On funminishing, part 1

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***

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hvordan går det?"

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

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

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

On people I meet

Sometimes you meet people who make an impression.

This week I met one of the Presidents I am writing my PhD on. Jimmy Carter, even at 90, is still working hard, and thus spends a fair amount of time at the Carter Center in Atlanta. However, for a researcher to catch a glimpse of him is still a rare treat. I didn't speak to him, but must admit I was rather starstruck by his mere presence in the cafeteria where he, like everybody else, queued to have a 4 dollar lunch.

Despite the central role Carter plays in my current work, however, he was only one of the people I've met recently that I will remember for life.

Today I met some guy whose name I didn't catch. I frequently don't catch names here, even when people introduce themselves. The Southern accent is foreign to me, and it often takes me a while to figure out what I understood from what people were saying - a lot of it gathered from context rather than a direct comprehension of the actual words uttered - and names tend to disappear in this process (besides, I am notoriously bad at names. Faces, I remember. Names, never held much importance to me anyway).

Anyway. I was trying to catch a bus. At the bus stop, I was approached by Some Guy. Had it been in Norway, I would have shied away from a conversation. But having been in the U.S. for a few weeks, the last of which in the South, the local social code is starting to rub off on me. I've progressed from small talk to conversations with random strangers (side note: Random Stranger at a zebra crossing the other day - he commented on my t-shirt. It's a Harry Potter shirt, with a big, Hogwarts logo on it. He asked me where I'd bought it, and I said London. He was all impressed that I'd been to London - not yet having realized that I wasn't American, presumably. "You speak any French at all, then?" he asked. I could have pointed out to him that this was a rather strange question to ask after having learnt that I had visited the British capital, but instead I just shook my head, wished him a good day upon the turn of the lights and our departure to the other side of the street, and made a mental note that it was far more important to appreciate the fact that we had this nice little talk than to point out to him his obvious lack of geography skills).

- so conversations with random strangers - and with this new social code guiding my conduct I've talked to everyone from grocery store clerks to the hobo in the park I pass each morning (he just wanted to know if there was a fee to go see the Jimmy Carter museum. I told him I believed it was, but that the grounds were free of charge, and beautiful, so well worth the walk).

Thus, talking to Some Guy at the bus stop wasn't all that strange for me anymore. And I am glad I did.

This was a man with a storage of stories, and the key to open them all at once was simply being an active listener. I learnt all kinds of interesting things about the city of Atlanta, the specific area of Atlanta I'm staying in, African-American history, the Democratic party, and about Some Guy himself. He gave me pointers about things I should see before I leave, showed me a picture with him and Obama (who recently visited the area, apparently), and even shared his hotwings with me. When the bus finally arrived (it was very late, due to a lot of traffic over a Barnes & Noble booksigning with Google later informed me was a YouTube phenomenon - there were crying teenage girls queuing all around the block for YouTube Guy), he told me to pay attention to the driver, as she was a character all of her own.

She was. Talking to herself, yelling at traffic, and making conversation with the passengers made for an entertaining bus ride as well. "What's that guy doing in the Mustang?? Oh, noooo, you didn't!!!" I probably would have given up on the bus without Some Guy, It was worth the wait.

When I go home in less than a week I'll be glad to retract back into my Norwegian shell, where we don't make conversation with strangers unless absolutely forced to, and where the only small talk you make on a bus would be to ask the passenger next to you to let you out if they haven't already noticed all the subtle non-verbal signs you've given them the last minute or so (most do. In all my years of using public transportation in Oslo, I've probably only had to ask about five to ten times, if that).

Until, then, however, I am glad to have been let out of my shell for a while. It makes for good stories. It makes me appreciate the world. It makes interesting things happen, and it makes me learn things I otherwise would have never known.

I was startstruck when I saw President Carter, but most of my time here I've been struck with awe of the extraordinariness of ordinary people.

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.

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.

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.

On the return of light and giraffes

The sky is reflected in the windows of the nearby building, stretching out in a metallic-blue-yellow hue in between an instagram filter and something you might have found in the fabric of a skirt in the S/S13 Saunders collection, if you cared for such things. It's been a lovely day, with deceitful promises of pending spring, even though the mended heart is too scarred to believe it really is so. Winter may catch you yet. Regardless, you have this day. The day the light returned. Light, which will kick start the slow process of defrosting the marrow of your brittle bones.



In the meantime, there is this picture of a woman and a giraffe:

On Digressuary

If you have visited Tami lately, you'll already have heard of it (and if you haven't, you should). She decided that the month of February - with its many potential pitfalls for those prone to gloominess - should be banned. Or at least improved. By adding digressions, and the general principles of our (somewhat dormant) religion Digressionism. Hence, Digressuary was created.

Feel free to join in. There's no fee. Very few requirements. We simply want to avoid letting the February gloom take hold of us and instead stand strong through such "hardships" as continued winter (gah), and the sillies holidays Groundhog Day (bah, though I liked the movie...) and Valentine's Day (meh). I know. We're such fragile creatures.

But honestly. I live in Norway. We have lots of winter. In December it's lovely. Early January it's still kind of cute. But come February, I'm really getting over it. Principle-wise, I am in favour of Norway having winter in February, 'cause otherwise we'd be looking at an (even more) severe case of global climate change and all that. But frankly, when I wade through my third straight month of snow/ice/slush, I'm so fed up I'm seriously considering migrating south (which I did, incidentally, last week, but only for a short relaxation injection before stress closes in on me again at work).

And, perhaps worse, is that due to my latitude, winter does not only mean cold and snowy weather - it also means very little light. Light, people. I am light deprived!

This is actually true. My doctor called the other day to tell me my vitamin D test came out with bleak results. Her suggested cure was to take supplements (and, implied, try to get some sun ((but there is (((almost))) NO sun!!!)) and eat more fish, but it just dawned on me - what I lack isn't just the "regular" vitamin D - I lack vitamin Digression! Obviously, I haven't been digressing enough!

So, Tami's idea of a good Digressuary is plenty of "play, be silly and digress". I heartily agree. Somewhere in there a very hungry-for-fun Cruella is still lurking, I'm sure. It's high time I lured her back out.

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.

On stuffophilia

So, it's one of those days...

Zombie White (and no Huntsman)

I *really* want these origami speakers. In addition to being awesome in the capacity of being ORIGAMI SPEAKERS (!), they also sound pretty cool sound-wise. Want.

(Also, from this fabulously awesome site I might be addicted to now ((designfetish.org)), it is worth checking out the posts about people as pixels, the Pixar minimalistic poster series, and not to mention Zombie Attack Barbie. Once she's through with Ken, she can have a go at Snow White...) 

I don't really believe the following really happened, but that's sort of the point, isn't it...

(I wish it were true, though. Bill Murray FTW)

I have inherited from my grandfather a clock (of the mantel variety) that require a deposit of 1 krone (though unfortunately not the currently used version) per week to power it, like a savings arrangement. I don't have a picture or link, but I felt the mentioning of it belonged in this post.

*snort*

I know someone whose potential wedding cake should look like this, but I am not going to tell him because I don't want him to think I am making suggestions... (You know who you are and if you are reading this: I am not. Making suggestions. I am reading it. After having written it. Checking for typoes. Probably missing a few.)

Also, I looked up "who's" versus "whose" for the umpteenth time. And now I looked up umpteenth... Gah. 



Aaaaand one more posting from designfetish(I think I might have one, yes).org:

It's a GUMMY BEAR DRESS!!! OMD - could I pull it off? Probably not, but I could eat it off! Ha! I made a funny! 

And now I need to get off the internet, or at the very least go back to Facebook lurking. Laters, taters!

On [insert title]

I want you to think of it as a work of fiction, but one produced by an initially creative mind trained for years to think analytically.

I want you to think of me as the main character in this work of fiction. As such you’ll need to know certain things about me. Had this been a regular work of fiction, I would try to weave it in more “comfortably”, “naturally”, subtly. Perhaps a nice “the main character stares at her own reflection in the mirror before having a flashback to childhood”-scene to start things off. But I won’t be doing that.

First of all, to fit the nature of this text – as mentioned I (and by “I” in this case I mean both main character, narrator and, even, author, even though that is breaking all literary rules) have been trained to think and write analytically. I am a lecturer. I preach to my students to be specific, concrete, clear. “Say exactly what you want to say! Don’t expect the reader to know a thing!” (I also tell them to be genre-aware, which of course contradicts my current point since I am about to use the rules from one genre on a completely different one, but whatever.)

Secondly, you don’t have to know what I look like (but for clarity’s sake: tall, blond, blue eyes, small nose and ears, cheeky grin, freckles for spring, one eyebrow that leaps toward my hairline when I question something [the other one pretty much stays put]). You don’t have to know anything about my childhood (but again: happy, youngest child with two older siblings, a fair amount of precociousness that made me simultaneously cute and terribly annoying). A mirror and flash-back scene, then, would not serve the purpose of this text. Story. Whatever.


There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever. 


Sorry. Whatever. 


Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)


She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little. 


Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not  from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four. 


Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more. 


She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]


She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection. 


[insert footnotes later]


F.

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.

On bags

I recently got a new bag.

It was a good bag. A great bag. I had been searching for one for a while, and there it was. The first one I spotted in the shop. It was surprisingly easy to find, and the price was right.

So I bought it. Started using it immediately. Put all my other bags away. And it felt good. I liked using it. I liked the way it looked on me. Liked the things I did with it

Still. It wasn’t perfect. There was nothing objectively wrong with it – the bag looked good, I felt good with it, it was exactly the kind of bag I’d needed. But there was this small voice in my head, whispering that this bag wasn’t what I *really* wanted. That I liked it because it was easy and comfortable, but that I didn’t love it. Not really. As long as there wasn’t anything wrong with the bag, however, and as long as I didn’t have any other bags that seemed better, I faithfully stuck with the one I had.

Then, one day, the bag broke.

I hadn’t had it for long – only about a month. There was no warning – the bag went from great to broken with one tiny snap. The strap tore off, and just like that, I was without a bag.

I thought about going back to the store and complain. It was a new bag, and it should last longer than a month. I also thought about fixing the bag – maybe the strap could be sewn back on and everything would be as before?

In the end I didn’t do any of those things. I accepted that the bag broke. After all, I was partially to blame. I’d probably put too much stuff in the bag, causing the fabric to rip prematurely. It probably would have been broken sooner or later anyway, but this way I didn’t have the time to get too attached to the bag. Besides, now that I started to think of it, there were things about the bag that I hadn’t liked. It put a little too much strain on my shoulder, for instance. I’d been willing to ignore that since I liked the bag, but now that it was broken, I realized that this was something that with time could have become a real problem. Better to nip it in the bud than to end up with an injured shoulder.

Should I get a new bag? I thought about that too. Even browsed a few stores. But in the end I’m strangely okay with not having a bag right now. I’m not even sure what sort of bag I’m looking for, so for the moment I feel fine without one.

Instead I found an old tote I can use until I know what it is I really want.

For now, that’s enough. 

On coffee

I had one. Coffee. Black. No sugar, no cream. Thus, black. As I said. I already said that. Didn't need to specify. But I might as well. People are stupid. Common educational tool. Repetition. I had coffee. Black.

Listen. How I take my coffee doesn't matter. Besides, I change my mind about it. Frequently. I once stopped visiting a coffee shop because the guy figured out my "regular". I don't do regular. I do random.

What matters, then, is that I had coffee. Of some kind. Black, we've established that now. But the type of coffee is less relevant than the fact that there was coffee. That I had. Drank, even. You don't just "have" coffee. You drink it. It's not an asset to keep for the future. Unless we're talking about coffee plantations, or stocks, or something. But we're not. Especially not "something". I'm very specific, down-to-earth, concrete, about this. "Concrete" as in opposed to "abstract", not "concrete" as in the construction material. Abstract concrete.

It was a cup of coffee. Black, as I've now stated so many times it seems to hold more significance than I intended. I didn't intend the type of coffee to be significant at all. Only that it was concrete. Not abstract. And not a plantation. Not stocks. Plain, old coffee. That you drink. Or, rather, I drank it. I had it, then I drank it.

Now I don't have it anymore.

On Decisions and the City

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm only exaggerating a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Botswana

This post has nothing to do with Botswana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Sheep.



Cookie.



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

On keeping it together

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

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

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

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

Speaking of....

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

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

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

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

(This helps, a little)




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

I will try, at least.

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

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 everything else than what I want to not write about

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

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

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

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

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

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

On ostrich orange ottoman orgasms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Orange ottomans.

Orange ostriches.

Ottoman ostriches.

Orange Ottoman ostriches.

Ostrich ottomans.

Ostrich Oranges.

Ottoman oranges.

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

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