On socwardness (part whatever it is by now - who keeps count anyway)

It is an old, much bespoken, and thus well-known problem for Norwegians when encountering Americans that we misstep on one particular (and very crucial) part of initial social codes: the greeting. Anyone having experienced the horrified look on their faces when we reply to their greeting "how are you?" with an actual answer to how we actually are doing. 30% hilarious, 60 % awkward, and, if you're lucky, 10% insight that this is not something you will ever do again.

Globalization and all that - Norwegians and Americans meet one another fairly frequently these days. Most of us have learned that the appropriate way to respond to this polite question is the equally polite "Fine, thanks. How are you?" or some version thereof.

However, globalization and all that - the custom of asking someone how they are doing is migrating. I've noticed this more and more the past few years - you can hardly run into someone, American or no, here in good ol'Norway, without them inquiring the dreaded faux-pas-in-the-making: "Hvordan går det?" (which actually sounds quite ridiculous, and directly translated means "How is it going", because even silly customs adapt somewhat and the direct-direct translation of "How are you?" would be "Hvordan er du?" and that sounds ridiculous-er still, though why we don't just use the formerly perfectly acceptable and proper Norwegian "Står til?" ("Stands to?" Yeah, I know...) or "Hvordan har du det?" ("How are you having it?") is beyond me. But I digress).

Faux-pas-in-the-making because even though we have learned not to burden Americans, who only meant to be polite when asking this (when you think about it really quite) intrusive question, with an honest answer, we still struggle with knowing how to deal when we're meeting the same issue among our own.

It's a fine balance. Because this migrated greeting is still new to us, we can't yet be entirely sure that the answer we have learned to provide when meeting the greeting in its original form is the correct one. If you reply "Joda, bra. Hva med deg?" (or some version thereof), you risk being met with suspicion. It sounds too much like a formula. We haven't internalized the greeting enough to have such a formula. Thus you need to provide some form of flesh. But how much?

"Hvordan går det?"

"Nja" (you don't need to know much Norwegian to realize that when someone starts their reply to that question with a contraction of the words for "yes" ("ja") and "no" ("nei"), it can't be good...) "[insert long rant about how you actually feel because it is autumn and we had a shitty summer and you have not slept well for weeks and you think you might be catching a cold and you are currently experiencing one of your periodical antisocial bouts which people are not actually respecting (probably because you only tell them through growling extra much before replying with a semi-honest answer to their question of how it is "going") and you secretly (and not so secretly) worry that you are setting yourself up for failure at work and you hate the fact that you have not cleaned the bathroom in two weeks which obviously makes it super disgusting but you also have absolutely no energy to actually clean it and if you could you would just stay at home all that and bake but you can't because pastries makes you fat(ter) and you have to go to yoga]".

Well, actually, you won't reply that. Because since you meet people, even here in good ol'Norway, who ask you this (when you think about it really quite) intrusive question on a daily basis, and thus you have experienced the formerly American-specific-but-now-globalized version of the face even here in good ol'Norway. You have told someone the brutal honest truth, and you've seen the blood drain from their face, their eyes blink slower than normal with that extra squeeze when the eyelid reached the bottom of their eye as if to buy them time before they have to open their eyes and look at you again. You have seen them heave seemingly insignificantly (but really quite visible when you look for it) tighter, longer, deeper than normal when they take a breath of air. You have seen the face of regret. ("Why did I even ask?")

You have seen that face before, and so you reply, instead: "Joda, bra. [insert customized comment about the weather] Hva med deg?"

On Good and Bad Bosses

Being a PhD student (especially in Norway, where it is paid employment) is in many ways a sweet deal. You get to spend time working on exactly the thing you're (supposed to be) most interested in. You get to have a narrow focus on a topic so specific (and often insignificant) that most people know next to nothing about it. You get to become an expert on this topic. You get to devote time, energy, intellectual capacity and whatever skills you've developed over time on working on just one, single issue that need not be of any particular interest or use to anyone else (though naturally you have learnt how to argue that indeed it is of particular interest and use to everyone else - you've gotten some kind of funding for this project, after all...). You get to do all this for a longer period of time, usually about three to four years, and in the meantime very few people are going to bother you in any significant way with meeting deadlines, making progress or doing any of the most basic things most employees are expected to do in their jobs: show up at a specific time, show up at all, actually work...

Of course this latter point isn't entirely true.

First of all, most universities will by now have instated some kind of checks and balances system to keep a little control of their PhD students. It will still vary greatly from institution to institution how rigid this system is, but I would guesstimate that you nowhere anymore can do what seems to have been the "norm" many places in the past - you show up at the start of your doctorate and then nobody sees you again for four (or more) years until you show up again for your defense with a 1000 page dissertation.

These days there are some requirements. You have to take some courses (here I know Norway is still on the lighter side. In many places it still is more than justified to call the PhD students students, as they do plenty of course work and have papers due and everything - our system is more flexible and it can be argued that it is just as correct to call me and my peers PhD fellows). You generally will have some deadlines along the way (we, for instance, have a halfway evaluation, which I will take sometime this summer or autumn). And technically I am supposed to show up for work during work hours at any time I don't have a justifiable reason not to do so (a conference, field work, those courses I talked about), but in reality I am fairly sure I could stay at home for several weeks at end and no one would notice (except my office mate, but she wouldn't tell on me, and a simple Facebook message saying "Working from home for a while" would put her at ease). And even if they did notice, it wouldn't have any consequences.*

Many of the requirements, then, are more for show than actually breathing down your neck like the proverbial distrusting boss would do.

However, I do have one of those bosses as well. The problem is that she is not always a good boss. And before you jump to conclusions about me slandering my boss in social media, I should clarify: I'm talking about myself. (My real boss is a man, so there.)

My Bad Boss - me - isn't always a bad boss. The not bad part is what makes her a boss at all. Because in a system where so little pressure is put on you for any day-to-day production (but HUGE pressure on the long haul production with the far-ahead deadline way out of your sight), you really need to pull yourself together and force yourself to do some work every now and then. You need to be your own boss. You need to tell yourself what your tasks are, and then you need to do them. Otherwise, you've already lost.

On occasion this works for me. I can have whole days and several days in a row, even, where I work like a normal person (one of those with real bosses), and get stuff done. My Good Boss manages to give me clear instructions and as a Good Employee (because I am, honestly, even if this post so far might suggest otherwise) I get it done.

This is improvement on my part.

I remember when I wrote my master's thesis I was absolutely horrid at getting stuff done. Every word came at an insufferable price - it felt like I had to pull them out of me like fingernails from a torture victim (you're welcome for that mental picture).

This is because then I only** had the Bad Boss. The Bad Boss still comes around too frequently for me to be particularly happy about it, though. The Bad Boss doesn't motivate me or give me instructions; the Bad Boss tells me that the final deadline is coming closer with every day (well, duh!). She tells me that I have a come nearly halfway in my PhD, but I have not produced half of the text for a PhD dissertation (and my objections that I have done plenty of other useful stuff that doesn't necessarily reflect the amount of output you can touch and feel but nevertheless contributes to the end result have no traction with her). My Bad Boss makes me feel insecure, worried, and generally pretty useless.

My Bad Boss most frequently visits when I am tired, hungry, stressed out, or that one week of the month where most women feel more insecure, worried and useless (if you're a man and you've no idea what I'm talking about, I envy you and I'm about to punch you in the face. Go away. Bring me chocolate before coming back).

Most annoying of all - my Bad Boss makes me a Bad Employee. And as I mentioned, I am not really a Bad Employee. I am a Good Employee. Whenever Good Boss is around it's pretty visible too, so you don't even have to take my word for it.

So. Like a terrible academic*** I have arrived at the problem far too long into the text I'm writing. In order for me to be a Good and Productive Employee, I need my Good Boss to speak louder and more frequently than my Bad Boss. But how do I do this?

Like an even more terrible academic I was very close to ending my text with a question. Because a question, at this point, is about as good as I can do. I don't really have an answer. I can't predict when the Bad Boss will show up, or how long she intend to stay (though I can of course try to avoid the situations I know she is most likely to appear, but even so - it's not like I can avoid work one week every month, no matter how relaxed the system might seem).

My best bet is on the realization that I have a Bad Boss, and that I have a Good Boss. I know there are two of them. So for the times when it feels like only the Bad Boss is the one showing her ugly face, I can try to tell myself that she will not linger forever. The Good Boss will show up eventually. In fact, if I manage to ignore the Bad Boss she sometimes tires of pestering me, and goes away all on her own. Sometimes, sometimes, even the Good Boss pops her head in directly after, just to check on me.****

So it boils down to this: I need to get rid of my Bad Boss but I should probably also be aware that she will never disappear completely, but rather keep in mind she will also never stay put for good.



҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉



*For the record, I also have a supervisor, and she is very active, and she probably would notice both my absence for longer stretches of time and definitely my failure to meet deadlines and produce text. So in my case the potential slacking off has a very real limit. But not every supervisor is as active or attentive, so it is not entirely impossible that you would find cases where not even he or she would know if the PhD student had stopped working altogether for a loooong while.

** This is a truth that needs some moderation. I did write the damn thesis, and it's not all bad, so at some point the Good Boss must have been around then as well. But it didn't feel like it - I suspect maybe the Good Boss simply was a deputy back then, and thus did not really dare to challenge the authority of the Bad Boss. At least that is my theory. I am glad that the Good Boss' career has taken an upward turn!

*** For some reason I really want to write "academidian" instead. But then my Bad Boss told me I could not justify a title clearly derived from a crossover between academic and comedian. As I am neither (can you see what this hag is doing to me? I need her to GO AWAY!!! And not come back - not even with chocolate).

**** Sometimes she brings chocolate! :)

On pretense

Let's pretend this is a blog you still read with some regularity - in fact, let's pretend it's a blog I write with some regularity.

Let's pretend Albert Einstein was a duck. Might as well.

Let's pretend the below picture isn't photoshopped.

Let's pretend the reason I am not writing here regularly is because I am so busy living a fabulous life. Let's pretend I'm never tired of the fabulousness.

Let's pretend. That nothing no one never said was true or false.

Let's pretend that winter is not coming.

Let's pretend that I am not worrying about work and not work and the potential of not having to worry about work.

Let's pretend that I write. Occasionally.

Let's pretend that placebo is as good as Placebo. Let's pretend you could watch that video without having to watch a commercial first.

Let's pretend that all it takes is a good night's sleep, and that you will get just that, tonight.

On old acquaintances

The previous weekend I got to hang out with some old friends. One of them - let's call him Ken* - is Japanese and I met him when we were both attending university in a remote city of Japan, almost seven years ago.

Since we last saw each other our lives have taken very different turns. I returned to Norway to finish first my BA and then MA degree, I've had two other short-term stays abroad (one of them in Japan, but somehow we never managed to meet then, even though he didn't live very far from Tokyo), and I eventually started working at my alma mater here in Oslo, where I currently teach history.

Ken, on the other hand, graduated to become a somewhat classic Japanese business man, working for a big firm in Yokohama. He got married and he's got a son. Then, his company purchased part of a Norwegian shipping company, and as a result of this, they made Ken come work here. "Here" not meaning Oslo at all, but a small town on the western coast of Norway.

Even if it's on the other side of the country from Oslo, Ken is now living a whole lot closer to me than Japan, so we decided that it would be fun to meet up and hang out like the old days.

From our days at the uni in Japan I remember him as a boyish, charming, fun guy. We had a few classes together, and we'd frequently have lunch in the school cafeteria or go out drinking with a bigger group of friends. Meeting him again all these years later he had "grown up" more, but he was still fun and charming, and as easy to talk to as I remembered. For him, coming to Oslo after having lived the small town life for a few weeks was something of a luxury, and I think it's safe to say that it was a very successful weekend for all those involved.

When he was here we obviously wanted to show him not only Oslo by day (the Holmenkollen Ski Jump, the Opera, the Royal Palace and the Vigeland Park), but also Oslo by night. So we went out for dinner and later drinks on Saturday night.

Oslo by  night isn't classy. It can be - there are places where the drinks are too expensive to get ridiculously drunk no matter how rich you are - but for the average Joe we go to places where the drinks are "only" expensive enough to make you have to mortgage your house after a drunken brawl. I'm only kidding a bit. (Foreigners tend to complain about the price level in general, but for alcohol in particular.)

Anyway, we managed to find several places that were okay, and we managed to make ourselves eligible for mortgages (had any of us been house owners). Eventually, after having been to a few other places first, we ended up in a bar I've never visited before. The place was packed, and the noise was almost unbearable. Since it was getting late and we had plans for Sunday morning as well (last chance for sightseeing!), we decided to only stay for one drink and then leave.

As I went to get mine, I passed a group of girls where one of them suddenly went into squeal mode. "OMG, it's you!" she exclaimed.

I knew her face. I knew where I knew her from. We went to high school together. I even knew the two girls she were with, also from high school. We exchanged some pleasantries, and then I quickly made an excuse and went on my way, even though she seemed eager to stay and chat about everything that had happened in our lives since we last met. I was more eager to get back to Ken and my other friends.

I didn't remember this girl's name, and it took me well into the next day (and perhaps a little Facebook research) before it came back to me. We were never close in high school; in fact, I'm not even sure we ever had a proper conversation back then. She was in a different crowd than me, and from the little I knew of her,  I didn't much care for her. After not having seen her for almost ten years, neither of those things had changed.

Still, it hit me. This girl is my own age. We are from the same hometown and now we live in the same city. Looking at her Facebook profile (or the limited version of it, as we are not friends there either), we have approximately 60 or so friends in common. Some of which I count as good friends of mine.

Yet, despite having so much things in common, I have no desire to get to know her, and I don't care what she's made of herself. It makes no difference to me whether we see each other again in the next ten years or not.

Whereas Ken, whom I clearly do not have so much in common with - in fact, I have more or less nothing in common with him apart from the fact that we once attended the same university - I enjoyed seeing again. I hope to see him more times soon. I would like to meet his wife and son (who will move here from Japan soon). I think it's interesting to check out what he's been up to via Facebook, and I enjoy talking to him.

Personal chemistry is important, of course. I have that with the people I count among my close friends, several of them from high school. And I don't necessarily think I would have as fun with all my friends from Japan or elsewhere that I technically don't have very much in common with today, should I get to see them again.

But still, it intrigues me that it is so much easier to stay in touch with some people than others, and that with certain friends you don't have to talk with them very often - maybe once every seventh year - and things are still as they used to be. Fortunately.

Sometimes friendship is like a ski jump without snow. Mostly, it's not.
(I'm in this picture. Or my foot is. The first person to find it gets a prize!**)

*Actually, his name is Kensuke, but I noticed he introduced himself as Ken here in Norway, presumably because Norwegians would have trouble pronouncing his name. It's supposed to be "Ken-ske" rather than "Ken-su-ke" as we would say.

** The prize is to jump from the top of the Holmenkollen Ski Jump without skis or snow.
Still want to be that first person?

On embracing chaos

It's my new motto. Embrace the chaos.

It's my new motto: Embrace the chaos.

It's my new motto; embrace the chaos.

It's my new motto — embrace the chaos.

I couldn't decide which punctuation worked better, so I chose them all
(It's my new motto.:;— E[e]mbrace the chaos.)

Most people use punctuation to avoid chaos. I'm not most people. Besides,

besides

besides, punctuation is chaos. To me.

So I'm embracing it.

Chaos is everywhere. Chaos is everything. Chaos is a movie starring Ryan Philippe, Jason Statham and Wesley Snipes. Chaos is "a state of utter confusion or disorder; a total lack of organization or order." Chaos is (religion) a chasms or abyss; it is (science) any state of confusion or disorder, plus a branch of mathematics and physics; it is (in the Discordian calendar) a month. Chaos is punctuation. Chaos is being punctured by chaos.

My head is chaos.

Chaos = my head = chaos.

Stop thinking so much, they say. I have no means to do so. Besides,

besides,

Chaos = my head - thinking = chaos.

(This is a very specialized version of chaos theory. A branch of mathematics and physics.)

I cannot stop thinking. I cannot even stop thinking so much. Define "so much". Definitions are meant to make things less chaotic. But then there are so many of them. =chaos.

My only remaining solution.

Embrace.

Embracing the chaos.

Letting it surround me.

Inviting more of it in.

Maybe I'll explode.

Or implode.

Either way explained by a complex branch of mathematics and physics, I'm sure.



On millions

On this day a million years ago, your ancestor, Homo Antecessor, woke up, scratched his leg, and thought a coherent thought as one of the first humanoid species to do so. It might not have been a very impressive or complicated thought; perhaps he was wondering where to go for a dump or whether to eat fruit or leftover raw meat for breakfast. But it was a thought. And just like that, he became a front-runner of what human beings have been doing for a million or so years: thinking. Occasionally thinking too much.

"It was a million years ago," we might say, describing a distant past - be it our youth, our last relationship, or last Thursday. Sometimes things happen so fast - or such amounts of it happens at once - that even short spans of time give the impression of containing decades, centuries, millennia. It was a million years ago, yet it happen yesterday.

Probably we think too much. Thoughts both of the impressive and complicated variety, and of more mundane matters. "My throat hurts," I think. "My heart doesn't, but probably should." One thought is very simple; the other is very complicated. It happened a million years ago, but really - it's only been a few days.

My throat really hurts. I have the flu. I don't often get that; in fact - this might be the first real flu I've ever had. I've had the common cold about a million times - last time was a million years ago way back in January. But the flu? With the muscular ache and fever and all? I can't say I've been diagnosed with that, ever. I haven't been diagnosed this time either, but the symptoms seem coherent. If it isn't the flu, though, it might just be sore muscles from too much dancing this weekend, combined, again, with a common cold. It's entirely possible. I danced, a million years ago, with people I hadn't seen in a million years. I felt like a million dollars.

Sometimes life happens like a million and one - all you can do is to close your eyes and hope you don't fall off.  It's running at the speed of light, and you're lucky to catch a breath of air once in a million blue moons. "Do I miss you yet?" she asks. Yes. No. It's only been a million years. "Do I miss you, then?" she asks again. It hasn't even been a day. She shouldn't miss anyone. She doesn't. She does. My throat hurts. I want soup.

In a million years nothing happens. Then everything takes place in one short week, and you're left wondering what the next million will bring. Probably nothing. Other than a million thoughts.

On Decisions and the City

...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 Manhattan

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 old-year resolutions

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 Denmark

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 351

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 frogs and smartphones and tomato soup and automatic cameras

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 more ecards

On misattributing

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 Mike and social networking

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 ZOMG

ZOMG.

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

In addition, 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 I need is angry words unioning on me.

I have tried to consult the internet as well. From the urban dictionary (which is a name that confuses me greatly as this online dictionary can be accessed anywhere, including rural areas. They do have internet access there now, you know) I gathered the following:

zOMG is a variant of the all-too-popular acronym "OMG", meaning "Oh My God". The "z" was originally a mistake while attempting 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, more often than not a humiliating fasion[sic]. It is also used as a device for stating the obvious."zOMG! you r teh winz!!one!!eleven!"[sic]

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

Of course the problem with employing ZOMG as it was intended – as an enforced OMG – is that I don’t use OMG all that much in the first place. I have been known to say OMD (Oh, My Digression), but ZOMD just doesn’t have the same ring to it (it sounds oddly like 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, I turn 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?