MEZE
Last night was the office Christmas party, at a Lebanese restaurant. I came away with my fingers saturated with olive oil and red wine, they way you do when there is finger-food on the menu and you cannot –for the love of God – stop picking at it even though you were really, really full an hour ago.
Also, by the time I fell into the back of a cab and waved for “it” to take me in the general direction of “home”, I had a nice and fresh supply of gossip tucked away somewhere in the soggy recesses of my gray matter. The sort of gossip that makes your mouth water, I tell you. Only problem? I SWORE not to blog about it.
Of course, it is perfectly impossible for me to keep my (still) grubby fingers completely away from these unmentionables. Hence – blind items. And in the interest of the blind staying well and truly blind – I will serve them to you Meze-style. Just a taste of this. And just a taste of that.
- beep beeps a bottle of beep in his top left beep. All I say is, why not keep it handy?
- well I would beep a beep too, if my beep had a beep like his… But would he?
- beep – who is the ex-beep of beep, only no one is supposed to beep – is cozying up to beep. Beep’s a nervous wreck about it. I tell her she should just beep his beep out.
And in related news:
- beep and beep: congratulations on your new baby beep!
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Tags: blind items, meze, office christmas parties
Lingua Franca
If you’ve ever wondered why I write in Swenglish instead of my native Swedish, the explanation is simple: I spent my teens abroad, at an international school where English was the primary language. English of some sort, at least.
My friends and I – American, Japanese, Papa New Guinean, Pakistani and French – hacked our way through the emotional turmoil of adolescence in a jolly mix of accents – emphasis and vocabulary transient things, subject to who was in the room. Good times: everything was always an innuendo is SOMEONE’s language.
Sure there were other kids, the other kind of Americans, who were good at sports and kept their midwestern twangs. But for those of us who wore Bob Marley shirts and wrote Nirvana Nirvana Nirvana Nirvana on our textbooks, broken English was a sort of merit badge, along with the pretence of smoking pot in the girls bathroom.
The teachers all had their differing approaches to putting out the wildfires that were consuming our grammar(s) – some tried to quell them in red ink, others fed The Great Poets to the flames and watched them toast. Others gave up: a certain Ms eventually tired of our spoilt disregard of basic idiomatics and moved to a reservation to teach the Navaho about Chaucer.
Either way: between the New York woman who taught me the difference between a three and a tree, the ponytailed Canadian who gave me the poems of Auden, and my great love Mr Crawley (Irish) of the Green Cords, I acquired a basics grasp of the what’s and the what’s nots of English. For a while there, I even thought of it as the language (literally) of my dreams. Translation turned from swedish-english to english-swedish and then there was no translating at all. Except for use on parents, and them, I never spoke to much anyway.
Actually, it took a fit of rage for me to rediscover my native tounge.
We were on a trip to the coast of Normandy, where the winds where whirling and the sea smashing. I sat in the sand eating palmier sweet biscuits and writing poems at great length and speed about the uselessness of war, the brevity of youth, and the colour of gulls (profound insights brought on by the masses of white crosses on the allied graves. I think I may have likened them to the wings of the gulls).
I picked up a piece of wood washed smooth by the waves and put it in my bag. I licked the sugar and the sand from my fingers. And then, just as I was puzzling over the spelling of weather and whether I was hit in the back by a hackey-sack. It was a gang of the other kind of Americans, and they were gulping Dr. Pepper.
I cannot for the life of remeber why I got so upset. It might have been the interuption of the Creative Process. It might have been hormones. It may have been some slur or feminism, or Mao.It might have been hormones. But I did throw a hissy-fit of epic proportions.
I told Ben what I thought of him and Sarah what I though of her, and of their lack of appreciation of Auden, the wind and the gulls. I veered briefly into the moral torpor of Jade, and made some rather hefty accusations as far as the ethics of John were concerned. I no doubt sneered at their brand of back-packs and certainly did at the way Erin never REALLY smoked, only pretended to.
And for several minutes I had no realisation that I had left English far behind and was now cursing them soundly – in Swedish. It was only when I’d shouted myself into calming down that I heard myself. Then the pure relief of knowing that no one had understood a single word made me shout a little bit more.
My friends treated me gingerly as we got back on the bus. I was allowed Clays headphones and he played me Dust in the Wind with Kansas. Mitsuko gave me some cinnamon flavoured gum. My “boyfriend” at the time, Kurt, let me pretend to fall asleep with my head on his shoulder. We rode that way for a long time. I think the movie Backdraft was playing on the BusVCR.
And that is the story of how I developed two languages: English for happy days and polite conversations. Swedish for truth-telling and conflicts. Now, given that – aren’t you happy with my choice for this blog?
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Tags: bi-lingual, International School of Brussels, Normandy
Get Stuffed
This season, more than any other, seems to tug at the umbilical cord. The jingling bells hang from it, the reindeer are tethered by it, the boughs of holly and the mistletoe seem tied by family ties. All around us we see representations of Family Values brought out and dusted off – in honor of the poster boy of planned parenthood.
“I mean really, where are you going to keep him? A manger?”
Yes, in celebration of year zero faulty contraception, people seem to want to honor their own families, however oddly come by. Those (names not disclosed) who ruthlessly screen their mother’s calls at other times, brave 600 miles of bad roads to enjoy a little home cooking. Those (name not disclosed) who’d normally rather die than be seen with their fathers in THAT jacket, mist up at the thought of the olde stocking. Those (name disclosed if you wish, inquire within) whom everyone thought were splitting up decide on a shotgun wedding.
And I personally, like to celebrate the possibility of virgin birth by taking that umbilical cord and stuffing it with mince. The Traditional Family Sausage Stuffing Day was yesterday.
Normally, this is an event that involves countless cousins, the loss of fingertips, kids bawling so loud it drowns out the carolers on repeat, and a lot of swearing at the antiquated Stuffer – a machine brought out once a year and always presenting a mechanical challenge. It usually takes anywhere from 4-8 hours, and everyone goes away wearing a lot of raw minced pigs meat in their hair. A true celebration of family, traditions, and unity.
Turns out family, traditions, and unity are an impediment and without them you can stuff 16 meters of sausage in 3 hours, all limbs intact. Due to ill-healths, previous engagements, and -frankly – a lack of fingers left to loose, yesterday left only Mommy and me to do the stuffing. Rationalizing away all chatter, cookie breaks, disputes over seasoning, reminiscing over years gone by, trips to the ER and consultative phone-calls to 91 year old and increasingly hard-of-hearing grandmother, we worked efficiently and in the style of those outdated people, assembly line mechanics. Even The Stuffer responded smoothly to our slightest touch (with a hammer, but that is neither here nor there and a marked improvement).
At the end of it we sat down all civilized, had a glass of wine, lit a candle, listened to some hymns, and chatted…
And both agreed that christmas just isn’t the same, when conducted in a calm and rational manner. Like I can sort of imagine Mary, at her next lying in, all nostalgic. Lack of epidural just isn’t lack of epidural, if you haven’t got a few tufts of hay itching at your backside…
Can’t wait for next year, and I promise to bring extra band-aids!
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Tags: family traditions, stuffing sausage
Dead Poet’s Variety
When I was fourteen (allright then, 23 and three quarters) I wanted to be a poet. Then I sort of realised that I did not want to kill myself so very much anymore so there was no real point, I could write fun stuff instead. Like press-releases.
But now four years of writing press-releases have taken their toll, have made me sort of want to kill myself again. So tonight, for your enjoyment (I mean, for your nail-biting, tea-drinking, black-clothed, Cave-listening pleasure): a few poems. Inspired by the great miracle that is life.
Ode to Death
In stores have I walked, the aisles pacing
From cooler to cooler drifted, searching
But never have I found a more perfect death
Than that which has blanched these greens of summer
and turned fresh buds in their husks to dust
Oh, produce section at Ica on Ringvägen
Your deadly grip does turn the stoutest growth
To frail and bitter, weak and wilted endings
In your hollow hand lies all life, panting
—————————————————————
Constructionwork on platform: De-constructed
No train.
Dog barking.
Baa arking. Ba ba bab arking.
Train de de de DE BA
Lay De De
Train delayed.
Barking.
Barking.
Delayed! Delayed! Delayed!
Barking.
—————————————————-
Still Wet / Stranger on a Train
Your wet wool, mirrored in my wet gaze
Your elbow in my gut, a knife, is turning
I can still recall you armpits over my nose
And the way your breath, from deep within
Would envelop me.
But you don’t see me, anymore
You are lost to me, behind your large paper,
And your umbrella
Which used to be folded against my leg
Has sprung it’s cords and sprayed me
Now with cold beads of your discontent.
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Tags: poetry
Getting My Hands Dirty
When Luca Brasi slept with them fish, what kind of trunks was he wearing? If my recent experience of synchronized maffia swimming is anything to go by, they were double. But let me start at the beginning.
Due to the fact that
A) I am borderline midget at a workstation set for the borderline giant
B) I sleep on the floor with the arm of the Better Man for a pillow
C) It is so frigging dark here, jogging outdoors is the equivalent of blasting Rape me at top volume
I have experienced some back-aches lately. Alas, last night, I decided to take myself to the public baths for a swimming session. The first thing I noticed on arrival was a sign notifying the public that only three lanes were open, since the men’s swimming team were using the rest of the pool for practice.
This I did not mind. In fact, trying not to salivate over the idea of sharing a bath with a school of Michael Phelpses – Michael Phelpai? – I quickly showered, changed, and got into the pool, ready to gawk.
Imagine my disappointment, then, when it turns out professional swimmers keep their bodies, while training, for the most part hidden under water. No matter how hard I tried ogling, all I could catch was the occasional flash of rubber-clad scalp, or glimpse of be-goggled eye…
Either way, I soon realised I was in no position to look out for anything except for my own personal safety. The three lanes left open for the populace was teeming, boiling, crowded with struggling bodies. And what bodies these were. It turns out I had chosen for my swim a time when two very specific demographics were hot in the water. Elderly, stout women. And Russian gangsters – not the slimmest of otters, either*.
Babushkas to the left of me, Mobsters to the right, I was left with very little wiggle-room. After 40 minutes of close contact with little old ladies and hit-men alike, I can assure you that they are both slippery when wet. They are both covered in a fine fur. And they are neither of them keen on elasticity in their elastics. Suits sagged and trunks poofed. Straps floated and strings too. The only diffrence between them in fact, is that mobsters swim as though they were swimming for their lifes, arms flailing, lots of kicking, and grunting. The little old ladies float like leafs downstream, like leafs downstream to that great water beyond, like leafs very, very slowly.
When I finally tired of being kicked in the groin by Oleg and stopped mid-stroke by Edla, I got out, throwing a last regretful look at the enticing heels and elbows of the Phelpses, I made my way home for dinner. Served in front of the TV by a loving Better Man, I was just swallowing my last bite when the news came on. Which story do you think got top billing:
A) SAAB is not doing so well
B) Obama is not doing so well
C) The Swine-flu is doing a bit too well
D) The weather is doing a fine job of driving us to an early grave
E) Matters in Stockholm swimming-pools have reached a critical state. The city is now launching a Major Campaign to change public behaviour in said pools. The problem? Male bathers do not change out of their underwear before getting in the water, merely pulling on swimming-trunks over regular (well used, at end of day) briefs. “The level of bacteria” says expert “contained in a single pair of unwashed shorts is very high.” “Imagine the amount” continues expert “if you pool the dirty laundry of all Stockholm criminals”.
* What makes me so sure they were Russian mobsters, you ask:
1) tattoos a go-go
2) getting out of water to practice punches and kicks
3) wearing furry hats in water
4) speech heavy on consonants
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Tags: hygiene, michael phelps, russian mobsters, swimming
We were sitting at lunch today, two of my colleagues discussing crocheting. Advance level crocheting, of things with arms and eyes. They were in agreement, they both enjoyed crocheting more than knitting, because knitting is a bigger project and if you start on a cardigan in October, apparently you might not be done until Christmas.
This is not a problem for me. If I start knitting a cardigan in October, it will for sure be done five hours later when I throw it from my hands in disgust, a malformed specimen full of holes, in an on-sale-shade of taupe and persimmon. Many are the strangely shaped lumps of wool that have gathered over the years in the corners and cupboards of my life: indistinguishable from the surrounding dust-bunnies, except the dust-bunnies are better dressed…
The same goes for all things art-and-craft. If a thing is supposed to be glued together, mine always somehow ends up held together by sticky-tape. If a thing is supposed to be cut from cardboard, mine seems cut from cardboard by a vaguely dysfunctional three-year old. Easter chickens and Christmas gingerbread men interchange their limbs, festive squiggly lines resemble fevered charts of heart-failure, the fancy greeting-card print spells disaster – and all is covered in a fine smattering of crumbs and failed ambitions.
In short, I am not a natural at Do-It-Yourself – am much better off getting done by someone else. And I suspect this failing of hand-scissors coordination is the reason for my grumpiness. If I were a creative person I could circumvent the imperfections of life by improving on them. As it is I only get to comment ill-naturedly and wish for designer originals.
Case in point: my ongoing tiff with Mr Kamprad of IKEA. I Do Not Dig His Stuff. To my mind, a bed shouldn’t be evocative of the kind of screwing together that calls for tools and leaves you knuckles bloody. But perhaps some of my discontent stems from the fact that I am left so completely in the lurch by my own hands: if I were able to re-paint OUSKAELIG or ad-lib a cover for KNEULIG, perhaps I would like them better. If I could team the non-descript OHAULLBAR with a personal, quirky quilt or liven up the death-warmed over HAUFSVAERK with a few hand-embroidered pillows, maybe I could forgive him his bland materials, drab colours and his faulty approach to screwing…
Like this woman, (who it turns out lives in South Africa and have never been confronted by the actual physical presence of a EULANDIG sofa or stubbed her toe on a FAUNSKAP table) who takes her own brand of IKEA dissatisfaction and makes it into a really rather nice print, which would go great with my OPOLITTLIG kitchen hangers…
But then again, no kind of sewing know-how could save the sort of colour-scheme I have in mind for my own IKEA print…
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Tags: arts-and-craft, IKEA, interior design, prints on Etsy
Lights On
Surely, there must be those that do not live in Sweden. I mean, for Pete’s sake – please tell me there are those that do not live in Sweden. That not all of us are reduced at this time of year to pale, withered wraits, torn between a longing for the sun and a fear of the strange, bright light that shows itself for minutes every now and then. Stockholm, in November, had an official count of four hours of sun*. Please tell me there are those who live in Aruba.
Surely, there must be those that do not live in Sweden. And since those that don’t can’t possibly feel the same need I do, I think they (yes, I am looking at you, though you can’t see it due to the permanent dusk that envelopes me) should all send me your lamps, lights, chandeliers, candle holders etc to light up my sorry, sorry life. In return, I can send you my will to live, which deserves a better fate that staying cooped up here, swaddled in down comforter.
However, as I wait for your care-packages to start pouring in, I ponder the possibility that we might have to buy/make/steal ways of lighting our new apartment. Each approach has it’s own merit:
Steal Nice lamps are bloody expensive. This is reason enough to steal them. Easier than go rob a store, then, is to rob an elderly relative. How hard can a father, let’s say he’s approaching 80, really hold on to his Poul Henningsen lampshades? I am thinking, not so very. From his flat, I am thinking to collect one of those, and also a bizarre pumpkin-coloured clay candle holder, for which he can have no possible use, except for the fifty-odd years of emotional attachment invested in it…
Make Last night we went over to the Better Man’s brother, the painter, for a birthday supper. The table was set, not in their itsy bitsy upstairs living area, but in the amazing basement studio. This is where I fell in love with a cheap solution to ugly lighting: simply make a screen of translucent japanese paper by attaching it to a steel or wooden frame, and place the screen in front of the offending lamp. This is a way to make even IKEA lighting forgiveable – out of sight is out of mind. I am thinking the inevitable globs of glue, rips and tears, and crooked alignment that are the inevitable results of me trying to DIM (do it myself) will add character and charm.
Buy Some lamps you can buy. For example, broken ones. Having the Better Man on hand to redo the electrics, I am happily shopping away for early 20 century fixtures, easily transformed into things of beauty by a good clean and a new shade. And if we go up in flames due to faulty wiring – well so be it. At least it will be a well-lit way to die.
* If I remeber correctly. Also, I think at one time they might have counted the searchlights from the control-tower at Arlanda airport.
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Tags: candles, lamps, lighting
Baby Blues
Great music can convey any depth of emotion, enhance or dispell it. For example, Willie Nelson is making me forget, right now, about the approx 3 hours I have left at the office before being on the road again… And so it is to great music I must turn, when trying to describe my experiences last night. Baby-sitting for two under threes. Both screaming their tiny blonde heads off for three hours straight, gearing each other up with each new piercing, snot-drenched yell. I won’t get into the details, but let’s just say this song is for all the toddlers in the house. I’ve made it a duet, with a little help from BB King, Metallica, Usher, Bob Marley et al…
Babysitter:
When the night has come,
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only
Light we’ll see
You act like you don’t want to listen
When I’m talking to you
You think you outta do baby
Anything you wanna do
I don’t know what to do
I’m always in the dark
Help, I need somebody,
Hear the children crying
Baby:
When the night falls down
I wait for you
And you come around
And the world’s alive
With the sound of kids
So now we see the light (What you gonna do?),
We gonna stand up for our rights! (Yeah, yeah, yeah!)
Somewhere after midnight
You say “Yes”, I say “No”.
You say “Stop” and I say “Go, go, go”.
I twist like a corkscrew
I drink from the bottle, weeping.
Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh oooh
Ooh ooh oooh (can ya feel me burnin’?)
Ooh ooh ooh oooh ooh oooh
Babysitter:
Maybe I have been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I don’t want to hold you and feel so helpless
I don’t want to smell you and lose my senses
You drive me crazy, I just cant sleep
Baby, thinkin of you keeps me up all night
It’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Love him til your arms break
Bad boys,bad boys whatcha gonna do whatcha gonna do?
Baby:
Can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t eat, can’t sleep
Every now and then I get a little bit helpless
and I’m lying like a child in your arms
Every now and then I get a little bit angry
and I know I’ve got to get out and cry
And I need you now tonight
And I need you more than ever
And if you’ll only hold me tight
We’ll be holding on forever
Babysitter:
Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound
Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years’ve gone by
Every now and then I get a little bit terrified (when) I see the look in your eyes
Every now and then I fall apart
I have lost the will to live
Simply nothing more to give
There is nothing more for me
Need the end to set me free
Baby:
It ain’t wise to need someone
As much as I depended on you
Rock me baby, rock me all night long
Rock me baby, honey, rock me all night long
I want you to rock me baby,
like my back ain’t got no bones
Babysitter:
Thank you for this bitter knowledge
Guardian angels who left me stranded
And I’m thinking uhh huhuu
Why can’t I sleep with my eyes open
Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you
A little darlin’, don’t shed no tears
cos when you worry, your face will frown,
and that will bring everybody down,
Exit, light
Enter, Night
Don’t say nothing, don’t say nothing
Oooooo … Hush
Don’t say nothing
Oooooo .. Hush
Don’t say nothing
Baby:
Darling leave a light on for me
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Tags: various artists, various lyrics
Colour-Scheming
(My) love is (colour) blind. And thus prefers pale shades of white for a living space. I, on the other hand, cannot get enough of colour. Preferably pinks. And yellows. Together. With blues and browns added. If life were a war my camouflage would be polka-dot.
Compromise?
Once we move into the new flat he’ll get all the white walls he wants. Heck, I can even throw in white ceilings and fixtures.
In return, I get to decorate with anything vivid I like – as long as it’s portable. (His reasoning being that moveable objects may be removed if too objectionable.) Also, I get to choose bright and fun wallpaper. For the insides of the closets.
Which begs the question: exactly what are the limits of the portable? Using what tools and aids? Feasts, as literature has shown us, are moveable. What then of kitchen cabinets, were the makings of feasts are stored. They COULD be moveable as well, given the loosening of a few bolts. Ditto the toilet.
And also – what kind of square footage defines a room as closet?
Filed under: Home is where the heart is: buying and fixing up flat with boyfriend of dissimilar taste. | 2 Comments
Tags: colour in decorating, interior design, painting and wallpapering
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