Working Up a Sweat

I had my first maternal experience yesterday, upon the engagement of the future Queen of Sweden. Because it is typically mumsey, isn’t it, to purse lips and say “well, obviously you don’t care what I think so I’ll just keep my mouth shut” and then go on to shred a decision at great and verbose length.

Victoria, as the girl in question is called, has decided to marry a boy called Daniel. This apparently won’t ever make him king. But even so, he IS a bit much to stomach, in the same week as SAAB went south.

Daniel hails from a semi-detached somewhere in the rainy grays of mid-north-to-inbred Sweden, and is the owner of a gym.

You caught that last part, right?

Now, it is not that I am against ownership per se. But I am dead set against any future representative of this country, and me by a stretch, showing up at places wearing white socks and a slight whiff of air-freshener.

Also, I believe I read somewhere (I know exactly where, in some tacky magazine I bought to go with a semi-heated cup-o-noodles some dank Thursday night) that Daniel has used part of the wealth acquired polishing the sweat from the thread-mills and the dumbbells to buy a horse.

A horse for racing.

I adore horses. But new wealth buying one is rather too much like buying a yellow Ferrari and driving it de-cabbed. It is in such poor taste, that I fear our not-quite-king-elect (but who will know he’s only a duke when he has knocked up the dauphine) might one day greet foreign dignitaries in one of those shiny burgundy shirts you see on sales-people and engineers when they go out for a fun time. Possibly even wearing a tie in a zesty color.

And finally. I have been to gyms, on multiple occasions. I know what kind of aesthetics they favor, and what kinds of tunes are piped. Little do I look forward to future royal commissions being all of contorted people wearing spandex and lube, the court being done over in a theme of “energizing” colors, drinks and salmon at the Nobel being replaced with cans of caffeine:d sugar and power-bars, and drum-major processionals being beat out at a Euro-rhythm.

No, I am not too happy about our new national PT. But would it have been better with a Republic? At least this way, it is one woman’s folly – not an electorates, that has us poorly represented.

And I do see her point in a way – I suppose under the burgundy shirt are some rather toned fore-arms.

Maybe even good enough for a coat-of-arms?

Project Manager

God, I’m a cheap date, though I say so, and pay for it, myself. Went out for 1 glass of wine with N, and apparently it was enough. Have just spent 10 minutes smoking fag in underwear under kitchen fan and shaking bottom to some music that won’t be named (in accordance with my new non-exhibitionist blogging policy).

The hotel lobby had deep red carpet, and we agreed wholeheartedly on the nonsense of keeping old stuff that had better been thrown out. We saw eye to eye on the healing properties of pottery classes. And most importantly, we were in unison on the fuckwittage of men in general, and the spotlight-strenght fuckwattage of some men in specific.

Her advice? Down a banker, a bottle, and the Bible. Though not necessarily in that order.

Apparently, it helps with the sleeplessness.

Gotta Be a Chocolate Jesus

We were friends from the get go. He was tall and handsome, I was a teapot short and stout. In the early days we’d meet up for blue drinks and steak, chatting on a Paul Simon beat.

But then it turned out every time we’d meet up in the twilight hours someone would die. Literally, and always his. Think he lost at least three relatives, close ones too. And that is how came we started doing lunch.

So far, nothing awful’s come of it. In fact – the magnificent D is a dame du dejunéer I’d recommend. Especially now he’s married and mellowed and can give full attention to my dramas.

So if you’re ever down in the dumps come noon, looking for some food for thought along with you food for flab – look no further than D. I am not certain whether his services are rentable by the hour. But if he hasn’t started charging yet he should.

The general idea? Well, he’s fun as a matter of course, and will pingback any witticism on a volley. But more than that he’s got philosophical training, thinking very straight edge. As perspectives go, once he gives his you need search no more. As free of bull as the driven snow, and as willing to conspire.

Love ya, man. Though next time maybe should look for a different veg stew?

Something’s off in the formating of this post. But then, if that’s the only decrepit dog in Denmark…

Seedy

There has been some strange white stuff falling in droves from the sky lately. It covers the cars. It covers the trees. It cover the icy patches neath the cars and trees.

But it will not cover Cuz and I!

In the face of all this drivel they call winter, we spent the night working on our allotment. Or at least, on a lopsided sketch of it.

In less than three hours, we planted twenty or so different kinds of vegetables, some of your more common herbs, and two kinds of fast growing potatoes.

We built a grill in one corner, erected a fence, lay down a small winding stone pathway, and moved the compost, with a few bold marks of the pen.

I was thinking also to build a small hammock. But better keep something for next summer…

While we were working, we had a lovely meal consisting of foie gras, rustic french salami, manchego cheese and some salad.

Gardening is hungry making work.

Exhibit A

“I” suppose every one gets this question sooner or later, if they write about themselves: how much of it is really you?

It seems “I” have upset some people lately by wearing too thin a skin.

“I” have been weeping and throwing fits all over the net, and it might seem, to the careless observer, that “I” am breaking down live on the blog.

“I” assure you “I” am not.

She, the typist, is rather well. She is going about her business, and hanging out with friends. Sure, she is sad  about the end of a relationship. But she is happy with her work, and she still showers, and washes her hair, and watches TV.

Birdfeed

of late, winds of change have been blowing in my life. it is my pleasure to report that this cosmic shitstorm has in no way abated. i am still ripped and torn by said wind on daily basis, ending up with messy hair and a scrambled over-all apperance.

the latest little nugget that life has blown my way? the office restaurant has issued some sort of eat-for-less pass to two local institutions: the drama institue and the institute of radio production. which means that my lunches have been infested with a melé of identikit darkhaired, glossy eyed, anemic chicks.

clad in black and flapping arms and eyebrows like disturbed sparrows, these girls, for all their tinyness, take up a whole lotta space. in two completely different manners, they are mannered to the max.

the stagey people seem to be in character at all times, and have all been cast as that nemisis of serious womanhood – amelie of montemartre. they are flip. they are insouicant. they are moody. they are coy. and all this before we have even reached the sallad buffet, after which  they somehow manage to pirouette their way to table, laden with bowls of soup.  

the radio girls, while of the same physical description, seem to collectively have forgotten to take their uppers with their morning fag. they stare incriminatingly around them from under their lank fringes, on the lookout for some possibly anti-feminst gesture in the serving of the today’s thai-soup, and edit my co-worker’s and mine Gossip Girl related converstion with AUDIBLE huffs.

scattered amongst them are a few annoracked, bearded, canvas-bag toting males – keeping quiet. I do understand them: it seems the best policy if your goal is to stay clear of the bickering of the radio-girl you are shagging, and leaving you all the more time to watch the twirly-toe performance of the starlets.

me? faced with the incessant parallell dramatics and censorship, while internally trying to combat the effects of extra strenght penecillin, no sleep, and an appetite gone missing – there is no wonder I have nothing but gall left to spew.

Eggs Vindictive

revenge may be a dish best served cold. but plans for revenge turn out to go excellent with a side of caesar.

today i went for brunch with a petite, blonde, and – as it turns out – super-efficient nuterer.

my favorite suggestion so far? well, how well can they possibly fact-check those obituaries, huh?

Rodeo Clown

as i was putting my face on last night – the same face that is now staining my pillow – and running round finding keys, and laddering my hose, i thought of something oddish.

i can put my face on to whichever degree or nuance of come-hither. i have my own keys to own place, and own dirty dishes, too. if i need new hose i get them – or go out with them ripped, and no one thinks i am that much more of a skank because of it.

this is the pinnacle of female freedom.

have there been days when the social mores have been stricter, but the pressure to get back on the horse less insistent?

not that i am a fan of suttee, or wandering the moors forever gasping in the wind. but there is something in the very matter of fact, next, mentality with which we are supposed to greet the end of a relationship that is disturbing to me.

Fact: 100 years ago, i would not have had that degree of intimacy with a man without being married to him.

Fact: 100 years ago, it all ending very quickly would most likely have involved death.

My Happy Place

In Sweden, we have vast amounts of nature, and very little showing on telly. We have vast amounts of nature, and really few wars. We have vast amounts of nature, and a kind of shit list of recently published novels.

For some, possibly genetically defect, reason we are happy to let this state of things continue. Instead of, say, producing a few Office-type episodes or picking a fight with Norway, we settle for nature as our one supplier of entertainment.

Which explains why our demographic consists of mostly ornithologists, autistics, clinically depressed Inuits, cross-country skiers – and a few deluded and illegally immigrated minimum-waged berry-pickers, who are looking to make a quick buck picking itsy bitsy watery blueberries in mosquito infested wildernesses. (And Good Luck To Them).

Naturally, a people who consider sticks and stones the ne plus ultra in fun gadgets, is bound to get a bit antsy around terms like “ecological breakdown” and “Al Gore”.

The threat to the climate is taken pretty damn seriously – though a few have been known to mutter that a few more degrees of warmth wouldn’t really be amiss, when hunkering down in whatever the nearest bog and waiting for the Garrulus Glandarius to sing.

Anyhoodle, in an attempt to re-freeze the polar caps one ice-cube at a time, the Man, embodied by Andreas Carlgren and his precursors, has imposed STASI regulations and strictly designated places for the citizens to leave the leftovers of their superfluous wealth.

There are places to leave paper, and places to leave cardboard, and places to leave that semi structured stuff in-between. Other places where one might leave the green wine bottles. Others again where one leaves clear vodka bottles. Special containers for things that might at some point have been plugged into other things. Drop-off points for batteriers. Drop-off points for the devices the batteries have powered. Drop-off points for garden refuse.

The list goes on, forcing anyone who wants to rid herself of some junk to first bring said junk in for CSI-style material analysis, then deconstruct it into microscopic parts, and then lug microscopic parts around town to a bar-crawls type number of places.

Naturally, I don’t do any of that. I have a garbage chute. It does not look much: a round hole in the wall that leads…wither no-one can tell. I love this garbage chute with a passion that almost heals my broken heart. On it are no signs. It is a hole to fill with what you will. A hole into which to project what needs be ejected. It will happily gape over any of the above mentioned kinds of crap, and swallow it all up like a good girl with a satisfied little burp.

And today, I did not take a bracing walk, either. I read Rumors, by Anna Godbersen. It is such garbage that it could probably disrupt the ecological balance all on its own. But it is a page-turner.

Pink Slivers

spent the evening eating sushi and gossiping for a bit with my good friend j. we pondered together the mysteries of why we don’t want them when they want us. then she showed me the best fuck off text i’ve ever seen, recently plonked onto the unsuspecting head of another small-town (i’m looking at you, stockholm) fuck-wit.

waiting for bus back home i thought about what is worse: watching drunk people when sober, or watching couples huddling against the cold when single.

drunk people vomit which is not good.

but then again, the couples might be drunk and just waiting to pop, for all i know.