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?

Fleurs du Mal

Have you seen any of the latest disaster movies? You know, world ending, general draught and famine? I have – in real life, on my windowsill.

Let me start from the beginning: you know I got booted from the allotment garden, right? For neglect, or some such. Ever since, I have been feeling somewhat put off by the entire concept of nature. Sort of like I imagine Eve might have not gotten right on with growing another batch of carrots, once ejected from Eden…

The result is this:

A complete collapse of the local eco-system. The Synadenium grantii, the Euphorbia pulcherrim and the Hoya carnosa – all deceased. Appleblossom Rosebud, Bill Holdaway and Dodd’s Super Double are on their last legs. And don’t even get me started on the basil and the sage – the last of their dried remains were sprinkled over last night’s pizza.

For some reason, this has not shaken the Better Man’s faith in my fertile prowess. Last night, we had gotten to the point in our endless and ongoing discussion about the new apartment that concerned it’s balcony.

- I don’t really worry about the view (of the ugly 70’s yellow corrugated steel façade facing us). I’m sure you can do something with flowers that’ll block it out.

- Yes. Of course. I am woman. I know how to cultivate. (thinking – what how when)

- You know. Something big and leafy, that climbs. Lots of green, some exotics.

- Yes. That will be possible for me to achive. It will not be a problem to grow and exotic Californian garden on our balcony in February, because I am woman and my fingers are green. (Thinking – gaah, ugh, panic)

- Some evergreens, and a trellis. Ivy, maybe, and hortensias.

- Absolutely. I will not make you regret your faith in me because I am woman and I can make something out of very, very little. (maybe if I hang a green curtain, he won’t be able to tell the difference??) -

 And we’ll sit on the balcony, on long balmy evenings. It’ll be like another little room.

- Yes. And it will be romantic. (Oh dear God grant me the power to build another little room).

- You know, like Baudelaire wrote:  Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon, Et les soirs au balcon, voilés de vapeurs roses. Que ton sein m’était doux! que ton coeur m’était bon! Nous avons dit souvent d’impérissables choses Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon.

And now? Any and all tips on how to grow an arbour on a Stockholm balcony in February are more than welcome. Alternatively, any and all tips on how to keep the Better Man blind with drink till midsummer. Personally, I’m thinking to stay on theme with Absinthe.

The Hitch and the Wardrobe

As previously discussed, the Better Man and I have pitted the force of our consumer power against that great giant of Swedish interiors: Ingvar Kamprad and his house of gloom – IKEA. We are trying to boycott the old man. Trust me, it’s hard. Everywhere you sit, these days, you sit on a Målhålmen, Askerskjär or a Gnutteliten. But our home, we have agreed, shall be furnished in nameless pieces, made from wood, not tooth-picks.

The thesis was this: somewhere out among the wild forests and barren heaths of Sweden, there must be a multitude of little old ladies dying. And their stuff should be pretty great, if only we could get our hands on it.

If we were to go through recognized channels, such as Stockholm antique dealers, we would have to pay through the nose. But if we head far enough out the countryside, we should be able to stock our home with artfully salvaged, unique pieces, found at no cost at a “little hidden gem” of a barnyard sale. I mean, out in the sticks, the don’t know the value of a little bit of early Scandinavian, right?

We should have known wishing the life out of Magda, Agda and Haggda would cost us.

After some diligent Internetting, the Better Man had come up with a plan of attack. Out in the great gray somewhere that is the Swedish countryside in Winter, there was supposed to be a barn in which furniture could be got.

The road which would lead us to the correct barn took us by his old Uni town, through the suburbs of his old Uni shags, and finally arrived at a dirt-track far beyond even his powers of reminiscing.

And there we were. After approx 3 hours of driving through pouring rain, we found ourselves in the middle of a bleak, dank, November forest. Nary a yard-sale in sight. The locals, peering at us through their three eyes, were friendly enough, but uncomprehending. They had not heard of any “gems” lately, nor were they familiar with any vast quantities of mid century teak on sale in the neighbourhood.

Backing down the dirt track, nearly colliding with a cloaked rider, we tried the next lane. And the next. They all ended in the same way. Dripping wet trees. Uncomprehending peasants. A complete lack of Danish Design.

As the dark fell, so did the mood. I had not had my lunchtime sandwhich. He had not had his every-fifth-minute-fag. I was coming down with a cold. He was trying to get something listenable on the radio. We were just about to admit defeat and crawl to the cross of the rig-it-yourself-Billy when a barn appeared. It was huge, and red, just as promised. It shone with inviting lights. And it had a fucking great big sign on the wall decaling “ANTIQUES”.

Tumbling out of the car, we made for the door. Yes, it was still open. Forgetful of our taxed bladders and empty stomachs, we started wandering the fairy-land of this magical store. Everything we ever wanted was there. The dark wood shelf with monkeys worked out of the mahogany. The sit-down-ten dinner table with a dusky sheen. The glossy brass lamp-feet, and the musty red rugs. The quaint blue ceramic door-handles, the mirrored and compartmentalised wardrobe, and the futuristic red plastic chairs for a modern-feel balcony, too.

Unfortunately, what it also had, the barn, beside all the furniture we could ever need, were the price-tags to match. Not only great design, but astronomical prices, greeted us at every turn.

When I asked the little old lady at the till about this, she shrugged her shoulders and said “Well, ja, we do sell our stuff also at the X, the Y, and those two little places on Upplandsgatan” – naming no less than four of the antique-dealers I walk by daily, panting with unrequited longing. “Also, she added, that house just over the road? It belongs to the former Prime-Minister. He tends to buy a lot of his stuff from us.” And finishing of she salvoed “After all, we’re only forty minutes from Stockholm, on the main road”.

It was then I noticed the sly look in her eyes. And her name-tag, fastened on a baggy grey twin-set. It said “Agda”.

It turns out those little old ladies aren’t dying yet. Or at least, not before they squeeze the last drop of blood out of their Poul Henningsen lamp.

The Path of More Resistance

All right, so the flat is bought, keys to be handed over on December 18. Excitement is in the air. But one question remains: what do we put in it? The flat, I mean. Filling up the rooms should be easy – in theory. At our combined age, we should have collected all that is necessary for a comfortable life. Only turns out, we have had slightly different takes on what this constitutes, exactly.

The Better Man has spent the past 40 or so years collecting miscellanea. “Yay” I thought when I found out. “This means he has already bought all the muffin-pans, throws, darling prints of wallpaper and quirky bedside lamps that make a home.” But I was quickly disillusioned.

Sure, he does have “everything a man could ever need”. As in: a plaster head of Bob Marley, ten sixties style eye-glass frames, and an extensive collection of 19th century erotica. Pardon me for feeling this is a far cry from “everything I would ever want”. I do love Reggae as much as the next girl, but I cannot bake a quiche in it.

My belongings leave him equally flabbergasted. “What is this” he questions, holding up yet another gin-soaked clutch-bag “and why must it live under our bed?”

I have a salmon coloured couch by Malmsten and the arm-chair to go with it, he has a Victorian escritoire fit for a legless midget. I have a small pink radio and a shower-curtain with gold-fish on it, he has every Gospel record ever cut and a mega-size table-top dish washer. I have a fine linen tablecloth and (one) oven-mit with elephants, he has a safe and an alarm-clock shaped like a mosque…

Neither of these, you will note, are things you can actually sleep on, much less eat at. Which is why we found ourselves, a week-end not long past, on that Via Dolorosa that leads to IKEA. That did not end well. After what seemed like endless trailing trough faux-this and fake-that, I was ready to cry and the Better Man was willing to torch the place. The end came when I stood, dubiously eyeing a can’t-believe-it’s-plywood-oh-but-look-it-is-not-even-plywood kitchen counter and said ”well, at least it’s better than the plastic one? Or isn’t it?” “I’m getting you out of here” said the Better Man forcefully “Before the linoleum eats your brain”.

Bundled on the subway in haste, and being fed chocolate for chock, we decided that we’d rather eat with the mosque-clock for a table and store our clothes under the salmon couch than succumb to the flat-pack. A holy pact of sorts we entered: the two of us against Ingvar Kamprad. And to seal the deal, the Better Man came home the next night, proudly toting a perfectly serviceable, and GORGEOUS, fifties mixing bowl picked up for nothing at a flea-market.

Perfect for storing my collection of 19^th century buttons, when not used for baking…

Things We Did and Didn’t Do

Sunday night we’re watching some stupid dating show on TV – that is I am watching some stupid dating show on TV and Better Man is patiently trying not complain while hiding behind newspaper – and one of the stupid girls is given a stupid rose by one of the stupid boys and I turn to the Better Man and say “You Never Bring Me Flowers” and he turns and looks at me and answers “No. But I took you to IKEA”.

Romance isn’t dead, it’s just been packed into boxes for the duration of our move. And with hearts smothered in bubble-wrap, you discover whole new areas of conversation. These days it isn’t so much about our deepest secrets and hidden longings. It’s rather about the breadbox I saw, or the merits of wicker (on balcony).

The Better Man, on entering any room, comments on the height of the ceiling. If ours will be “at least another 30 cm” he’s happy for the rest of the evening. We went to see an exhibition Sunday, and all I took away from it was the ceramic pattern in the background of the Portrait of My Mother.

But while we are firmly lodged in the practical, it is also a season of dreams and naïve imaginings:

“Every Sunday in our new place” says the Better Man, bitterly eyeing 9 $ loafs at the baker’s “I will be baking bread. We’ll never have to buy bread again.”

“In our new place” I say, sniffing a sock and deeming it passable, “We’ll by a small laundry hamper and always do the washing before it gets filled up.”

“In our new place” I say, staring at the half emtpy carton of youghurt mocking me from an otherwise empty fridge “We’ll have such a big freezer we’ll always keep it stocked, with whole chickens and squid, and like veg.”

“Yes” agrees the Better Man, listlessly chewing on a cooling pizza-crust “And on week-ends we can cook big vats of sauce, to eat when we don’t have time to cook. Imagine what we’ll save on take-out”

“Yes” I say, as we rush for subway, one arm still un-coated “I mean, how hard can it, be remembering in the mornings to take something out of the fridge and leave it out to thaw”.

“Yes” says the Better Man.

 

PS: meanwhile, as you can see from the stolen pic above, it seems there are people who actually manage something in the way of house-keeping beyond switching the occasional light-bulb. Hats off to ye, and please swing by if you find yourselfs bored and looking for a project….

What is in a honey-bun?

I might have told you this story before, but bear with me. It starts with me being a kid, runny nosed and knit-haired. A girl, a friend, lived a few blocks over. Her house was such a fascinating place, for it was done with frills, and gilt. Stranger yet, her mother, when calling her father, called for “Dearest”. Even if only to say that it was Dearest’s damn turn to hoover the bright faux fine rugs.

It wasn’t the inter-parental love itself that seemed strange to me. My parents could stand each other well enough, among their minimalist black furniture. I learned early to recognise the subtle balance between Paris week-ends and the throwing at each other of quality steel kitchen utensils as the hallmark of harmonious adult love. But the public name-calling, the wording of the love was alien.

No kin of mine ever beloved or sweetied another. No matter how they’d beam at or beat each other, mom and pop always did it under their own sturdy northern names. In our house, nothing was ever swept under “Persian” carpets. Our floors were hard, wooden, unadorned.

I haven’t grown up the same. Quite the opposite. My relations build on aliases. I enjoy all the shrinking, shrimping, girly names given by boyfriends. They allow me to be the sort of simpering type who has one. Being called babe when slouching around in fat-day jeans, or doll-face when snot-nosed, is good for morale. Under another name, I seem, to the casual listener, a woman.

And I, in turn, herald friend and foe alike with a series of more or less heart-felt gorgeouses, babys and studs. If nothing else, it efficiently masks social incompetence. Greeting someone with a firm hug and a slick Darlin’ makes you look like you remember having met them, no? Whereas harking and humming Tom-Dick-Harry makes one seem ever so slightly a floozy.

(Funny story. I once dated a man for upwards of two years before finding out that I had got his first name wrong. The big reveal was one awkward moment, and pivotal to our not being married with kids today. I blame the silent haigh).

Any’ow. My point:

 This morning was not a super one. We scurried around the flat, trying to pack for a weekend away, while simultaneously fighting over the last of the Kleenexes (flu season) and the interesting bits of the paper (the financial pages – see yesterdays post).

True to form, I “Darlinged” in line for the bathroom, I “Darlinged” over burnt toast, and I “Darlinged” at the watery residue from the leaking garbage bag. Due to my shitty mood, they were increasingly nasty-toned “Darlings”, ending in a final one, phonetically very similar to “Damn you”.

To which the better man responded by putting down his suitcase, looking me in the eye, and calling me by my christian name. As in: “Christian name, calm the fuck down”.

It was relief. It was a home-coming. And most importantly it was recognition. He’s not living with Sugar anymore. And he still loves me.

Sneak Peek (into Hellmouth)

Time makes paupers of us all. For sooner or later, we all hear the clock strike mortage o’clock. That solemn hour at which we troop down to the bank to exchange liquidity for a hard stone pit of angst at bottom of gut.

The pit, in my case, comes with some pretty nice stuff attached. Hardwood floors. 3 m ceilings. Never been used chef’s kitchen. South west balcony. All conveniently located on top of what the cognizenti tell me is the best vietnamese kitchen in all of Stockholm.

And another nice aspect, it comes with the VERY FIRM attachement of the better man, since we have co-signed all the papers, and are now in joint debt so deep it almost looks like love. Breaking up, from now on, involves bailiffs.

But what does owning together acutally entail? Here are a few things I have noticed so far – and we’re still 2 months away from getting the key and unpacking our boxes.

-”We” are now allowed “opinions” on the wisdom of “each-other’s” purchases. Namely whether it is clever or not to buy yet another pair of shoes.

-”We” are now allowed to veto aspects of each others behaviour. Namely whether it is ok to let spikey stilletos lie around in the others unlit night-time-piss-path.

-”We” are now allowed to be frank and open with each other. Namely on whether fave bright yellow and pink rendition of last supper is ever “going to get any fucking where near “my”, oh, ok, “our” walls” or not. “We” are also allowed to glance threateningly at certain not-so-splendid-but-I-do-love-them potted plants.

…but all that is all-didely-right. For “I” am allowed to scour the webs daily for inspiration, and day-dream about folding towels, and compare endlessly, endlessly the merits of eggshell versus cream.

(And once he’s been bludgeoned with seen the pretty shoe-rack that I have my eye on, I’m sure he’ll come around to those green suede beauts with the butterflies I saw the other day. They won’t even be in the way!)

As for the blogs? You’ll find them here, here and here. And oh, there.