Lame see, lame do

I seem to be a tad bloggily blocked.

Words to live by.

Or, actually, since this thing is all about being honest and shit, and I have long since crossed any kind of border to a land I love, but which with the invention of social media (whatever the hell that means) has become quite the tourist trap - the not quite proud or that independent Republic of Too much Information, I might as well tell you what I've really been doing.

Apart from having a very long and civilized discussion with my Danish BFF over Skype that meandered from literature, the staple in our relationship, to how much we hate it when people talk about their nails, to vitamins and how many we each take daily and what they might be called, to smells of the townships and how smelling those smells would create a new level of awareness for my friend, from a post-post-colonial, or perhaps rather globalized, point of view naturally, I have been doing something I probably shouldn't admit to.

What you are to take away from this description of the discussion is that I am in fact smart. Perhaps you should remember that little tidbit of important information when I reveal the rest of my doings. To put things in balance. Because I am smart. Really.

Am too!

Since yesterday afternoon, upon learning of its existence and only taking a respectful break to let in the maid (who now thinks I talk to my computer and rolls her eyes accordingly) and to focus on talking to my friend, I have been pretty glued to Lamebook.

I know it's lame (Duh. That's even in the name...), but I've read 62 pages of it, and I can't discern any light at the end of the tunnel. I'm hooked on stupid teenagers writing about their stupid escapades and then having to apologize to their uncles, or grandmas, or mothers, who they forgot were amongst their Facebook friends (Really?). I'm addicted to the pure stupidity that is status updates about bowel movements, herpes, and badly executed infidelity. I'm addicted to people's lack of common sense and common courtesy. I'm addicted to lolz that go with everything, even a dearly departed. But most of all, I'm addicted to a degree of stupidity, I have to admit, I didn't even know existed.

I'm baffled by a trend of adding vowels to the ends of words, and what the possible purpose of that practice might be (Heyyyy girlyyyy?). I'm intrigued by how mean some people are to others and how they still appear to be Facebook friends with each other. I'm outraged by the rampant bad spelling, but equally disgusted by the number of people who feel that it is okay to correct other people's grammar or spelling in front of all of their friends. I'm amazed at what many people seem to 'like', and weirded out by how much verbal violence there seems to be out there. It's a big jumble of ugly, disgusting and pathetic and I can't stay away.

I feel like an explorer charting an unknown territory. I'm amused, frightened, sometimes bored, and I can't stop. I need to know what lies beyond the next hill hacked status update by a jilted girlfriend. I'm hooked.

I admit I love laughing at others. And admitting you have a problem is the first step towards recovery.

Right?

Get away from me

This morning when I left to do my thing of meetings, planning and putting together some marketing material and goodie bags, I was planning a rather compassionate post about the ubiquitous beggars and the various attitudes towards begging in South Africa. But that will have to wait.

I need to vent.

Today I was reminded of how much I hate working with people.

And how I should never be put in a position that involves me giving my honest opinion. Because eventually someone will cry. Someone always does.

It's not that I (always) try to make people cry, it's something that simply happens. Oftentimes when I think I'm actually being pretty nice, and not even coming at them full force. Every once in a while I'll even do that 'criticizing by pointing out the good things first' tactic someone once told me to use as a buffer - to my personality - and ignore that little Scandinavian chick in my head that keeps saying: "This is not fokken high school. Pointless pats in the back belong in fokken high school. Don't fokken waste time. Just say what needs fokken changing and the working parts will be fokken implicit. For fok's sake."

Of course when she says it, being a Scand and all, it goes more like this: "Tää on ihan syvältä tää koko paska. Uusiks vaan koko homma. Mitä sitä jahkaileen. Mitä toi nyt tossa itkee? Voi helvetti," or like this: "For helvede. Det her ting sutter totalt. Det hele skal laves om. Hvad græder hun nu om? Fok."

The Scand in my head is a total bitch.

But she's mostly right.

And today I had to use up all of my energy to keep her silent. To everyone else than me. And without even completely succeeding in that, just the effort to constantly bite my tongue has exhausted me to no end. When I got back, I had to stop myself from SHOUTING at people on Twitter who had tweeted things while I was gone that I didn't agree with, or things that touched a nerve, or complain-y, negative, and inane things, or stupid things, or things I wasn't interested in, or, you know, things and shit, which pretty much summed up my entire Twitter-feed, and sent me to a tailspin that could only be cushioned with one of two things.

And since I couldn't be bothered to open wine, I made some coffee.

So what is it exactly that's gotten inside my head and by the feel of it laid a sizable number of eggs too?

Well. I guess it can be summed up with a little story of a minor detail I discovered about myself when I was taking psychology classes back in the day when I thought I might become a psychiatrist but then discovered that they weren't just going to give me the white coat and a cute little wild-haired patient of my own if I could confidently discuss the history of schizophrenia, but that I would have to take all manner of courses and classes that would involve complicated mathematics, and, well, that was the end of that.

But I did learn that I'm a man in a woman's body.

Not the kind who was born a male in a female's body, but the kind many of whose behavioral patterns are typical to those of males in what can be, in a very broad sweep, called western cultures.

I don't commiserate, I try to offer a solution, I don't make nice, I compete, I automatically challenge, I don't see disagreement as a disruptive element, I don't ask, I tell, I confront, and so on.

Ergo, according to many a theorist, I behave like a man.

Now whether that is just complete and utter psychobabble can and perhaps should be discussed at length (just not with me), especially taking into consideration how it seems that 'male' in this equation and many more like it seems to come across as the 'norm', and thus implicitly somehow as the better of the available possible categorizations, while simultaneously, me behaving in the way that I do, in this male-like way of the supposed norm, makes me a bitch. Especially in the company of other women.

So any which way, I'm screwed in the pleasantness department.

Which is exactly what happened today. And made me want to shake more than one pair of shoulders, drink a whole bottle of wine and then top it off with some amazing tequila, go hit some balls on the driving range, rip someone's head off (or actually, again, more than one), and just generally keep telling people to fokken shut up.

I didn't. I really did manage without a definite, relationship forever-altering blowout.

But I don't want to go back either.

I fokken hate working with people.

AAAAAAAAARGH!!! Now what's this guy so happy-go-singy about? 

What?

So what's your take on this? Am I a bitch or just a man with a penchant for costume jewelry, and great Sauvignon Blancs? Or something completely different? What are you?

How to comfortably talk to someone about grease? (not the movie)

This question may not feature in your everyday life in a prominent manner, but it is one that I have been mulling over for days now, and today I have actually talked about grease. Pleasantly, I hope. And calmly, I think.

Because all of you are without a doubt abreast of everything I have ever written on this blog, you will not need to read this post about an issue that I battle with. Because, deep down, way deep down, I'm quite a good person and even have some of them morals.

Do too.

But then there's the Hubby, who seems to have developed an affinity for pork rashers (not necessarily a bad thing, since it seems I love them too), leading to us having some pork rashers for dinner approximately once a week, leading further to there being grease on everything, its mother, and its handbag too. And let's not forget everything else downstairs: the laundry to be ironed, the cookbooks, the plants on the kitchen window, the toilet seat, the paintings on the walls. You understand what I'm getting at.

Think a thick layer of lard on your coffee cup.

Example 1. Butter: a type of grease.

Enter the maid. The sweet, innocent, new maid as opposed to the maid who I think harbored some weird grudge against all humanity and since there is a lot of me she directed most of it towards me kept giving me the evil eye every time the Hubby dared to cook (and who also, I am pretty sure, was the main unsub in the scenario referred to as the mystery of the disappearing wineglasses).

Unfortunately, as much as I love this sweet, innocent, new maid and am happy not to have been murdered whilst I had my back turned by the previous one, she has a special talent: She can move grease around better than I have seen anyone ever do before. Here or anywhere else in the world. The woman is phenomenal. While I really, really hope her talent was REmoving grease, I have to hand it to her, she moves the fat like no one else.

Hers could be one of them Wikipedia-worthy talents. Or at least Merriam-Webster. Sadly, I think Google already has a corps of fat-movers and is not accepting applications at the current moment. Or was that world-domination takeover-specialists? I forget.

But today was a 'take the maid by the horns' kind of a day (Although I think I'm a much stronger candidate for having horns than she will ever be, just for the sake of the imagery, go with me on this one), and I decided to have a word with her. About grease.

This is what transpired:

Me, wiping the kitchen countertop with my hand: Uhm. You know.... hmm....uh? So...Uh... You know?

The sweet, innocent, new maid: Yes?

Me, showing her my palm: ...uh... grease?

The sweet, innocent, new maid: Ja, the cloth is very bad. And I use the strong spray. I think it does nothing. The cloth is very bad.

Me: Which cloth are you using? And what spray?

The sweet, innocent, new maid, showing me a dishtowel and a can of some spray I'm pretty sure did not come to be in this house via my hands: I use these ones.

Me: Oh, okay. ....Well... uh... Could you maybe, please, use the rags from underneath the sink, some dishwashing stuff and lots of water? Please?

Me, going into that scary place where I think I'm becoming a colonizer and consequently freak out (thus becoming a colonizer): You're great! Good job! Yes? Is that Okay? Would you like some tea?

The sweet, innocent, new maid: I can use water?

Me, getting quite baffled, and still fearing I'm coming off as a big bad white woman: Yes? ...Yes. Please.

The sweet, innocent, new maid: Good. It's easier to clean with water.

Now, who did this poor woman work for before? I would hate to find out. But whoever it was, they're probably buried in grease. Or they never did any cooking.

Sometimes South Africa just surprises me in the weirdest ways.

Oh, and as for the movie Grease - Both the first and the second one top my list of my all time favorite movies, alongside Sixteen Candles with the queen of the 80s, one Molly Ringwald, and all of the National lampoon's vacation flicks, starring Chevy Chase.

I have such high brow taste in movies that it just makes your head hurt, dinnit?

Edit: Just to set it straight. I employ a maid, because I am lazy, impractical, unorganized, rather useless, the Hubs likes his shirts ironed, and we both prefer a greaseless environment and clean sheets, but also because we live in a country where having a maid is the appropriate thing to do if you have the money to hire one (legally) in order to provide someone with a job, and a living wage.  

If you're ever out in Finland, in late June, at 4am in the morning

Check out the sky, and marvel

Happy weekend!

Very random sweating

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?"

I'll just leave you with that.

How to market all things African in Finland.

Make Africa about wild animals, preferably something very recognizable like a zebra, a giraffe, an elephant, or a lion, and never forget to convey something tribal or to do with tribes. If at all possible allude to tribesmen with spears, or at least portray a spear in the packaging. Make everything as exotic in as many contradicting ways as possible. Also, make sure that even though what you are selling is South African that you never mention the South-part, but simply refer to Africa as if it was one country.

From depressed to corny in 15 easy steps

I have been just a little depressed since I wrote the post about friendship. Multiple times I have gone back on my thoughts while remembering everything that some South Africans have done for us, and then remembered everything some South Africans have done to us, and become even more depressed. However, what has come out of these vacillating thoughts has been the realization, that yes, I am thankful for what you have done for us and how you have helped us, but it still doesn't take away the hurt you caused by discussing something very private to us with probably whoever would listen and making me cry over a book club meeting. But, I am letting it go. I really am.

These are the things that have helped me pull out of my funk:
(I will be doing my bullet points like this :: in honor of the cheek-licking julochka)

:: Writing a new blog with the hilarious VEG , my siamese sister in brain.

:: Watching corn grow. I kid you not. Thanks julochka for making me aware of the Iowa Corn Cam.

:: Iasa of Blissfully Unaware Lounge Singer starting Hermit Book Club.

:: Bonus cookies going from vanilla to macadamia.

:: Leaving for Europe in a week.

:: Zambia.

:: Accidentally tipping the waitress 67%.

:: All of your lovely and supportive comments.

:: The little girl, in relation to whom I'll always think of myself as Auntie Green even though she has no idea who I am, turning three.

:: A garden, that I'll be visiting in August, coming along.

:: Having sworn on this blog without hearing my mother's voice yelling at me, or without having received a single email from her about said swearing. My dad did however email telling me that he goes to bed at 10:30PM, not 10PM

:: Having a nice round number of followers (Yup. I'm pretending like the two who jumped ship didn't cause me endless heartache. Should not have bashed the bible... Says who? God?)

:: The possibility of locating some parachute pants in my closet and actually wearing them to blog camp and thus freaking julochka out.

:: The possibility of someone recognizing me in Copenhagen while I tour it with the blog camp chicks who will all be wearing their identical blog camp T-shirts (which you should order too, all the cool kids have..., and this is in case they ever believe that my credit card is in fact mine and send me the fokken thing).

:: The hubby going out and having a ring designed and made just for me to cheer me up, and "to be written a praise post about, in which I [hubby] should be called the best husband on earth." I will have to write the post once I can attach a picture of the said ring (Zambia internets...grumble....). The man really knows his way around my corrupted soul.

Okay, I realize that for you to understand all of the above, you would have to read all of the blogs that I contribute to slavishly and including the comments as well as most of the blogs I follow and their comments, and maybe some twitter, and my private thoughts. But hey, that IS the fun part.

Now, run along and go read!

Origins and the land of Santa

Why does this keep happening?

A shop assistant/ waiter/ neighbor/ random sweaty guy at the gym: So where in the States are you from?

Me: Well... I'm actually from Finland.

A light goes out of the eyes of whoever it is that is posing this question, since they are asking it because they either a) have been to the States b) have family in the States c) would like to visit or have family (me as a wife possibly, who wouldn't) in the States d) they madly love Obama e) all of the above and want to hang out with someone who comes from the promised land of Coca Cola, McDonalds, Oprah and 90210. Sadly, I am not, and will never be, that person.  

This usually follows the dimming of the eyes.

A shop assistant/ waiter/ neighbor/ random sweaty guy at the gym: Oh... well... that's nice. Lots of snow, right? Cold, eh?

Me: Yup, in the winter can be -70 degrees celsius (I have slowly moved up [down?] from -20 celsius over the years). It can be so cold that your car won't start and your dog's paws freeze onto the ground. But that's when the polar bears don't hunt, so it's still safer than normal. Otherwise they might eat Santa when he crawls home from the bar.

A shop assistant/ waiter/ neighbor/ random sweaty guy at the gym: HAHAHA, that's funny! Yea, because Finns all drink like fish, right?

Exactly, you got it, that was my point.