There were some very cool, cool and much less cool things that happened this past week.
I danced for three hours straight at a weird basement club with a childhood friend and we managed to do the lambada as well as the macarena quite a few times, while a bunch of Finnish men were trying to cosy up to us by doing the very uncool (and sometimes scary - Really. Haven't you ever seen yourself dance? What you're doing is not hip hop, it's kicking the hell out of your fellow dancers) 'I'm bumping and grinding to your back in case you would be interested in a little something, something, or possibly a lot of something, something with my drunken ass'. Needless to say: no dice, even though my friend is single.
I danced for three hours straight at a weird basement club with a childhood friend and the next morning I couldn't get out of bed, because I think I managed to break my hip with lambada, or a well planned, superbly executed, and accurately aimed scary (glad i didn't hit anyone badly) burlesque kick. Think Moulin Rouge with a severely overweight Kidman kicking at everyone around her while headbanging vigorously to a late 80s nondescript pop song. Loved it, 'cept for the whole looming hip replacement.
I danced for three hours straight at a weird basement club with a childhood friend and the next morning I though my head was going to explode. Turns out one should not mix cheap wine with headbanging. Or better yet, headbanging should be avoided regardless of it being kind of cool to freak out the younger clubbers with said antic. Also, headbanging in air, as opposed to into a table, or a railing, or someone else's head is potentially a healthier, less painful choice come next morning. Although, I now very strongly feel that I still got it. Whatever it is.
I found out, or was actually reminded of the fact that the best time to enjoy a burger or two is after dancing for three hours straight. Makes them taste better. And they have to be burgers from here. And, no, the person serving you these burgers does not appreciate your wit at 3AM, or the informative (by which I mean completely made up) lecture on South African coins (nor are they accepted as means of payment).
With my Mexican/Parisian friend we learned that the best way to freak out a waiter in Finland is to demand an authentic Mexican margarita, give a mini-lecture on the palatal differences of lemon juice and lime juice (after consuming quite a few bottles of authentic French champagne prior to the lecture, or even arriving at the restaurant where we moved onto red wine), and do all this on a Tuesday night, 15 minutes before the place is set to close. Also, by tipping a waiter in Finland one can really screw with their heads, regardless of how well-deserved the tip was.
Lastly, the other day I was putting on my shoes at my parents and I noticed that my mother owns a pair of Dr. Martens. The insoles have sculls on them. I asked her whether she had noticed the sculls and her response was: "Oh, the ones on my Docs?"
A child of a global world, originally from the land of Santa and cell phones, married to a bona fide viking, and attempting to raise a loud little life who has Down syndrome, all the while getting used to the US Pacific Northwest after many years in Latin America and Africa. Against all odds the kid's first words turned out to be 'mom' and 'book' instead of 'fuck' and 'no'. That may well turn out to have been my finest parenting moment ever.