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

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


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

For instance. I have a reflex.

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

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

Yes, what about Alaska?

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

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

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

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

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

However, that might be subject to change.

On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Reflexes save lives"; and

"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."

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

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

On gingerbread houses

Every Norwegian boy and girl born after 1953 are familiar with Torbjørn Egner’s Klatremus and his friends in the Hakkebakkeskogen. It’s as popular today as it was fifty years ago. One of the familiar songs from this classic children’s book, is the gingerbread song – a song sung by the chief baker, Baker Rabbit [Bakemester Harepus] to his assistant so that the assistant won’t forget the recipe for gingerbread cookies. The problem is, the assistant mixes the lyrics up, and thus he adds 1 teaspoon sugar and one kilo pepper, instead of the other way around. Needless to say, the result isn’t very successful (and Baker Rabbit is forced to make a new batch).


The morale of this story is not to check the recipe properly (as the bad cookies actually come in handy to teach the mean fox a lesson), or not to trust your assistants. As a recipe the song is quite useless (none of the recipes I’ve ever seen actually have pepper in them – even though gingerbread in Norwegian is pepperkaker. If you want proof that the recipe is no good, check out this link where a chef tests both recipes. It’s in Norwegian, but you should be able to get the gist of it even if you don’t speak Norwegian). The best usage for the song, aside from being a very funny part of an altogether wonderful book, is to set the mood for proper gingerbread making [pepperkakebaking].

That is how I spent a Friday night earlier this month. My new roommate and I had decided that we wanted to build a gingerbread house – something we’ve both been doing for years, but usually not together and always at our respective parents’ houses. When I was little, we always made the same basic house each year – we used the same pattern and we decorated it with the same type of frosting and candy every year. As I grew older, however, I took more charge in the process, and the houses gradually became more advanced. We’ve made churches, trains and a fortress to name a few – when I came back from Japan we even made a pagoda. This year, however, we decided that it was time to think even further outside the box. We made the Tower Bridge in London!

It took a lot of work, a lot of dough and a lot of mulled wine [gløgg], and seeing as it is a combined bascule and suspension bridge (ours isn’t really, but it still involves four long structures made of cookie dough, supported only at each end. It felt like defying the laws of physics), it took some hidden wires to keep it from collapsing. After having glued it together with melted sugar, and decorated it (mainly with the Norwegian equivalent of Smarties – NonStops, as is tradition), it looks pretty nice. We even entered in a contest where the winner gets 10 000 kroner (but that’s never gonna happen – after having seen some of the other contributions  I am slightly more down to earth concerning our chances of winning…).

And now for something completely different. Christmas is around the corner. Finally. It’s been a stressful few weeks (as anticipated). Not only have I been working 15 hour days almost constant since the end of November; the 15 hours in question have been fairly crazy too. First I’ve spent a good part of the day at the university, fighting my way through what eventually has become an acceptably solid but hopelessly crappy draft for what will become chapter three of my thesis. When I was in the U.S. I was collecting sources for my thesis. Now I am working with them, trying to figure out what they mean, trying to identify patterns or lack thereof. It’s a whole ‘nother story, and I've been stressing max to get something written, something, before Christmas.

After having spent eight or so hours at the university, I have most days had work afterward too – in the bookshop from h*** (you know the place…). Normally it’s a nice place to work, but add the extra ingredient “Christmas” and people, like the aforementioned gingerbread recipe with extra pepper, go bananas. I don’t like being yelled at. I don’t like being told that I have to wrap presents when this means that the 20 others waiting in line will have to stretch their patience even further. I don't like people grabbing my arm to get a hold of me when they need a recommendation for a "book for someone who doesn't read" (well, then don't give them a book. It's that easy!). Basically, I have done nothing else than work, write my thesis, eat and sleep for weeks. I expected to post another “Conversations in bookshops” blog, but even though I have the stories, I just don’t have the energy when I get home at 11 pm every night.

That is quite enough complaining for today. After all, it’s over now. I've sent the chapter draft to my supervisor. Today is my last day at work before Christmas, and next term I will work next to nothing (which will be tough financially, but it needs to be done if I want my thesis to be finished on time). Tonight or tomorrow morning I leave Oslo to celebrate Christmas with my family in Kongsvinger. And Norway is looking like Norway should at this time of year – Winder Wonderland. It’s been either snowing or freezing for a week or so, so now it’s stuck even downtown Oslo. I expect making snowmen with my nephews in a few days.

I think it’s time for me to declare that this blog will take a Christmas break (it feels like I deserve it, even though I know I haven’t been keeping up the blogging in the midst of all the mania). I will be back in 2010 (or maybe sooner, but I don’t expect so. I intend to spend my time off with my family and friends, plus I have a ton of books I’d like to read).


Merry Christmas, and a Peaceful New Year – or Happy Holidays to those who celebrate otherwise!

Tower in Dough

Smashed hard candy [drops] in the window openings will make glass after baking. Or so the theory goes. It sort of worked, but they tended to either break or get very sticky. But also very cool!

Nudist Tower (yes, Tami, this is for you)

The image might not reveal it entirely, but on the right side of the bridge there has been a jelly man [seimann] massacre seeing as we wanted a Christmas tree and the only thing we had to make it from were the green jelly men... The red ones are happily dancing around the "tree"...

Christmas Night in London

On Santa Lucia

I'm a day late. Saint Lucy's day was yesterday. On the 13th of December each year, this day is celebrated - mainly in Italy and in Scandinavia. The fact that this day is celebrated in Scandinavia is strange, actually. If  religious at all, most Scandinavians are Lutherans. We don't really do saints. But Lucy/Lucia - an Italian martyr who lived in the late third and early fourth centuries - is for some reason one of the few we commemorate. I don't think many Norwegians (I can't speak for the Swedes and Danes) know specifically why we celebrate Saint Lucy's day (I had to google it, and I'm not all that much wiser - it had to do with torture and religion, and frankly, I get enough of both in my thesis...). Regardless of this, however, we have very specific traditions in connection with December 13th.

There are processions with young girls in white gowns, holding candles and singing "Santa Lucia" (the Neapolitan song with Norwegian lyrics). There is a special type of pastry baked and served on this day only (lussekatt). Often, the processions are in schools, kindergartens, or they visit nursing homes or churches. Yesterday they even had one walking down Karl Johan, the main street here in Oslo (the street that a few nights earlier was absolutely packed with all the people waiting outside Obama's hotel hoping to catch a glimpse of him and Michelle).

I didn't celebrate Santa Lucia this year. I had an eventful weekend otherwise, and though I would have liked to make lussekatter it didn't fit into my schedule this time. Maybe next year I can make up for it. I did, however, think about Saint Lucy's day when we were planning The Burrow's Advent Calendar. Yesterday's entry was my tribute to the Scandinavian celebration of Saint Lucy's day. One day late, I present the drabble also here:

There are many rules when participating in the traditional Santa Lucia procession:

Walk straight, one step at the time, following the beat of the choir singing "Santa Lucia."
Keep your head up, don't look down, but don't step on the long, white gown you are wearing.
Hold your candle straight, and make sure it doesn't drip on the floor or set something on fire.
Smile.
Look serene.
Most important of all: don't cast envious glances at the queen of the procession, who is wearing the crown of lights, while you are merely wearing a silver garland tied around your head.

To see the image accompanying this drabble, please visit http://www.the-burrow.org/. There you can find a drabble a day counting down to Christmas Eve.

On conversations in bookshops (part two)

For any new visitors, let me offer the link to the first part of this post. Actually, this is not so much a second part, as it is a second post on the same subject, because I figured I had more to say. Frankly, I suspect this is a topic that never will be completely exhausted, at last not while I work in a bookshop (which, hopefully, won’t be all that much longer. Must finish thesis and get a “real” job…). Until Sunday, I had a perfectly lovely and surprisingly unstressful weekend. There have been Christmas markets, mulled wine (gløgg), a gingerbread house (or actually, bridge) and this was the weekend I discovered Spotify (expect details on all accounts in later posts). But then Sunday I had to work. Normally, in Norway, most shops aren’t open on Sundays. Normally. But there is nothing normal about Christmas. So we have Sunday-open shops to allow people to shop till they drop just in time for Christmas. Meaning Sunday-working me. And Sunday-moody customers. *sigh*




“Excuse me, do you work here?” [I realize I used this one last time too, but there are different replies, y’see]

“(Yes, and my only desire in this world is to not finish this thing I was doing but instead help you find a book you will not buy anyway) Mhm?” [We’re allowed to be more grumpy as Christmas approaches. The amount of time left to the big ding-dong on Christmas Eve is inversed proportional to the grumpiness of employees in bookstores. Really. It’s science.]



“You!”

“Er…Me? (My name is NOT “You”. And don’t, don’t touch me! Seriously. I’ll scream! Or recommend a really crappy book!)”

“Can you please help me find a book to a [insert age, gender and occasionally profession]?”

“(Oh, so now you’re polite? Hrmf…) Hrmf… I mean, sure.”



“Can you help me?”

“Yes…?”

[Customer leaves. Store employee follows.] “Er…?”

“Over here!”

“Er… (Why are you making me follow you around the store? This is not “Follow the leader” – and even if it was – you’re not the leader…)”



“These are both gifts.”

“(…and the appropriate way of asking me to gift wrap it would be a question, with a ‘please’ at the end) Would it be alright if I just send some paper with you, since we have a lot of people waiting in line at the moment?”

“No. I don’t know how to wrap presents.”

“(Grumble-Mumble. That is NOT an excuse. If you just tried…) Well, as you can see, there are a lot of people waiting…”

“I don’t care. You have to wrap these.”

“(I don’t have to do anything, Mister. Nowhere in my contract does it specify that I have to deal with lazy, insensitive morons. But since this argument is taking longer than the actual wrapping…) Christmas paper?”
[Note - this conversation has been cut, as it was much, much, much, much longer in reallity. Some of the comments in parentheses have also been censored since this is a "family blog"...)



And my favourite today (NOT the same guy as above):

“Wait. Do you have any other kinds of paper?”

“(What, it did not occur to you to ask me this before I wrapped it?!?)Well, yes…?”

“Can I see them?”

“(Yes you can, but not in a million years expect that I will change the paper) Sure.”

“I like the one with the teddy bears better.”

“(But you are buying the new Dan Brown…?) Bit advanced children’s literature, don’t you think? (Even if it is Dan Brown…)”

“Just a very childish 29-year-old…”

(I actually ended up changing the paper. Why? Well, 30% because I liked the idea of a childish 29-year-old, 10% because I wasn’t entire done yet, 5% because I wanted to avoid another argument, and 55% because the guy was really cute… Yes, I’m that easily fooled!)

On wishes

Since my birthday is in November, my poor family members have the difficult task of figuring out what to buy me for my birthday and for Christmas within two months. Actually, it shouldn’t be all that difficult, since one of the traits I have inherited from my dad is the fact that I pretty much am happy with whatever someone gives me. My dad is amazing that way. I’m confident that I could give him a self-made macaroni picture (even now, when I am 24), and he would be genuinely happy about it.


Still, for some reason it appears that my family doesn’t share my conviction that it’s easy to buy me presents. Therefore, each year I obligingly write down a few points on a wish list, and they have ideas both for my birthday and for Christmas.

What I typically write down are items – books, CDs, household utensils (I’m growing up, blah) – or experiences (tickets to concerts or the theatre, for instance). I try to make realistic lists – I don’t list ridiculously expensive things, but at the same time there is a certain standard to be met (my parents and my sisters are all very generous). I try to make lists that can actually help them, though this means I am not necessarily putting on there the things I really want.

The other day, however, I noticed on Facebook some of my friends making wish lists. With the risk of copyright infringement, let me summarize:

Someone (I believe it’s a housewife from Cardiff, 23) wanted “a laptop that works, a house that stays clean, a body to die for, and a Winchester, Dean”. Then the follow-ups mentioned dollar$$$, jobs, Robert Pattinson, book-contracts, housekeepers, a blue-eyed and kilted Scotsman and so on. Now, though I have a propensity to choose silly friends (wonder why...), there were some more serious wishes on the lists as well, for instance asking Santa to “let me be as I am”. (I am very glad that you are, Natasha.)

Instead of joining the discussion, however, I decided to incorporate my own list in this post (which was a roughly-about-wishes-but-left-hanging-with-an-uncertain-fate kind of post).

I hereby present my alternative wish list:



What I really want for my birthday:

• An apartment of my own here in Oslo. A nice one, in a nice neighbourhood. One where I can decorate according to my desires, where I can make a home.

• The time and energy to both finish my master’s thesis (with success), and to simultaneously write a novel (preferably also with success).

• A gym membership that gets me in shape without me spending any time on it, or any energy…

• An income that does not require me to pretend I am happy about hearing the story of someone’s life just because they are buying a pen from me.

• And last, but not least, a lesson more in the spirit of Natasha: the ability to appreciate what I’ve already got.

On advent

It’s approaching. Christmas is but weeks away, and it's time to pull out that special feeling reserved for the holiday of holidays.


Perhaps more special than Christmas itself, is the anticipation. When I visited my sister’s family last week, my oldest nephew (of four and a half) told me everything he wanted for Christmas. Basically, he picked out everything in the toy catalogue, except the “girly stuff”. When asked if he looked forward to Santa’s visit, he replied only with a shy grin.

Preparations and plans are being made all about. I’ve received numerous invitations to various Christmas parties, -dinners and -workshops.

At work there is a different Christmas spirit – that of commercialism and stress. Not my favourite kind of Christmas spirit, but after having spent quite a few holidays working over the past eight years, it’s a part of what Christmas is to me.

In short, advent is a busy time. As a student, it is inevitably connected to exams. This year I’m in the privileged position that I don’t have any (for the first time since 2004). I do, however, have deadlines, so I am busier than ever. We’ll see how many of my invitations will have “sorry, not this time” as their RSVP.

In the end, it is important to try to take a step back in the time prior to Christmas, and enjoy it. Take the time to light a candle, have a cup of hot chocolate and listen to some favourite carols. Relax, sit back, and try not to let the stress get to you. Spend some time with friends and family – after all, isn’t it usually for them we go through all the stress in the first place?

One of the things I’ve always liked about advent is advent calendars. The Burrow started last year what looks like it might become a tradition – our very own advent calendar. Where I come from, these are usually given to kids with one gift for every day prior to Christmas Eve. The gifts are often small toys or candy. The Burrow’s calendar is of the less materialistic kind, as it consists of a drabble and a picture each day. Please visit us at http://www.the-burrow.org/ for a treat every day for the upcoming 24 days.

On traditions (Norwegian lesson # 2 - observe and you shall be enlightened)

Christmas is still a long way off (fortunately, since I’ve only bought a couple of gifts yet), but we are entering the time when it is appropriate to start planning. To me, the preparations ahead are almost as important as the actual Christmas. The last few years, however, I’ve had next to no time for preparations since I’ve had lots of exams all through December, and in addition I’ve been working longer hours at the bookshop (wrapping more presents than what the average raggsokk does during their entire lifetime). This year, however, there are no exams. Bookshop, yes, but no exams. Maybe this will allow more preparations?


One of the main things you have to do pre-Christmas, is baking. My mom has always been a baker, and I’ve inherited her enthusiasm for it. According to ancient Norwegian traditions, a housewife with any pride will have at least seven types of “cookies”* made before Christmas. My mom usually makes about fifteen. Today, I doubt the seven-rule applies anymore for most homes, but baking and Christmas are inevitably connected in many people’s minds. Personally, I don’t feel like it’s proper Christmas without having made at least a couple of “cookie” types.

This year we started early. Since I am working most of December, I probably won’t come back to visit my parents a lot before Christmas. Consequently, if I were to participate in any pre-Christmas baking with my mom, it had to happen today, before I return to Oslo tomorrow (which reminds me – I might be scarce for a while, moving and all). Therefore, we embarked upon making smultringer.

Another tricky translation. According to a dictionary, a smultring is a doughnut, but I am here to enlighten you. A doughnut is a ring of fat, frequently with icing on top of it (as though you needed sugar on top of your fat). A smultring is a smaller ring of fat (actually, it’s dough deep fried in lard, but the effect is much like a ring of fat), but at least we would never in a million years as much as consider putting icing on it… As you might suspect, I’m not a huge fan of doughnuts (or icing), and no, I’m not that much of a fan of smultringer either. I like making them (even if the fat steaming up from the pot likely will give me grease stained lungs). I also like eating smultringer, in small amounts, and for Christmas, and ONLY if they are homemade. This might be why I object to doughnuts. Whereas doughnuts in my mind taste like what I imagine the inside of a McDonald’s employee’s hat tastes like, at least the smultring has a flavor besides the grease. And that flavor isn’t sugar. Also, it helps that smultringer are smaller than doughnuts, seeing as I tolerate so little of each.

Despite my slight contempt for the concept of deep fried “cookies”, it was fun to make today’s smultringer, and the outcome was good. We now have one out of seven (or fifteen) in the freezer. Chances are I won’t be around for the next six (or fourteen), so I cherished this occasion, even if the Christmas spirit wasn’t exactly in place yet. Hopefully that will come towards the end of this month.

* “Cookies” is not actually an accurate translation, but I’m having a hard time finding one covering what I’m talking about. In Norwegian, we use the word for “cake” – kake – for both cake and this other thing that I tentatively translated to "cookies", only we add a description. “Cookies” are småkaker [small cakes], while a cake, can, depending on what type of cake it is, for instance be formkake, sjokoladekake, bløtkake and so on. Cookies (as in actual cookies, not the translation “cookies”) is just one type of småkaker (or so it seems to me – having spent just three months of my life in an English speaking country, I cannot say for sure I fully understand the deeper meaning of the word cookie). A potentially better translation could be pastry, but then again, that seems too wide. I’m going to go with “cookies” (complete with quotation marks).