.

Not long after the explosion, a man wearing a police uniform arrived at a traditional, summer youth camp for Norway's main government party at the island Utøya close to Oslo. He claimed to be performing a routine check after the bombing, but in reality, this was a ploy to get inside the camp grounds. Here he started firing an automatic weapon, and allegedly continued doing so for somewhere between one and two hours. He killed at least 84 people - kids between the ages of 15 and 25 - and many more are injured. Some jumped off the island and started swimming, some didn't make it. The search for dead and survivors continues.

The horrors at that camp is unimaginable. The fact that it seems that one, single person performed both acts of violence (though this is yet unconfirmed) is unbelievable. That this could happen in Norway at all - a country that prides itself as peace-loving, safe, free - it's near impossible for us to wrap our minds around. Even the Nazi occupation during World War Two seems a failed comparison - first of all, that was more than 60 years ago. Secondly, not even then did so many people die during one day, and under such dramatic circumstances.

Norway made international media yesterday, and in a way we could have done without. But despite the tragedy, I see signs of hope. One newspaper reported "the end of innocence", hinting strongly that Norway now would have to change its ways, and face a new, international regime where terrorism is omnipresent. That we have been naive, and that our engagement in international warfare now had backfired. The implications was, clearly, as many thought yesterday: that al Qaeda was behind the attacks.

First of all, they were not. The only person so far confirmed to be behind this is Norwegian, and a right-wing extremist. It is still unclear what his motifs were, and why he chose to target young people like that. I expect we might get some answers eventually, because unlike what one might expect, he was captured, alive. He has been arrested, and charged with acts of terrorism.

Secondly, Norway shall not and will not budge for the fear this man and people like him wanted to create. I say with our Prime Minister and several central authorities - this is not the time to change our ways. We will become even more open, democratic, and free. Norway is stronger than this. In times of crisis, we stand together, we support and help each other. And that is exactly what we now intend to do.

I am eternally glad that I have yet to see messages of hate after this. Instead, my Facebook feed is overflowing with messages of support, people updating what one can do to help (if you're a registered blood donor with type O negative, please go to Ullevål University Hospital and do your duty), and general expressions of grief and sorrow. Even though we all know the name and face of the person responsible, I have not yet seen anyone talking about lynching him as one might expect. A Facebook poll asking whether Norway should change its laws to allow death penalty for this person, has so far been answered by an overwhelming NO! In this time of crisis it feels reassuring that people are retaining their common sense. I remember being incredibly impressed by the Japanese after 3/11. Right now, I am proud to say that I am also impressed by Norwegians.

It is a day of sorrow. But in the middle of the sorrow there is reason to believe that we will be okay.

On ghosts

2011-07-18T21:23:00.000+02:00

I like to keep an open mind. But frankly, I'm not very good at it. The last few weeks in my lodgings in Tokyo, several of my housemates started talking about a ghost. Apparently, we had a ghost. Strange sounds were heard, and some people got quite scared. I didn't much believe in the ghost in the first place, and when I heard who was the origin of the tales, I believed it even less. One of our residential Aussies is renowned for being full of crap - in a good way - but nevertheless. I confronted him, and normally I'd expect to find him caving to me demanding the truth relatively quickly. But this time he seemed serious. Serious about there being strange sounds.

To me, there is always a rational explanation. We might not know what it is. We might never find out. But that in itself isn't enough to assume that there is a supernatural reason why spirit boards move, why "white ladies" appear in empty houses or why strange sounds are heard in a shared house with 17 people with most varying rhythms and habits. Just sayin' - there are no strange sounds in that environment...

What amazed me more than the fact that people failed to see this connection, however, was that so many of them accepted the paranormal explanation. Normal, rational people - but most of them would readily believe in ghosts. And before you knew it, the house was swarming of stories of walking killer brides, grandmothers that just would not rest in peace, and other scary things. All of a sudden I became something of a misfit in the house, as I was one of the few that insisted that all of this probably had a natural explanation. I was - shockingly - accused of being too logical!

Maybe I am. Maybe I need to open my mind and accept that there are things out there we cannot explain, and that instead of being a sign of human limitations, that is a sign of supernaturalism. Maybe. I had a reminder the other day, though, that I wasn't always this logical.

Being back in my hometown after months abroad always makes me look around to see if there are any major changes. This time there was one. The "haunted house" of my childhood was gone. It's just a house, like any other. But it's been standing empty for decades, and no one has been taking care of it. Gradually, without the proper maintenance, it's been turning into a mere shell of the grand house it once was.

When I was younger, it used to be such a thrill for my friends and me to dare each other to enter the garden. We never even contemplated entering the house. It was haunted, after all. We were convinced.

One friend and I managed to scare ourselves witless one night. Or "night" - it was probably not very late (as we were eleven-ish, we clearly had a curfew). We were out in the garden, it was dark (even with the curfew, Norway gets dark at night in winter-time, and I know it was winter because there was snow). For some reason we decided to make a snowman. But no ordinary snowman, of course. A corpse-snowman...

We made what looked a lot like a female figure, lying down on the ground in the haunted garden. We thought of a story for her - a jealous lover, of course. A tragic death. Burial in the garden (a garden we imagined much like the one from The Secret Garden, by the way - even though it of course was nothing like it). The tale we spun became so vivid to us, that we almost started believing in it. Before we knew it, we thought we saw the murderer on the balcony of the house. We fled the garden in haste, not returning for days.

When we finally returned, the snow had almost melted. Our snowman corpse should have been all gone. But where she had been, the snow had shaped a figure much like the one we made - but much more life-like - out of the rotten grass and leaves underneath it. This time it really looked like a corpse was lying there in the haunted garden.

The stories we had made up came back to us, more scary than ever. And suddenly we were convinced it was a curse - that we were now cursed for having seen the corpse, and that a ghost would then haunt us for the rest of our days!

I haven't seen or heard from this ghost since. Maybe it finally caught up with me in Tokyo. It must have disappointed it greatly to find that I no longer believed in it. By now I am more concerned that the old house the ghost came from finally was torn down. I guess the house could not be saved - in its current condition any renovation would have been futile. But I'm not too keen on what is likely going to be the alternative - some apartment complex, I'm guessing. And I'm a little sorry for future generations of kids who will not get to exercise their imagination in our good, old haunted house.

On moments

2011-07-11T14:38:00.002+02:00

Sand, running through my fingers. Or water. Trying to cup my hands, saving as much as possible. But it is futile. It's still running out, and a part of me wants to just wipe my hands and be done with it.

It started out as months. Then weeks. We're down to days. Soon it will be hours. Minutes. Seconds. Take-off.

I'm at the point where I try to sleep as little as possible, because I don't want to waste my time. I want to hang out with all the wonderful people I know here. And yet - each moment I see them, I know it's a moment closer to leaving. And while it's a moment worth treasuring, it's also instrumental in making me miss these people, these moments even more.

Live in the moment. But the future demands our attention.

My future. I can honestly say I have no idea what it will bring. I know the immediate future. Tuesday. Plans. Wednesday. Plans. Thursday. Plans. Friday - moving out. Saturday. Flight. Sunday. Sleep. But then it starts getting sketchy. Some of the things that might happen are of the life-changing kind. Some I want. Some I don't want. Some I think I want, but I can't be sure just yet. I'm in one of those walks of life, where anything can happen. It's thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Wish me luck. Wish upon me the ability to live in the moment, and to let the future pan out the way it shall. I will see you on the flip side.

On good and bad things about leaving Japan

2011-07-02T15:24:00.002+02:00

It hit me yesterday. July 1st. It's July. I'm leaving in July. My stay is coming to an end.

That I have conflicted feelings is an understatement. I'm close to exploding from this schism within, tearing me in different directions. I can't make up my mind whether I'm more sad to be leaving or happy to come home. Since leaving is coming first, that is still more prominent in my mind. As of right now, there is nothing I am missing so much from home that it overshadows what I will miss from here. What I already miss. Funny how you start missing something before it's gone - like you're trying to distance yourself from a good thing because you know you can't keep enjoying it for long.

Rationally, I know that my life is in Norway. That I will be happier there, long-term. There are many things about Tokyo or even Japan that I don't like, and many things I would miss from Norway should I attempt to stay here longer. But still. As I tried to write a "good and bad" list, weighing benefits about returning home against the disadvantages of leaving, I found it got equally confusing and irrational. Things that should be "good", are also "bad", and half the time I'm not sure what category they belong in.

As you can see, Tokyo is currently winning. And if you think I'm cheating by writing "people" four times, in addition to "friends", "people I've met" and "people I've yet to meet", let me remind you that Tokyo has about 30 million people, while Oslo has 500 thousand... (And my hometown even less. It *will* be an anti-climax to return there)

Fortunately, some of the people I've met in Tokyo are also leaving - either for Oslo or in the case of my Danish, Swedish and Finnish friends, countries that are considerably closer to Norway than Japan. Hopefully this means that I can stay in touch with them. And of course - as one of those who is leaving pointed out - we live in a TGIF world. No, not "Thank God, It's Friday", but "Twitter, Google, iPhone and Facebook". It's possible to stay in touch despite distances.

And still. I'm sentimental. Despite stayingintouchability, it will never be the same. I've had an absolutely excellent time here. There have been ups and downs, of course - some of the downs more obvious than others - but all in all I am very happy I came to Japan, and equally happy that I went back after my involuntary "vacation" in Norway this spring. Some of the best things about my stay only happened after I cam back.

I have two weeks. It is my firm resolution to make the absolute most of them. Knowing Tokyo, I have every reason to expect it will be amazing.

On urban localism

2011-06-27T12:31:00.000+02:00

Tokyo is one of those places that doesn't always feel very large despite the fact that its population is one of the largest for any city in the world (depending on how and what you count). As an urban area, it's obviously HUGE with its 30 million people. But the place I'm currently living in, however, doesn't feel very big at all. Perhaps the considerable local-ness of Tokyo is what made me feel so at home here right from the start? Below are a few of the things that comprise my local community.

The Mori Tower. My favourite skyscraper.

Roppongi Crossing

Traditional meets modern, at the Imperial Palace/Hibya

Hibiya at sunset ♥

One of the oddest buildings I know, right in my neighbourhood

Because every pet needs that special attention, right?

Temple with a basketball net? But of course.

Geisha barbie and all her friends @ the spa...

Stairway to heaven? Maybe not, but there is a temple at the top

The mandatory temple cat

I thought this was interesting, in all its moldy, broken beauty

Messy, noisy, trafficky, and YET local...

I ♥ local Tokyo :)

On orange books

2011-06-24T08:00:00.000+02:00

There are two different meanings to the term "orange books". First of all, it can simply refer to the colour of the cover of the book. An orange book is a book with a predominantly orange cover. Metaphorically speaking, however, "an orange book" is an unexpected delight. Such as a book you randomly pick up in a bookstore without ever having heard of it before, and then when you read it you find that it is pure gold (or rather, pure orange).

Orange books I've come across include Chris Cleave's The Other Hand (the original orange book, and one of the few that are actually orange in both meanings of the expression. You can read all about my escapades to find it here), Mark Zusak's The Book Thief, Albert Sánches Piñol's Pandora in the Congo, and actually - the first Harry Potter book was orange before I knew there was such a thing as orange books.

One book that only almost falls into this category is Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game. This books isn't quite orange, since it was recommended to me, but I didn't expect to like it, and yet I reallyreally did. So I guess I would categorize it as more of an apricot book.

Also - orange doesn't just apply to books. I've had orange book meals, bought orange book CDs, found orange book blogs and one day I hope to meet a guy to whom I will feel comfortable saying "You're an orange book".

Have you come across any orange books lately?

On true happiness

2011-06-20T14:23:00.001+02:00

Not that I have too much time for anything like this. If I could choose, I probably would spend about an hour each morning like this - on Starbucks, with my Kindle (product placement, much? *snort*), having a relaxing start of my day. But alas, my mornings tend to be far more stressful than that. I frequently sleep too little (especially in Tokyo), so I get up too late. I run to the shower, try to make time for both breakfast and basic make-up, and then I'm off to work. I can only dream of having the time to pick up a coffee most days, little less sit down to drink it.

In a perfect world I would have that kind of time. Or I would make that kind of time. But then... If this was my daily routine, perhaps I wouldn't appreciate it as much..?

On soap, in terms of boxes and operas

2011-06-13T12:20:00.169+02:00

Before coming to Japan in January, I envisioned that I might find myself in conflict between what I wanted to blog about, and what I felt would be appropriate, considering my job. After all, I have a code of silence at the embassy, and there are things I potentially could say that might get not just me - but also my country - in trouble. In theory. In reality, the world isn't as interesting as that. I doubt that any of the things I could potentially say would have much of an impact on Norway-Japan relations. Besides, I've found myself talking about completely different stuff than the going ons at the embassy anyway - I think most of my readers are more interested in hearing about bento lunches, karaoke singing and gaijin mishaps than political or consular gossip.

Still, there are times when I think "Oooh, I want to blog about this", and then I don't, because a small part of me worries that it will come back and bite me in the butt. I'm very diplomatically inclined that way. Last week I solved the problem by writing about everything surrounding the topic I really wanted to write about. This week I intend to just go ahead and make a disclaimer: the opinions of this blog is my own, and only mine - and does not necessarily reflect that of the Norwegian embassy/government. So there.

Unless you either live here or are more than average interested in Japan, you probably don't know a whole lot about the politics of this country. Let me give you a brief introduction.

Japan before 1945 has a long and complex history, much of which can be summed up in a few words: ninjas, samurais and emperors. Okay, maybe not, but there was a lot of back and forth there (between the samurais and emperors. I just threw the ninjas in for fun). A feudal system. Warrior lords. Emperors - some with and some without power. Matthew Perry (not the guy from "Friends" - yes - I *have* to make that point every time I talk about it) and his forced opening of Japan. Militarism. Colonialism. Forceful use of principles Western countries had applied to most of the world through centuries, but slightly too late. If I say "Manchuria", you're supposed to flinch.

The war changed a lot for Japan. They went from being a powerful, imperialist power who had enough self-confidence to take on the United States; to being forced to surrender by the worst weapon humanity had ever seen, and then de facto occupied by the very same US. Transformation started: the emperor renounced his divinity, the occupied areas in China and Korea were returned or put under international control, and till this day Japan still maintains only a defensive military (though it's budget is the second largest in the world, so I don't know how much emphasis one can put on this, apart from the strictly symbolical).

Also - post-war Japan transformed into a democracy, and a rapid economic development frequently referred to as "the Japanese miracle" started. These two are closely linked. While there can be do doubt that Japan succeeded tremendously in the latter, I am here to claim that the former is overrated...

Don't get me wrong. Japan is a democracy. But is it well-functioning? Maybe not.

The first 50 years or so, the politics of the country was dominated by one, single party - the conservative Liberal Democratic Party (LDP). I'm not saying that this is necessarily a problem - as long as there are fair elections, the population is of course welcome to vote for the same party over and over again. In fact, the LDP period had something the latter years have lacked: stability. But, it seems to me that a large reason for why the LDP continued to stay in power was that the people who continued to vote - elderly, rural, conservative people - also continued to vote for the only party they knew, while other citizens more or less stopped voting altogether.

Now, it is almost unfair to call the LDP-era a one-party system, since LDP had (still has, in fact) so many fractions that it basically was a multiparty system. Only, unless you were a member of the party, you didn't have much influence within the fractions. Eventually, however, other parties started making their presence known. Some already existed. Some were formed, others merged. A number of LDP-members left the party to form new parties. If you look at the name of most Japanese political parties, present and past, it looks an awful lot like most of them were formed at an izakaya after a long day at work. Either they have some variety of "Liberal"/"Democratic" and "Party" in them, or they have the most random names ("Your Party", "Sunshine Party", "New Clean Government Party" anyone?).

Finally, in 2009, one of these new parties - the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ) won the general election, and thus formed a government. Finally some change, you might think. Wrong, I tell you.

First of all, a considerable amount of politicians in DPJ are former LDP-members. Secondly, due to the power struggle within and between the political parties the last few years, Japan has had five prime ministers in as many years, and it's not looking as though it's about to change. The current prime minister, Naoto Kan, has now managed the near-impossible: he's been PM for over a year (barely). But it is expected that he will hand in his resignation any day now.

Why, you ask? Why would he do that when Japan is in the middle of the biggest crisis the country has seen since World War Two (and I just explained why that wasn't the best of times for this country, right...)? Well, I am sure Mr. Kan asks himself the same question. And so do the Japanese people. They might not like Kan very much (in general, though, they don't like any politicians), but they don't think it's a good idea to change captain mid-match. Too bad the rest of the politicians don't care.

Because a number of politicians - both DPJ and from other parties - have decided to use the current situation as an opportunity to get rid off another prime minister. Great idea. Just great.

So, two weeks ago a vote of no confidence was raised. Last minute, Kan struck a deal with his rival (and party member!), former prime minister Hatoyama, which meant that Kan got to stay on Hatoyama's mercy provided he agreed to step down once the crisis had reached "a certain level". What this level is, and when that will be, remains unclear. To me, to the Japanese population, and as far as I can tell - to Hatoyama and Kan too. But, the thing is, now people no longer speculate if Kan will step down. Now we only wonder when. Which in effect makes him as lame a duck as ducks go. So if Kan did all this - as I suspect - to try to keep some continuity in Japanese politics and actually get some stuff done (much needed!), he has already failed. He will probably not get anything done in the current political situation, and chances are he'll go down in history as the guy who had all these ideas but never managed to see any of them through. If he can escape the label "earthquake guy", that is.

No wonder most of the Japanese I speak to have a strong dislike of politics and politicians altogether. This view is supported by surveys too: more than 50 percent of Japanese voters do not support any party, due to "political inefficiency". Instead, the Japanese rely on private initiatives, the business sector, the idea that profit will eventually benefit the lot. Japanese politicians are seen as "elitist", "they don't listen", or even - "they come from a different planet than the rest of us". I can't say I blame people here for thinking that.

At the same time, it saddens and infuriates me. The other day I couldn't help but ask: "So what do you do to make them listen?"

I couldn't get a proper answer to that. Because it doesn't seem like the Japanese way, does it, to do as the rest of us have to: force the politicians to listen. Arrange demonstrations, write open letters, vote, vote, VOTE!!! The politicians are there for you - or they are supposed to, anyway - and if they don't listen, then you're probably not screaming loudly enough. Their jobs depend on YOUR support, and only by showing or taking away support can you make them do their job. It seems to me the Japanese gave up on their politicians. They have accepted that they will not listen, when in reality this is the time to MAKE them listen.

I'm not saying that keeping Kan is the answer. Personally, I like the guy, but I'm not a voter here. I also see the point that his political life is probably long over - you can't teach a lame duck to walk. But Kan at least has the willingness to act, he has the ideas and initiative to do something, and like it or not - he can provide stability through the crisis. Instead of showing him the support he needs to survive the political assassination he is being subject to, however, people shake their heads and go on with their daily business.

Japanese politics is one big drama. But it's high time to move from the soap opera onto the soap boxes. Speak your mind, and perhaps those politicians finally will listen!

On the difference between a sealion

2011-06-07T10:53:00.078+02:00

So, the thing about being a bureaucrat is that sometimes you are forced to work for the system even if you don't agree with it. Historically, the problem has been that the bureaucrats are too eager to please their political bosses. Would Nazi-Germany been able to function without the worker ants keeping the machinery gong? Not a chance. If enough of them had looked up from their papers, given it a second thought what it was they were taking part in, and drawn the conclusions history by now has drawn for them, there is a possibility the Holocaust would not have happened. Bureaucrats have power. They just don't use it very often.

My current assignment isn't quite as serious as that, and thus I'm not worried I am committing genocide by proxy. But I am in the capacity of my work defending a political position I disagree with personally. It certainly does nothing to help my motivation...

Maybe that is why I've been distracted all day? My research hasn't really brought me much that is useful for the job I have to do, but it brought me lots of random information I found much more interesting than what I was supposed to work on. Digressionism en diplomacy, I guess.

First of all, I've learned a lot about various species today. Extinct and otherwise. Did you know that the 18th century botanist, zoologist, physician and explorer, Georg Wilhelm Steller, had several species named after him - most of which are now either extinct or endangered? The Steller sea cow, for instance, disappeared only 25 years after he discovered it. The Steller sea lion is still around, but especially the western stock of this mammal is threatened, partly as a result of over-hunting in the past, and partly as a result of changes in their habitat (climatic and otherwise).

I have also learned a little something about different species of sea mammals: "There are sea lions on the ears, ear seals are just a hole." Or maybe the lesson learned there was that Google Translate cannot be trusted?

I have discovered the story about the adorable Tama-chan. This was a seal who for some time lived in a Tokyo river (or two, actually), and consequently it became a national celebrity in Japan. Because, you know, that's what happens in Japan when you're cute.

Tama-chan was also attempted seal-napped by a doomsday cult. Because, you know, that also happens in Japan... This cult believed that Tama-chan had been led astray by electromagnetic waves, and that returning him to the sea would save the world. They didn't succeed. This might explain the current state of the world...

And finally, if you're wondering about the title of this post? Another Google Translate glitch. It reminds me of a joke, though. I've modified it slightly to fit today's theme:

"What's the difference between a sealion?"
"It can neither ride a bike."

On how I've felt lately

2011-06-02T14:11:00.001+02:00

(Mashed-up, in case that was unclear...)

On BuNoWriMo anno 2011

2011-05-26T16:02:00.000+02:00

I'm going to keep this short and sweet.

Have some candy and click the BuNoWriMo icon in the top right corner.

(If you absolutely insist on being informed WHY you should click the icon, there is some information here, here and here)

On placebo

2011-05-23T06:31:00.000+02:00

You know the feeling you get after having been aboard a boat for some time? When you get back on land, it feels like you're still rocking, back and forth, along with the waves. I had that exact feeling for two weeks after the Japan earthquakes on 11 March. Occasionally the earth really did move, of course, since we had heavy aftershocks several times a day, and aftershocks are still felt in the region. But about half the time I seemed to be the only one feeling the rocking, and when I still felt it when I got back to the seismically inactive Norway, it was apparent that these were my own, personal quakes. In short, my brain was playing tricks on me.

When I decided to return to Tokyo to finish my internship, one of the major worries were the aftershocks. Sure, a potential increase in radiation in the air, food or drinking water could be a threat, but for some reason that didn't bother me much. The effects are more long-term (depending on the level of radiation, of course), and radiation is a more subtle danger, which might both be reasons I'm not freaking out over it. In addition, it really does seem to have cooled down a bit in the Fukushima power plant - or at least the media has cooled down their coverage - both of which contributes to me being more calm.

The thought of aftershocks, however, was still terrifying to me, because I've felt real earthquakes now. Experienced what they can do. Many believe - and not in a "the rapture is upon us" kind of way, "many" in this case includes scientists in the field - Tokyo's big centennial quake is still to come, and with the increased seismic activity in the general area it doesn't seem unlikely this might happen now. Plus the fact that earthquakes make me physically ill. There is very little I hate as much as the seasickness the above mentioned rocking leads to.

So, then. Why would I want to go?

I decided - from safe, far-away Norway - that I wanted closure. That I enjoyed the job, the city, the people too much not to give it another chance. That I didn't want the earthquakes to win. That my fear of quakes after all could not be bigger than my fear of missing out of great experiences I'd treasure for the rest of my life.

My assessment was almost right. It did feel good to come back. I still love my job - perhaps even more now, since the quake ironically has created a whole lot of new, interesting perspectives in my work. I adored meeting all my friends here again, and I've also met a whole lot of new friends since I got back. And Tokyo has shown itself from its best side these past weeks. The weather is lovely; the city is its normal, crazy self; and everywhere I go, everything I do, really make me feel like I'm making memories for life.

But. Those quakes. We haven't had any major ones since I got back. I think I've felt five in two weeks, only one of which was strong enough to make me get out of bed, and one made me look around for my earthquake helmet. But in reality they have been minuscule compared to what I'm used to by now.

The worst part, though, aren't the real earthquakes. The placebo ones are. It's funny how I'm never in doubt when there is an actual quake, but whenever I have a placebo one, I'm all "was that a quake? Or was it me? Am I shaking? Or is it the ground?". As mentioned, they stopped after about a week or so in Norway. Two days before I left for Japan again, they were back. Thus there is absolutely no doubt that they are triggered by my own anxiety. It's a little scary, actually, that my mental state is capable of tricking me like that. I KNOW they are not real. But I'm still not sure (until there is a real one, that is). Placebo drugs have an effect because people believe they are real drugs. I tell myself over and over and over again that these aren't real quakes, but the results of this case study are still messed up. I feel them all the same.

Japan has had several thousands of quakes since the 11th of March. I've had about twice that amount. Frankly I am fed up. Despite everything I love about being back, I am counting the days till I can get off this boat.

On the sorrows of a wooden plaything

2011-05-22T03:53:00.001+02:00

"Hullo, there. Won't you come play with me, please? Oh. You're too big. Sigh. Yeah, they all say that. Kids grow up too fast. And here I am, stuck to this spring, doomed to eternally flip back and forth, or occasionally sideways, but never as much as an inch off my axis. Kids, they run off, play with the other toys, and go home when it gets dark or when it rains. But I cannot. I wish I could run away too. Just once, I'd like to feel the grass under my hooves. But then I don't have hooves either. I only have this foot rest, with no feet resting on it.

Are you sure you can't come play with me?"

On emoticolonialism

2011-05-19T15:39:00.000+02:00

An imprint of the flower I smelled this morning

Think back to the worst time of your life. The loss of a loved one; some big, personal failure; or a dramatic event that changed your life - and not for the better. Now, quickly, before you sink into depression, think back to the happiest time of your life. If you're a parent, it's probably the birth of your child. It might be your wedding day. Having a book published. Going on a dream vacation. Or perhaps you're one of those people who cherish the small things to such extent that your happiest moment is the flower you smelled this morning?

Either way, compare those emotions. The extreme sad/scare/rage to the extreme happy/thrilled/enthusiastic. They are powerful ends to the same emotional spectrum. If you did as I told you - picked the very worst and very happiest memories you have - these emotions most likely represent the strongest sentiments you have ever felt. It's a little frightening, actually, just how strong these feelings are.

It struck me today, how we sometimes - not too often, fortunately - are overpowered with emotions so strong that they leave a lasting memory for the rest of our lives. By mentioning the thing that triggered these emotions, we can feel a version of the same emotion, even years after. When I asked you to think back, I might have triggered intense grief you almost had forgotten you had in you, but then it is there after all, like an imprint of the original feeling. Or a tingling sensation in your stomach region, reminding you of how you really felt that first time your boyfriend kissed you.

Imagine now that instead of having an aftertaste of an emotion already felt, you had a preview. The same imprint - a mellower version of the original - but before the actual event and your reaction to it. Would you be able to bear it? If it was a happy preview - wouldn't the expectations of the real thing lessen the actual feeling? And worse - if it was a sad preview - wouldn't the premature grief weaken your ability to handle the real thing?

One of the impossible questions I have asked myself after the earthquake in Japan in March is whether I'd gone if I had known. It's an impossible question because it doesn't really matter. I didn't know, and I did go. Plus, I think the answer is given. Had I known for sure that there would be an earthquake, a tsunami, a nuclear crisis, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere near it - even though I wasn't injured or directly affected. Still, there might have been a part of me that would still have wanted to go - not to play hero per se - but perhaps in a misguided "solidarity" with Japan? Or to prove to myself that I wasn't scared? (Which would be wrong, by the way.) Well, that part would have been convinced if I had had a "preview" of any of the emotions I've been dealing with, during and after the earthquake.

I think it is good that we don't know.

Somewhat related, I'm writing about nuclearism over at Burrowers, Books & Balderdash today. I guess the same questions is relevant there - if we had known, would we have acted differently?

On キリン*

2011-05-18T15:20:00.000+02:00

The giraffe might not be native to Japan, but it certainly makes its presence known in Tokyo. Or perhaps I just notice them more than most folks would..?

The label says "Tall Horse", but I know better.
It's a giraffe, all right.
(And yes, it is also wine. Haven't tasted it [yet])

Yes, that is my finger in front of the lens...
Above it, however, is a girafflag. Or banneraffe.
What I want to know, though, is where "giraffe1" is..?

A nanako point is, apparently, where arrogant giraffes hang out.

From a sign. Somewhere. For something. Probably not giraffe-related.

Shinjuku-giraffe.

And of course this one, that I have posted earlier.
My suggestion was that it was an ad for a giraffe grooming salon,
but of course my readers had many more creative ideas. Giraffe clothing
store? Giraffe tailor shop? Or my favourite - the giraffe is getting mugged!
(Poor giraffe, though it is looking reasonably happy...)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*If I copied the proper katakana (and you never know - Japanese websites can be tricksy...), キリン means "giraffe" in Japanese. It struck me that it's been a while since I've "giraffed around the world" like I used to, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. I actually started this post waaaay back in March, but then it didn't feel right to post it after I went home after the quake. Now that I am back, however, it feels more appropriate.

Also, if you read Japanese, and you notice that I didn't copy the proper katakana, I would greatly appreciate if you tell me that I managed to write a blog post about "title" or "heading" or whatever the Japanese Wikipedia page about giraffes is called...

On intense investigation

2011-05-14T08:00:00.001+02:00

I once knew someone whose favourite song was Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved".

I never quite got why, and I never asked. I listened to the song, and concluded that it was okay, but not great. Hardly a song worth listing as a favourite, I thought. Not even the best by Maroon 5.

I tried some more. The rhythm is ordinary. The melody nothing special. Could it be the lyrics?

I listened to the lyrics. Looked them up online. Read them several times. Noticed they were meaningful, but failed to see spectacular. Kind of a happy-sad song. It didn't make me happy, though. Or sad.

In the end, I accepted that we had different taste.

I moved on.

It wasn't until recently I rediscovered the song. This time I thought it sounded pretty awesome.

If nothing else because it reminded me of an old friend.

On Tokyo, part two

2011-05-10T11:39:00.000+02:00

"Thank you so much for visiting our store. Please come back soon."

The staff in Japanese stores have always been polite. But now, some of them are polite to the point of ridicule. Please visit our store again. Thank you very much for stepping inside these doors even if you didn't buy anything. Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but it seems as the politeness covers up relief that even foreigners are starting to return to normal life in Tokyo.

Well, some foreigners. Living in one of the parts of Tokyo most densely populated with gaijins, it is noticeable that many of us have left the city. Almost two months after disaster hit Japan, it seems unlikely that all those who left will return. Most diplomatic missions either temporarily closed shop in Tokyo, or cut down considerably in their service. Some established offices elsewhere, some simply left. But those who meant to come back, largely will have done so by now.

It's not just the diplomats, though. The ex-pat community seems smaller. Some of those who left might not be able to return. I've heard stories of foreigners losing their jobs in Japanese companies after having chosen to leave Japan after the earthquake. It seems harsh, but at the same time I can see where the companies are coming from. If their employers cannot handle earthquakes, there is very little for them in Japan. If you want to live here, you have to accept the fact that there will be quakes, and some of them might be big.

As a consequence of the foreigner-drain from Tokyo, though, certain businesses are struggling. Guest houses for foreigners, grocery stores specialized in imported food, the many lunch places in the embassy area - they have all had to live with next to no demand for more than a month, and now that it is picking up again, it might be too late. Some have closed shop already, and from the look of the (lack of) traffic, others might follow. This is only a small part of the economicl and otherwise problems Japan is facing post-crisis, and in the long run not the most important one. But it illustrates the magnitude of the crisis when businesses not directly affected by the crisis, in a city not directly affected by the crisis, are struggling.

Thus I'd be lying if I said that everything is as it was in Tokyo. It isn't. Much is back to normal - radiation levels included - but there is still a certain gloomy mood hanging over the city. The news are still largely centered around the catastrophe and its aftermath. Closed escalators, dark buildings and other power-saving efforts to compensate for the shut down nuclear plants are constant reminders that the city and the country are still in crisis mode. And despite putting on brave faces there is no doubt that many of us still feel that its uncomfortable with all the aftershocks (fortunately, we haven't had any major ones since I returned. I've only felt one I was certain was a quake, and then several fquakes - fake quakes triggered by anxiety or by injury to your balance, both of whom I've experience frequently since the first big earthquakes in March).

Despite this, people seem intent on staying positive. And once you start looking for it, it is easy to find bright spots in the gloom. I've had the great fortune to spend most of my time back with wonderful friends - some old, some new. Getting back to normal life here - as normal as possible - has been good for me. I've come across things I didn't even realize I'd missed, and I've discovered new loves about Tokyo. Ironically, one of them was born out of the only thing that's really been bothering me since I got back: the heaviest jet lag I've suffered yet. I haven't been able to sleep much at all, and definitely not at night. So several mornings I've been out walking, discovering a (to me) new side to this wonderful city. Before the city wakes up, there is a strange freshness to it, unspoiled by traffic or people. The few that are out are either on their way home from a party or perhaps the night shift, or they are on their way to work. Shops are being cleaned or the shelves are restocked, and you might pass a stray jogger or two. But there is a completely different pace than Tokyo normally can allow. I didn't realize how calm a city of this size could become.

And so, despite the anxiety I felt before coming, the overall impression after having arrived is a good one. Japan found its place in my heart a long time ago; Tokyo has now reclaimed it on behalf of the entire country. A few weeks ago I wrote in my status update on Facebook : "Nothing has changed. Everything is different." Coming back to Tokyo, I think it is now more appropriate to say: "Everything has changed. But nothing is different."

Tokyo Tower is dark. Changed, but not different.

On Osama

2011-05-02T17:32:00.000+02:00

I feel like I'm the only one in the world who is not happy that Osama bin Laden has been tracked down and killed. Well, I'm not entirely alone. I'm pretty sure there are some terrorists around the world who are sad. Not al Qaeda, though, because they claim he is not dead. Duh. He's dead. There is absolutely no way Obama would risk announcing Osama's death if he wasn't sure it was true. Pending a zombie invasion, Osama is as dead as a doornail.

Then why am I not happy? Did I naively hope the US soldiers would capture bin Laden and put him on trial? Hah! No. That would never have happened. And I'm not sure I'd have wanted it to. But I think I'd liked to have lived in a world where that at least was a possibility.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not sad that Osama bin Laden is dead. He was one of this world's fanatics, so involved in his own loony cause that he observed absolutely no respect for human life. Osama's world must have been a black and white one, where most of the patches were very, very black. The things he was willing to do, and capable of making others do, are really, truly horrible. I hate - HATE - the things he did.

Despite this, I am not sure his death is a good thing. There are two reasons I am not celebrating. First, I don't like the fact that the world has come to this - celebration of someone's death, regardless of who it is. People I have the utmost respect for, Americans and non-Americans, people I usually agree with (politically and otherwise), and people I don't usually agree with - they all seem to have no problem being happy about this death. It saddens me that Osama has done that to them - created hate in them. I understand it - a part of me feel like celebrating too - but I don't like it. To me, Osama is still spreading terror by making the hate many of us felt for him blossom into celebrations at his death.

Secondly, and far more important, I don't think there is very much to celebrate. Sure, he got what was coming. Had he been captured and put on trial, he would still have been sentenced to death. Punished. Since I am no fan of torture, there isn't any sentence I could have suggested that would have been more appropriate. I am no fan of the death penalty either, but even I would have had to accept that this was the only possible solution in this particular case. Still, I'm not so sure Osama's death - one way or other - will help. Sure, the families of those who died on 9/11 and several other terror actions the last decades might feel some consolation. They deserve that. But - will this put an end to future terror actions, an end to the future grief of families? I am afraid that it will not.

The experts are in disagreement, and none seem sure. This might lead to violent responses. Retaliation is likely. The war on terror is not won yet. In a long-term perspective this could mean a more peaceful world.

I hope the latter is the case. If this - in any perspective - leads to the end of terrorism, the end of the war in Afghanistan, a more peaceful world; then I'm out there celebrating with you. If it does, I'd gladly have killed him myself. But I am not so optimistic. Osama was not alone. Until yesterday the terrorists had a leader in hiding, somewhere, in a cave (which turned out to be a mansion). Today they have a martyr killed by the enemy.

Thus I'm not so sure the world is a better place today than it was yesterday.

And yes, I am aware that you probably don't agree with me in this. As I said, it seems the entire world disagrees. Whether you think I am naive, stupid, "just not American", wrong, misguided, or even despicable/evil/terrorist-friendly; you are entitled to disagree with me. You might even be right. I just think it will be a while before we know for sure the effect this will have had, and I guess I am saving my celebration until I know if this really means a better world.

On ZOMG

2011-04-30T08:00:00.000+02:00

ZOMG.

I haverecently decided to employ this word in my vocabulary. The problem is, in thecurrent economy it is not exactly easy to find a position for a new word. Ihave tried to substitute it for other words, but somehow this tends to make themeaning of my sentences less clear. The other day on the bus I gently asked a ladyto get out of the ZOMG as she was blocking my passage. However, she did notZOMG this and just kept ZOMGing at ZOMG.

Inaddition, some of the substituted words are getting angry. Yesterday the pronouns accused me of exaggerated silliness, and today the verbs have threatened to boycott me if I keep using nouns as verbs. The last thing Ineed is angry words unioning on me.

I havetried to consult the internet as well. From the urban dictionary (which is aname that confuses me greatly as this online dictionary can be accessedanywhere, including rural areas. They do have internet access there now, youknow) I gathered the following:

zOMG isa variant of the all-too-popular acronym "OMG", meaning"Oh My God". The "z" was originally a mistake whileattempting to hit the shift key with the left hand, and type "OMG"Also used in all-caps, 'ZOMG' is generally used in a sarcastic manner, moreoften than not a humiliating fasion[sic]. It is also used as a device forstating the obvious."zOMG!you r teh winz!!one!!eleven!"[sic]

(It alsoconfuses me that an institution that claims to be a “dictionary” is so terribleat spelling, but again this might have something to do with its “urban” image.Itz never cool to zpell poprly in the ceetay.)

Of coursethe problem with employing ZOMG as it was intended – as an enforced OMG – isthat I don’t use OMG all that much in the first place. I have been known to say OMD (Oh, MyDigression), but ZOMD just doesn’t have the same ring to it (it sounds oddlylike I was trying to type “zoomed” while drunk [and as fun as frunk posting is,it isn’t half as fun when you’re not actually frunk]).

Thus, Iturn to you, dear readers. What shall I do with the word ZOMG? Should I give up my arduous attempts at of expanding my vocabulary in this fashion? Or should I keep flagging at the barricades, ignoring the fact that ZOMG and other acronym-turned-common-usage-words such as LOL, WFT and the esoteric FTW are made for other generations than mine? Must I accept that I am linguistically outdated at 25?

On Y

2011-04-29T10:47:00.000+02:00

Why is "Y" pronounced "why" when "U" is pronounced "you"?

Why were we all talking about "Y2K", but now we're onto "year 2012". Shouldn't it be "Y2K-and-then-some"? "YMMXII"? Y not?

Why do words like "year", "you", and "Yalta" start with a Y when they're pronounced with a j-sound?

Why use a Y in "Y2K" in the first place, when the Y isn't really pronounced as a Y in "year"? "Why-two-key?"

Why is Y the only letter that gets a pronoun named after it? I suppose R almost counts, and we've already discussed U. But what about W? Double-U (and in all fairness, isn't it actually a double-V?) = y'all/you'se/yibus?

Why can't "where" or "what" also have a letter? ("X were U yesterday?" "Z are you asking that for?" "Y not? R U hiding something?")

Why is the y-axis always the vertical one? Isn't that vertically asking Y?

Why isn't Yaltavertically a word recognized by The Free Dictionary by Fairlex?

Why did Kate and Wills pick "National Hairball Awareness Day" to get married?

Why Y? Why?!

On X

2011-04-28T08:00:00.000+02:00

And just like that, Jack was her ex.

Okay, so this is a sorry-ass eXcuse for a post. Xorry. The thing is I'm not used to the letter X. Look it up in the Norwegian dictionary. You might miss it. It will probably have two entries - xylophone and then one I can't remember. Maybe xenophobia.

Also, I'm not in a bloggy mood. Usually, towards the end of month-long challenges I feel good about myself for having completed them. This time, I'm not so sure. I have not been very good with the community aspect of it all. I don't know how many blogs I've visited (old and new), but it sure hasn't been anywhere near the amount one probably should try to visit when participating in a challenge with 1200+ participants.

So what. I said at the beginning that I was doing it for persistence, not community. I haven't expected to gain hugely in followers or following, and I haven't. I appreciate the new blogs I've found as a result of the A-Z, but I don't feel terribly bad about those I didn't get a chance to visit. The problem, however, is that my initial goal also failed. Yes, I have put up a post (of sorts) every day (except Sundays) since the start of April. I managed to finish the challenge. But it hasn't inspired me to continue in the same fashion.

Frankly, I am wondering if I am stretching my ability and interest with my attempts of blogging daily. I am actually growing weary of my own style. I am a little tired of listening to my own voice. If this was a blog I was visiting, I'd take a break from it right about now.

There might be a break starting where April and A-Z ends. The reasons for this are not those described above, but rather my upcoming return to Tokyo. Yes. I'm going back. I guess writing it here makes it official (though Facebook already knows). I have set my mind to make it a good remainder of my stay. The earthquakes might interfere with how much I enjoy it, but I am determined to try to ignore that. I am queasy about going back, but also relieved to have made the decision.

Maybe being tired of myself and my own voice will change when I return to a place and a life which will give me something to write about? I assume so. Thus this is a notification of a possible short break. After Y and Z, don't expect to see me for maybe a week. Then I'll be craving to tell you ALL about my veryvery exciting (and possibly earthquakey) life back in Tokyo...

X marks the spot...

(And no, I haven't broken up with my boyfriend, Jack. I don't even have a boyfriend named Jack. I merely unplugged the headphones from my computer and saw a story in there, somewhere...)

On wobbly walking while waffling windwards...

2011-04-27T13:00:00.000+02:00

...or something...

Meanwhile, in the Burrow, there is an actual post with words in it. I can only justify observing Wordless Wednesday so many places, after all...

On V for Vendetta

2011-04-26T08:00:00.000+02:00

I am involved in a feud. A long-running argument, where considerable amounts of blood has been shed. The parties cannot stand each other, and there is not much hope for reconciliation in the future.

I am talking, of course, of the eternal battle between shoes and my feet.

My feet don't like shoes. I do. I love shoes. I wish I could have a closet-full of delightful, sparkly, gorgeous shoes, Imelda Marcos-style (but without the dictatorship and starving population). But there isn't much point as my feet would rebel on me. Commit mutiny. Quite possibly amputate themselves. They really, really hate shoes, in any shape, size and colour.

Frankly, though, I can understand how my feet have a strained relationship with shoes. After all, shoes mistreat them on a regular basis.

You see, the hate my feet feel for shoes is nothing compared to the intense loathing, disrespect, cruelty and terror shoes see fit to treat my feet. All and any shoes I've tried to wear since I was little have mutilated my feet at the gravest. I've tried to come between them - wearing socks of various thickness, and using band-aids liberally - but nothing seems to ease the tension. There is a war, and my feet are losing battle after battle.

They've tried to call truce. To simply stay away. Many summers have been spent mostly barefoot. But then there are times when shoes are called for, and my feet cannot escape. The shoes taunt them long ahead: "Guess what we're gonna do to you tonight, lovelies? Guess who will not be able to walk in the morning..?" The feet wait in agony, but there is absolutely nothing they can do. Once squeezed into the torture chamber that is stilettos or sandals or sneakers alike, the feet can do nothing but suffer in silence.

Despite the relief of barefootness, summers are the worst. Summer shoes are meaner than winter shoes. Besides, being let out of prison every now and then makes the feet realize just how terrible their fate is. Thus this is when they are least able to handle it. Blister season is upon us, and I feel for my feet. I really do.

If socially acceptable I'd vote with my feet and skip shoes altogether. But it seems a far way off. A society without shoes is light years away, and I'd walk my feet off to get there. I think I'll just have to stand on my own feet and accept that I'll have to wear shoes until I'm six feet under.

On underuse of punctuation

2011-04-25T08:00:00.080+02:00

First of all. Underuse? Under use? Under-use?

Secondly, that first paragraph (is it a paragraph when it is just four extremely short sentences that don't exceed one line brake?), and for that matter this one, is (are?) certainly no example(s?) of underuse/under use/under-use of punctuation. You see, I tend to overuse/over use/over-use punctuation. That's right. My name is Cruella, and I am a punctuation addict.

I am not picky, but my drug of choice is the parenthesis (in fact, I think I need one right now). I like my brackets raw, I like them cooked (and crooked [or straight {or even moustachey}]). If out of parentheses, however, I also enjoy dashes - or hyphens since I'm too lazy to figure out how to make proper dashes in blogger - and I can't turn down the occasional semicolon; even if I don't know how to use them; properly.

Due to the unhealthiness of this addiction, however, I have decided to try to beat it. I'm thinking cold turkey.
Thus, starting from the next paragraph, there will be no punctuation. I realize this will be annoying, but I hope you all understand my reason for doing this. It really is time I break a bad habit.

So oh no I already have the need for a parenthesis since I wanted to explain that my lack of punctuation doesn't include or exclude capital letters and apostrophes because I don't really count that as punctuation since it in the case of capital letters isn't and in the case of apostrophes doesn't really give me much buzz besides the readability without them is severely reduced here comes another nonparenthesis and that should have been a hyphen but it'll have to do I'm watching Monty Python in the background and oh boy oh boy the Norwegian Blue sketch is on and it is hilarious as always but now the lack of exclamation points in that statement almost belittled it and no one should ever belittle the Norwegian Blue which is a parrot that has ceased to be I really want and ellipsis after that and a comma before this but alas I cannot.

Ack! I failed! Relapse on a full stop!! And now I can't stop using these exclamation points!!!!!!!!!

It's useless. I guess I'll have to live with being a punctuation junkie. At least this post served to convince me that it is probably actually "under used", but as I think this is slightly misleading (since it could be confused with "used" being physically "under" something), I'm still gonna go with under-used. It also allows me an extra punctuation mark. Mmmm..!!!???)(----]!.

On the Tiger's Wife

2011-04-23T08:00:00.002+02:00

The Tiger's Wife: A Novel by Téa Obreht
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Despite the fact that this book did everything "wrong" in terms of what normally annoys me, it didn't annoy me. To quote a man whose name shall be unrevealed since I am ashamed to admit I know quotes of his: "If loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right."*

Let me explain.

Obreht uses lengthy character descriptions. Lengthy as in chapter-long ones. Chapters that derail completely, utterly, shamelessly from the main story. So much, in fact, that it is difficult to remember what the main story is. It is difficult to know if the main story is the main story. Much alike a reader taking time in a limited book review of a very brilliant book to talk about something else entirely, like 80s pop music.

And yet, I find that I am not derailed. I find that each story weaved into the others - even the really obscure ones - make sense. They intrigue me. And instead of putting the book down in anger when I reach a crossroads and find myself transported 50 years back in time; when I'm not sure if the ambiguous term "the war" means the first or second world war, the war in Yugoslavia, or other wars still; or when I have no idea why the narrator in the important grandfather sequences sometimes is the main character Natalia, and sometimes the (dead) grandfather (in flashbacks) - instead of putting the book down I kept reading, eager to learn what would happen in this new (or continued) strand of the story.

Finally, I should have been annoyed with Obreht's extensive use of magical realism, drawing heavily on local lore in the Balkans. (If anyone is curious just how annoyed I normally would be at magical realism, it is possible to find out here.)

Anyway. No. It didn't annoy me. And not just because the good sides of the novel outweighed the bad. Because there were plenty of good sides too. Such as excellent writing. Beautiful language. An emotional backdrop (I'm a sucker for war, in books). Interesting characters. Lots of history, neatly tucked in without feeling forced.

In the end, the reason the good sides didn't outweigh the bad ones was that the things I'd normally put onto the "bad" side of the scale weren't bad. Obreht managed to handle several complex and advised-against tools and techniques in such a fashion that I didn't hate it. I didn't even dislike it. I think I actually might approve.

(*For the record, I'm not really ashamed now that a quick Google-search revealed that this song is an old classic, made famous by Luther Ingram. I'll just refrain from telling you that the version I'm familiar with is Rod Stewart's. Oops.**)

((** Oh, who am I kidding? Rod Stewart, I <3 you! ))

(((And no, this novel has absolutely nothing to do with that song.)))

View all my reviews

On slug tales

2011-04-22T08:00:00.137+02:00

Hello. My name is Sluggie. Well, obviously, that isn't my name, since I have a much longer and more impressive name. But the human I am currently residing with is part goldfish and thus she has forgotten my full name. She seems to think it is "Slugbart von Knittlich" or some such silly thing. I have grudgingly allowed her to use the short-version until she can recall my proper name. I wouldn't have put up with it if she hadn't been feeding me crocheted leaves.

Anyway.

My name is Sluggie and I'm a slug. Not just any slug, mind you, I'm one of the few remaining individuals of the rare Bostonian Mollusca Knittilus breed. We're on the WWF endangered species list. So as you can see, you're in fine company today. I thought I'd take this opportunity to tell you a little about myself.

First of all, I am very fond of flowers. And cookies. Anything is better when you add flowers. And cookies.

I'm a voracious reader, and for some reason I mainly enjoy books about the political situation in the Middle East. I'm quite sophisticated, you see.

Still, it isn't beyond me to relax and have some fun. Get out of character for a while. Halloween is my favourite holiday, and I always go trick or treating. Sadly, my speed limitations doesn't allow me to visit as many houses as I'd liked, but I do enjoy a good costume.

Count Slugula

By the way - would you like to hear a joke? It's my favourite.

"Waiter, there's a slug in my soup!"
"But of course, it's your cousin Wally."

Why didn't you laugh? Perhaps it'd help if I posted a picture of my cousin Wally:

He's my best friend, but he can also be a pain in the slime. He keeps boasting about his fancy shell, and his ladyfriends. I wish Susie would sell Wally's shell by the seashore. That'd show the slag... Sometimes Wally's bragging makes me feel grumpy.

But for the most part Wally and I get along.

I'm getting tired, so I think I'll wrap things up and slide back into my sleeping bag. It was nice meeting you!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand if you're once again wondering if I've lost my bonkers I do believe we have established that QUITE some time ago... I can explain why I allowed my blog to be slimed away with (knitted!) slugs today, though.

Me and slugs - we go way back. It's a looooooong story, but let me do the short version: I am/was a Harry Potter geek. In this capacity I spent some time at a Harry Potter website (where I met most of my fellow Burrowers, incidentally). On this site I developed a complicated theory that slugs somehow were important to the Harry Potter series, since they were frequently mentioned. It went as far as me counting how many slug references each book held. I may or may not have written a fanfic about slugs. Slugs and me - it was a thing.

As a consequence of this, the WONDERFUL Leanne (also of the Burrow variety) KNITTED me a slug! That is - as you may have guessed - Sluggie (he really is very offended that I cannot remember his full name).

Finally, today's post is the result of a challenge, which in turn is a result of the challenge that initiated this week - my threesome O-post. Since we had so much fun with the threesome, we decided to extend the challenge to a foursome, where we each posted in each our styles (or our knitted pet's styles...), using four keywords or topics if you like. Tami provided soup. Natasha offered sophisticated. Tara came up with slags. And I couldn't not pick slugs. I have absolutely no idea what any of them will write, but I do have a feeling it will be entertaining. Thus I highly recommend paying them a visit, and learn all you ever wanted to know (and more) about these four fascinating topics...

On "Read me a story?"

2011-04-21T08:00:00.047+02:00

My five-year-oldnephew rarely has the patience to sit down quietly for more than a couple ofminutes at the time. The exception is when he is being told a story, whether itis through television, a book, or one I make up ad hoc.

A whileback he came dragging an elaborately decorated book he had found in thebookcase. “Read me a story from this book?” he demanded.

I could notresist, of course. We share a love for stories, my nephew and I, and readinghas been an important bonding experience for the two of us. The book he hadpicked, however, offered some challenges.

One Thousand and One Nights. I am not overly familiar with these stories, because I grew up withNorwegian folktales and a selection from the Grimm collection. What I know ofArabian tales is mostly what Disney has taught me. Obviously, I know the basicconcept and a few of the stories, but I wasn’t familiar with this book.However, I assumed it was similar to the Norwegian and German stories that intheir modern versions have been “child proofed”. The Norwegian collectors,Peder Christian Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe, actually censored the stories thathad been orally transmitted to them, and they made separate collections oftales with adult content.

Apparentlythe Arabs were less prudish.

As mynephew handed me the book, I picked a story I knew, but not word by word. “AliBaba and the Robbers” in my memory was a story about a boy who outsmarted somevillains, and I figured it would be both entertaining (and morally acceptable)for a five-year-old. Well…

I didn’trealize Ali Baba had a brother. Or that this brother is a jealous man.

I’ll spareyou the details but it suffices to say that I discovered mid-read that adecapitation puts a rather definite end of the chilly relationship between thebrothers. This was most certainly no children’s story!

Open sesame...

Like mycountrymen 150 years ago I took to censoring. I skipped the gory parts,and added a nice moralistic end where the brothers make up and decide to splitthe treasure. I even made the story more interactive my teaching my nephew thedifference between sesame seeds and sunflower seeds (I’m TONS of fun, I know…)The boy was happy, I was happy. I’m pretty sure old Scheherazade is turning in hergrave, but that’s not really my problem…

Giraffame!

On questions, of the frequently googled variety.

2011-04-20T08:00:00.001+02:00

Every nowand then I check the stats for this site. Not actually because I am so terriblyobsessed about how many people visit my blog (well, okay, slightly because ofthat too), but because checking the stats can be quite entertaining. You see,there is a function that allows you to see from what website the visitors came.Quite a lot of them are from google.com, .au, .ca, .so-on and .so-forth. Initself not very interesting, but amusing when you also look at the search termsused by these visitors. Or at least the ones landing on my blog are fairly interesting...

This week

One of themajor hits this week have been from people googling the sentence: ”Adam Hillsyou’re not special princess”. I am sure Adam Hills is glad to hear that…

Actually, though, I happen to know what people are looking for when they google it. It's a bit (stop laughing Aussies...) he did as part of the hilarious "Live at the Apollo", and it's got many of my favourite Adam Hills jokes.

What I don't get, however, is why these googlers end up on my blog. I don't have the video here. Or rather, I didn't use to. But since I feel the need to satisfy these people who are clearly looking for a laugh, I am now posting the video here. Hopefully it'll satisfy some of the rest of you too.

The princess part starts at about 6:52, but do yourself a favour and watch the rest too. And make sure you don't have any coffee or such in your mouth while watching (it will end up in your nose/on your screen).

(Also, for clarity - the reason these people end up here might have a little something to do with this post...)

This month

Turning to my monthly stats, there are some truly random searches. I particularly like "nuclear chemistry site", "gingerbread song egner", and "norway starbucks salary". Let me try to answer your questions, random googlers.

Nuclear chemistry is not, has not been, and definitely never will be a specialty of mine. But since you came here looking for it, I can only assume that you ended up on my post on the Fukushima threat. This post was written when I still was in Japan, and it is coloured by this. However, I still feel that most of it is valid, even though some of my points seem less impressive now that the nuclear disaster has been ongoing for more than a month. "Fukushima will not be a Chernobyl 2!" I said. And yet - the disaster has since been upgraded to the top level of severity on the nuclear disaster scale. The same as Chernobyl. I still don't think Fukushima will have the lasting and widespread effects Chernobyl had - the way the radioactive material have leaked this time, for instance, is still quite different than it was in 1986. But there is no doubt that Fukushima has become much more severe than I was willing to believe one month ago.

Was this what you were looking for, random googler? If not, let me guide you to a "nuclear chemistry site". You can never go wrong with Wikipedia. (Yes you can. Muchly. But if you want nuclear chemistry beyond that I am afraid you'll have to look elsewhere than this blog for answers.)

Torbjørn Egner's "The Gingerbread Song". You're at the wrong time of year, that's for sure. In Norway we only make these cookies for Christmas. But okay - I don't mind if you want to sing the song all year long. I have written about it, but I failed to include the actual song. Let me make up for that right away. Here you'll find one version. It probably won't make any sense to anyone that isn't Norwegian (since you won't understand the lyrics, or the pun), so I better also include a link to the original version of the song. You still won't understand the lyrics, but at least you might be able to see why the former is amusing (it's a parody). Also, I took the liberty to translate (very directly, very unlyrically) the lyrics. Just in case that's what you were looking for:

When a gingerbread cookie baker
Is baking gingerbread cookies
He first takes a cooking pot
And a kilo margarine
He melts the butter [margarine..?] in the pot
And the next he has to do,
Is to mix the melted butter
With a kilo sugar.

And while the butter and sugar is foaming
You takeeight egg yolks
That youstir into the pot
With a kilowheat flour
And in theend you drop
Into thepot a small tea spoon pepper
And thenstir all about!

I make no excuses for the fact that it obviously makes no sense. Plus, the recipe is rubbish, and NOT for gingerbread cookies. Egner was a better writer than was he a baker (though I JUST realized he changed P.O.V. during the song... Not so great writer either? Childhood hero lost? Nah, I forgive him).

Norwegian Starbucks salary. This one is easy. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. You won't get a dime (or an øre, as would be more likely, this being Norway and all. Øre = 100th of a krone, by the way. Øre [also] = ear...) The reason? You'll find out here.

All time

Two search phrases dominate my all time search history. Both seem incredibly unreasonable to me.

Fragglerock characters. 77 people have searched for "Fraggle Rock characters" andarrived at my blog. 68 simply searched for "Fraggle Rock". Add 21 for "UncleTraveling Matt" and a dozen each for "fraggle uncle" or "fraggle rock pictures" and this is clearly one of the main searches that leads to my blog. Notgiraffes. Oh, no. Fraggles. I love me some Fraggles, but this is just silly.Haven’t I written like one post aboutthem? One!

And yet. They came here looking for Fraggles. Poor things. I feel the need to provide Fraggles.

Looking for the theme song? It's here! And here. The latter is the Norwegian version, by the way. You know you want to hear how it sounds in Norwegian right..? Of course you do. That's why the former ALSO is the Norwegian version ;)

By the way - did you know how JK Rowling came up with the word for non-magical people in the Harry Potter books?

Muppet + Fraggle = MUGGLE!

(True story)

Cats themusical. I am nocrazy cat lady, but I am a crazy-cat lady. I’m not the crazy one – the catsare. You see, I have this special thing - I don't know if it's a touch, a way of moving, a smell, or Digression forbid, a stench - but cats love it. I generally get along well with other people's cats (I've never owned one myself), but the real oddity is with stray cats (actual cats). Stray cats have followed me home since I was little (still cats. No metaphor intended). They would seek out my window - among the dozens of other windows in my house, they would always find mine - and then sit there and cry all night, until I took pity on them and talked back, or came out, or fed them or some such thing. Like magic.

Apparently, this magic also works across the internet. I know I have written about this before, but it still baffles me. Why do people search for cats, and end up here, of all places?!? The internet is swarming with cats (do cats swarm? A murder of crows, a pack of cats? The internet is packed with cats? Hm...). There is absolutely no need to come here to look for them! But since you did, let me help you out. I aim to please (and purr) after all (this might be why cats like me).

A great deal of the cat-searches that lead to my blog also include the words "the musical". Now, you might think this is the critically (and publically) acclaimed musical "Cats", but you are ~~wrong~~ boring. "The musical cat(s)", I say! Just take a look at this:

So there. Those where my answers to your frequently googled questions. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try to find out who or what "gregory cauthen" and "rooibos charcot marie tooth" are, and why they lead people to my blog.

On the Poisonwood Bible

2011-04-19T08:00:00.001+02:00

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I had to give it five stars even if I sort of wanted to give it four. Five for effort. Five for subject. Five for imagery, language, research, how it touched me emotionally, and shallowly enough - five for the gorgeous cover and binding.

But the structure bothered me. The different narrators - a tricky tool. The reader will almost inevitably prefer some to others, and then an inborn annoyance with the way the book plays out is formed. I eventually learned to appreciate the variety of perspectives it provided, but I also continued to feel annoyed whenever the narrator changed. Furthermore, I question the necessity. We get that Rachel is foolish and shallow. We get that Ruth May is naïve (though her age alone makes me wonder if underscoring this wasn't redundant). We get that Adah is weird, and we get that Leah is our troubled heroine. I think I preferred the mother's perspective, which of course makes it a shame that this only surfaced a handful of times throughout the book.

Also, even if I gradually got to accept the structure and the constantly shifting narrators, I felt that the author eventually got tired of it as well. Towards the end of the book, I wondered if I had reached the end maybe 50 times. Not because what still came wasn't interesting - it was, and this is why I wouldn't dare to suggest the book was under-edited since I believe any editor would have a tough time excluding any of the tails (and details) from the last 100 pages due to their relevance for the subject - but the main story seemed so closed, so finished. Over and over again I expected "The End", but all I got was "The next chapter". I wonder how wise this was, at the same time as I too - like the imaginary editor - couldn't say where to stop and what to cut.

In the end, these things bothered me enough to keep me from reading the book at top speed (though my gazillion years of finishing it also has to do with reasons unconnected to the book). They bothered me enough to make me focus slightly less on what you should focus on when finishing this book: the terrible, terrible historical facts that form the backdrop of the plot. But in the end they didn't bother me enough to take away that last star.

Five for making me want to give it five stars, despite reservations.

View all my reviews

On ostrich orange ottoman orgasms

2011-04-18T08:00:00.137+02:00

Don't worry - this blog hasn't turned into a kinky XX shop (if you think I put the XX's in because I'm too prudish you're only partially right. I put them in because I couldn't think of any dirty words. Also, I am prudish).

Even if I am prudish, however, I can be led astray. And I have good friends that frequently try.

Last night I was on Facebook posting silly status updates along the lines of "I've been kidnapped by bad habits". (I even tried to make people pay ransom, since I am broke, but my luck was out. No one care enough about me to pay my ransom. Or, as one friend pointed out, ransom rarely helps. In fact, if other people paid my bad habits, it might even make things worse. But I digress...)

Another friend, the lovely Tara, was using her status update to complain about how she was stuck in the A-Z challenge. Been there, done that, I thought, and thus I thought I'd make a "helpful" suggestion - why not write her O-post about ottomans (or Ottomans - take your pick)? I'm not sure Tara felt particularly helped, but we had a nice chat that resulted in much amusement (and a coining of the term SLAWCS - I'm sure Tara will explain this at the first possible occasion)..

Fifteen minutes into this chat, another friend, the equally lovely Tami, arrived. For some reason, when Tami arrives, any conversation tends to take a naughty turn. Don't know why. It's a force of habit.

Anyway, Tami too was having problems with the A-Z challenge. What to to do for O? (Ooo - or it won't rhyme) Both Tami and Tara had toyed with the thought of going with "the big O". Personally, I was going orange. I still thought Tara should do ottomans. (Not "do"-do... See, now that Tami is in the picture, my mind turns to the gutter...) But then an idea was born - how about we mixed it all together and did a three-way of sorts?

I was slightly worried. I was game for orange (I already had it covered - but now you'll have to wait till post-April to read it), could think of one or two ideas for Ottomans (or ottomans), and even though I've no ideas where the ostriches came from - sure, I'd make it work. But... The big O? Hm... (This is where my prudishness comes in) How would this work with keeping my blog PG-Twitterteen? (I don't know what Twitter has to do with anything. Really.)

I swallowed my prude, though, and accepted the challenge. Unfortunately, now I have to think of something to actually write (that is only partially orange). Thus:

Orange ottomans.

Orange ostriches.

Ottoman ostriches.

Orange Ottoman ostriches.

Ostrich ottomans.

Ostrich Oranges.

Ottoman oranges.

And then. Of course. Ostrich orgasms. Orange orgasms. Ottoman orgasms, or, orgasm ottomans. Oh, dear. My blog will be flooded with spam and creeps and the Internet is likely to explode. Before that happens, though, don't forget to visit both Tara and Tami today. I'm quite curious how they are tackling this challenge within the challenge!

UPDATE - We're a foursome! Our dear friend Natasha took us by surprise, and joined in on the fun. You need to visit there too - her part is brilliant!

On nihilism

2011-04-16T08:00:00.001+02:00

I once wanted to be a nihilist, but then I realized I don't believe in it.

The above is an unintentional (and unknowing, until I realized I probably wouldn't be the first to think of this and thus googled it) paraphrased quote, from a movie I had neither seen nor heard about until five minutes ago. I have, however, heard about Charlie Chaplin. It's his birthday today, which would have made him 122 years old. This in turn - had he still been alive - would have made him the world's oldest man. I know that, because I recently read that the world's oldest man died at 114. It's rubbish, of course. The world's oldest man is still alive, somewhere, at some age. You cease to be oldest when you die. But the man who until he died a few days ago was the world's oldest is now dead. The world's oldest person remains the same - a lady also at 114, and 26 days older than the aforementioned man (not Charlie Chaplin).

These people (both the elderly and Charlie Chaplin) have lived in a world where religion and belief systems have changed a lot. Entire religions have been born and died. Wars, or at least warlike fighting, have been fought with (helpless? Careless? Nonexistent?) gods on each side. "God is dead", said Nietzsche.* "Nietzsche is dead," said God.** Charlie Chaplin is said to have been an agnostic. I don't know if the world's oldest man, or the world's oldest lady/person, believed or believes in anything or anyone. The man formerly known as the world's oldest man might be finding out whether he was right in his beliefs (or non-beliefs) as we speak.

Personally, I do believe in things. Ironically (or perfectly logically?), this is what makes me not believe in nihilism. I cannot see how it is possible, to not believe in anything at all. One of the things I don't believe in - deities - probably makes a lot of people wonder how I get by. I can imagine that if you do believe in a god (or several), knowing others that don't might make you as skeptic as I am towards nihilism. For instance, how do I process all the things humans cannot explain if I don't believe in God? The answer is twofold. First of all, lack of attention. I don't pay overly lot of attention to questions I cannot answer. I remember my teacher once said that people had gone mad over pondering what lies outside the universe. I empathize. I have thought about this. I have touched the border to madness, trying to understand what I cannot understand. By avoiding thinking about it, I solve a lot of problems.

The other part of the answer, however, is that I accept that there are things I cannot explain or understand. This is similar to religion, actually, only that within most religions the believers assume the god(s) know the answer to the questions humans fail to understand. I simply assume there are things no one knows. Or I keep an open mind to the possibility that someone do understand it, or someone one day will, but it isn't necessarily a deity.

I avoid and I accept, but I don't not believe. In anything. Such as my own existence. I am pretty sure there is someone sitting here at my desk, in front of my laptop, typing with my fingers. I am pretty sure that someone is me. I am pretty sure that I, the desk, the laptop, the words, the ideas, the blog, the readers - these are not figments of my imagination (well, the readers might be). And even if they were, someone - me - would be having that imagination. I imagine, therefore I am - another paraphrase. Descartes was no nihilist, that's for sure.

*Yes, yes. Nietzsche said this in 1882. The older-than-everyone-else 114-year olds were born in 1897; Mr. Chaplin in 1889. Semantics. Or numerology.

**

On Musicophilia

2011-04-15T08:00:00.001+02:00

”Have youread Oliver Sacks’ Musicophilia?”

“I haven’tfinished it. Read about 120 pages.”

“But you’recurrently reading it?”

“Ehrm.That’s a matter of definition. I still keep a bookmark in it.”

“And whendid you last move this bookmark?”

“Sometimelate 2009? December? Or February-ish 2010?”

“So you’renot really reading it, currently?”

“You know,it’s a quite long book. A lot of pages. Non-fiction pages. With a lot ofexamples on them.”

“Sure. Butyou knew this when you bought it, right?”

“I boughtit at Harvard!”

“Sorry?”

“Harvard! Ican verifiably say that I went to Harvard!”

“To theHarvard bookstore, yes. But they don’t give you a Harvard degree just becauseyou visited the bookstore.”

“Duh. But Idon’t have to specify that.”

“Very well.You went to Harvard. But back to Oliver Sacks. You like him, don’t you?”

“Very much.Which is why I bought the book in the first place. At Harvard.”

“If youlike the author so much, why didn’t you finish the book?”

“It took meabout a decade to finish The Island ofthe Colorblind, another of his books. I really liked that one.”

“So you’rea pretty slow reader?”

“Notreally. I just read a whole lot of other stuff in between. There is a limit tohow much non-fiction I can be bothered to read.”

“Don’t youhave a history degree..?”

“I have.Don’t see your point.”

“So are yousaying that you like Musicophilia,but that it is a slow read?”

“It’s not apage turner. But it’s very interesting. And funny. And occasionally slightlyrepetitive. But definitely entertaining.”

“And you’redefinitely going to finish it?”

“Idefinitely might do that.”

“Why writea review about a book you haven’t finished anyway?”

“This is areview?”

From better times

On L

2011-04-14T08:00:00.082+02:00

Liar, lair, layer,
lawyer, lover,
loner, louder.
Lord. Lard,
led, lid, lit,
lint, lent,
lend,
land,
link,
list - light!
Lighter?
Linger,
loiter,
lottery;
lady,
laughter.
Latitude, longitude, long, longer, longing... Line:
lime, lame, lane, late, let. Letter. Latter. Ladder.
Lack. Lark. Lurk. Luck... Lust? Lest? Last?

Of course I've lost my mind. Why do you ask?

On kloudy kliffs, krispy kobwebs and kanons kovered in krust

2011-04-13T08:00:00.001+02:00

I've forgotten what the co... ahem - konnektion between these images are, so don't ask. I also have no idea why I seem so determined to mutilate the English language today (it might have something to do with the letter k)...

On job hunting

2011-04-12T08:00:00.002+02:00

With Japan still in the blue for me, it's time to consider other options. At any rate I meant to start looking for jobs towards the middle of my stay in Tokyo, and we are approaching that "deadline" even with me not being in the country at the moment. So, I'm updating my resume, trying to check out listings, searching the web and talking to friends and family about potential places to start looking.

I've also beenthinking about job applications and what (hopefully) comes afterthe application – the interview. One of the things you will often be asked inan interview is to list three good and bad sides about yourself.

Let’s startwith the bad. The worst answer of all is that you have no bad sides. This onlycomes off as arrogant and it reveals a lack of self-insight (which is a badside). Instead, it is common for interviewees to try to pick bad sides that arepossible to work on, or sides that also can be advantages. At the same time, itis important to be honest. Don’t say your worst side is your impatience justbecause you’ve heard this can translate to “getting things done”. And don’t say“I can never say no” unless it is absolutely true – chances are theinterviewers will have heard both of those before.

I tried tothink about my actual worst sides – at least those who affect work. Becausesome of my bad sides don’t affect my work – I can be terribly messy at home,but I’m far more organized at work, for instance. One problem I have encountered with my thesis and in my work life is a double-edged sword: I can (have had to, infact) work independently, but I far prefer working in a team, getting feedback,having someone that depends on me. That is the best way I can employ my potential; I perform better when I am not making all the decisions myself.

It isdefinitely a disadvantage because many job listings specifically mention “theability to work independently” as one thing they are looking for. At the sametime, I have shown that I can work independently, for instance by finishing my studies. In other words; this weakness of mine is something I consciously try to work on. Also, the factthat I prefer feedback suggests that I am a team player – which most employersvalue in their employees.

The badsides were difficult, but ironically it was even harder to list my good sides. Mywork ethics, my loyalty, the qualities and abilities I have acquired through myeducation and experience – how to determine which ones are more attractive for the job? When applying for the job in Japan, I decided to go for my ability toadapt to new environments. The fact that I settle quickly, am a fast and eagerlearner and that I generally have a positive outlook were among thequalities that made me suitable for that position. For other jobs, I might rate other qualities higher.

As a sideeffect of this exercise, however, I learned something about myself. It feltgood to say something nice about myself. I gave myself a compliment, and Iliked it. Thus, I have a challenge for you: skip the bad sides for today, butthink through what your good sides are. Try to come up with at least three. Ifyou want, post them in the comments section. Don’t be shy – it will feel good J

On inventory

2011-04-11T08:00:00.010+02:00

Whenever I move, I realize what a ridiculous amount of stuff I have. The last few years I have moved quite a lot (the curse of studenthood, I suppose), and every now and then (vacations and such) I've been temporarily back with my parents where all the stuff my at-the-time living arrangements didn't accommodate is stored.

It's become quite the pile. I have boxes and boxes of books, kitchen supplies, random items of the decoration-, entertainment- or "otherwise" categories, and there is an entire shed stocked with furniture (not all of it is mine, though - my two sisters have also stored quite a lot there over the years). In addition, I have several closets filled with clothes.

There is no denying that I'm a "material girl", but it is not as bad as it sounds. Right now everything I own is stored at my parents' place, since I moved out of my apartment before I went to Japan (and there I only brought what I could carry within the 20kg luggage allowance). Before I moved, most of this was stuff I used, and had a place for. In storage, however, it seems much more unmanageable. Since I'm now back (still temporarily, still in the blue), however, the amount of stuff seem larger than ever. At the same time - now is a terrible time to decide the fate of any furniture, storage boxes and so on, because it is impossible for me to know where, when and to what I will move next. Hopefully my next move will be somewhere slightly more permanent than it's been the last few years, but until I know that for sure, I don't want to get rid of anything that might come in handy at a later stage.

My clothes, however, does not apply to this.

For a while I've been wondering if I should actively start restricting my clothes purchases. I don't actually buy clothes all that often, but once I do, I tend to go with the impulse rather than think through what I really need, and this results in piles of clothes I don't really need (and frequently don't use). Then I read in the paper about a girl who had taken a one year timeout from shopping because she realized that her clothes purchases had become quite the addiction. With one year without buying a single item, she managed to beat the habit, and her closet slimmed down considerably. I think it's time I put my closet on a diet.

Thus, it's my plan to follow her example - no clothes shopping for a year - with only one possible exception. I have a really good friend who is getting married this summer. I'm invited. I have another really good friend who is making the wedding gown. She also makes other clothes, and already have commission a couple of items for me. We've talked about this being a good occasion for another custom-designed dress, and I don't think I can resist the temptation. But, if this is the only clothing item I buy the following year, I will still consider my experiment a success.

Thus, I hereby resolve - I will not buy any clothes this year. It will save me money, time, and it will hopefully make my closet seem more manageable so that at least one part of my inventory is under control.

On history

2011-04-09T08:00:00.001+02:00

There are certain dates and years that stick. We remember them, either because they hold a collective or personal importance. They make history.

April 9 is one such date. In Norway, this marks the anniversary of the single most traumatic collective event in our history. On April 9, 1940, Nazi-Germany invaded Norway and Denmark. Operation Weserübung managed to conquer most central Norwegian cities within 24 hours, while the Norwegian army continued fighting for two months before capitulating. Norway was subject to the brutal rule of the Nazi dictatorship for five years.

There is obviously a lot more to be said of both the invasion and the following occupation, and it definitely requires more than one blog post to do it justice. If inspiration every strikes, the historian in me might not be able to pass up the opportunity to make an attempt, some day. But not today. While April 9 is a part of Norwegian history, it is also a part of my personal history.

To me, the importance of April 9 changed last year. My sister was pregnant, and tests during the pregnancy had showed that the baby was not growing properly. The doctors prepared us that we could expect the worst, and the prospects for her surviving the birth at all seemed bleak. A premature C-section was scheduled, and thus my baby niece was born.

She did survive. Once born, there appeared to be nothing wrong with her. She was tiny - the smallest baby I have ever seen - but she otherwise seemed fine. From day one she ate well, and it did not take long before she started growing.

My niece is still small. Maybe she'll always be. But she is alive, she is healthy, and she is the cutest, happiest baby on the planet. Considering the prospects we faced prior to her birth, I don't care if she grows to ten times her current size, or if she doesn't grow at all. She is with us, and that is enough.

Happy first birthday, Live! You already made history.