The world's greatest dog

I read a few other blogs, and one of them just mentioned that she grew up with a great dane and how much she wants a dog. All I can do is concur, I want a dog too, but my living situation at the moment is less than ideal for that I’m afraid.

When I was little, like most kids I wanted a dog above all else, maybe with the exception of a pony. After all I had a little sister and she was giving me enough trouble at the time, so another one wasn’t high on my wishlist. A dog however was certain to be cuddly and fun and of course he would be the cutest and coolest puppy around. My sister shared my wish and we nagged our parents to within an inch of their lives, and finally they decided we wouldn’t get a dog. They thought it would be too much responsibility for us, and as a family we liked to travel, so who would watch it when we were away, and that was their final decision.
Until one evening, my grandfather who lived next door to us, came home with not one, but two puppies for us.

They were brother and sister, but as different as you could ever imagine. One was small with short hairs, the other was about the size of a black lab with long fluffy hairs. The bigger one was the friendliest dog you could ever imagine. He settled into our house as if he’d always been there. He came up to us to cuddle immediately and my sister and I were in heaven. My mother was quickly convinced that we should keep at least one of them, so the hurdle we had to overcome was to convince my dad. We were strategizing, coming up with arguments to sway him, but as it turned out we didn’t need any. As soon as my dad walked through the door, the dog laid down in front of his feet and looked up at him with complete adoration. And my dad was sold.

We were however only allowed to keep one dog. The other dog, who seemed a lot more nervous and shy ended up living with a friend of my grandfather’s and happily drove around Norway with him for many, many years to come.

My dog looked a lot like the dog in the picture above, except his tail was straighter and he was even a little bigger. We were told he was a mix between a German shepherd, a black lab and a Norwegian Elkhound, but he didn’t really look like any of them. His name was Kaare, a name which was far from ideal, but had been his all along so we didn't have the heart to change it. We did however add to it, and his full name eventually became Kaare Luguber Perikles Kjelstad.

He had the sweetest disposition. He loved people and would happily spend his life getting cuddles regardless of who was dispensing them. He was a big fan of driving, especially if he could sit in the front passenger seat. He would jump in the car, any car really, the first chance he got hoping for a ride. His best animal friend was a guinea pig we used to babysit for some friends. The guinea pig would happily settle between his front legs when he was lying down and Kaare would lick him and nuzzle him. In exchange Rusken the guinea pig would willingly share his food consisting of grains, carrots and cucumber with Kaare.

In spite of his size Kaare was scared of most animals, and quite a few other things too. He once cowered whimpering from a baby kitten because he thought the purring was growling. The dog who refused to jump on the couch or the bed, once jumped onto a couch at someone else’s house and glued himself trembling to my mother because they had a tiny bird which was loose and scared him witless. And let’s not even mention sheep or horses, both of which terrified him. It seemed the only things he weren’t afraid of were other dogs which he treated with friendly interest, and people. Fiercely loyal and always happy, I don’t think anyone could ever have had a better dog growing up. I have a thousand stories about him, and they’re all good.

After thirteen years of living with us Kaare became ill and eventually we had to put him to sleep. We all went to the vet’s office to say goodbye to him and were with him when they put him down. At the time I was so distraught I thought I’d never want another dog. And I’ll be honest, I don’t think I’ll ever meet another dog as wonderful and fun as he was, he seemed part human at times with his behaviour. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other good dogs out there, and now close to a decade later I actually want one. Just need more free time, a bigger apartment or even a house first, and of course start traveling less for work and fun… see why a dog right now isn’t such a bright idea?

Strikes and protests

“Protests and strikes are part of France’s history, it’s in our blood”, a friend said this to me today (except in French). He’s not wrong. This is how the French have gotten things done in the past. The French revolution, well, revolutions actually, the 68 riots and student protests, the 95 three week long strike and countless other strikes, protests, demonstrations and riots.
Of course my friend went on to add that the government and ruling class today are lucky in that the mobs won’t send them to the guillotine and put their heads on sticks.

Paris during these general strikes and protests isn’t so bad if you don’t have to go to work. Unfortunately today I didn’t have a choice. The metro just didn’t show up this morning so I started walking to work thinking I’d find a cab. That didn’t happen, and I now know that walking to work only takes about one hour and fifteen minutes. (And probably about the same back, except I made a little detour) I didn’t actually go to the protest. I never do. Not because I don’t think there are things worth protesting about, because there certainly are, but because I tend to be a little bit claustrophobic. Not to the point that I can’t be in crowds, or on the metro (unless it’s rush hour and people are pushing on you to get on the train), but when there are huge crowds and they push me around the way I once had happen at a demonstration, I just can’t deal with it. I don’t want to be anywhere near it in fact. This is also why I now only go to concerts if there is seating, or outdoors and not crowded. God, I’m old!

The reason they’ve been protesting and striking today, and last week, is this new law proposal which will loosen certain restrictions when it comes to firing young workers. I can see this from both sides. On a personal level, I don’t like to think we are moving towards a more americanized model when it comes to job security, or insecurity as the case may be. But I can also understand why the government is proposing this.

France is a country in crisis in many ways. The economy is not as healthy as it should be. Unemployment rates are high and foreign investments are down. The government hopes that this new measure will make it easier for companies to hire people, thus reducing the unemployment rate and of course it would also give young people some much needed work experience. Part of me wants to say that this could be a great thing if it has the desired effect. Because if you do your job well, they’re not going to fire you. They’ll keep you on, and you’ll have more time to prove your worth than with a normal trial period. On the other hand I know there are a lot of companies that would probably abuse such a system. It’s a difficult issue, and I’m not going to pretend I have answers. Hopefully an agreement will be reached soon.

All I do know is that I wish the protesters would realise that trashing stores, burning cars, vandalising the library at the Sorbonne is never the answer. And I also hope the metro drivers will be back at work tomorrow because my feet are a little tired from all that walking in heels today.

My favourite shopping buddy

I love to shop. I’m sure this won’t come as a revelation to anyone who knows me, and I’m certainly not alone in this. The majority of the women I know love to shop. Whether it’s for me or for gifts doesn’t matter, though gifts might be even more fun now that I think about it. Whether I’m browsing in a bookstore, a department store, a clothing store or even grocery shopping gives me a thrill. Usually I shop alone, especially if I shop for myself. The main reason is that I’m a big girl and most of my friends are not, so if I want to spend an hour in a store where there really isn’t something for them to look at, I feel guilty. And it also tends to be quicker if I’m on my own. Having said that, I was recently in the US and one of the things I wanted to do while there was shop.

Clothes shopping in the US is the best. Gotta love it. Here in Europe it seems like most of the plus size clothing is baggy and frumpy. Of course there are exceptions, but there is so little to choose from compared to the US. Let me tell you something else that baffles me. There are European brands or designers who make plus size clothes for the US market, but you can’t find it here. How insane is that? And please don’t try to tell me that there aren’t fat people in Europe. I live here, I know better.

Anyway, I knew I wanted to go shopping and the friend I was visiting was indeed prepared for this. (I say friend, but it seems so inadequate. You know who you are anyway, and exactly what I mean) Not only was he prepared, but he had done research J He knew which malls had which stores, and which ones were the best of those.(For those who live in the Detroit area, Somerset Collections was my favourite of the malls, at least I think that was what it was called.) He patiently went through most of them with me. Spent hours in a couple of stores in particular, and while I was in the dressing room, suddenly another outfit would come over the door with a voice behind it: “How about this one?” He actually found one of the coolest outfits I ended up buying. I’d seen one pair of jeans online that I desperately wanted, but we couldn’t find it in any of the stores, and when I was ready to give up on the whole thing, he soldiered on and managed to find a solution and my jeans. I admit we did do a little shopping for him too, but that was about 5% of the total shopping time. I couldn’t believe how patient and helpful he was, the best shopping partner I’d ever had. I’ve told my mother, my sister and several friends about this, and they all react with stunned disbelief. He damn near qualifies for sainthood in their opinion, and I certainly wouldn’t argue.

I had so much fun shopping that my credit card company called me after a few days just to make sure I was the one doing the shopping. The bill will be huge this month, but at least I’m getting airmiles. I got several outfits, underwear, lots of books, some gifts, but only one pair of shoes. So here’s a warning to my shopping buddy, next time we’re doing some serious shoe shopping!

Late night television

I’m a big fan of television. Not all of it mind you, but I think TV at it’s best can be not only entertaining, but highly educational as well. I could give you a whole list of things television has taught me over the years, but I won’t bore anyone with the details.

For many years I never really watched TV. When I was a child the amount of TV we were allowed to watch was regulated, as were the kind of shows we were allowed to watch. During my high school years I lived in a dorm and other than the news, there wasn’t a lot of TV watching going on. And then I spent a year in California. It was literally a relevation. At the time in Oslo, I think we had 6 or 7 channels at home. In California I had about 60. I discovered Melrose Place, 90210, Party of five, Friends, Seinfeld, 60 minutes and I’m sure there were others. I’m not going to try to convince anyone that all of the above shows are educational, but they’re all certainly entertaining.

Since then there have been others, and better: Sex and the city, The Sopranos, The West wing, Borettslaget, Åpen post, Tout le monde en parle, The Daily show and now The Colbert Report (though these last two aren’t on TV here so I only get to watch snippets online), Nip/Tuck, Lost, the Office, Queer as folk (the British version) and last, but not least, my personal favourite: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m sure I’ve forgotten plenty, and some of the ones I’ve mentioned don’t even exist anymore, but that’s life. Also, the American shows I mostly watch on DVD, as they tend to be dubbed on TV here in France, and I just can’t stand that.

Tonight I spent a couple of hours watching a French show called ’93, Faubourg St Honoré’ which is by the same guy who does ‘Tout le monde en parle’. It’s the third time I’ve seen it, and not only is it brilliant, but the concept is so ultra-French it’s hard to imagine it being made anywhere else. Basically the host, Thierry Ardisson (who I have a little crush on) invites a handful of people to a dinner party at his apartment, which by the way is gorgeous. The guests are allowed to come late if they feel like it, bring other friends along if they want so he never really knows who will be there until they show up. This evening the guests included one convservative political writer, two journalists, a novelist, a rapper, a North African folk singer, an actress and I can’t remember who the last woman was as she really didn’t speak much (and one woman who called to say she couldn’t make it because she couldn’t bear the thought of having to defend Chirac all by herself all evening).

They start with drinks in the kitchen, and then move on to the dinner table, where they discuss various issues over a three course meal with wine of course. They talked about politics, literature, slavery, music and all of it interspersed with personal anecdotes. It’s smart, it assumes that the audience has a certain previous knowledge on most issues and it’s funny. All this and food too J. It’s interesting to see how the mood changes over the course of the meal because while nobody gets very inebriated, a few glasses of wine definitely loosen people up a little.
I can’t wait to see who will be on the show next time!

(March 25, 2006)

What's the 911 equivalent for plants?

I have a plant in my office. It’s tall and green and was very beautiful… unfortunately it now looks like it’s dying.

I openly admit I don’t have even the trace of a grren thumb. I’ve managed to kill plants that people clail are near unkillable. I’m pretty sure I’d kill plastic plants if my standards ever fell low enough to buy them.

My sister on the other hand has orchids that’s been thriving for years. She never kills plants, of course when I ask her how she has no idea. She does pretty much the same things I do. Water when she remembers to, cuts down the orchid when it’s deflowered. I don’t think she’s ever used any kind of fertilizer, and yet. It’s a mystery.

Somehow I thought that the plant in my office would stand a chance though. After all I wasn’t solely responsible for it’s well-being. Looks like I really do need the 911 equivalent for plants though…

Anybody have any really good plant-care tips to pass along I’d be happy to hear it.

(March 23, 2006)

Janie's got a gun...

Ok, so my name isn’t Janie, and I don’t actually have a gun, but I did just fire one for the first time a few days ago. (and yes, I realise that song bears no real relevance to what I’m about to write about, but I’m jetlagged and lazy and can’t be bothered to look up something that has)

Let me first just state that I’ve always been emphatically against private gun ownership, and in the interest of honesty, guns have always terrified me. I once drove a 50 minute detour just to get one out of a car I was borrowing, and all that for a drive that only would have taken an hour to begin with, that’s how terrified I was of guns. Now all this begs the question, what extraordinary set of circumstances could possibly lead to me firing one?

I’ve been on a little trip to the US. (I had a wonderful time by the way, and I’m sure more on that will follow some other time) While I don’t think it’s a good idea for private gun ownership, the friend I was visiting needs one for his job, and I admit I was a little curious about it. Anyway, at some point it was decided that we should go to a shooting range. And that sentence must be an awful let-down… I’m sure you had visions of self-defense and righteous anger dancing in your heads and I’m sorry to have to disappoint.

We arrived at the shooting range and after handing over our driver’s licences, and I think my friend had to show his weapon’s permit, we were handed targets, protective eye and ear gear and off we went. My friend explained how to load the gun, how I should be standing, how to hold it, how never to point it in ‘that’ direction, always keep my finger of the trigger except when I’m firing, how to undo the safety, and how to aim. I watched him fire him quite a few times, and the ‘bang’ made me jump nearly out of my skin the first few times. It’s a lot louder than in the movies. Another thing I never knew was that the shells jumped out of the gun in the opposite direction of the bullet, or maybe not the opposite, but not with the same force and speed anyway. How come they never mention that on cop shows?

Then it was my turn. I held the gun, tried to aim at the target and fired. Much to my surprise I hit. And I kept hitting the target. I even hit the x a few times. And once I managed to stop flinching, ok, once I managed to flinch a little less, I even managed to hit several in close vicinity of eachother. And it felt pretty damn good… I’m ashamed to admit it was exhilarating and it got my adrenaline pumping. I was watching my friend while he was shooting, and while I honestly find him beyond hot all the time, the gun didn’t detract from that either. At the end of our shooting my fingers were black from gunpowder, my ears were ringing slightly in spite of the protective gear and I was feeling a little turned on. I’m going to say that was just from watching my friend though, regardless of the guns.

I’m not going to lie, I’m still as anti-guns as I ever was. They should be outlawed. There is no reason for an honest private citizen to be armed to the teeth. Automatic weapons shouldn’t be made at all, and certainly shouldn’t be available to the general public. The next time I see a gun in the wild I’m sure I’ll still avoid it like the plague, but at least I now know that if I ever had to I could pull the trigger. At least if the threat was a sheet of paper in a shooting range…

As a final thought… to those of you who have been laying sleepless at night worrying that the Michigan militia has gone out of existence and abandonned their pursuit of… I’ll have to plea ignorance here. I don’t actually know what they’re pursuing, but I’m sure if you’re losing sleep over it, you’ll know. Anyway, I’m here to put your fears to rest. I can personally attest to having seen a live member of the Michigan militia, decked out in military garb and with at least 5 or 6 different types of guns in his possession. And to me that’s a frightening sight.

(March 22, 2006)

Metro ick

I have a love/hate relationship with the metro. I love that it’s fast and usually efficient. I hate when it’s crowded and smelly and not so efficient. I love looking at a metro map when I’m going somewhere to discover that it’s on a direct line, I hate walking through miles of tunnels whenever I have to change metro. I love the fact that it’s inexpensive, hate the fact that it’s not air-conditioned. Love the metro stop at the Louvre with the Egyptian artefacts and the art nouveau metro entrance at Abbesses, hate when people have accidents and either fall or jump in front of it. (Not that I’ve personally seen it, and I’m so grateful for that, but still worth hating. I feel so bad for the drivers of these things who actually have seen that)

I’ve seen people pass out on the metro, throw up. There are pan handlers, musicians and singers, people selling crap, pick pockets, oglers, sweaty people who have forgotten how a shower functions, people who pass gas and try to be circumspect about it. There are nose-pickers, butt scratchers, people making out, people staring at the people making out, people listening to music, reading, occasionally dancing. You have people from every walk of life, businessmen, kids going to school, pensioners doing whatever they do during the day (it always amazes me that people who aren’t forced to will get on a metro in rush hour, but there you go)

I take the metro around the same time most mornings. Usually there are some familiar faces. The guy who once asked for my number, the little Asian-American boy whose hair always sticks up at odd angles and is the cutest little thing in red glasses ever, the guy who works in a building right next to the one I work in. But today I met for the first time a very peculiar and frankly unpleasant breed of metro dweller, the rubber. Now everyone who’s been on a crowded metro has had to suffer through the annoying experience of having someone slide their hand against your butt, or maybe even someone try to cop a feel of a breast. Unpleasant, annoying, but usually a stern look or a ‘Hey asshole’ takes care of that. This morning however I was standing in the very crowded cart, and I admit in close vicinity of several people, when I felt someone press against my back and start to rhythmically rub himself (could have been a her in theory I suppose) against me. And there was no mistaking this for innocent crowded metro touching. This was close to a stop, so I pushed away, turned around, called the guy a ‘fucking pervert’ and moved to another cart.
I haven’t felt that dirty since I saw a flasher when I was in my teens. I desperately wanted to go home and take a shower, but due to a meeting, I couldn’t. Unfortunately my office doesn’t have a shower, otherwise I would have been in it the minute I arrived at my office.
Now here’s what I’m wondering… how should I have dealt with this. How do other people deal with it?
Part of me wishes I’d had the reflex of kneeing him in the unmentionables, but that probably would have led to a colourful visit in jail. Maybe it’s time to buy a car and stop taking the metro in rush hour. For now I’ll just try to stay away from too crowded carts. Maybe I should buy a tazer gun…

(March 22, 2006)

An ex and his opinion

There is a whole lot going on in my life at the moment. And I’ve been writing the letters off my keyboard in the last couple of days. None of that writing will end up here, or anywhere else for that matter. Mainly because so much of what I have had on my mind is intertwined with someone else’s life, and this someone would rather not have their life aired on my blog right now. Needless to say the fact that I’ve been itching to post things left, right and center is taking second chair to this person’s request. I understand and respect their wishes.

So what do I write about… I could talk about the jetlag, but I’m fairly certain that’s a topic that has been covered before. I could talk about the student riots, but I’m just going to assume that most people who come across this also read newspapers or watch the news (and I mean actual news, not Fox news). There are always books and movies, but I’m not in the mood to dissect somebody else’s work. I suppose I could take a cue from so many other blogs and write about sex, but why be trite when you don’t have to be. However since I’m lacking originality today, I’ll just sponge off someobody else’s idea.

A few weeks ago, there was a challenge on a blog. The challenge was to get an honest review of yourself from an ex and post it without spinning it. Well, I got the review and after translation, here it is:

You are too self-reliant. You value your independence too much, and have difficulty asking for help. You are too sensitive and cry too easily, get involved too much too quickly. Work takes up too much of your time, and you need to learn to let go of it sometimes. Sometimes you hold people and things to unreasonably high standards, though I’ll admit you’re usually easygoing.

Ok, I admit I edited that a little for excessive bitterness, but that’s pretty muh the gist of it. I think I’m going to need a second opinion on this. While I agree that I can be a little too sensitive, I don’t think I’m too self-reliant if I’m with someone I can actually rely on. I think I hold myself to very high standards as I have been known to suffer from ‘good girl syndrome’, but I’m working on it. Work is important to me, but I’m working on letting go on occasion too. I have other faults that he didn’t mention at all, and there was one other thing he mentioned, but I think that was particular to that relationship and not a general thing, so I won’t bring that up here. If I do get another review I’ll post that too.

Driving here, there and everywhere

I love to drive. I love sitting in the car, listening to music while the miles just pile up on the odometer. Of course this isn’t something easily reconcilable with my belief that CO2 emissions are ruining our climate and everybody needs to be more conscious of the environment. But driving just gives me such a feeling of freedom. Once you’re behind the wheel you could really go anywhere and do anything, and not many things can afford you that luxury.

I got my licence in 1994 in California after having flunked my test once here in France. At the time I was in high school in a small town in France called Fontenay-le-Comte. It had a total of 19000 inhabitants at the time, and was one of those places where everyone pretty much knew everyone. Or at least that’s what it felt like when you were part of a group of Norwegian high school students and overheard conversations in the market on the weekend or in the café. Amazing how much gossip was banded around about us, most of it false I might add. Anyway, I digress…

I started taking driving lessons here in France after a few introductory lessons kindly given by my dad. Lessons he spent with one hand on the handbreak and partly holding his breath. The theory I passed without any problems, and then there was the actual road test. I admit I was nervous before the test. I told my driving instructor and his advice was to have a couple of drinks before the test to calm my nerves a little. (And that’s not a joke, that was his actual suggestion) Needless to say I didn’t take his advice, but decided to give it a chance stone cold sober, and nervous as can be.

I didn’t do badly at all in my opinion. I parallell parked, I backed up a steep hill, I u-turned, I drove on the freeway and down small country roads and some small crowded streets, and this is where I ran into trouble. This is when I flunked my test after driving for about an hour. I was coming down a small street in the town centre, cars were parked on one side of the street, not on my side I might add, and coming towards me from the opposite direction was another car. It was a tight fit, and I knew we wouldn’t both be able to fit, but because the cars weren’t parked on my side of the street, according to the road rules in France I had the right away, so I decided to drive forward. Needless to say the idiot coming in the opposite direction decided that was the perfect day to ignore what he had once learned in traffic school and started driving too. We met in the middle and instead of immediately backing up so he could pass, I waited for him to back up, and the examiner decided that wasn’t the appropriate behaviour for a young lady just learning to drive or some such drivel. Was I furious? You betcha, and I even pulled out the book with the road rules to prove to the guy that I had the law on my side, but it was no use. I had flunked my test.

A few months later I was going to California to be an au-pair. I would need a licence, so the family I was staying with and working for took me driving to evaluate, and then decided I didn’t need any further lessons, but should just go to the DMV and take the test. The theory was easy. If I recall correctly one of the multiple choice questions asked whether when people were in the middle of the street, you should a) drive, b) honk and then drive or c) wait until the passage was clear of people and then drive. Then came the time for the road test. I wasn’t quite as nervous this time, and instead of the stick shift I was taking the test with an automatic transmission, so that was one less thing to worry about. I was all set for an hour long test which would involve pretty much the same things as I had had to do in France, so you can imagine my surprise when the entire test took about ten minutes, and the most difficult thing I had to do was pull up alongside an empty curb and reverse for a few yards. The whole thing cost me about $20, and when I came back to Norway a year later I just traded it in for a Norwegian licence, thus avoiding the costly and frankly harrowing experience of doing the test in Norway.

I’m not sure why there’s such a huge difference between the driving tests in Europe and the ones in the US. I don’t even know if that’s still the case. I’m also thinking some Americans reading this must be scratching their heads wondering how those crazy French drivers got their licence in the first place considering the driving you may have observed around here. (Especially when you see them manoeuver around the Place Charles de Gaulle Etoile)
I think partly it’s just the difference in attitude to driving. In the US it seems to be considered more as a right than anything else, here it’s still considered a privilege.

I’m certainly happy I have my licence which means I can enjoy the guilty pleasure of driving on empty freeways in the middle of the night down to the Riviera, singing along to a cd or the radio, possibly stopping along the way because I see a sign in the middle of nowhere advertising an alligator farm. And I’ll also be enjoying driving through the desert from Los Angeles to Las Vegas in July (and yes, I promise we’ll get a car with satellite radio this time), just like I enjoyed driving from Las Veags to San Francisco last summer. Now if they could only come up with a car that didn’t pollute, then I could drive all the time without a trace of guilt… oh, and while I’m making requests I’d also like the car to magically make other cars disappear so I’d never be stuck in traffic. And of course it has to be cute. Maybe in a nice bright colour. And if there was any way to install a Diet Coke machine in a car that’d be good too.

(March 8, 2006)

Going where the snow is thigh high

Last night I came home a little late. I spent the evening drinking wine and indulging in girly talk with a friend of mine, which was very enjoyable I might add. I’m leaving for Norway this evening, so I had to pack my bag last night. Knowing this I was doing my very best to be a good girl, and got home relatively early. Walking towards my building I noticed there was no light at all. Not in the foyer, not coming from any apartments. Of course the elevator wasn’t running. I stumbled up the stairs in pitch black and managed somehow to find my door and get inside. Where there was no electricity either. It seems my building had a bit of a blackout.

I spent the next hour packing by candlelight, which was a first, all the while wondering how I would manage to wake up this morning. I usually go to bed quite late, so waking up in the morning really isn’t my favourite thing to do. I can’t rely on my built in clock to get me up, so I usually use the mobile phone or the TV as alarm, when it’s imperative that I don’t oversleep I use a combination of the two. But with a flat battery in my phone, and a TV that needs electricity I was out of luck. My internal clock did wake me up this morning, only about 20 minutes later than usual, and all the lights in my apartment were on. I still don’t know what actually happened to cause the blackout, but as long as everything works again now I don’t really care.

Well, I’m off to Norway for almost a week. Part of that for a conference with work, part of it to be spent with family and friends. I may be online occasionally and I may not.

(Feb 28, 2006)

Loss

One of my friends lost her mom on Sunday. In spite of her having been sick for a long time, it was still a shock. Although it didn’t seem like such a shock to my friend. She’s in mourning obviously, but still handling it surprisingly well. Her brother doesn’t seem to be handling it very well at all, so it’s left to her to organise the funeral and deal with all the paperwork.

I’m sitting here too many miles away wishing there was something I could do to help her, but the truth is, even if I was right next door to her, there really isn’t much anybody can do in those situations. Except let them know how sorry you are, and listen if they want to talk.

One of my worst nightmares is losing my mom. When I lost my grandparents I felt lost, and I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible it would be to lose my mom. A few years ago she was sick, and though I was worried I knew she’d be ok, and she was. And then a few years ago, my mom, her best friend and the kids (meaning my mom’s friend’s daughters and grand-daughter and my sister and me) went up to stay at a cabin in the mountains for a weekend. Walking in the snow, staying up late talking and drinking wine. Very, very late one night my mother started to choke. I panicked, lost all sense of what should be done in spite of having taken CPR classes. Luckily someone else had the instinct to do a Heimlich and saved her life. That’s the one that’s stayed with me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. Even know thinking about it, I tear up. Mom tried to minimalize it, saying she wouldn’t have died, but she would have. I still have nightmares where I wake up in sobs, where everything happens the same way except for a very different ending. Unfortunately my mother doesn’t seem to realise how much losing her would affect my sister and me. She still smokes, works too much, doesn’t really eat healthy. My sister and I have tried numerous tactics to get her to take care of herself, but nothing seems to stick. So we drop hints, tell her we love her and enjoy the time we do have with her.

Another friend of mine said the loss of one of our parents made her realise that we’re now at the age where this will start to happen more often. One of us losing a parent. It’s not exactly a warm thought to wrap yourself up in before going to bed. I’ve never told anyone about that incident up at the cabin. As far as I know the only people who know about it are the people who were there. I’m not sure why it turned out that way, I suppose putting word to your fears seem to make them bigger. I just hope that the day when that particular nightmare becomes real is a long, long time from now.

(Feb 21, 2006)

Bookcrossing

I recently signed up on a website called www.bookcrossing.com. As I may have mentioned before I’m an avid reader and book lover, and in spite of the recent addition of some shelves I still have piles of books on the floor in my bedroom.
The idea behind the site is that you register a book and then release it into the wild to let the book travel as it wishes. Of course you release it in the hopes that someone will find it and report back on the website to document the book’s journey, but even if that never happens to any of the books I release I like the idea of someone else finding the book and enjoying it.

I’m what you would call a compulsive buyer of books, and I’m sure that isn’t going to change with signing up on this website, but at least I can clear out some of the books I have more than one copy of. And I have to admit I’ve been doing a little shopping with the specific intent to release the books just to have some fun. The end result is that I have about 30 books to release into the wild, or pass on to someone else who wants it. Now all I need are ideas for where to release them. Outdoors isn’t really ideal as it’s been raining a lot here lately.

Farmor

This morning I woke up utterly convinced it was Sunday. I even sent an e-mail to a friend of mine saying I was so happy it was Sunday because I had no plans and could spend the day with my nose in a book. Needless to say I felt a little sheepish when I received a reply saying it was still Saturday in her time zone… and we’re in the same time zone.

It’s like getting an extra day as a present, and I wish I oculd say I had spent the day doing something extraordinary or exciting, but instead I spent it doing laundry, reading, catching up on my e-mail and watching a movie. I had dinner with a friend of mine this evening who had a good chuckle when I told him about my little mistake this morning. The odd thing is that it still feels like Sunday.

I don’t believe all days have a feeling. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays feel similar to me. The rest of them definitely have a feeling though.

I was watching ‘Rescue me’ the other day, not a show I usually watch, but in this particular episode one of the characters had to put his wife in a home due to her Alzheimer’s disease. My paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s. It’s a horrible disease, but moreso for the people close to the person who has the disease I think. My grandmother was a cold woman. She was never very close to my dad, and by extension my sister and myself. She wasn’t the cuddly kind of grandmother who would take you on her lap and hug you. She wasn’t the kind of grandmother who would cook fantastic meals for the entire family, truth be told she couldn’t cook at all. I didn’t really know my grandmother, she never talked about her childhood or youth. The only thing I knew she enjoyed was music, and the only reason I knew that was because she liked it when my sister and I sang.

My parents divorced before my grandmother was diagnosed. My mother didn’t really see her very often, but she was still the first one who mentioned to my dad that Alzheimer’s was a possibility. Most of my memories of my grandmother are from after she became sick. It was as if she had a personality transplant in the beginning. The woman who had always seemed so cold all of a sudden wanted to hug and kiss everyone. She would pretend to fall all the time to get attention. When things got worse she would crawl under the dinnertable to play during dinners. The first time she met my stepfather she came up behind him while he was getting something out of the fridge, patted him on his butt and said ‘Bloop, bloop, bloop’. She forgot who we were. For a while she only recognised my sister and I when we sang, and then not at all. She would all of a sudden turn up on our doorstep having walked for miles. My grandfather would come from work to irate taxidrivers who had driven my grandmother around for hours and she didn’t have any money.

I’m not sure what was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back, but my grandfather eventually put her in a home. After all he was working, and she couldn’t be left alone anymore at all and there weren’t many options left. Because she had a tendency to try to run away she had to be in a closed ward. Visiting her there was nightmarish. She didn’t know who we were and she was wasting away. There was another woman in the ward who terrified me because she seemed so angry all the time, bordering on violent. The other patients weren’t in any better shape than my grandmother. I can’t recall how long she was in the home. It seemed like she went downhill fairly quickly, but my memory could be playing tricks on me. By the time she passed away, her life didn’t have much semblance to living anymore.

I can’t honestly say I miss ‘farmor’. My maternal grandparents I miss every day, and think about every day, not so with farmor. I wish I’d known her better. I wish she’d taken more of an interest in us when we were children, but that just wasn’t her thing.

Oddly enough, my very first memory has her in it. It was when my sister was born. I was sitting in their hallway on the bench next to the phone, she was next to me helping hold the phone and I remember my mother crying on the phone when she was talking to me. I’m not sure why that one memory is the first one, or why that one is so clear. Somehow I think it had more to do with my mother crying than my grandmother.

Time for bed methinks. It’s late here, and I had a little too much wine with dinner. A lot of things going aorund in my head right now, but I’ll get back to it some other time.

Good night, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
If they bite, squeeze them tight so they don’t come back another night.

(Feb 11, 2006)

Community and theater

Last night I went to see my friend Emma act in a play. She’s in an amateur theatre troupe which consists entirely of lawyers (and yes, I’m sure there’s about a million jokes to be made here, and some of them I heard last night). The play’s French title was ‘Je veux voir Mioussov’by Valentin Kataiev. Russian playwright who stopped writing plays in the thirties, nineteen thirties that is. The play was a two hour long vaudeville piece,a farce of the kind where people are looking for eachother and going in and out of doors missing eachother all the time. Which in my book is funny for maybe ten minutes (unless it’s exceptionally well-written) and then it gets tiresome. It was fun seeing my friend act, she’s pretty good even, but it was just a bad choice of play. Last year’s production was much more fun.

What the evening led me to think about though was communities. Present in the audience last night was approximately 150 people comprised of the thespian lawyer’s friends, colleagues, family members and possibly some people who happened to work in the frankly beautiful ‘Palais de justice’. A lot of the people there were lawyers and judges, a couple of them even had their robes on, which I don’t get at all because it’s not as if they’re not wearing regular clothes underneath and if you want to impress someone with the fact that you’re a lawyer, last night’s crowd was definitely not the right one for that.

Anyway, there I was sitting in a beautiful room in the law library, letting my mind wander in between appearances of my friend on stage, and I started thinking about the intersecting communities that were there. And how we’re all part of several communities. The different responsibilities and ‘rules’ of conduct that each community has. And then I started to get hungry wishing I had brought something to snack on…

But the thoughts of this stayed with me for a while. Thinking about the different communities I belong to. First of all there’s of course my neighbourhood. The people you see on the street all the time. The ones you say hello to, inquire after their children, pets, ailing parents etc. depending on how often you talk with them.
Secondly there’s the professional community. Your co-workers, other people in the same line of work. There’s set standards for ethical conduct (at least in my line of work). There’s a common frame of reference. Then there are your friends, and their friends. Sometimes several different communities intersecting. Of course I can’t forget about the family, the community you’re born into without any choice whatsoever. The one where you can only hope to be as lucky as I am. Then there’s the gym, while I’m not necessarily friends with people there, I do see a lot of the same people and chitchat. Some people are part of religious communities. There are online communities and many other kinds I’m sure. And of course we’re all part of the global community.

We all have a global responsibility, each of us in our little way should try to make the world better than it was when we arrived. Not always an easy thing to do when you have little time and problems of your own. Most people try to do what they can, they chip in when they can, they send money to relief organsiations and try to help out beyond their own borders. Now, how do we get governments and corporations to do the same? Former imperialist countries have a responsibility to former colonies that they are not fulfilling. France is a good example of that, immigrants from former colonies were rioting not very long ago. Rich countries in general have a responsibility to countries in the third world. Wealthy corporations have a responsibility to their employees which is far too often ignored in favour of increased profits. I often feel powerless when I read the news these days. The US government is becoming more and more conservative every day, as is the supreme court, and I just can’t believe it truly reflects the will of the American people. I’m hoping there will be an impeachment any day now…as someone said in a blog recently, Clinton only lied about a blowjob.

I’ve veered away from the original topic. That’s what happens when I just write without any kind of specific idea. Digressions and whatnot.

Oh, I recently joined another community… the one of bookcrossing.com. Such a great idea, and I’ve released two books into the wild. I’m curious to see if they’ll be found, and by whom if they bother to post a message on the website.

This was a long entry of halfdigested thoughts and ramblings as usual. Since it’s getting late here I think I’m just going to stop for now. Sleep is good…

(Feb 3, 2006)

Gotta love Kermit

I woke up this morning with a severe case of the Monday morning blues. I had a good weekend, with lots to do, and this morning I just felt tired. I now know why as I just read that January 23rd is the absolute worst day of the year according to a doctor who had used some kind of complicated mathematical formula to determine this. I could look it up and give you the mathematical proof, but I just can't be bothered. You'll just have to take my word for it, and of course the truthiness of the statement: "January 23rd is the absolute worst day of the year" (Thank you Stephen Colbert)

In order to get me out of the funk, this is what I've been listening to today:

The Rainbow connection

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it,
And look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

All of us under its spell,
We know that it's probably magic...

Have you been half asleep? And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name. ...
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm s'posed to be...
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Laa, da daa dee da daa daa, La laa la la laa dee daa doo...

The Kermit version of course. It's one of my favourite songs. Someone I knew used to sing this to me, and while it occasionally makes me cry (yes, I'm that much of a sentimental fool, and also that much of a dork), but it always made me feel better too. So I'll keep listening to my beloved Kermit singing about rainbows whenever I need to, and in all honesty I might go home and watch the movie tonight too.

Damn the man! Save the empire (I loved that movie)

Damn the man ! And when I say that I’m referring to the taxman.
I’ve never been one of those people who didn’t want to pay taxes, I gladly pay taxes to preserve certain aspects of life that I think are crucial to any society. First among them, socialised medicine and health care. Coverage should be universal, whether or not you’re wealthy shouldn’t influence whether or not you have the right to a heart transplant if you need one. Everybody should have access to health care, and that should include dental health. Social security is another one. Everyone can come across a bad patch in their life, and in countries as rich as the ones I’ve lived in there is no reason to have people starving or homeless, none whatsoever. (Of course some people will have you believe that people choose to be homeless, and while I find that very hard to believe, if someone can ever provide proof of this then I’ll reconsider)

Having said that, the taxation level here in France is just too high. In addition to the taxes we pay for social security, health care and retirement, which they don’t actually call taxes here, there is income tax, tax on your TV, habitation tax if you rent property, another tax if you own property, tax for removal of garbage, and I’m sure there are more that I can’t think of at the moment. There has to be some way to cut government spending without cutting necessary spending. I work for an international company, and we manage to cut our spending without laying people off or reducing income.

Did anyone see the movie “Dave”? In the movie he has to find funds to save a project and he does so by calling a friend who’s an accountant and they go through the minutiae of the budget and cut what’s necessary (In the movie I believe there was some talk about incredibly expensive toilets or some such) It’s naïve and just a little unrealistic, but I’m sure going through government spending in detail would reveal many similar things here. And if they did they could either give a little of it back to the general population, or even better spend it on something worthwhile, like foreign aid, or housing subsidies, or taking care of the impoverished suburbs.

Well, that’s my venting done for the day. All in all I should probably be grateful I have to pay taxes, and be happy I won’t go broke if I ever have to go to the hospital for something.

The end of a friendship

Lately certain aspects of my life have been a little perturbed. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not so much. One of the consequences of this is that I’ve indulged in quite a bit of navel-gazing, and in the process I fear I have lost a friend. Or rather I’ve come to the realisation that I may need to misplace a friend. I used to think the person in question was wonderful and quite unique, and I thought we shared a great amount of love and understanding, and appreciation for our very different characters. But over the past few months we don’t seem to communicate well. We don’t get along and our friendship seems to have become plagued by guilt-trips and arguments. Not to mention the not so subtle barbs at eachother. I’m not going to bore anyone with details, but this person has changed, or some people would say that my patience has ran out and I see now what I didn’t before.

If I were a different person I could probably just ride it out and hope that our friendship once again would become what it once was. Fun and rewarding, but I’m finding myself unable to cope with it. It has often been said that I can be overly sensitive, and that is especially true when it comes to people I care greatly for.

I read an advice column every now and again on www.tomatonation.com. It’s good, the woman writing it is full of common sense and I usually agree with her. One of the themes that seem to pop up regularly in her advice relates to the shelf-life of friendship. How some friendships aren’t meant to last forever and once a relationship has become purely destructive it’s time to move on. Not necessarily through a fight or an argument, but just to let it go. Looking back at my life so far, I find this to be true. Certain people who were great friends at one point or another have drifted away. People evolve, change, and we don’t always evolve in the same direction. Some of those people may cross my path again, and for the most part I will be delighted to see them, and who knows, some of them may even become friends again.

This is however the first time in my life where I’ve had a good look at a friendship and decided that the only way may be to end it deliberately. There is no need to keep a toxic person in your life, and that’s what has happened in this instance. I suppose it’s fitting to do this at the beginning of a new year. I wish this person the best, I just can’t deal with it anymore.

(Jan 16, 2006)

Classics and translation

I’ve been reading poetry again. Sappho and Catullus this time. Now, you may wonder why those two in particular, and the explanation is very simple. The two books were lying on top of eachother on a bookshelf, and when I saw them I felt the need to read some of it again.

Reading the classics always makes me wish I could read latin and greek. Or in the case of Black Marigolds which is one of my all-time favourite poems, sanskrit. Of course when I read Goethe I get the urge to learn German, Cervantes Spanish and so on and so forth. I always wonder if the translations I have to contend with are good enough, if they’re accurate, if they manage to capture everything the writer wanted to express.

Some translations are so wonderful, it’s hard to imagine the original could rival it, but one just never knows. Unless you’re like someone I know, who I wish I could still call a friend, and then you just learn to read the language to verify. He’s just amazing. He can read around 15 languages, several of them languages I had never even heard of, long since dead. He taught himself sanskrit when he was 19, which to me is just mindboggling. I digress, the genius of others has a tendency to distract a little.

At the moment the poem below is my favourite Sappho poem, or rather my favourite fragment. I don’t think unrequited love, or secret love has ever been described more vividly.


He is more than a hero
he is a god in my eyes--
the man who is allowed
to sit beside you -- he

who listens intimately
to the sweet murmur of
your voice, the enticing

laughter that makes my own
heart beat fast. If I meet
you suddenly, I can'

speak -- my tongue is broken;
a thin flame runs under
my skin; seeing nothing,

hearing only my own ears
drumming, I drip with sweat;
trembling shakes my body

and I turn paler than
dry grass. At such times
death isn't far from me

Sappho

And just for fun, here’s the same fragment translated by someone else. I suspect the second one is closer to a literal translation, but since I can’t read Greek I can’t be sure.

Like the gods. . .

In my eyes he matches the gods, that man who
sits there facing you--any man whatever--
listening from closeby to the sweetness of your
voice as you talk,

the sweetness of your laughter: yes, that--I swear it--
sets the heart to shaking inside my breast, since
once I look at you for a moment, I can't
speak any longer,

but my tongue breaks down, and then all at once a
subtle fire races inside my skin, my
eyes can't see a thing and a whirring whistle
thrums at my hearing,

cold sweat covers me and a trembling takes
ahold of me all over: I'm greener than the
grass is and appear to myself to be little
short of dying.

But all must be endured, since even a poor [

Sappho


If anyone wishes to express a preference for one or the other, I’m curious to know.

(Jan 9, 2006)

Badesokker

I’m sure that to most people that word will mean absolutely nothing. To some it will mean nothing cause it’s in Norwegian, to those who understand Norwegian it still won’t mean much.

Let me explain. This blog entry will be a sort of confession. And an embarrassing story about my younger years.

When I was a freshman in lycée (the equivalent of high school) I stayed in the dorm of the school, and one of my closest friends that year, and also my room-mate (one of several room-mates actually), was a Norwegian girl called Heidi. Great girl, so much fun to hang out with, great party-buddy and she was great company on those days when we decided sleeping in the nurse’s office was better than doing gymnastics in PE class. Unfortunately we’ve lost contact since, but maybe now with the wonders of the internet… and of course this new-fangled invention called a phone book, I could look her up. Anyway, I digress.

Once during a conversation for some reason we started talking about feet. Personally I don’t find feet in general particularly attractive. They’re very useful and I’m glad I have mine, but the whole erotic aspect of feet has always eluded me. Heidi however took this dislike of feet to a whole other level. She started to tell me that her entire family suffered from a phobia of feet. They found feet so revolting that when they were all at their summer house by the sea they would all wear “badesokker” or “bathing socks” to go swimming, or even while sunbathing to cover up their feet. Now I didn’t believe her… at first. But she was so convincing, and every question or exclamation of “I don’t believe you!” I uttered, she had a good answer or a compelling argument as rebuttal. She even went as far as telling me that she had seen a therapist to get over this crippling ailment.

After days of convincing me that she was telling the truth, I believed her. I figured maybe there existed some mental illness that I’d never heard of and being the accepting and frankly gullible individual that I was I took her word for it. And of course that’s when she could no longer hold it together, and she cracked up admitting it was all a big joke. And hence the term “badesokker” was born. If you’re gullible enough to buy something so improbable that it defies comprehension, or something that is plainly obvious, then you’ve been the victim of a badesokk.

I’ve been the victim of quite a few of them when I was younger, in particular from my sister and my friend Bjoern-Erik. I wish I could say I had managed to pull one or two on someone else, but apparently my pokerface is non-existant. My sister’s friend Hilde is probably one of the rare people I know who will fall for “badesokker” I wouldn’t even buy. I’ll give you an example… My sister told us both that her boyfriend’s penis was so big that if he became erect he passed out, and he was medicated to prevent this from happening. Hilde bought it, hook, line and sinker. An interview on TV with a singer who was clearly completely high, Hilde thought maybe the singer had a cold. Gotta love her.

In recent years I haven’t fallen for any little games of this kind, not that I know of anyway. Whether I’ve become more cynical or people are just showing more restraint as they get older I don’t know. I kind of hope it’s the latter, because while being gullible isn’t the greatest trait to possess, I think trusting in people is. And I still want to believe that the vast majority of people are good and trustworthy. Cynicism is not something to be envied and I hope I’m not there yet. I wonder if Hilde has kept her bright-eyed innocence and trust. I certainly hope so. Maybe I should test her next time I see her. (insert evil grin here)

(Jan 7, 2006)

Poetry and hope

I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately. Not very unusual to be honest. I enjoy it and there’s so much I don’t know and haven’t read. So many contemporary poets I’ve never even heard of, and quite a few poets of past eras as well. What tends to happen when I start reading poetry though is that I go back to poems I know and love. I get the urge to re-read old favourites. And I do. I read my favourite Emily Dickinson, Sappho, Shelley, Auden, Langston Hughes, Shakespeare, Robert Frost, William Blake, Pablo Neruda and the list goes on. In most cases I don’t know anywhere near everything they’ve written, in most cases I don’t feel the need to. I do love stumbling across poems I’ve forgotten, or never read before that can move me to laughter or tears or rage or melancholy all in the space of a few short lines. I love that language can be used so efficiently, so beautifully and so justly.

Personally I don’t write poetry, for the same reason that I don’t paint. I have absolutely no gift for it. I just admire those who can. Whoever reads this should now breathe a sigh of relief, I will never subject anyone to any bad poetry of mine. (My bad prose is an entirely different story), I will however occasionally borrow the works of others. And today I’ve been thinking a lot about a poem by Emily Dickinson about hope. A friend of mine once mentioned that romantic hope had no business growing in his vicinity, and yet it sprouts up. (Of course he’s incorrect in his assumption that romantic hope has no business around him. He’s in many ways the poster boy for romantic hope.) Hope exists everywhere if you let it, in places and people where you fear it might have died a long time ago. And good old Emily described hope beautifully.

Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

(Jan 6, 2006)

To be or not to be...

To be or not to be… that may be the question, but to me the answer to that is quite simple. I much prefer being. I’ve been lucky in so many ways, but occasionally I wish being wasn’t quite the emotional roller coaster it some times is. There’s the blues, the mean reds, the sunny yellows, the green-eyed monster moments, the silly pinks, the furious blacks (though I very rarely have the furious blacks), nary an emotion without a corresponding colour.

I was talking with a friend yesterday, and I have to admit I was having a bout of some blues, mixed with some mean reds, and we started talking about how often we suppress those feelings. How wonderful it is to have someone in your life who will let you express the blues, and the reds, and the pinks and all the others without judging you. And of course we talked about how wonderful it would be to have someone in your day to day life who allowed you to do that. Somehow I get a feeling it’s not as common as we wish.

Many years ago I was going through a rough time, and my train of thought at the time was that I couldn’t share that with anyone. Not because I was embarrassed, but just because I didn’t want to burden the people I cared about. Things changed, I worked through it, and I understood that it was quite the opposite. People who love you want to be there for you, even when you’re not at your Mae West. I sort of thought that was a lesson learned by now, and that it had been for years. Yesterday however I found myself in a situation where I felt like I had to hold back and pretend that everything was hunkydory with someone because I didn’t want to make them feel bad. I guess it’s back to the drawing board.. or at least time to remind myself of lessons previously learned.

This is about to become a bit incoherent, mainly because I can’t think of a clever segue onto the topic. That’s my brain though… it saunters about at will, and seems to serve me up digressions with indecent frequency.

Looking at the political landscape in the world today, it’s easy to feel hopeless. Personally I despair when I read polls and the percentages of people who still think Iraq was behind 9/11. The fact that Bush won the last presidential election is still something that makes my skin crawl. The fact that Le Pen was in round two of the last presidential election here in France is a disgrace. People are starving to death, freezing to death, and I get depressed just thinking about it. And where was I going with this little tirade?

Right, hope. As an individual it’s so easy to feel impotent and irrelevant. And recently I discovered a cure for this… at least a temporary one. The Nobel Peace Prize center in Oslo. I went there with my sister, and it is truly inspirational. I love the way the committee rewards intention and effort rather than just actual results. The recepients of the award are incredible people, and their work is… well, inspirational. I have to admit some of the past winners were relatively unknown to me, especially the winners from the earlier part of the 20th century, but I’m hoping someone, somewhere has published a book about all the past winners. Such a book would definitely be great to keep around for those days when you feel like all the change around you is for the worse. It’s good to remember the accomplishments of the Gandhis, Dr. Kings and Dalai Lamas of the world.

(I should mention that the picture is a painting by my favourite painter, Frans Widerberg)

(Jan 5, 2006)

My weekend (sounds like the title of a primary school essay)

I mentioned in a previous post that I often spend a weekend in London before christmas and this past weekend I took the Eurostar to London to see a concert with a friend of mine, do some christmas shopping and just spend the weekend away. Remarkably the weather was great the whole time. Sunny and just a little cold. Any time I go to London and it doesn’t rain I’m thrilled.

It always strikes me how small Paris seems in comparison to London and this is doubly true with the crowds before christmas. The department stores get too crowded, and I generally try to stay away from Knightsbridge as one year I didn’t and the sidewalks were so crowded I could barely move. There are a lot of other places to shop though, and I even braved the crowds and went to Selfridge’s and Fortnum & Mason. Not that I did that much shopping there, see above regarding crowds.

I did however go to the British Museum, which I hadn’t seen since they refurbished and let me say, it is stunning! The new reading room is absolutely heavenly, and the surrounding space is just so beautifully done. Walking through the exhibits, my fingers always tingle. Wanting to reach out and touch the stone. Of course I make every effort not to, but the desire to just reach out and let my fingertips slide along the smooth marble of a statue or the rough stone of a sarcophagus is constant.

Saturday night I went with friends to see the London Philharmonic Orchestra. It was a mixed program, and frankly some of it I enjoyed more than the rest. But they did Pärt’s Cantus in memory of Benjamin Britten and it moved me to tears. Such a powerful piece of music. I love classical music, and every time I attend a concert or the opera I tell myself I should go more often, and I mean it every time. And this time I really will try to make good on it.
My friend works in the music industry, and it’s interesting how different our experience of the same concert was. I found it beautiful and loved it, he notices all the faults. (Ok, I did notice something very wrong in one piece, but you didn’t have to be anything near an expert to notice that) He sees concerts several times per week, and he admits that he rarely manages to detach his professional viewpoint and just enjoy the experience. I’m glad I can just let myself be transported by it and not have to think about the little things that could have been better (again with that one exception). I wonder if he wishes he could just enjoy it more often.

On Sunday I went to the Tate Modern. A large part of the collection was closed. They’re reorganising, but they had an exhibit of Henri Rousseau’s paintings that I enjoyed. The highlights being the jungle paintings with which I was already familiar.

And now I’m back in Paris. Well, I have been since Sunday night. It’s good to be home. And when I go to Norway next weekend that will feel like coming home too.

(Dec 13, 2005)

Cocktails and canapés

Last night I attended a cocktail reception at an embassy. I wish I could say it was something I had looked forward too, and that it brought me rapturous pleasure, but alas. The speeches were dull as dishwater and the average age of the guests about 55. There wasn’t a Ferrero Rocher in sight, nor did they serve champagne, which is unusual for any cocktail reception in France.

Very occasionally I have to attend functions like these for my job, and most of the time I do it with a song in my heart and a smile on my face, because I know it’s necessary. Once in a blue moon they even end up being fun, or at least interesting. Last night however I was in no mood for polite chitchat and canapés. (Though it has to be said, the canapés were pretty good)
All I wanted to do last night was curl up on my sofa and read a good book.. Instead I listened to people talk about trade relations and the weather. And unfortunately it looks like I’ll have to go to another similar reception this evening. With a bit of luck I can sneak out early and catch a movie afterwards.

(Dec 8, 2005)

Sleepless in Paris

I couldn't sleep last night. Not unusual in itself. I am what has been described as a periodic insomniac. Most of the time I sleep ok, but then every now and again I'll have a few nights where I either can't sleep at all, or I can't fall asleep until the wee small hours of the morning. (I really like that song by the way...) It's hereditary I think ,because my dad is the same way. I stayed with him and his wife for about six months close to ten years ago, and occasionally when I couldn't sleep I would meet my dad in the kitchen, or we'd cross paths on our way to the bathroom.

This has been a lifelong issue, and I've tried every method known to man to fall asleep. I've counted sheep, which is just a waste of time. When I was around five my mother tried to give me some sleep medication my pediatrician had prescribed. The end result was that I conked out, slept for five hours and then woke up alert and ready to play. I've tried the warm milk with honey, which frankly is no help at all, and tastes pretty much vile. I've tried eliminating the caffeine in the evening, but I don't drink coffee very often to begin with and only limited amounts of other caffeinated drinks, so that didn't work. I tried working out late-ish in the evening and that just made me more energized.

Anyway, I've learned to accept my temporary inability to sleep, and some nights I even enjoy it. Occasionally I'll go for little walks around my neighbourhood, sometimes I'll read, sometimes I take advantage of the time difference and talk with my sister or friends in the US. And then there are times when I'll just watch a movie or some late-night TV. Which is what I ended up doing last night. I watched bad American reality television (reality tv tends to be bad everywhere)

It was the one where the mom's change families for ten days, I have no idea what it's actually called. Anyway one of the women was a vegan from California who was sent to spend some time with a family in Louisiana who had a sort of alligator farm, but also killed alligators and poisonous snakes etc. The woman was a nightmare... she nagged the poor kid endlessly, she was close-minded, tried to convert everybody to her way of thinking, told her kids not to cry when they read out the recommendations on how to spend the money, then proceeded to cry herself. And her family and friends were not much better, they treated the woman from Louisiana with barely veiled contempt, and were completely uninterested in any point of view other than their own. The whole thing reminded me of another episode I saw of this show where a born-again christian traded places with a jewish woman. Fanatics are just nutty, and the whole thing just confirmed my dislike for fanatism. And that's the end of a huge digression.

Hopefully tonight I'll be back to sleeping normally, and if I can't I've stocked up on some DVDs to keep me company.

(Dec 2, 2005)

Deck the halls and visions of sugar plums

It's December again. Getting close to the time for decking the halls and trimming the trees. I love christmas, and ordinarily the time leading up to it. I hum christmas carols at my desk while I'm working. Christmas shopping is not a trifling matter as not only do I like to spend time finding something people will love, but I also spend time on finding the right wrapping. Matching paper and ribbons and gift tags... I actually love wrapping gifts, and usually end up wrapping them for a friend of mine as well. I love all the lights everywhere. The Champs Elysées are brightly lit, and the big department stores try to outdo eachother. (Le Printemps has horrible decorations, but Galeries Lafayette's are pretty good)
Today I opened the first little gift in my advent calendar. My mother always makes advent calendars for my sister, my stepsisters and myself, even though the youngest of the four of us is 27, and the oldest a decade older than that. It's a sweet tradition though, and it's fun to have a little present to open each morning. Today there was a pack of christmas Kleenex. I don't know how she manages to think of 24 little gifts every year, but the four of us who benefit from it love it. Makes us feel like kids again, and that's always a good thing.
Tradition is important when it comes to christmas. Every year we eat the same thing on christmas eve, see the same people, the same programs are on TV, my sister and I go to the cemetary to light candles for my grandparents... I miss my grandparents all the time, but especially around christmas.
I tried to do some christmas shopping a couple of days ago. Galeries Lafayette had a special 'sale' for customers of a particular credit card. I ended up getting one gift out of a list of around 20, but I got a couple of things for myself. Not the plan at all. Somehow I fell in love with a coat, and decided I couldn't live without it, and then the top had the coolest sparkly buttons... there's no way I could have just walked away from that. Plan or no plan. I should have looked around for more gifts, but the store just got too crowded and I gave up on the whole project. I'm giving it another try today in a different store though, and I've made the list of what to look for, so hopefully I'll have better luck today.
Every year I usually go to London before christmas for a weekend to see friends and shop. (This year will be no different, but with less shopping) In a particular store they have a charity project that I participate in, where you buy anonymous gifts for kids. You pick a little heart from a christmas tree and you go choose gifts for the child whose name and age is on the heart. Sometimes it has a little hint as to what the child would like, sometimes it doesn't. I've tried to find something similar here in Paris, but I haven't found anything, so I'll buy presents for kids in London instead. I wish I could say the absence of such a project meant no chlidren in France needed gifts from strangers, but somehow I doubt that to be the case.
I'm going to Norway for christmas as usual, and this year I think i'm looking forward to it even more than usual. It'll be good to see the family and some friends, relax and spend time together. My family isn't very religious. Personally I don't believe that Jesus was god's son, and I think the bible is a collection of stories written by men and then translated and interpreted by other men, and have very little to do with what really happened. So to me, and most of my family, christmas is an occasion to spend time together, to relax, eat well, and just enjoy time in eachother's company. All in all, not bad reasons to celebrate christmas.

(Dec 1, 2005)

Corporal punishment

I just read ,to my great surprise, that the Supreme court in Norway has confirmed a decision making spanking your children as a form of corporal punishment illegal. The reason I'm surprised is that I thought it had been illegal for at least as long as I've been alive. I even told people this when I was in high school in France, and shocked teachers and students alike. The reason I assumed it was illegal is probably because in my family, and all my friends' families, spanking or any other form of corporal punishment was just unheard of.
Growing up I never recieved a spanking, or a slap, or any kind of physical punishment of any sort. The only time my parents ever touched me in anger, was during a very heated argument with my mother when I was fifteen. I started to walk away from her in the middle of the argument and she grabbed my arm. I froze in shock and said "You hit me" at least three times. Of course she didn't really hit me, and it didn't even hurt, but the mere fact that she grabbed my arm just... well, shocked me. I should probably confess that one of the reasons I used the words "You hit me" (albeit in Norwegian) was that I knew it would make her feel bad, and I wanted to win the argument. Definitely far from noble, but I was 15, and fighting fair wasn't foremost in my mind.
Here in France people have a much more cavalier attitude about hitting their children, whether we're talking about spanking or little slaps. I've seen people slap their kid around the head in a restaurant. I've seen people spank a child on the street more than once, and a couple of times in a grocery store. And I never get used to it. It makes me feel ill, and I always want to intercede. I have to admit I only have once though, and I was told in no uncertain terms to mind my own business. I've had discussions with friends about this, and the consensus in France seem to be that a little spanking as a child never did anyone any harm. (Spanking as an adult is a completley different matter, and most likely not really a punishment...)
I don't agree with the French attitude. Not only do I think corporal punishment can cause harm, and I don't mean the physical kind, but I also think it defeats the purpose of punishment. A punishment is meant to stop a behaviour, to make the child think, to teach a lesson. A good friend of mine told me that when her 2-year old hit her, she hit him back so he would know not to do it again. To me that argument doesn't even resemble logic.
Of course, some might say it's easy for me to say I'm against corporal punishment of any kind because I don't have any kids myself. And while that's true, I've pent a lot of time with children, even working as an au-pair. I took care of a 3-year old who had temper tantrums regularly, and even though I came close to losing my mind a few times, I never laid a hand on her. I was never even tempted to. I just hope that if I have children myself I'll be able to remember why and how much I'm against the spanking etc, even if my child lays down on the floor of the supermarket screaming, kicking and hitting because I refuse to buy him/her the biggest box of chocolates in the store. Only then will I know for sure...

(Nov 30, 2005)

The Bicycle thief

No, I’m not referring to the wonderful movie, but rather to an experience I had a few days ago.

I was standing at the corner of avenue Niel and rue Bayen waiting to cross the street in the early afternoon. Next to me there were three other women and we were all waiting for the light to turn. Now I tend to let my eyes wander a little while I’m waiting and I noticed a guy probably 5-6 feet from me next to a bike. I look closer and the guy is trying to clip the chain locking the bike to a pole with some kind of tool… unfortunately I have no idea what tools used to clip chains are called, but it’s not really relevant to the story in any event. Realising he was trying to steal the bike, I took a step closer to him and said: “Excuse me sir, but are you really stealing a bike in the middle of the afternoon while we’re watching?” Clearly he felt that didn’t merit a response other than a shrug and he kept on working on the chain, all the while looking around him. Probably looking to make sure no cops were nearby, which of course they weren’t. So I tried again, saying: “You can’t steal that bike!” at this point he had managed to clip the chain and took off with the bike, leaving me stunned. I looked at the other women who basically shrugged in a “what are you going to do” kind of way and crossed the street. In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but considering this is Paris and not somewhere in the US, I was at least confident that he didn’t have a gun.

I didn’t know what to do. The owner of the bike would probably be furious to find his bike stolen. It didn’t look like a very expensive bike, but considering my extremely limited knowledge of bikes it could have been the Bentley of bicycles. So I did what I thought would be the smart thing… I called my dad for advice. Usually I would have called my mom for advice, but this felt like more of a dad-problem, and all I wanted to know was if I should call the police. After explaining the problem to him, he laughed a little at my outrage and told me the police probably wouldn’t be able to do anything, but if it’d make me feel better to give them a call.

So I did. No need to fret, I didn’t call the French equivalent of 911, but the police station. In my mind the owner of the bike would probably report the bike stolen, and maybe it would be useful to have a description of the thief. The police were frankly not impressed with my thinking, and couldn’t have cared less. They didn’t ask for a description of the guy, or my name and number in case they needed to contact me. Now in the grander scheme of things I realise a stolen bicycle isn’t the police’s priority, but shouldn’t they at least have taken a description of the guy and where and when this happened? I’m no cop, so I’m not going to pretend I know how these things should be dealt with, and they probably couldn’t have done much, but that’s exactly what I find so frustrating. The thief was just so rude, and completely unconcerned with us seeing him. He may have gotten the Bentley of bicycles with this ‘score’ (even though it looked more like the equivalent of a Fiat), but karma will get him in the end. I'm counting on it!

(Nov 25, 2005)

Books, books, books

Hello, my name is Annette and I’m a bookoholic.

If this condition actually has a support group or a twelve step program, I’m going to make sure I stay far away from it. This is one addiction I don’t want to get rid of. I love books. I like the way a well-bound book looks. I love the way it feels in my hands. I like paper-backs because they’re convenient (but given the choice I’ll always pick a hardcover version). I like the smell of old books, musty and I like the smell of a new book, fresh paper. I love the sound of a page being turned. And above all else I love the contents of books. Words, so small, yet so powerful. Nothing else can transport me to another place and time the way words can. When I was a kid I’d disappear into books for hours, unable to hear people around me until someone actually touched me to get my attention. The books I loved then shaped the way I view the world, and they still do. Great writers have great power… at least over me.

I’m physically unable to enter a book store without buying at least one book. It has been suggested in the past that I should use the library instead, at least that way I wouldn’t have piles of books all over my apartment and boxes of them in storage, but I like owning what I read. I like having a stock of books I haven’t read yet, so that I never run out of books. Some day I hope I’ll have a big house with book shelves everywhere to house them all. If I ever win the lottery and don’t have to work for a living anymore I’ll open a bookstore with big comfy chairs and free warm drinks. A place where people can come and enjoy the books for hours if they want. A store in which I could spend my time reading and selling books to people I like. Needless to say the store would most likely never make any money, but I think I’d be very happy.

On a TV-show once, I heard someone describe the book « Of human bondage » as their security blanket, and I immediately knew how he felt. Not that that book in particular has any significance to me, I even have to admit I’ve never read it, but I recognize the feeling. Picking up one of my favourite books to re-read it feels comforting, safe, like coming home. Personally I don’t have one book in particular that performs this, frankly, vital function. I have a lot of “security blankets”, ever changing, and varying with my mood. “The little Prince” when I need to remember what it felt like to be a child. “Naiv Super” when I feel a small existential crisis coming on. A John Irving novel when I want to get lost in a good story. For some reason I read John Grisham when I’m flying somewhere, don’t know why, it just feels right. (And his books aren’t even favourites of mine…)

There are books I have shared with people. A French comic novel about an outhouse with a group of friends, taking turns reading out loud on a lazy afternoon in the late spring. Poetry in bed with a former boyfriend. Political satire with a friend who ended up changing his vote. Reading my favourite children’s books to my cousins, and now my little sister. Countless memories revolving around books.

Every day, I find myself in awe of one writer or another. Whenever I read a perfect sentence I desperately wish I had written. I write knowing that the likelihood of my ever writing something I feel is good enough to be submitted to a publisher, is minimal. I write because I love it, because it helps me make sense of things occasionally and I write because some day I may stumble upon a single sentence that is near perfection. Until that day I’m happy reading other people’s perfect or near-perfect sentences.


(Originally posted on the other blog Nov 19th, 2005. I'll be reposting some of the entries from the previous blog. Maybe all of them, haven't decided yet.)

Moving day

I used to have a blog on yahoo360°. I say used to have, but the truth is it still exists. I just won’t be writing much there anymore, hence the move here.
I saw several people complain that Yahoo was censoring them, but that certainly wasn’t the case for me. Probably because I never posted any provocative pictures or wrote anything even remotely NC-17. No, the reason why I decided to move the blog was due to a different kind of censorship: auto-censure.
I have all sorts of things going on in my life at the moment, mainly very good things. Unfortunately whenever I made even the briefest mention of this in my blog it hurt someone who was already hurting. The result was that I started pulling back, re-reading everything I wrote with one question at the back of my head: “Will this hurt her?” I never wanted to hurt anyone, so I figured the easier solution was just move the blog, change the title and guess that she won’t go looking for it.
The reason I have a blog to begin with is so that I can write whatever comes across my mind, without really having to give it much thought. When something good happens I want to be able to express that without rubbing salt in someone else’s wound. So here I am, starting another blog. It’ll probably be about as interesting to read as watching paint dry, but I can pretty much guarantee that any entry will be quicker to read than paint drying.