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?

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?

Back to the Future

one of the reasons – maybe the reason, when it boils down – for why i got dumped, is that i read the end of books before i’m even close to to the middle. especially detective stories. other reasons for why he left me are:

- my eyes light up looking at old decrepit run down buildings
- i enjoy discussing ideas for travel

i adore possibles and mights. the inside of my head is a non stop screening of what could be – could being used in the loosest possible way.

a pink house with a sunk greenhouse, a dusty road outback, a vomiting child and a rug-and-slipper quiet library, a dinghy, a 12 hour workday, a married lover with a harpoon, straight eucalyptus trees surrounding the porch, a brown paper bag, cancer and victory, mourning and the sunglasses worn to the funeral, a reprint of an old wallpaper, homegrown tomatoes, shooting up, a body worn down with never loving hurrying through an airport – canvas bag slung at hip.

unfortunately, this willingness to grasp at perhaps can mistakenly be seen as planning for a future. nothing could be further from the truth. they are all equally exciting, the dears.

show me a picture of the house you have bought in the suburb and i will spend the next day flipping through mental paint-chips. tell me you are finishing you ph.d. on tropical diseases in sub-sahara and i will be rolling back and forth in bed, thinking of possible ways of getting to work an orphanage in Congo.

but, and here is where confusion tends to set in: just because i know my dreams are fickle, doesn’t necessarily mean i speak of them with less conviction.

i sound persuasive, i sound assured, i even sound convinced. i say i love you really quickly, and then i take it back. i argue the point to death and then leave it with a shrug. i am a seller of used car-parts, really, or used cars full stop. i know very well they won’t run far – but that does not mean i let on anything but endurance.

has this got me in trouble before? naturally. people tend to feel a bit miffed when they have packed their bags and are on the train and realize i was talking about meeting them of any out of ten possible platforms.

but this time, it has gotten me in a different sort of trouble. i did not take his fear of future into account.

i showed him the extent to which i was… shall we say inspired… by the many women bearing forth children in my close circle of friends, forgetting to tell him that really, i was just as inspired by another friend, who has just up and left for germany, or a third, who decided to study again, or a fourth, who is training for the marathon, or a fifth, who might finish her novel any day, or a sixth, who refurbished her own kitchen, or a seventh, who moved into the country to play jazz, or an eight, who left her job in finance to become a beach-bum, or a ninth, who has taken in an ill brother, or a tenth, who joined AA, or an eleventh, who left his wife and child, or a twelwth, digging down in an archive.

“never close a door before you have to” my mother said to me when i said i wanted to study art (implying that art, for me, would have been a very non-profitable closet).

and i might never. i do like the sound they make, open and banging.

No Meat For Me – Yet

tonight was supposed  to be a night of meat. raw, bloody meat, in celebration of having survived the first week.

nothing says a pat on the back, good going girl, like a steak tartare.

but then i realized that if “survived” gets meat – i will have nothing to push me into more than surviving.

so set up little reward scheme:

first day without crying – new jeans
first night of sleep – new shoes
first genuine smile – a gin & tonic
first consensual shag -  meat

we went for coffee instead at my favorite place. we always go there after breakups, or when she has important news.

we discussed our garden.

Briefings in Misery, part 1

Esteemed Audience,

 

As I address you today, I would like to start by thanking all those that have made my studies possible. Most of all, I appreciate the team that has been helping out with research: Sara B-E, the Alsén family: Sara, Björn, Josy and Sluggo, David B,  Helcio A, Caspar F, Hedvig N-B, Karin S and her assistants Fredrik and Arvid, Marie-Louise L, Johanna H, Karin N, and of course, my Mother.

 

Without your constant reminders of the worthwhile nature of my cause, I do not believe my work on this first part of Misery Levels in Dumped Females could have been concluded this quickly.

 

And naturally, I would like to direct an especially warm thank you to the man who made it all possible. Your ceaseless devotion in making me appreciate the minute nuances in the subject matter shall ever be an inspiration. I can only hope to be someday to another young disciple, what you have been to me.

 

 

Before I present you with the two most important conclusions so far, I would like to add something about the way in which research was conducted.

 

- Trials have been made on an interview subject chosen from a number of parameters, where special attention has been brought to finding a healthy subject, without outside factors that might risk unrelated misery, and with previously very low misery levels.   

 

- Interviews have been conducted both late at night and all through day, in a variety of stages of sobriety, and in the interview subject’s natural surroundings: such as nightclubs, the shower and on the bus.

 

- At no point has artificial misery been added. In fact, the team has taken care to keep the subject away from outside interference such as movies and/or reading Uncle Toms Cabin, previously known to make the subject weep.

 

- The interview subject has not at any point been able to break trials, even though she has on many occasions expressed a willingness to be shot in the head rather than continue. My team and I are sure that she will at some point come to appreciate all that her sacrifice has meant for the advancement of science.

____________________________________________________

And now, I would like to point to two of our most interesting findings.

 

Firstly, Misery Does Love Company.

 

Ergo, one initial misery will create for itself multiple companions. So for example, the subjects basic misery “He Has Left Me and I Miss HIM”, will give rise to several others, ranging from the comparatively minor “Blast, It Is Boring to Watch TV Alone” to the more profound “Not Only Shall I Die Alone, But Now I Can’t Wait For It to Happen”.

 

These secondary miseries might seem unrelated to the HIM that is the main point of the first misery, in that they could have sprung also from any other him, or indeed, from no him at all. But I think, that for statistical purposes, HIM may be counted as aggravator of all the subjects current miseries, constructing the sentences above thusly: “Blast, It Is Boring to Watch TV Alone Without HIM” and “Not Only Shall I Die Alone, But Now That [HIM] Has Left Me I Can’t Wait For It to Happen”.

 

Secondly, Misery Will Be Augmented By Everything, Including Ice-Cream.

 

This finding is extraordinarily interesting, in that it disproves an earlier theory. This earlier theory, stemming in all probability from the naïve middle-ages, or adolescence, argues that there is a “cure” for misery, relying heavily on three basic home remedies: booze, Ben & Jerry’s and shopping.

 

For some time, my valued colleagues and I have been in doubt of the validity of this theory, arguing that had these staples been able to reduce misery levels, they would surely have been utilised by now and rooted the evil out, globally.

 

Testing the theory on our subject, we came up with astounding results. Not only do the so-called remedies not help. They actually feed the misery, thereby increasing it.

 

Relating to the Ice-Cream, the correlation between possible weight-gain, feelings of utter self-disgust, and rampant increase in misery may be said to have been proven beyond doubt.

 

Also, since misery rules out any food intake other than said Ice-Cream, scurvy is a possible side-effect.

 

By what sort of osmosis the gin and the shoes are sucked up by the black hole that used to be a beating heart is an interesting avenue for further inquiry. It is already clear however, that the total lapses in judgement induced by the former tend to increase misery by such simple means as making the subject call the dumper, or by making her clear-sighted enough to realise most of the blame of the situation falls squarely on her shoulders.

 

I might add here, that the theory was tested on our subject several times during our trial, and that at that results were unanimous. Nevertheless, it shall be tested again at earliest opportunity, with dresses, vodka, and possibly Möven-Pick.

 

 

Concluding this first brief, I can only appeal to you for the grants that would make further observation of the interview subject possible, the subject of which I hope will be respectively:  Rage and Resignation.

Nothing Compares

here is how we learn to distinguish between fact and fiction.

In fiction, brokenhearted Shinead O’Connor tells us she went to the doctor, and guess what he told her – he said “girl, you better try to have fun no matter what you do”.

In fact, brokenhearted Agnes Lidbeck tells us she went to the doctor, and guess what he told her – he said “girl, you have tonsillitis. stay off the booze.”

Correction

correction on last post: it might actually be negative 19.

correction on correction 1: no, it seems it’s not negative 19 either.

correction on correction 2: eh, what the hell: it surely ain’t a positive anyway

correction on correcton 3: and the degrees of hell don’t really matter, do they?

Do the Maths

Counting was never my strong suit.

Budget-wise, I can tell “rather in the red” from “completely fucking scarlet” only by the nuances in the screetching of my plastic.

My old history teacher used to pay me to play billiards in the basement of a Loire Valley Castle, thinking it would give me a firmer grasp on things such as… eh, area, maybe? The space-time continuum?

Another teacher said I should thank the stars for my smile. Without it he was pretty sure he couldn’t have forgiven my total disrespect of axis. Even so, getting him to forget that unfortunate incident with pi was pretty heavy going.

But given that I obviously won’t be doing anyone very much any more, I may as well start doing the maths. And given time and a calculator, even I can find my way around the most simple of equations. Such as this:

Years until I want children: 7
Minus the months I want to spend in Africa before then: 12
Times the times we were bored: 3
Minus the number of times I have played That Embarrassing Cher Song on repeat this morning: 37

Clearly adds up to the amount of sense he makes dumping me being nil.

Things Lost in Fire

think Tom Waits, holder of the one remaining none-mulch portion of my minced heart, at some point lost his equilibrium, his car-keys and his…wife,life, something or other.

i have lost my glasses, my cellphone charger, and my appetite.

Dream a Little Dream

i dreamt i was a small boy and on the run. another small boy ran with me. when a large man came along the beach to get us we hid where the surf broke. the waves crushed him till he was nearly gone and then i dragged him into calmer water and held his head under till he was truly dead, watching his eyes flip over and back, and then the gulls swooped in.

waking up it is five a.m. and i realize that not only are there a lot of hours before i can reasonably go into work but that when i wake from bad dreams he will never be there, that there is no relief in waking any more.

and of course i realize, intellectually, that this is not circa 1858 and that any more is not never again: i will learn to be alone at night. it will get better.

but i do not want it to get better, i want it to be good.