Looking back, it seems I've become decreasingly funnier the last few years. As in, moving in the wrong direction. I used to be funny, or at the very least, funnier than I am now. One might say I am funminishing by the minute.
My empirical evidence for this claim is two-fold. First of all, this blog in itself serves as pretty hard-core data, with its stated intention of providing "attempts of recognizing both details and the big picture, while embracing a propensity for total randomness", which in itself is as ridiculous a sequence of words that it hardly can be interpreted as anything other than humour. The blog has, however, been fairly barren for a long while. Despite the occasional post here and there, their frequency and length (and topics) suggest that while I may still claim some propensity for randomness (in the most generous reading of the word, though in all fairness, even here I seem to fall into familiar patterns rather than my digressionist aspirations), I stand accused of not recognizing details nor the big picture, as I in fact am hardly providing any pictures (mental or otherwise) at all, since this blog mostly have been rendered empty for months, years, at the time. One might argue that this is humour in and of itself, but it would be a long stretch. Thus, I present the lack of humor due to lack of content as evidence A in this investigation and/or analysis.
Evidence B is more complex. While one might assume that you as a potential reader of this blog actually have access to this blog and therefore conceivably might be able to assess evidence A by means of peer review (though I by no means suggest you should -- I am after all asking you to backtrack my lack of posting here to confirm my claim that I have not been posting frequently, lengthy or topically in a humourous manner, which hardly stands to my credit, other than that I if nothing else can be said to be honest. Also, I realize you probably have better ways to spend your time) -- while one might assume that, you might not have the same privelege when it comes to evidence B.
I say "might", because, as will be clear in a moment, you might not have it, and you might have it.
Evidence B consists of a random selection (see, propensity for random) of Facebook statuses I have written over the past few years. If you are not in the category of the select few (or actually, quite average, I would guess) people who are on my friend's list on Facebook, you won't have access to evidence B. I'm sorry. I am sure the actual number of people who might stumble upon this who are not my friends on Facebook is actually quite limited, but given the possibility that it might happen, I am sorry. Not that we are not friends, because in this day and age it has come to a point where I no longer consider Facebookfriendiness a requirement for actually being friends, and while the more vague "being connected", via social media, is something I cherish, sure enough, occasionally, with some people, but let's be honest - it's 2017. You have "friends" on your Facebook-profile you only accepted because you didn't want them to tell your mom at the florist's in your hometown that you have become a snobbish elitist after moving to the big city. Not all Facebook-friends are friends, and amazingly, not all friends are particularly active on Facebook.
This was a long digression, of which I shall not apologize (digressions being something of a staple of this blog, after all. I don't know if you noticed the title...?), but it ended somewhere I'd like to pick it up from: "not all friends are particularly active on Facebook" (Great Digression, my mom's friend at the florist really has a point, I am quoting myself, FROM THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH now...)
Anyway. The "friend" I am talking about in this particular instance, is myself. Me, myself, and the person I just quoted.
Evidence B, my (let's admit it, not-so-)randomly selected Facebook-statuses (of which I shall not specify which ones I refer to, by the way, just to make the "evidence" even sketchier), are also far between, and not their former peaky, plump, juicy selves.
Not to brag, but I used to be funny (see opening statement of this blog post for reference). Funny-ish, at least. I used to make myself laugh, and seemingly others as well, as my posts occasionally would elicit comments that sometimes triggered avalances of great, old-fashioned Facebook-comedy. I used to be funny, people would be funny back, we would all do that creepy smirky-grinny-non-laugh people do when they read and write something funny on their Facebook during work hours. You know.
However, my examination of evidence B suggests a worrying trend also in this material. It is more funny the further from the present day we come, pointing at my hypothesis that I have become decreasingly funny, or as one might present it in layman's terms: I am less funny now than I was before. My funny appears to be running out (or, terrifyingly, may already have done so).
Why, then, is this happening?
I have a few theories, but I am going to do something utterly scandalous before presenting them. I am going to cliffhanger you (which, by the way, is probably not a word, as many of the words I like using, but it just struck me that this was a particularly abrasive wordsmithery of mine, as cliffhanger in itself is wordsmithed from "hanging from a cliff", I assume, meaning I just verbed ((yes, verbed)) a noun having been nouned (((yes, nouned))) from a verb ((((and then some)))). Ha!)
--I am going to cliffhanger you on this as a way of test, not yours, but mine, ability to stick to this. Yes. I am going to cliffhanger you, to see if that might motivate me, to keep writing the next section of this (otherwise insanely long) post, another day. The world is not fair. Sorry.
***HANGING OFF CLIFF***
Showing posts with label everyday agonies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label everyday agonies. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Friday, August 28, 2015
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?"
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?"
Friday, May 8, 2015
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! :)
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! :)
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
On a police car, four helicopters and a Canadian mountie
I must be going crazy, and I'm drinking peppermint-chocolate tea.
No, bear with me here. I could be going crazy. There is no sure-fire way of telling. My hair is too long. Or rather, it's in need of a cut. Not necessarily a get-much-shorter-cut, but a get-rid-of-the-split-ends-cut, for sure.
Jess is failing high school. It's before he becomes Peter Petrelli, so he still has that to look forward to. Or not. I don't know what happens to P. Petrelli in the end, as I never made it past season three.
My knee is making a weird noise. Icky. Rory is valedictorian. And I don't know what "valedictorian" means. I could google it. I know the gist. But there are red pandas in the world, and my boyfriend bought me a comic book.
Nick Offerman's "American Ham" is really great. But then Nick Offerman is really great too. And ham is okay, I suppose. I'm not a huge fan, even though ham is probably my favourite breakfast meat. I'm not that big a fan of "pålegg" in general. (I'm sure I've explained the oddity of the Norwegian concept "pålegg" before, so I'm not doing it again, In case I didn't, you can google it, or worse, take my clue from the valedictorian debacle and decide that you probably know what it is and remain in ignorance, while you distract yourself with another episode of "Gilmore Girls").
The turtle is staring at me judgingly. Probably because it knows I should be transcribing Henry Kissinger's notes instead of sending myself angry Facebook messages. Yes, I do that. Cruella can be truly cruel. Mari replies in kind (which is to say, not kindly).
I like seeing people happy. I think that is a sign I may not be going crazy. Or at least a good quality. Also, my laptop is running out of battery, and I'm starting to be annoyed at Lorelai. A little. We'll make up.
I suppose I should get to the point if there is one. (Or, I could plug in the laptop. That would avoid the need to make some sort of point.)
I've come to realize that one of the biggest challenges of my current line of work is to actually go to work on the days when it just isn't working. When I'm not working. Not being capable of working. When all I can do is be disgusted by the world and myself and watch "Gilmore Girls":
I've also come to realize that the valedictorian is the one wearing a slightly different robe than the rest, who holds the speech during the graduation ceremony, and I actually cried a little, during Rory's speech. It's an emotional episode.
I don't have a point, and my tea is getting cold. I might be going crazy, but at least there is another season to watch and new days to fail and fall down and stand up again. And maybe enjoy the fact that the title of this post does not match its content. Again.
No, bear with me here. I could be going crazy. There is no sure-fire way of telling. My hair is too long. Or rather, it's in need of a cut. Not necessarily a get-much-shorter-cut, but a get-rid-of-the-split-ends-cut, for sure.
Jess is failing high school. It's before he becomes Peter Petrelli, so he still has that to look forward to. Or not. I don't know what happens to P. Petrelli in the end, as I never made it past season three.
My knee is making a weird noise. Icky. Rory is valedictorian. And I don't know what "valedictorian" means. I could google it. I know the gist. But there are red pandas in the world, and my boyfriend bought me a comic book.
Nick Offerman's "American Ham" is really great. But then Nick Offerman is really great too. And ham is okay, I suppose. I'm not a huge fan, even though ham is probably my favourite breakfast meat. I'm not that big a fan of "pålegg" in general. (I'm sure I've explained the oddity of the Norwegian concept "pålegg" before, so I'm not doing it again, In case I didn't, you can google it, or worse, take my clue from the valedictorian debacle and decide that you probably know what it is and remain in ignorance, while you distract yourself with another episode of "Gilmore Girls").
The turtle is staring at me judgingly. Probably because it knows I should be transcribing Henry Kissinger's notes instead of sending myself angry Facebook messages. Yes, I do that. Cruella can be truly cruel. Mari replies in kind (which is to say, not kindly).
I like seeing people happy. I think that is a sign I may not be going crazy. Or at least a good quality. Also, my laptop is running out of battery, and I'm starting to be annoyed at Lorelai. A little. We'll make up.
I suppose I should get to the point if there is one. (Or, I could plug in the laptop. That would avoid the need to make some sort of point.)
I've come to realize that one of the biggest challenges of my current line of work is to actually go to work on the days when it just isn't working. When I'm not working. Not being capable of working. When all I can do is be disgusted by the world and myself and watch "Gilmore Girls":
I've also come to realize that the valedictorian is the one wearing a slightly different robe than the rest, who holds the speech during the graduation ceremony, and I actually cried a little, during Rory's speech. It's an emotional episode.
I don't have a point, and my tea is getting cold. I might be going crazy, but at least there is another season to watch and new days to fail and fall down and stand up again. And maybe enjoy the fact that the title of this post does not match its content. Again.
Friday, August 29, 2014
On socwardness (part three)
As I've claimed on this blog before, I am generally a fairly socially adept person, with some notable exceptions. No, really. It's partially a personality trait I've had since I was quite little and somewhat baffled realized that other people occasionally enjoy my company(!), and partially a skill I've developed through the collection of experiences I sometimes refer to as "life". It's cocky of me, though, to claim "life" taught me social skills - at least the kind of social skills I am trying to get to explaining here (I just get caught up in digressions sometimes, not that you didn't know that...) - as probably about 80 percent of them I acquired during my last stay in Japan. Working at an embassy doesn't necessarily make you diplomatic(!!), but you'd have to try extremely hard to avoid a major part of our job if it doesn't make you at least a little bit more equipped at small talk. The kind of small talk that arise in social settings that involve (some) alcohol, pieces of food intended to be eaten in a single bite ("finger food" is a ridiculous name for it, at least in Japan, where there always are chopsticks available), and clever little gadgets that attach your wine glass to your plate so that you have a hand free for shaking or exchanging business cards (of course, you are really expected to do the latter with both hands in Japan, so the really ought to make a gadget that attached the plate and wine glass directly to your body, and then somewhere which wouldn't be affected by all the bowing you also will do. I'm thinking hip or knee).
This kind of setting frequently arise when you work in an embassy, and thus you become extremely good at talking to people you barely or not at all know about mundane subjects (remember, no politics or religion!) for a relatively short time. At the end of my stay in Japan I was almost as good at small talk as the average hair dresser (which is saying something - think about it!).
However, this skill/personality trait doesn't necessarily translate well to other types of social situations, and especially not the one I'm about to describe: Friday lunch.
"Friday lunch" might sound like a specific concept the way I just put it, but in reality it isn't. It's lunch, on a Friday. However, the difference between Friday lunch and Any other day lunch is the simple fact that Friday is the day before the weekend. And thus Friday lunch invites a certain go-to conversation (or, if you will, small talk, to tie it in with the digression that introduced this particular point).
Every single Friday, at lunch time, you stand at risk of being asked "so, what are your plans this weekend?".
Now, I realize I outdigressed myself a little today, as this isn't normally what I think of when I say "small talk". Technically, the dictionary defines it as "light conversation" or "chitchat", but I frequently add "with people you don't know very well" to that, as I find that the moment you know people well enough to have proper conversations with them, you tend to stop with the small talk. I still occasionally have lunch with people where I do definitely practice small talk (by any definition), but since I work in a place with a manageable number of colleagues I find we usually have fairly meaningful conversations during lunch. Which is nice. However, even when you know people this well conversations inevitably every now and then hit a lull, and someone needs to find something to keep it going. On Fridays this will, often, be the above (and below) mentioned question.
"So, what are your plans this weekend?"
To me, this is an incredibly tricky question.
First of all, it is, like many other reasonably generic (as opposed to situational or you-specific) questions, reciprocal in its nature. You're supposed to ask it back. The agony here is to time your answer so that it won't be too long since the original question was asked before you return it. Nothing says "socward!" like ending up spending a disproportionate part of the conversation on yourself, thus not allowing the other party/-ies to participate (thus not making them "parties", as much as an "audience").
Seemingly, this timing problem might be solved by simply limiting your own answer to a few well chosen points, and then let the other party be a party. However, when the question is being used as a conversational catalyst you don't want to keep your answer too short either, as this will quickly put an end to the entire conversation. Consequently, you will have to find some kind of middle way, and that can be tricky. (I believe this particular situation has given rise to the conversational technique "But enough about me; what about you?". )
Secondly, however, you also face the age-old problem of ugly truth vs spiffy façade. You can, obviously, admit the ugly truth, and it might be refreshing that someone owns up to his/her plans of spending the entire weekend in their jammies, watching bad television and eating junk food. In reality, however, there appears to exist a social convention that dictates that even though people realize this is what you mean, you have to camouflage it into something akin to "oh, you know, nothing much. Just have some me-time. Wind down from the stressful week, really. Maybe go for a walk."
If you go all in façade-wise, though, you might also invent a few cool weekend activities you plausibly could attend. I have never gone this far down the road in trying to impress a colleague with my interesting life, but I may have indicated once or twice that I was planning on going to a party I was invited to (but didn't intend to actually go to) or maybe concretized extremely vague plans with some friend I knew never really would show up.
However, this brings me to the third of the problems the question brings about. Because debating whether to be frank or deceitful isn't just a question of façade. Sometimes it is also a matter of self defense. When you know someone well enough for them to ask what you are doing this weekend, it is often a risk that you also know them well enough for them to ask the following:
"Oh good, so nothing special, then. How about...?"
And then they have the audacity to suggest some alternative activity, frequently involving themselves!
As you have now revealed that you are not otherwise occupied, and thus you do not have the option of turning their offer down politely. Either you have to accept (against your will), or you have to tell them that you simply do not want to do whatever it is they are suggesting (as opposed to the kinder "Oh, I really wish I could, but I already planned X" which you could have answered if they hadn't already forced out of you that you weren't).
This is problematic for several reasons. You might really want (and need) that "me-time", even if it only involves jammies, junk food and jelevision. You might have a very good (or bad) reason to not want to do that particular activity - say it's a wine tasting and you cannot drink alcohol due to a medical condition, something you might not be too eager to reveal; or maybe you're being asked to help someone move, and you simply don't want to. The latter may not be a very good reason, but it should nevertheless be your prerogative to choose whether you want to do something or not. Finally, and this last one is bad, you might not want to do any kind of activity with that particular person. I have occasionally been attempted befriended with people I do not wish to be friends with. It sounds awful to say so, but it's still true. Now, I don't want to be cruel - just because I have no desire to hang out with someone doesn't mean I want them to know that. I don't want to offend someone, and at any rate it might not even be personal (say you're working with them and you feel your professional relationship might be hurt by a personal one; or maybe you simply cannot manage to keep up with the friends you already have, and don't want to add to the burden), but even when it is I still rather let someone down easily than be forced to tell them upfront that I would rather spend my weekend doing absolutely nothing than be forced to hang out with them.
Basically, no matter how you spin it the second question is deceitful, as it isn't what you set out to answer when you replied to the first question. Except, with time I've been accustomed to the possibility of getting that second question, and thus I will (as described, in detail) feel more than a little skeptical when the first question is posed. As a consequence, my response, more often than not, will be the following:
"There are several things I'm considering, but it's not set in stone yet. Why?", which leaves me with a handy (if somewhat cynical) solution to problems 1-3.
I realize my statement from the beginning of this post [" I am generally a fairly socially adept person"] may seem odd in light of the wall of text since. However, I stand by my initial comment. I am generally a fairly socially adept person. The fact that I am also a grumpy and cranky fart who does not always appreciate this particular skill/personality trait of mine is not contradictory to that.
This kind of setting frequently arise when you work in an embassy, and thus you become extremely good at talking to people you barely or not at all know about mundane subjects (remember, no politics or religion!) for a relatively short time. At the end of my stay in Japan I was almost as good at small talk as the average hair dresser (which is saying something - think about it!).
However, this skill/personality trait doesn't necessarily translate well to other types of social situations, and especially not the one I'm about to describe: Friday lunch.
"Friday lunch" might sound like a specific concept the way I just put it, but in reality it isn't. It's lunch, on a Friday. However, the difference between Friday lunch and Any other day lunch is the simple fact that Friday is the day before the weekend. And thus Friday lunch invites a certain go-to conversation (or, if you will, small talk, to tie it in with the digression that introduced this particular point).
Every single Friday, at lunch time, you stand at risk of being asked "so, what are your plans this weekend?".
Now, I realize I outdigressed myself a little today, as this isn't normally what I think of when I say "small talk". Technically, the dictionary defines it as "light conversation" or "chitchat", but I frequently add "with people you don't know very well" to that, as I find that the moment you know people well enough to have proper conversations with them, you tend to stop with the small talk. I still occasionally have lunch with people where I do definitely practice small talk (by any definition), but since I work in a place with a manageable number of colleagues I find we usually have fairly meaningful conversations during lunch. Which is nice. However, even when you know people this well conversations inevitably every now and then hit a lull, and someone needs to find something to keep it going. On Fridays this will, often, be the above (and below) mentioned question.
"So, what are your plans this weekend?"
To me, this is an incredibly tricky question.
First of all, it is, like many other reasonably generic (as opposed to situational or you-specific) questions, reciprocal in its nature. You're supposed to ask it back. The agony here is to time your answer so that it won't be too long since the original question was asked before you return it. Nothing says "socward!" like ending up spending a disproportionate part of the conversation on yourself, thus not allowing the other party/-ies to participate (thus not making them "parties", as much as an "audience").
Seemingly, this timing problem might be solved by simply limiting your own answer to a few well chosen points, and then let the other party be a party. However, when the question is being used as a conversational catalyst you don't want to keep your answer too short either, as this will quickly put an end to the entire conversation. Consequently, you will have to find some kind of middle way, and that can be tricky. (I believe this particular situation has given rise to the conversational technique "But enough about me; what about you?". )
Secondly, however, you also face the age-old problem of ugly truth vs spiffy façade. You can, obviously, admit the ugly truth, and it might be refreshing that someone owns up to his/her plans of spending the entire weekend in their jammies, watching bad television and eating junk food. In reality, however, there appears to exist a social convention that dictates that even though people realize this is what you mean, you have to camouflage it into something akin to "oh, you know, nothing much. Just have some me-time. Wind down from the stressful week, really. Maybe go for a walk."
If you go all in façade-wise, though, you might also invent a few cool weekend activities you plausibly could attend. I have never gone this far down the road in trying to impress a colleague with my interesting life, but I may have indicated once or twice that I was planning on going to a party I was invited to (but didn't intend to actually go to) or maybe concretized extremely vague plans with some friend I knew never really would show up.
However, this brings me to the third of the problems the question brings about. Because debating whether to be frank or deceitful isn't just a question of façade. Sometimes it is also a matter of self defense. When you know someone well enough for them to ask what you are doing this weekend, it is often a risk that you also know them well enough for them to ask the following:
"Oh good, so nothing special, then. How about...?"
And then they have the audacity to suggest some alternative activity, frequently involving themselves!
As you have now revealed that you are not otherwise occupied, and thus you do not have the option of turning their offer down politely. Either you have to accept (against your will), or you have to tell them that you simply do not want to do whatever it is they are suggesting (as opposed to the kinder "Oh, I really wish I could, but I already planned X" which you could have answered if they hadn't already forced out of you that you weren't).
This is problematic for several reasons. You might really want (and need) that "me-time", even if it only involves jammies, junk food and jelevision. You might have a very good (or bad) reason to not want to do that particular activity - say it's a wine tasting and you cannot drink alcohol due to a medical condition, something you might not be too eager to reveal; or maybe you're being asked to help someone move, and you simply don't want to. The latter may not be a very good reason, but it should nevertheless be your prerogative to choose whether you want to do something or not. Finally, and this last one is bad, you might not want to do any kind of activity with that particular person. I have occasionally been attempted befriended with people I do not wish to be friends with. It sounds awful to say so, but it's still true. Now, I don't want to be cruel - just because I have no desire to hang out with someone doesn't mean I want them to know that. I don't want to offend someone, and at any rate it might not even be personal (say you're working with them and you feel your professional relationship might be hurt by a personal one; or maybe you simply cannot manage to keep up with the friends you already have, and don't want to add to the burden), but even when it is I still rather let someone down easily than be forced to tell them upfront that I would rather spend my weekend doing absolutely nothing than be forced to hang out with them.
Basically, no matter how you spin it the second question is deceitful, as it isn't what you set out to answer when you replied to the first question. Except, with time I've been accustomed to the possibility of getting that second question, and thus I will (as described, in detail) feel more than a little skeptical when the first question is posed. As a consequence, my response, more often than not, will be the following:
"There are several things I'm considering, but it's not set in stone yet. Why?", which leaves me with a handy (if somewhat cynical) solution to problems 1-3.
I realize my statement from the beginning of this post [" I am generally a fairly socially adept person"] may seem odd in light of the wall of text since. However, I stand by my initial comment. I am generally a fairly socially adept person. The fact that I am also a grumpy and cranky fart who does not always appreciate this particular skill/personality trait of mine is not contradictory to that.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
On feelings you might be having right now
The feeling of taking the last of the Nutella because you feel entitled to it.
Of arriving late at work because you can.
Of reading one of the free newspapers taken from a stand at the bus stop, and realizing it made you think of a friend you haven't seen in over a year.
Of actually sending him a text, suggesting hanging out again soon.
Of actually getting a reply, and a positive - and specific - one.
Of listening to light jazz without having to deal with canapes.
Of being more concerned with an achy knee than all the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
Of hating yourself a little because you forgot to order your iced latte skimmed.
Of compensating for this by hating yourself more by finally being concerned with the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
"Hate" is too strong a word, fortunately. Resent, perhaps?
Well, most of the resentment is at any rate subdued by a glimmer of happiness caused by nothing other than the fact that it is summer, sunny, a relaxed mood in general (though "in general" is too strong a term - so many places in the world in turmoil, and even if the heart becomes blasé with wear and tear the morning news still affects it).
The glimmer of happiness shines, however, brighter than the ache of the heart - or for that matter the knee - fortunately.
And it is also the feeling of slight irritation that the automated blinds try to override your manual setting.
The feeling of considering whether to write what it is that really bothers you, with the risk that it will put yourself in a poor light because it isn't something you are actually entitled to be bothered about.
Of knowing, secretly, that you weren't entitled to the last of the Nutella either, but that it still feels somewhat comforting that you took it.
Of arriving late at work because you can.
Of reading one of the free newspapers taken from a stand at the bus stop, and realizing it made you think of a friend you haven't seen in over a year.
Of actually sending him a text, suggesting hanging out again soon.
Of actually getting a reply, and a positive - and specific - one.
Of listening to light jazz without having to deal with canapes.
Of being more concerned with an achy knee than all the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
Of hating yourself a little because you forgot to order your iced latte skimmed.
Of compensating for this by hating yourself more by finally being concerned with the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
"Hate" is too strong a word, fortunately. Resent, perhaps?
Well, most of the resentment is at any rate subdued by a glimmer of happiness caused by nothing other than the fact that it is summer, sunny, a relaxed mood in general (though "in general" is too strong a term - so many places in the world in turmoil, and even if the heart becomes blasé with wear and tear the morning news still affects it).
The glimmer of happiness shines, however, brighter than the ache of the heart - or for that matter the knee - fortunately.
And it is also the feeling of slight irritation that the automated blinds try to override your manual setting.
The feeling of considering whether to write what it is that really bothers you, with the risk that it will put yourself in a poor light because it isn't something you are actually entitled to be bothered about.
Of knowing, secretly, that you weren't entitled to the last of the Nutella either, but that it still feels somewhat comforting that you took it.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
On 2012 (part two)
I know, I know, it's 2013 by now. But before I get used to writing that, I figured it was time to take another look back. Last time I did this, at the end of 2011, I was under the impression that I was barely left standing on my feet in a world that was spinning too fast for comfort (but at the same time, in a slightly interesting manner). I had experienced so much that I barely had time to update the blog, and my life felt turned upside-down. Looking back it felt like the events of that year would be life- and personality altering, and that it wasn't the same Cruella waking up in the morning at the end of 2011 as had done so at the end of 2010.
Maybe it wasn't. But the Cruella waking up at the beginning of 2013 feels familiar. Like I know her. Like we've met before. In 2010, perhaps. Because, even though I believed my 2011 was going to change me for life, I am starting to believe I'm slowly drifting back to my old self. For better and for worse.
Let me explain (or at least try).
The past year I've probably met more challenges that I ever have at once before in my life, including the epicness that was 2011. If I hoped for a peaceful 2012 to get me back down after crazy 2011, I was disappointed. 2012 was the year of the new job (that nearly killed me), the new boyfriend (that kept me alive), 1 1/2 new living arrangements (don't ask), lots of new people (possibly matching that of 2011 too), of countless emotional rollercoasters, of the loss of a loved one and having several others falling ill, of having various heath problems myself (including my first ever ride in an ambulance), and - as a result of all of this - learning how to share both good and bad things (the latter being something I often prefer keeping to myself as to not seem "weak" - I'm still learning, obviously).
Basically, things happened in 2012 too!
But even though the events of 2012 in many ways were probably more life-altering for me than those of 2011, in retrospect, they still seem mellow in comparison. The 2012s were slow events. They built up over time. They didn't wake me up in the middle of the night and made me check a website if the impact was 5.0 or more on the Richter magnitude scale. I don't question the magnitude of falling in love or having a stressful job, but both of those things came to me gradually, with considerable "warnings" ahead.
Also, when I in 2011 occasionally felt I had so much to blog about I couldn't keep up with it (resulting in a somewhat uneven year blog wise), 2012 frequently left me feeling the opposite (which should explain the relatively even non-posting of the past twelve moons). Writing about living the exciting life in Tokyo is one thing, but how do you blog about everyday life at home without it turning into "Today I made dinner for my boyfriend. He said he enjoyed it"...?
Obviously I could blog about other things than everyday life - I've been known to do so in the past - but in that department too the inspiration seemed to fail me. Given that my job was so "mind consuming" in many ways, I had little space left after having read about popes and kings and important historians. And I had absolutely no urge to blog about said popes and kings and important historians.
So I didn't. Again and again I didn't.
Now, it's not like I have a goal of being the most prolific blogger. As such, the frequency of posts here is irrelevant. But having the material, inspiration and ability to blog is something I'd like to keep, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather have time being the constraint than anything else. "Excuse me, but I'm too fabulous and busy to blog" has a better ring to it than "Sorry, my job and everyday life is sort of uninteresting to write about".
(Mark the importance of the words "to write about" in the above sentence. My life isn't uninteresting, to me. But I am currently having a hard time translating the parts of it I find interesting into words and sentences I'd feel comfortable flying around the interwebs with my name tied to them...)
((I suppose the task ahead is to find a neat balance between making my life itty bit more interesting and figuring out how to write it in a way that makes it more interesting still...))
Anyway, the strangest thing is that in spite of this feeling of "why have I nothing interesting to write?" I find that I don't really mind all that much. It might be a well-known secret to most, but to me this came as news: boring isn't necessarily boring! I find that in real life I cherish these things I can't find an interesting angle for blog-wise. I like making dinner for my boyfriend when he says he enjoys it. I like having a job, and an income, even if I at times have wondered if it was too much (but then the achievement feels all the greater afterwards). I don't like grief and illness and emotional rollercoasters, but I realize that they are a part of life and perhaps they make you grow just as much (albeit in very different ways) as disaster and turmoil.
The lesson from 2011 was that I'd discovered a whole new side of myself. If anything I think 2012 has shown me how the new side fits with the old me, and made me realize that perhaps I didn't change so much after all.
At least, that is what I think now. Perhaps come the start of 2014 everything will be different, again.
In terms of resolutions I am still not making any (even if my old "fill in the blanks"-ones were handy). But there are things I'd like to do, goals I'd like to fulfill, as always. Still, a whole year feels like too big of a unit to digest at once. Maybe this year I should make it my goal to take one day at the time? Who knows, that might even make for a more interesting blog year too...
Maybe it wasn't. But the Cruella waking up at the beginning of 2013 feels familiar. Like I know her. Like we've met before. In 2010, perhaps. Because, even though I believed my 2011 was going to change me for life, I am starting to believe I'm slowly drifting back to my old self. For better and for worse.
Let me explain (or at least try).
The past year I've probably met more challenges that I ever have at once before in my life, including the epicness that was 2011. If I hoped for a peaceful 2012 to get me back down after crazy 2011, I was disappointed. 2012 was the year of the new job (that nearly killed me), the new boyfriend (that kept me alive), 1 1/2 new living arrangements (don't ask), lots of new people (possibly matching that of 2011 too), of countless emotional rollercoasters, of the loss of a loved one and having several others falling ill, of having various heath problems myself (including my first ever ride in an ambulance), and - as a result of all of this - learning how to share both good and bad things (the latter being something I often prefer keeping to myself as to not seem "weak" - I'm still learning, obviously).
Basically, things happened in 2012 too!
But even though the events of 2012 in many ways were probably more life-altering for me than those of 2011, in retrospect, they still seem mellow in comparison. The 2012s were slow events. They built up over time. They didn't wake me up in the middle of the night and made me check a website if the impact was 5.0 or more on the Richter magnitude scale. I don't question the magnitude of falling in love or having a stressful job, but both of those things came to me gradually, with considerable "warnings" ahead.
Also, when I in 2011 occasionally felt I had so much to blog about I couldn't keep up with it (resulting in a somewhat uneven year blog wise), 2012 frequently left me feeling the opposite (which should explain the relatively even non-posting of the past twelve moons). Writing about living the exciting life in Tokyo is one thing, but how do you blog about everyday life at home without it turning into "Today I made dinner for my boyfriend. He said he enjoyed it"...?
Obviously I could blog about other things than everyday life - I've been known to do so in the past - but in that department too the inspiration seemed to fail me. Given that my job was so "mind consuming" in many ways, I had little space left after having read about popes and kings and important historians. And I had absolutely no urge to blog about said popes and kings and important historians.
So I didn't. Again and again I didn't.
Now, it's not like I have a goal of being the most prolific blogger. As such, the frequency of posts here is irrelevant. But having the material, inspiration and ability to blog is something I'd like to keep, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather have time being the constraint than anything else. "Excuse me, but I'm too fabulous and busy to blog" has a better ring to it than "Sorry, my job and everyday life is sort of uninteresting to write about".
(Mark the importance of the words "to write about" in the above sentence. My life isn't uninteresting, to me. But I am currently having a hard time translating the parts of it I find interesting into words and sentences I'd feel comfortable flying around the interwebs with my name tied to them...)
((I suppose the task ahead is to find a neat balance between making my life itty bit more interesting and figuring out how to write it in a way that makes it more interesting still...))
Anyway, the strangest thing is that in spite of this feeling of "why have I nothing interesting to write?" I find that I don't really mind all that much. It might be a well-known secret to most, but to me this came as news: boring isn't necessarily boring! I find that in real life I cherish these things I can't find an interesting angle for blog-wise. I like making dinner for my boyfriend when he says he enjoys it. I like having a job, and an income, even if I at times have wondered if it was too much (but then the achievement feels all the greater afterwards). I don't like grief and illness and emotional rollercoasters, but I realize that they are a part of life and perhaps they make you grow just as much (albeit in very different ways) as disaster and turmoil.
The lesson from 2011 was that I'd discovered a whole new side of myself. If anything I think 2012 has shown me how the new side fits with the old me, and made me realize that perhaps I didn't change so much after all.
At least, that is what I think now. Perhaps come the start of 2014 everything will be different, again.
In terms of resolutions I am still not making any (even if my old "fill in the blanks"-ones were handy). But there are things I'd like to do, goals I'd like to fulfill, as always. Still, a whole year feels like too big of a unit to digest at once. Maybe this year I should make it my goal to take one day at the time? Who knows, that might even make for a more interesting blog year too...
Saturday, September 22, 2012
On biscotti and being right
Today I visited for the first time a new coffee shop that's popped up in my neighbourhood.
It's not like we were lacking coffee shops as it was. There are probably at least ten or fifteen in a 1km radius from my house, and that's not even counting any of the places that are more restaurants or cafés than coffee shops.
But, evidently, we needed one more.
Granted, this one is different from many of the others. A few selected chains have a definite majority of the market here, while this is an indie shop. Also, while many other coffee shops focus on offering plenty of seats for their customers, this one goes the other way around. They offer no one.
It's a take-away joint, exclusively.
As I'm sure a significant portion of the market is take-away I suppose this makes no huge difference for the income for this little shop - they would at any rate not be able to serve many sit-in customers in such a tiny venue.
Still, this poses a new challenge for us as customers. I'm used to now, from years of being a coffee drinker, to always specify whether I want my coffee to-go or not. In this case, though, such details are redundant, as the barista kindly informed me.
I say "kindly" because that's what it was, or at least, that was the intention. Clearly, the barista used this extra information I provided automatically (and I'm sure I'm not the first to do so) as an ice-breaker of sorts, a way of chatting friendlily (which really ought to be a word. "Friendlily" is vastly different from "friendly", just saying...) with the customers.
Well, we chatted. Friendlily. I put up a calm face, and I'm certain that the barista thought I was being sincere. All the while standing there, however, I felt a burning desire to quarrel. It wasn't so much that I'd been caught stating the obvious as it was a reaction to low blood sugar and a result of a certain irrationality I've always carried with me. I'm not proud of it. But there you go.
Anyway, what she told me, this barista, was that the reason there was no need to specify whether one wanted to go or not (or rather, paper or porcelain) was that for coffee shops here in Oslo there is a rule, apparently, that you cannot serve in stoneware if you don't have a customer bathroom (!).
We collectively shook our heads at these silly rules, and she even had me there for a moment, forgetting that I was irrational and quarrelsome, and instead making jokes about how the authorities seems to overstate the correlation between people's need to pee when drinking from mugs instead of paper cups.
At this point we had reached the pay-part of the transaction, and I pulled out my wallet. Just before she put the (paper) cup on the desk in front of me, however, I decided that I also wanted something to go with my coffee.
"I'll take one of those as well," I said, pointing at a big jar of biscotti which was conveniently placed next to the register.
"Oh," she said, "now you've done it."
Turns out there was a consensus among customers and employees alike that these were the world's tastiest biscotti, and that it was virtually impossible to have just one. Not being one to back out of a challenge, however, I remained fixed on the idea of buying one - 1 - biscotti. Thus I did, and then I left.
I'd only walked about a block when I realized that there is a coffee shop not 200 metres from the one I visited today which doesn't have a customer bathroom either. It does, however, serve its coffee in porcelain mugs if you ask for it. Slightly annoyed that I hadn't thought of this earlier, I considered briefly turning around and letting the barista know that she was wrong/I was right/she couldn't get away with such lies. However, the need to actually taste my coffee (I've always found that the problem with take-away coffee is that it is quite difficult to drink and walk at the same time, and it thus often turns into "take-somewhere-else-and-then-drink" coffee for me) prevailed. I returned home instead.
There I tasted the world's tastiest biscotti.
Turns out they weren't lying about this in the coffee shop. It really is the yummiest biscotti I've ever had, and I seriously doubt it's possible that anyone else, anywhere else in time or space has had any yummier.
Now I have two reasons to return to the coffee shop. First, the biscotti. Clearly, it is (near?) impossible to eat just one. I've been craving another for the two hours that's passed since I had the first. Secondly, I still have an urge to go back and tell the barista that there is another coffee shop in the vicinity that doesn't have a customer bathroom but does have mugs.
My problem is this: the two reasons to go back go poorly together. I worry that I might be denied the right to buy another biscotti if I am rude and explains how she was wrong. But if I go back to only buy the biscotti, and not make the remark about the other coffee shop, I fear that I will explode. So far, the only solution I can think of is denying myself both these pleasures - biscotti and being a bossy know-it-all - since I cannot have them together. I can only hope that with time the desire for either one will fade and I can return to other considerations in life.
Also, I need to find a proper translation for the Norwegian word "kverulant".
It's not like we were lacking coffee shops as it was. There are probably at least ten or fifteen in a 1km radius from my house, and that's not even counting any of the places that are more restaurants or cafés than coffee shops.
But, evidently, we needed one more.
Granted, this one is different from many of the others. A few selected chains have a definite majority of the market here, while this is an indie shop. Also, while many other coffee shops focus on offering plenty of seats for their customers, this one goes the other way around. They offer no one.
It's a take-away joint, exclusively.
As I'm sure a significant portion of the market is take-away I suppose this makes no huge difference for the income for this little shop - they would at any rate not be able to serve many sit-in customers in such a tiny venue.
Still, this poses a new challenge for us as customers. I'm used to now, from years of being a coffee drinker, to always specify whether I want my coffee to-go or not. In this case, though, such details are redundant, as the barista kindly informed me.
I say "kindly" because that's what it was, or at least, that was the intention. Clearly, the barista used this extra information I provided automatically (and I'm sure I'm not the first to do so) as an ice-breaker of sorts, a way of chatting friendlily (which really ought to be a word. "Friendlily" is vastly different from "friendly", just saying...) with the customers.
Well, we chatted. Friendlily. I put up a calm face, and I'm certain that the barista thought I was being sincere. All the while standing there, however, I felt a burning desire to quarrel. It wasn't so much that I'd been caught stating the obvious as it was a reaction to low blood sugar and a result of a certain irrationality I've always carried with me. I'm not proud of it. But there you go.
Anyway, what she told me, this barista, was that the reason there was no need to specify whether one wanted to go or not (or rather, paper or porcelain) was that for coffee shops here in Oslo there is a rule, apparently, that you cannot serve in stoneware if you don't have a customer bathroom (!).
We collectively shook our heads at these silly rules, and she even had me there for a moment, forgetting that I was irrational and quarrelsome, and instead making jokes about how the authorities seems to overstate the correlation between people's need to pee when drinking from mugs instead of paper cups.
At this point we had reached the pay-part of the transaction, and I pulled out my wallet. Just before she put the (paper) cup on the desk in front of me, however, I decided that I also wanted something to go with my coffee.
"I'll take one of those as well," I said, pointing at a big jar of biscotti which was conveniently placed next to the register.
"Oh," she said, "now you've done it."
Turns out there was a consensus among customers and employees alike that these were the world's tastiest biscotti, and that it was virtually impossible to have just one. Not being one to back out of a challenge, however, I remained fixed on the idea of buying one - 1 - biscotti. Thus I did, and then I left.
I'd only walked about a block when I realized that there is a coffee shop not 200 metres from the one I visited today which doesn't have a customer bathroom either. It does, however, serve its coffee in porcelain mugs if you ask for it. Slightly annoyed that I hadn't thought of this earlier, I considered briefly turning around and letting the barista know that she was wrong/I was right/she couldn't get away with such lies. However, the need to actually taste my coffee (I've always found that the problem with take-away coffee is that it is quite difficult to drink and walk at the same time, and it thus often turns into "take-somewhere-else-and-then-drink" coffee for me) prevailed. I returned home instead.
There I tasted the world's tastiest biscotti.
Turns out they weren't lying about this in the coffee shop. It really is the yummiest biscotti I've ever had, and I seriously doubt it's possible that anyone else, anywhere else in time or space has had any yummier.
Now I have two reasons to return to the coffee shop. First, the biscotti. Clearly, it is (near?) impossible to eat just one. I've been craving another for the two hours that's passed since I had the first. Secondly, I still have an urge to go back and tell the barista that there is another coffee shop in the vicinity that doesn't have a customer bathroom but does have mugs.
My problem is this: the two reasons to go back go poorly together. I worry that I might be denied the right to buy another biscotti if I am rude and explains how she was wrong. But if I go back to only buy the biscotti, and not make the remark about the other coffee shop, I fear that I will explode. So far, the only solution I can think of is denying myself both these pleasures - biscotti and being a bossy know-it-all - since I cannot have them together. I can only hope that with time the desire for either one will fade and I can return to other considerations in life.
Also, I need to find a proper translation for the Norwegian word "kverulant".
Friday, August 17, 2012
On socwardness (part two)
Man, on the ground, below my office. Walking, slowly, towards one of the tables touched by the almost-sun of the early Norwegian autumn. He is carrying lunch, balancing a fork. Passing a couple of attractive, chatty young ladies. One of the girls laugh - not at him - enough to make his fine-tuned balancing act fall apart. The sound of a fork hitting the ground.
I can see his shoulders heave as he sighs.
Then he bends over - carefully considering the angle so that he will not have to reveal his bu... the crevice between his buttocks.. to the young ladies (not realizing that this instead reveals it to an entire building of lazy academics looking out of their office windows).
He picks up the fork and sighs again.
He wipes the fork off on his trousers, but it is evident that he cannot eat with it now that the young ladies have seen it touching the ground. (The three-second rule only applies when there are no potential hook-ups present.)
The man stumbles back the way he came from, wanting to throw a humorous comment in the young ladies' way as he passes, but feeling too self-conscious to do so. Instead he walks 50 meters or so, until he is out of sight for the people occupying the seating area. He is still unknowingly very visible to the academics in their stuffed offices.
He stands under a tree for the appropriate amount of time spent walking back inside to fetch a new fork. Then he returns to the table he first sought out.
When passing the young ladies he smiles at them, and one of them returns the smile with a promise of sorts.
There is hope, even for the lazy and socially awkward ones.
I can see his shoulders heave as he sighs.
Then he bends over - carefully considering the angle so that he will not have to reveal his bu... the crevice between his buttocks.. to the young ladies (not realizing that this instead reveals it to an entire building of lazy academics looking out of their office windows).
He picks up the fork and sighs again.
He wipes the fork off on his trousers, but it is evident that he cannot eat with it now that the young ladies have seen it touching the ground. (The three-second rule only applies when there are no potential hook-ups present.)
The man stumbles back the way he came from, wanting to throw a humorous comment in the young ladies' way as he passes, but feeling too self-conscious to do so. Instead he walks 50 meters or so, until he is out of sight for the people occupying the seating area. He is still unknowingly very visible to the academics in their stuffed offices.
He stands under a tree for the appropriate amount of time spent walking back inside to fetch a new fork. Then he returns to the table he first sought out.
When passing the young ladies he smiles at them, and one of them returns the smile with a promise of sorts.
There is hope, even for the lazy and socially awkward ones.
Monday, May 21, 2012
On clothophilia
A little over a year ago, I fancily wrote on this blog that I had a bit of an April resolution: I would not buy any clothes for the duration of the next twelve months. Twelve months later, it would have been natural for me to look back and evaluate the experience, but I hesitated in doing so. The reason? I failed. In fact, I failed so thoroughly that it is questionable whether one can say I even tried.
Making a goal like that in April last year was an easy thing to do. Follow up on it needen't have been so difficult, but for several reasons it was. The most important being the one I stated already in the original resolution post: I might forget about the whole thing. Which is true - I did forget, and the few occasions I've remembered afterwards have never been when I was about to swipe my card at a clothes shop.
In addition, though, a lot of things happened after I wrote that post. First of all, my return to Japan. The idea of limiting my clothes purchases in a situation like I was in while still in Norway - no direction in life, no plans, and no idea what the future might bring as the 3/11 earthquake had effectively shifted everything around for me - was simple enough; possibly this might even be a direction or a goal that could bring back some sense in what I at the moment felt was more existence than life.
Not long after this, though, I did go back to Tokyo. And I found that other things (readjusting to my life in Japan, making new friends, coping with continued aftershocks and the ongoing nuclear scare, workworkWORK) became a lot more consuming than a feeble attempt at limiting my own shopping spree. Furthermore, limiting my clothes purchases while still in Japan made very little sense as I practically didn't buy anything there at all. Being a tall and large Western woman effectively made it unrealistic to find much in terms of clothes and shoes in Tokyo. When I did find certain items that fit, however, a (forgotten) vow from a (seemingly) distant past wasn't going to keep me from finally buying something. Similarly, I went on a real shopping spree the second I got back on European soil - on my layover at the airport in Copenhagen, actually - out of pure joy that I finally could find clothes that fit me again. The thought that finding that sort of joy in material things was perhaps not entirely healthy was not at all on my mind.
In addition to my mind being occupied elsewhere being part of the problem, my body was also contributing to my shopping mania. Call it a welcome side effect of the stress the past year offered, call it a result of life style changes, believe that I am lying when I say I haven't been doing that much for this - I've lost a considerable amount of weight since I made my resolution last year. This naturally affects how my old clothes fit (or rather, they don't). Speaking loudest, perhaps, was the fact that when I tried on my bunad (national costume - sewn to me at the age of fourteen, expected to fit for life), last worn two years ago on the Constitutional Day and then barely - it was so tight I had trouble breathing - I was swimming in fabric. It has never been this big on me, not even when it was made (again, at fourteen. I'm thinner now than I was at fourteen).
Obviously these changes in my body required changes in my wardrobe. And I found, to my great excitement, that the range of clothes I now could buy was much, much larger than it had been before. It's been years since I realized that baggy sweaters wasn't the way to go to hide a "voluptuous" body, but still - the clothes I can wear now (and feel comfortable in) are very different from what I felt the need to capture my body in just a year ago. Also, as more sizes fit I have the luxury of shopping in a wider variety of shops. Add to this, I've also discovered a latent interest in fashion an style, fueled by reading more fashion magazines, and the luring claws of my Pinterest "closet".
The result has been that my year of no shopping has turned into the year of more shopping than ever before. And I love it. The rush I get from trying on new outfits, finding that they fit and look good on me, is magnificent. Buying new clothes has become my new "comfort food".
Why, then, if this is such a rush, do I still toy with the idea of cutting my habit? (This being a clever word play for those of you who speak French. 'ee 'ee...)
Well, even if it might be healthier to overspend than overeat, it's still not good for me (or my wallet). I'm letting consumerism consume me. Also, there are major environmental issues at play - the environmental cost of the entire production chain from materials, through transportation and vending are considerable and worrisome. I don't have any numbers, but I suspect that by calculating the carbon print of each of my new outfits would I'd see a bleak pattern. My shopping isn't just hurting me; it's hurting the planet.
Knowing all this, however, has never hindered me before, and, frankly - even if I wish I was more environmentally conscious, I'm not. I can strive towards becoming so, but I'm never going to be one of those "move to the wilderness and live off the fat of the land"-types. I can, however, improve.
Because I've arrived back at what caused me to make the radical non-decision one year ago: I already own too much stuff. A few weeks ago I went "shopping" in my own closet at my parents' house, finding old things that either haven't fit in a while, or that was out of fashion, or maybe they just didn't suit my fancy. Trying to think creatively, however, I find that much of what I already own are completely wearable, nice, even chic stuff. Sometimes a jacket can have a whole new life with nothing else done than adding a belt. No need to go shopping when I have these kind of resources at hand!
A new resolution is coming, but this time it isn't avoiding clothes purchases altogether. Rather, I mean to keep doing that, but with an added awareness. First of all, I could definitely improve on what I buy. Ideally, the best for the environment might be not shopping at all, but by focusing on proper materials (eco cotton, anyone?) and quality products I reduce the amount of new stuff I need to buy, and I help support a more aware part of the industry.
Secondly, I could and should reduce what I already own and get rid of stuff I no longer wear. This doesn't have to mean throwing things in the bin - there is a thrift store right across the street from me, and if the items are still wearable (but for someone else than myself), I have no excuse not to give it away (as reuse is also environmentally friendly). Once an item is not wearable anymore, though, for me or anyone else, I should really throw it out. This may not be so environmentally friendly, but it will be friendly to my environment. Having a stuffed closet where you only ever wear half the things makes it cluttered and difficult to handle. I have items in my closet that's probably not been worn in fifteen years. These are typically things I should get rid off once and for all.
Finally, I clearly need to work on my own mind in all of this. Making sure I always have with me that little voice asking "do you need this? When would you wear this? Don't you already own 5 polka-dot dresses?" Sometimes this will mean bringing a friend along (and I know just which one - some of my friends have the shoppoholics just as bad as me...); sometimes it will mean being a little more responsible all on my own.
If you're interested in the environmental part of this post, by the way, I'd like to direct your attention to a very good friend of mine who has devoted her professional life to "conceptual ecology" and "slow fashion". She holds a degree in design, but she has put a very specific spin on this, by focusing on the awareness aspect of fashion. This means consciousness in everything from materials to working conditions (though frankly, I suspect she herself is working too much...), making sure that in every part of the production of her clothes (which are awesome, by the way, did I mention that? She already has designed several items for me, and is in the process of making a dress for a wedding I'm attenting this summer) no more pressure than absolutely necessary is put on the limited resources we have available on this planet. If that means researching what actually happens with silk worms, whether the sheep who provide wool have eaten only organic food, or where one can come by zippers that are as environmentally friendly as possible - she will do it.
You can find her, the magnificent Lisbeth, at Facebook, or her (awesome) website.
Making a goal like that in April last year was an easy thing to do. Follow up on it needen't have been so difficult, but for several reasons it was. The most important being the one I stated already in the original resolution post: I might forget about the whole thing. Which is true - I did forget, and the few occasions I've remembered afterwards have never been when I was about to swipe my card at a clothes shop.
In addition, though, a lot of things happened after I wrote that post. First of all, my return to Japan. The idea of limiting my clothes purchases in a situation like I was in while still in Norway - no direction in life, no plans, and no idea what the future might bring as the 3/11 earthquake had effectively shifted everything around for me - was simple enough; possibly this might even be a direction or a goal that could bring back some sense in what I at the moment felt was more existence than life.
Not long after this, though, I did go back to Tokyo. And I found that other things (readjusting to my life in Japan, making new friends, coping with continued aftershocks and the ongoing nuclear scare, workworkWORK) became a lot more consuming than a feeble attempt at limiting my own shopping spree. Furthermore, limiting my clothes purchases while still in Japan made very little sense as I practically didn't buy anything there at all. Being a tall and large Western woman effectively made it unrealistic to find much in terms of clothes and shoes in Tokyo. When I did find certain items that fit, however, a (forgotten) vow from a (seemingly) distant past wasn't going to keep me from finally buying something. Similarly, I went on a real shopping spree the second I got back on European soil - on my layover at the airport in Copenhagen, actually - out of pure joy that I finally could find clothes that fit me again. The thought that finding that sort of joy in material things was perhaps not entirely healthy was not at all on my mind.
In addition to my mind being occupied elsewhere being part of the problem, my body was also contributing to my shopping mania. Call it a welcome side effect of the stress the past year offered, call it a result of life style changes, believe that I am lying when I say I haven't been doing that much for this - I've lost a considerable amount of weight since I made my resolution last year. This naturally affects how my old clothes fit (or rather, they don't). Speaking loudest, perhaps, was the fact that when I tried on my bunad (national costume - sewn to me at the age of fourteen, expected to fit for life), last worn two years ago on the Constitutional Day and then barely - it was so tight I had trouble breathing - I was swimming in fabric. It has never been this big on me, not even when it was made (again, at fourteen. I'm thinner now than I was at fourteen).
Obviously these changes in my body required changes in my wardrobe. And I found, to my great excitement, that the range of clothes I now could buy was much, much larger than it had been before. It's been years since I realized that baggy sweaters wasn't the way to go to hide a "voluptuous" body, but still - the clothes I can wear now (and feel comfortable in) are very different from what I felt the need to capture my body in just a year ago. Also, as more sizes fit I have the luxury of shopping in a wider variety of shops. Add to this, I've also discovered a latent interest in fashion an style, fueled by reading more fashion magazines, and the luring claws of my Pinterest "closet".
The result has been that my year of no shopping has turned into the year of more shopping than ever before. And I love it. The rush I get from trying on new outfits, finding that they fit and look good on me, is magnificent. Buying new clothes has become my new "comfort food".
Why, then, if this is such a rush, do I still toy with the idea of cutting my habit? (This being a clever word play for those of you who speak French. 'ee 'ee...)
Well, even if it might be healthier to overspend than overeat, it's still not good for me (or my wallet). I'm letting consumerism consume me. Also, there are major environmental issues at play - the environmental cost of the entire production chain from materials, through transportation and vending are considerable and worrisome. I don't have any numbers, but I suspect that by calculating the carbon print of each of my new outfits would I'd see a bleak pattern. My shopping isn't just hurting me; it's hurting the planet.
Knowing all this, however, has never hindered me before, and, frankly - even if I wish I was more environmentally conscious, I'm not. I can strive towards becoming so, but I'm never going to be one of those "move to the wilderness and live off the fat of the land"-types. I can, however, improve.
Because I've arrived back at what caused me to make the radical non-decision one year ago: I already own too much stuff. A few weeks ago I went "shopping" in my own closet at my parents' house, finding old things that either haven't fit in a while, or that was out of fashion, or maybe they just didn't suit my fancy. Trying to think creatively, however, I find that much of what I already own are completely wearable, nice, even chic stuff. Sometimes a jacket can have a whole new life with nothing else done than adding a belt. No need to go shopping when I have these kind of resources at hand!
A new resolution is coming, but this time it isn't avoiding clothes purchases altogether. Rather, I mean to keep doing that, but with an added awareness. First of all, I could definitely improve on what I buy. Ideally, the best for the environment might be not shopping at all, but by focusing on proper materials (eco cotton, anyone?) and quality products I reduce the amount of new stuff I need to buy, and I help support a more aware part of the industry.
Secondly, I could and should reduce what I already own and get rid of stuff I no longer wear. This doesn't have to mean throwing things in the bin - there is a thrift store right across the street from me, and if the items are still wearable (but for someone else than myself), I have no excuse not to give it away (as reuse is also environmentally friendly). Once an item is not wearable anymore, though, for me or anyone else, I should really throw it out. This may not be so environmentally friendly, but it will be friendly to my environment. Having a stuffed closet where you only ever wear half the things makes it cluttered and difficult to handle. I have items in my closet that's probably not been worn in fifteen years. These are typically things I should get rid off once and for all.
Finally, I clearly need to work on my own mind in all of this. Making sure I always have with me that little voice asking "do you need this? When would you wear this? Don't you already own 5 polka-dot dresses?" Sometimes this will mean bringing a friend along (and I know just which one - some of my friends have the shoppoholics just as bad as me...); sometimes it will mean being a little more responsible all on my own.
If you're interested in the environmental part of this post, by the way, I'd like to direct your attention to a very good friend of mine who has devoted her professional life to "conceptual ecology" and "slow fashion". She holds a degree in design, but she has put a very specific spin on this, by focusing on the awareness aspect of fashion. This means consciousness in everything from materials to working conditions (though frankly, I suspect she herself is working too much...), making sure that in every part of the production of her clothes (which are awesome, by the way, did I mention that? She already has designed several items for me, and is in the process of making a dress for a wedding I'm attenting this summer) no more pressure than absolutely necessary is put on the limited resources we have available on this planet. If that means researching what actually happens with silk worms, whether the sheep who provide wool have eaten only organic food, or where one can come by zippers that are as environmentally friendly as possible - she will do it.
You can find her, the magnificent Lisbeth, at Facebook, or her (awesome) website.
Friday, May 11, 2012
On social awkwardness (socwardness)
In reality - and this might be a shocker given all my quirks proudly displayed on this blog - I am a fairly socially adept person. No, really. My mom said so. (She did. Honestly.)
My mom is also socially adept, though, so it's okay. And you know how I know that she is right (and socially adept)? Because another socially adept person (me) said so. Word.
Huh. I got lost in one of my own digressions before even starting... But that set aside; digressions, parentheses, creative punctuation, giraffes and - hing yeah - the fact that someone found my blog the other day by searching for "ecard anti dance mom" (how'd THAT happen..?); all these things set aside, in real life I am a fairly normal, friendly, pleasant person with whom many people seem to enjoy a normal, friendly, pleasant conversation, be it of the "polite mingling"-variety or the more serious "what's the meaning of life?"-variety. I rock at small talk. I know how to hold a glass of wine in one hand, a canapé in the other, and somehow I still manage to find a free hand to shake hands (how many hands do I have? Party trick courtesy of the Norwegian foreign service, no doubt). I make friends easily, I have very few enemies (and then mostly carefully selected nemeses - everyone should have at least one), and when I choose to display it I can have a very winning smile. I am crisp (except when I try to use expressions like "crisp" that I clearly had to look up in Urban Dictionary before posting. And then I got stuck wondering why it's called "Urban Dictionary" and not "the Urban Dictionary", and then I started wondering if it was a Urban Dictionary thing to do to cut all "the's" and whether that won't get terribly confusing, and now I am trying so hard to be crisp or cool or whatever it's called these days that I long since punctured the above attempt at describing myself thus. Ah. Well, I was about to contradict myself anyway.)
Because.
Even though I'm mostly socially adept (sodept? Nah... I'm not crisp enough for that yet), I sometimes fail. And when I fail, I fail BIG time. Spectacularly. Think diving. Nine out of ten times I go in the water - not like a pro, but at least like an amateur that would like to consider his own diving skills appropriate for low-key competitions. Like the (or not "the") Annual Greendale Amateur Diving Championship (why, yes, Postman Pat might participate too, thankyouforasking). Only to find that the tenth time he goes in it's with a splash. A big one. An epic one. A gigantic belly flop which forever renders him (me? I got lost in my own metaphor) extremely aware that he is not only madly inferior to Postman Pat, but that he also has absolutely no business participating in any championships and that he preferable should never go near water ever again.
That's how awkward I can be on (the?) occasions that my social skills do fail.
Like today.
When they failed. Miserably so.
It all started well. I was on my way to work, not feeling terribly motivated by the fact that I had been forced to leave my warm, comfy bed to walk in grey, rainy-ish weather to go spend the day at the office where I will be teaching myself medieval history. Yeah. Motivation fail. Still, this isn't a huge derivation from normal mornings, so when I initiated this paragraph by saying "[i]t all started well" I wasn't lying. The above description is "well". It's not optimal, but "well". In the adverbial sense (--> better, best), not the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense. Well.
I was interrupted in my somewhat gloomy well-ness, however, by a young lady.
Had I been a man, I presume this interruption would have been most welcome. The young lady in question was cute, friendly (crisp?), polite and when she spoke it was with an adorable accent. Charming, I'm sure.
I am not a man. I prefer that in any given conversation I am the cute, friendly (crisp?), polite one, even if my accent (when speaking Norwegian, at least) sadly is somewhat polished and boring (when speaking English, however, I probably have an accent so adorable bunnies fly out of my nose).
The young interruptive lady asked me for directions.
I hate directions.
Well (again in the above clarified sense of the word), I don't hate them. I find them difficult to take, and to give. Especially when we're talking about geographical directions. I have a terrible sense of direction. I managed to get lost in Washington, D.C. once (a city where the streets in one direction are numbered, and the streets in the other direction are alphabetized). I also managed to get lost in Skotterud, Eidskog, Norway once - a place so tiny you probably haven't even heard of it. That's right! That tiny! Once I got lost I followed a pidgeon for three blocks. I was still lost.
Thus, asking me for directions is not exactly your best strategy if you are the one who is lost. Asking me for directions when I am gloomy (if well), sleepy and probably slightly hormonal, is an even poorer strategy. The young lady of the charming accent did not know this, of course. (How could she? She did not know anything. Not even the way.)
I realize that the build-up here implies that I somehow exploded all over the poor girl and put her in tears on the first train back to Charmingaccentville. The build-up is misleading. Yes, I was gloomy, but no, I am not explode-all-over-stranger-prone. Besides, if you look back you'll realize that there also is a build-up to a detailed account of my social awkwardness. In fact, the build-up to that is much clearer, and forms a more coherent direction for this post. You only wanted the build-up to be for something more thrilling, like an explosion, because that would make for a more exciting tale! I'm sorry, but if you want exciting tales, you better go read someone else's blog.
So. There.
I did not explode. But I faced a terrible dilemma. Should I help this cute, friendly (I'm officially giving up crisp), polite and adorably accented young lady; or should I pretend to be a deaf, Chinese tourist genetically modified to look like a native, which would both explain why I could not hear, understand OR help her?
I chose the golden middle. I decided to "help" her.
In all fairness, the directions she asked were not complicated. She wanted to get to the University Campus. I believe I have mentioned this (several times) before, but for clarity's sake: I work at the university. On campus. I was headed for work. I was clearly going the same way as she was.
Now, a normal person - for instance me on most days - would say that to the young lady. "I work at the university, and I am going there now. Follow me, and I'll show you."
I didn't say that.
After all, it would be a good five to seven minutes before we reached campus. I would have to make polite conversation with this person for five to seven minutes. Or, if failing to make conversation, I would have to tolerate five to seven minutes walking next to a stranger without speaking at all.
This is where my brain on most days would have jumped to wine-glass-and-canapé-mode and handled the situation by asking her unimportant questions like "so, what are you doing at the university?" or "did you catch the last episode of Mad Men?" (the latter would be stupid, though, because I'm two seasons behind. No spoilers!).
Today, however, the only thing my brain could do was set of a red warning lamp, saying "DANGER, DANGER, UNWANTED SOCIAL INTERACTION MIGHT OCCUR!!!"
I smiled awkwardly. Then I pointed in the general direction she (and I) should be headed, saying something about keeping straight ahead over the hill, and then she'd see it (which might or might not be true. I had never checked). And then I left.
That's right. We were going to the same place, but instead of telling her so, I went another way.
My way was the right way. Hers was... not wrong, per se. But slightly less right.
Happy that I had solved the awkward situation in such a speedy manner, I continued walking my regular route. I had sent her a few blocks east of me. (Due to my aforementioned poor sense of direction I have no idea if it actually is east, but it serves to bring clarity to the narrative, so I'm keeping it [and not, Digression's forbid, checking it. That would be - reasearch. Dude!].) My theory was that she would walk (in accordance with my vague pointing) about two blocks north (again, for the sake of the narrative), and then turn west. If she had done do, at an appropriate speed, I would have been able to walk my two blocks north sufficiently far west of her (and then turning further west) to avoiding seeing her, ever, again.
My theory, not unlike my social skills, failed.
As I was about to turn west (the whole east-west-north-thingie is confusing me. I'm sorry if it was helping you, but I am inventing a new direction for the sake of un-confusing myself. Deal with it.) - as I was about to turn uppity, whom other did I see but the young lady with an adorable accent and issues with picking the right type of people to give her dictections. Whom other? A famous sports journalist, that's who(m). But the right thereafter I saw the young lady too.
At this, my social skills performed one small effort before crumbling into dust. They waved at the young lady. Oh, Digressions, I was beackoning her closer. My hand in some evil conspiracy with my terminal social skills were trying to help the poor girl.
By then it must have been rather obvious to her that I was, indeed, going the same direction as she. Still, I was the only person about (the sport journalist having disappeared by then), and she was still lost (due to the fact that the last person she'd asked for directions only had replied with vague finger pointing...). So she ran to me (again, had I been a man, this might have been a rather welcome situation. I am still not a man).
"Soooo," I said, stretching the oooo in an attempt to come up with an excuse as to why I had been reluctant to actually offer helpful help. "What part of campus are you going to? You see, there is an upper part, and then a lower part..."
By offering this information, I really hoped she would read between the lines and hear what I wanted her to hear:
"I would have offered to walk you there, naturally, but since you failed to specify where on campus you were going, I could only assume that you were going somewhere else than me. Which makes my reaction not socially awkward, but rather rational and understandable."
"I'm going to the library," she said.
"Ah." ("Darn, right in the middle, then. Yeah, well, I'm still going to a completely different part of campus than you, and it still makes sense to me, at least, why I didn't show you the way. Even if my office is located in the building right next to the library...")
We walked. In the dreaded silence. I tried a few "uhm, yeah, well, it's not easy knowing the way if you don't know the way, hum-di-dum" but by then the effort was pretty futile. She knew I'd been trying to get out of walking with her, and thus she wasn't up to making the situation any easier on me.
At the earliest possible moment I went for the finger-pointing strategy again ("It's that big black building you see far, far behind all those other buildings over there...") and she speeded up to avoid further embarassment on both our parts. Just to make sure to stick to my "story" (you know, the one I hoped she'd read between the lines), I took a detour and walked for a while in the opposite direction from where I was going. I hoped to never see her again.
I saw her again two blocks later.
I had deliberately been walking the wrong direction, sloooooowly, to make absolutely sure that she would have passed the intersection between my detour path and the uppity-headed path. But no. She passed it at the exact time I was headed there.
In total mortification, now, I snuck back, hid (literally HID) behind the biology building, wondering how long I could stand there before she'd find me. Or before someone else might find me terribly weird.
In the end I decided that neither would be very long. So I walked - again in the opposite direction from where I actually was going - to the Physics building cafeteria. Where I decided to spend a few extra minutes buying a salad (for lunch), and a cup of coffee (for immediately).
As I swiped my card I remembered that I was running low on funds. So low, in fact, that my purchase got denied. I had to humiliate myself and ask the lunch lady to charge only the coffee. Fortunately, I had (just) enough for the that. Which I needed (immediately). And then I put the salad back.
Basically, by then my social awkwardness (yes, at least, as crisp as crisp gets: socwardness) had made me wish I could just sink into a well (of the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense) that would magically appear before me. No such thing happened.
Karma. I guess.
My mom is also socially adept, though, so it's okay. And you know how I know that she is right (and socially adept)? Because another socially adept person (me) said so. Word.
Huh. I got lost in one of my own digressions before even starting... But that set aside; digressions, parentheses, creative punctuation, giraffes and - hing yeah - the fact that someone found my blog the other day by searching for "ecard anti dance mom" (how'd THAT happen..?); all these things set aside, in real life I am a fairly normal, friendly, pleasant person with whom many people seem to enjoy a normal, friendly, pleasant conversation, be it of the "polite mingling"-variety or the more serious "what's the meaning of life?"-variety. I rock at small talk. I know how to hold a glass of wine in one hand, a canapé in the other, and somehow I still manage to find a free hand to shake hands (how many hands do I have? Party trick courtesy of the Norwegian foreign service, no doubt). I make friends easily, I have very few enemies (and then mostly carefully selected nemeses - everyone should have at least one), and when I choose to display it I can have a very winning smile. I am crisp (except when I try to use expressions like "crisp" that I clearly had to look up in Urban Dictionary before posting. And then I got stuck wondering why it's called "Urban Dictionary" and not "the Urban Dictionary", and then I started wondering if it was a Urban Dictionary thing to do to cut all "the's" and whether that won't get terribly confusing, and now I am trying so hard to be crisp or cool or whatever it's called these days that I long since punctured the above attempt at describing myself thus. Ah. Well, I was about to contradict myself anyway.)
Because.
Even though I'm mostly socially adept (sodept? Nah... I'm not crisp enough for that yet), I sometimes fail. And when I fail, I fail BIG time. Spectacularly. Think diving. Nine out of ten times I go in the water - not like a pro, but at least like an amateur that would like to consider his own diving skills appropriate for low-key competitions. Like the (or not "the") Annual Greendale Amateur Diving Championship (why, yes, Postman Pat might participate too, thankyouforasking). Only to find that the tenth time he goes in it's with a splash. A big one. An epic one. A gigantic belly flop which forever renders him (me? I got lost in my own metaphor) extremely aware that he is not only madly inferior to Postman Pat, but that he also has absolutely no business participating in any championships and that he preferable should never go near water ever again.
That's how awkward I can be on (the?) occasions that my social skills do fail.
Like today.
When they failed. Miserably so.
It all started well. I was on my way to work, not feeling terribly motivated by the fact that I had been forced to leave my warm, comfy bed to walk in grey, rainy-ish weather to go spend the day at the office where I will be teaching myself medieval history. Yeah. Motivation fail. Still, this isn't a huge derivation from normal mornings, so when I initiated this paragraph by saying "[i]t all started well" I wasn't lying. The above description is "well". It's not optimal, but "well". In the adverbial sense (--> better, best), not the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense. Well.
I was interrupted in my somewhat gloomy well-ness, however, by a young lady.
Had I been a man, I presume this interruption would have been most welcome. The young lady in question was cute, friendly (crisp?), polite and when she spoke it was with an adorable accent. Charming, I'm sure.
I am not a man. I prefer that in any given conversation I am the cute, friendly (crisp?), polite one, even if my accent (when speaking Norwegian, at least) sadly is somewhat polished and boring (when speaking English, however, I probably have an accent so adorable bunnies fly out of my nose).
The young interruptive lady asked me for directions.
I hate directions.
Well (again in the above clarified sense of the word), I don't hate them. I find them difficult to take, and to give. Especially when we're talking about geographical directions. I have a terrible sense of direction. I managed to get lost in Washington, D.C. once (a city where the streets in one direction are numbered, and the streets in the other direction are alphabetized). I also managed to get lost in Skotterud, Eidskog, Norway once - a place so tiny you probably haven't even heard of it. That's right! That tiny! Once I got lost I followed a pidgeon for three blocks. I was still lost.
Thus, asking me for directions is not exactly your best strategy if you are the one who is lost. Asking me for directions when I am gloomy (if well), sleepy and probably slightly hormonal, is an even poorer strategy. The young lady of the charming accent did not know this, of course. (How could she? She did not know anything. Not even the way.)
I realize that the build-up here implies that I somehow exploded all over the poor girl and put her in tears on the first train back to Charmingaccentville. The build-up is misleading. Yes, I was gloomy, but no, I am not explode-all-over-stranger-prone. Besides, if you look back you'll realize that there also is a build-up to a detailed account of my social awkwardness. In fact, the build-up to that is much clearer, and forms a more coherent direction for this post. You only wanted the build-up to be for something more thrilling, like an explosion, because that would make for a more exciting tale! I'm sorry, but if you want exciting tales, you better go read someone else's blog.
So. There.
I did not explode. But I faced a terrible dilemma. Should I help this cute, friendly (I'm officially giving up crisp), polite and adorably accented young lady; or should I pretend to be a deaf, Chinese tourist genetically modified to look like a native, which would both explain why I could not hear, understand OR help her?
I chose the golden middle. I decided to "help" her.
In all fairness, the directions she asked were not complicated. She wanted to get to the University Campus. I believe I have mentioned this (several times) before, but for clarity's sake: I work at the university. On campus. I was headed for work. I was clearly going the same way as she was.
Now, a normal person - for instance me on most days - would say that to the young lady. "I work at the university, and I am going there now. Follow me, and I'll show you."
I didn't say that.
After all, it would be a good five to seven minutes before we reached campus. I would have to make polite conversation with this person for five to seven minutes. Or, if failing to make conversation, I would have to tolerate five to seven minutes walking next to a stranger without speaking at all.
This is where my brain on most days would have jumped to wine-glass-and-canapé-mode and handled the situation by asking her unimportant questions like "so, what are you doing at the university?" or "did you catch the last episode of Mad Men?" (the latter would be stupid, though, because I'm two seasons behind. No spoilers!).
Today, however, the only thing my brain could do was set of a red warning lamp, saying "DANGER, DANGER, UNWANTED SOCIAL INTERACTION MIGHT OCCUR!!!"
I smiled awkwardly. Then I pointed in the general direction she (and I) should be headed, saying something about keeping straight ahead over the hill, and then she'd see it (which might or might not be true. I had never checked). And then I left.
That's right. We were going to the same place, but instead of telling her so, I went another way.
My way was the right way. Hers was... not wrong, per se. But slightly less right.
Happy that I had solved the awkward situation in such a speedy manner, I continued walking my regular route. I had sent her a few blocks east of me. (Due to my aforementioned poor sense of direction I have no idea if it actually is east, but it serves to bring clarity to the narrative, so I'm keeping it [and not, Digression's forbid, checking it. That would be - reasearch. Dude!].) My theory was that she would walk (in accordance with my vague pointing) about two blocks north (again, for the sake of the narrative), and then turn west. If she had done do, at an appropriate speed, I would have been able to walk my two blocks north sufficiently far west of her (and then turning further west) to avoiding seeing her, ever, again.
My theory, not unlike my social skills, failed.
As I was about to turn west (the whole east-west-north-thingie is confusing me. I'm sorry if it was helping you, but I am inventing a new direction for the sake of un-confusing myself. Deal with it.) - as I was about to turn uppity, whom other did I see but the young lady with an adorable accent and issues with picking the right type of people to give her dictections. Whom other? A famous sports journalist, that's who(m). But the right thereafter I saw the young lady too.
At this, my social skills performed one small effort before crumbling into dust. They waved at the young lady. Oh, Digressions, I was beackoning her closer. My hand in some evil conspiracy with my terminal social skills were trying to help the poor girl.
By then it must have been rather obvious to her that I was, indeed, going the same direction as she. Still, I was the only person about (the sport journalist having disappeared by then), and she was still lost (due to the fact that the last person she'd asked for directions only had replied with vague finger pointing...). So she ran to me (again, had I been a man, this might have been a rather welcome situation. I am still not a man).
"Soooo," I said, stretching the oooo in an attempt to come up with an excuse as to why I had been reluctant to actually offer helpful help. "What part of campus are you going to? You see, there is an upper part, and then a lower part..."
By offering this information, I really hoped she would read between the lines and hear what I wanted her to hear:
"I would have offered to walk you there, naturally, but since you failed to specify where on campus you were going, I could only assume that you were going somewhere else than me. Which makes my reaction not socially awkward, but rather rational and understandable."
"I'm going to the library," she said.
"Ah." ("Darn, right in the middle, then. Yeah, well, I'm still going to a completely different part of campus than you, and it still makes sense to me, at least, why I didn't show you the way. Even if my office is located in the building right next to the library...")
We walked. In the dreaded silence. I tried a few "uhm, yeah, well, it's not easy knowing the way if you don't know the way, hum-di-dum" but by then the effort was pretty futile. She knew I'd been trying to get out of walking with her, and thus she wasn't up to making the situation any easier on me.
At the earliest possible moment I went for the finger-pointing strategy again ("It's that big black building you see far, far behind all those other buildings over there...") and she speeded up to avoid further embarassment on both our parts. Just to make sure to stick to my "story" (you know, the one I hoped she'd read between the lines), I took a detour and walked for a while in the opposite direction from where I was going. I hoped to never see her again.
I saw her again two blocks later.
I had deliberately been walking the wrong direction, sloooooowly, to make absolutely sure that she would have passed the intersection between my detour path and the uppity-headed path. But no. She passed it at the exact time I was headed there.
In total mortification, now, I snuck back, hid (literally HID) behind the biology building, wondering how long I could stand there before she'd find me. Or before someone else might find me terribly weird.
In the end I decided that neither would be very long. So I walked - again in the opposite direction from where I actually was going - to the Physics building cafeteria. Where I decided to spend a few extra minutes buying a salad (for lunch), and a cup of coffee (for immediately).
As I swiped my card I remembered that I was running low on funds. So low, in fact, that my purchase got denied. I had to humiliate myself and ask the lunch lady to charge only the coffee. Fortunately, I had (just) enough for the that. Which I needed (immediately). And then I put the salad back.
Basically, by then my social awkwardness (yes, at least, as crisp as crisp gets: socwardness) had made me wish I could just sink into a well (of the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense) that would magically appear before me. No such thing happened.
Karma. I guess.
Friday, April 27, 2012
On F****** Fridays
Got up too early AND too late at the same time.
It's raining.
Struggled to find the flow in the papers I had to read this morning.
Continued to struggle all day.
Spent too much money. On stuff. And food. And stuff.
Stupid papers!
Why am I freezing? My feet are icicles (as usual).
Now I'm sleepy. Wish it was a "real" Friday. One where I didn't have to work most of the night.
Bit of a stomach ache.
Cold.
Sleepy.
Want something and don't want it at the same time. Like chocolate.
Definitely don't want to read papers. But if I don't - I'll have to gobble up too many of them the upcoming week instead.
Sigh.
Next Friday will be better!
It's raining.
Struggled to find the flow in the papers I had to read this morning.
Continued to struggle all day.
Spent too much money. On stuff. And food. And stuff.
Stupid papers!
Why am I freezing? My feet are icicles (as usual).
Now I'm sleepy. Wish it was a "real" Friday. One where I didn't have to work most of the night.
Bit of a stomach ache.
Cold.
Sleepy.
Want something and don't want it at the same time. Like chocolate.
Definitely don't want to read papers. But if I don't - I'll have to gobble up too many of them the upcoming week instead.
Sigh.
Next Friday will be better!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
On today
7 am. Not ready to get up yet. Have to get up. Gets up. Someone else in the bathroom. Notices pile of - trash? - in the hallway. Hopes this will be away soon. Goes back to bed. Gets back up. Bathroom free. No towel. Gets back to room, picks up towel. Someone else in the bathroom. Goes back to room, but not back to bed. Checks Facebook. Stupid Facebook. Goes back to bathroom, with towel. Takes a shower. Gets shampoo in the mouth. Nearly slips on wet bathroom floor. Goes back to room. Dries hair. Gets dressed. Almost gets mascara on both eyeballs. Manages to get it off the one. Has quick breakfast. Brushes teeth. Leaves house.
Twists ankle due to stupid shoes. Gets weirded out by staring hobo. Arrives at work slightly too late.
Lecture preparation. Small talk with professor. Gets compliment from said professor - a 60 year old man - about "lovely summer dress". Not sure this is a good thing.
Lecture. Few students attend. Those who do are largely quiet. Tries to engage them. Only moderately succeeds.
Lunch. Nice talk with friend. Lots of complicated topics. Gets support for difficult and conflicted decision. Stays too long. No motivation to go back to work.
Facebook. Stupid Facebook.
New meeting with another friend. Flat mate shows up. Good talk. Slight sunburn.
Reading outside. Finding book to simplistic. Annoyed.
Dinner. Not sure about meat anymore. Vegetarianism? Hmm...
New lecture. Listening this time. Four hours. Still my students. Everyone says hello. Feels famous. Not liking it. Lecture drawing out. Topics are familiar. As they should be. Small talk with this professor too. More lecture. More lecture still. Illegible notes. Fine.
Walk home. Twists ankle due to stupid shoes. No yogurt in shop. No yogurt in second shop either. Magically avoids buying something else. Walks up stairs. Less tired than last week. Opens door to find pile of trash still there. No idea whose it is. No alternative to take it out. Annoyed. Wants to knock on doors and find culprit. Goes to kitchen instead. Also a mess. No one took out the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Even more annoyed. Goes to bathroom to start washing machine. Washing machine not working. Annoyed enough to make garlic bread. Not annoyed enough to do anything about trash or mess or washing machine.
Writing. Angry. Checks Facebook. Stupid Facebook. Wants to hit something. Writing more still.
Angry.
Annoyed.
Someone coming. Culprit?
Not culprit.
Should read.
Will read.
Should sleep.
Will sleep.
Twists ankle due to stupid shoes. Gets weirded out by staring hobo. Arrives at work slightly too late.
Lecture preparation. Small talk with professor. Gets compliment from said professor - a 60 year old man - about "lovely summer dress". Not sure this is a good thing.
Lecture. Few students attend. Those who do are largely quiet. Tries to engage them. Only moderately succeeds.
Lunch. Nice talk with friend. Lots of complicated topics. Gets support for difficult and conflicted decision. Stays too long. No motivation to go back to work.
Facebook. Stupid Facebook.
New meeting with another friend. Flat mate shows up. Good talk. Slight sunburn.
Reading outside. Finding book to simplistic. Annoyed.
Dinner. Not sure about meat anymore. Vegetarianism? Hmm...
New lecture. Listening this time. Four hours. Still my students. Everyone says hello. Feels famous. Not liking it. Lecture drawing out. Topics are familiar. As they should be. Small talk with this professor too. More lecture. More lecture still. Illegible notes. Fine.
Walk home. Twists ankle due to stupid shoes. No yogurt in shop. No yogurt in second shop either. Magically avoids buying something else. Walks up stairs. Less tired than last week. Opens door to find pile of trash still there. No idea whose it is. No alternative to take it out. Annoyed. Wants to knock on doors and find culprit. Goes to kitchen instead. Also a mess. No one took out the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Even more annoyed. Goes to bathroom to start washing machine. Washing machine not working. Annoyed enough to make garlic bread. Not annoyed enough to do anything about trash or mess or washing machine.
Writing. Angry. Checks Facebook. Stupid Facebook. Wants to hit something. Writing more still.
Angry.
Annoyed.
Someone coming. Culprit?
Not culprit.
Should read.
Will read.
Should sleep.
Will sleep.
Monday, March 26, 2012
On my desk
...there is a bottle, empty, but it once contained orange juice. No longer. Someone drank the juice. Me, presumably.
On my desk there is also a postcard, blank, but I originally bought it with someone specific in mind. I still look at it from time to time and find a special guilt in my heart. I should write the postcard soon-ish.
There is a telephone, or two, actually. One is my cell phone of five years this fall. It's been with me through a lot - across oceans, through a master's thesis, several jobs. I've had good news and great news and terrible news and oh-well-it's-probably-for-the-best-news handed to me through it. I've heard voices I despise, and voices I love. Texts that have made me cry. Some that made me glow.
The other phone is the land line to the office I currently occupy. It's rarely in use. This morning it nearly startled me to death, as I'm not used to the sound of it. The conversation was comical and irrelevant.
On my desk there is a Starbucks travel mug. Sakura 2011 edition. I bought it sometime in the early spring last year, expecting to actually be able to see the 2011 sakura blossom in Tokyo. Then the earthquake changed my plan. I hold no grudge against the mug, though.
There is a timetable on my desk. It is too full for my liking.
On my desk there is a pair of sunglasses. They long for usage.
On my desk there is a lot of papers. Some of them belong there, some of them really don't. I should take some time to organize them. I probably won't.
A couple of books - history books - open on the pages of "World War Two" are covered with a pair of gloves and a cheerful scarf.
Another pair of sunglasses. They too long for usage.
On my desk there is three pairs of earrings and two regular rings. And then a keyring. With lots of keys on it. Most of them are to my apartment (4), the rest (3) are for a) work; b) my parents' house; and c) and old bike I haven't used for at least ten years. The figurines attached to the keychain are all bought in Japan, but with 8 years in between.
I have three types of lipgloss and/or lipbalm lying around on my desk.
The various equipment for writing include: one keyboard, three ballpoint pens, two pencils - one of them red, three different colours of highlighters, two felt-tip pens, one "gel-ink" marvel.
On my desk there is a watch. It's not working. Benefit: I didn't have to adjust it for daylight saving this weekend.
Post-it notes of at least three different shapes and colours are spread across the desk.
There is a water bottle on my desk.
On my desk there are two fairly good loudspeakers. The problem is that they only work about half the time.
On my desk there is a dead fly. It's been sitting in that exact position since I moved into this office in October.
On my desk there is also a postcard, blank, but I originally bought it with someone specific in mind. I still look at it from time to time and find a special guilt in my heart. I should write the postcard soon-ish.
There is a telephone, or two, actually. One is my cell phone of five years this fall. It's been with me through a lot - across oceans, through a master's thesis, several jobs. I've had good news and great news and terrible news and oh-well-it's-probably-for-the-best-news handed to me through it. I've heard voices I despise, and voices I love. Texts that have made me cry. Some that made me glow.
The other phone is the land line to the office I currently occupy. It's rarely in use. This morning it nearly startled me to death, as I'm not used to the sound of it. The conversation was comical and irrelevant.
On my desk there is a Starbucks travel mug. Sakura 2011 edition. I bought it sometime in the early spring last year, expecting to actually be able to see the 2011 sakura blossom in Tokyo. Then the earthquake changed my plan. I hold no grudge against the mug, though.
There is a timetable on my desk. It is too full for my liking.
On my desk there is a pair of sunglasses. They long for usage.
On my desk there is a lot of papers. Some of them belong there, some of them really don't. I should take some time to organize them. I probably won't.
A couple of books - history books - open on the pages of "World War Two" are covered with a pair of gloves and a cheerful scarf.
Another pair of sunglasses. They too long for usage.
On my desk there is three pairs of earrings and two regular rings. And then a keyring. With lots of keys on it. Most of them are to my apartment (4), the rest (3) are for a) work; b) my parents' house; and c) and old bike I haven't used for at least ten years. The figurines attached to the keychain are all bought in Japan, but with 8 years in between.
I have three types of lipgloss and/or lipbalm lying around on my desk.
The various equipment for writing include: one keyboard, three ballpoint pens, two pencils - one of them red, three different colours of highlighters, two felt-tip pens, one "gel-ink" marvel.
On my desk there is a watch. It's not working. Benefit: I didn't have to adjust it for daylight saving this weekend.
Post-it notes of at least three different shapes and colours are spread across the desk.
There is a water bottle on my desk.
On my desk there are two fairly good loudspeakers. The problem is that they only work about half the time.
On my desk there is a dead fly. It's been sitting in that exact position since I moved into this office in October.
Monday, February 13, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
On this
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:
Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).
(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).
Thursday, October 20, 2011
On unmentionables
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 ask 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...
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 ask 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...
Sunday, October 16, 2011
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?
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?
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
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