I just returned from my Aunt Anabel's. She invited me to come over, rent chick flicks with her, enjoy her free long distance phone plan, and to eat cake and candy. It took her a while, but in the end she convinced my to drop by.

We watched "Head in the Clouds" and "Wicker Park". I enjoyed them both, the latter more than the former, but the true delight of the evening was the explosive conversation we had afterwards. When the second movie finished we piddled about for two minutes before diving into intriguing dialogue about politics, psychology (She is a therapist), religion, cultural differences, everything I could think of and all that was relevant and interesting.

So many insights were presented to me; The opportunity to pierce into this radically different world view was mine. I would write more, but we chatted until 4:30 in the morning, leaving me quite tired. Suffice it to say, it was fantastic and eye-opening, in a minor sense. The world lies before me like a blood red carpet, how glad I am to travel and get my first glimpse of the beauty that is the foreign.

Bow to the deity of all that is cute and on sale! Yesterday I returned from Narvik with spoils unimagined by even the most seasoned of shoppers. I know it sounds as if I'm overexaggerating, but I am, quite seriously, a very gifted shopper. I'm definitely one who would rather have many cheaper things than one expensive thing. But that's just because the many cheaper things are just as nice as the expensive thing, but on double clearance.

Narvik returned me to the small town of Bardufoss with four dresses, 3 shirts, two silk scarves, and a whole lot of lingerie. 2 of the dresses are sun dresses inspired by the huge, colorful prints of the 60s, the other two are attractive linen slip dresses. The sun dresses were $3.06 a piece (yes, I know), and the slip dresses were $9.30. I also bought a nice black oxford ($15), a black halter ($12), and a burnt-orange knit ($5.50). To match I purchased a polychromatic silk scarf ($10), and a black linen shawl ($6).

No, I did not go shopping at big lots, but rather spent hours upon hours in the very back of various Norwegian Boutiques, racking the clearance lines, buying only the best buys. I look adorable in all of what I purchased, and I can't wait to get back to the warm weather where I can actually wear my new clothing. (It's freezing over here!)

Today we are off to Narvik for some fabulous shopping. I shall recount the spoils upon my return.

I accompanied Mimmi to the town "mall" today, which is nothing more than a small two-story strip mall in the village center. Things are much more expensive over here, but sometimes I let reason get lost in the conversion factors, and toss my necessary frugality into a maze of carried ones and divided eights, knowing it won't soon return. American style is mixed with European trends here to create a sporty, bright flavor that the locals pull off effortlessly. The merchandise is nothing that is limited in America; I could get everything I shop for over here much cheaper there. I see clothing I dislike but know I could pull off, accessories I would sneer at back home, but instead I curiously watch them dangle appealingly from new racks with foreign tags. Everything seems cheaper until I actually do the math and realize I'm a fool to even venture into town.

Luckily, Norway's economy is one that I am more than happy to shovel money into.

Yesterday I made my first batch of bread with Mimmi. All the Norwegian women make their own bread, and it's delicious and extremely healthy. For some reason I feel extremely talented.

The rest of my day will be lax, and very similar to all my other days here. Today I might go up to the polarbadet to lap swim and buy a month membership. Wouldn't it be great if I returned from my trip abroad with great skin and a toned stomach?

 

This picture of Ricky and Dad was taken about a month ago during his stay in Cinci. 

So the mystery has been solved, and my bathroom dilemma is, laughingly informs my father, a very modern bidet. He was kind enough to tell me all about it, and he even provided a very useful website.

Now, I know you're not going to follow that link. It's about bidets, why would you? Because it's hillarious:

"It is truly amazing that although American plumbing manufacturers produce more Bidets than manufacturers in any other country, these same Bidets are exported away from the very people who believe that they lead the world in personal cleanliness and hygiene habits. It appears incredible that the modern American who spends so many billions of dollars on cosmetics, drugs, and various other personal care preparations annually, as compared to similar expenditures for physicians' services, should be so concerned about fastidious daintiness and well being for 98% of his body, when for the better part of each 24 hours he blissfully ignores his invisible but nevertheless soiled derriere."

(*) Song of the Bidet
I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair...
...Apologies to the South Pacific!"

It is my theory that people are drawn to the energy you expend, regardless the impetus for your focus. Such as: if, or when you are sketching a leather chair in a large room, someone is bound to sit in it. I've quite the database to support my theoretical ponderings; many, many times I'll be sitting in a room of four leather chairs, one lazyboy, a loveseat and two sofas, and if a person is to walk in the room and decide to sit down, they persistently, without fail, sit in whatever it is I am trying to draw. This reinforces my line of thinking, as well as backs another of my flawlessly crafted theories: that I have really, really terrible karma.

I don't know why I'm too shy to say 'would you be so kind as to sit in another chair?'. I don't want to be rude, and somehow I just know the polite request would be lost in translation and my dear grandmother would rush off to the bathroom to get more towels because she'd hate for me to go without.

Do you see why my life is so difficult? I could carve a problem out of anything...

I just returned from the Polarbadet, the worlds northernmost aquatics center. The whole turkish-steam-bath-meets-nice-tile-and-a-water-slide thing works for me, it really does; I swam laps for a good hour before having lunch and playing with the two cousins I brought. I came home, ate half a watermelon, and now I am yours, dearest reader.

One of the things that perturbs me about this foreign world is the toilets. I kid you not: European toilets are cracked out. My grandparents have two bathrooms; one is a small half bath with a semi-regular toilet with a button on the top that you push down to flush and go about your business, and the other is a full bath with the weirdest aquatic contraption I've ever encountered. I've never used it, naturally; I'm not about to go pissing in something that could very well be a minimalist allotment of decor that's there to water the potted plants. It's resembles a toilet, I suppose, but it has a faucet on one end, is unbearably shallow, and is 1 1/2 times longer than it need be. The shape of the mysterious commodity tells me it must be the main lavatory attraction, it must be. There's nothing else it could be, but there's no toilet paper to be seen. Nowhere. It must be a designer fountain and the bathroom is, therefore, toiletless. Ergo my shower routine is somewhat a hassle, a frenzy of bustling from one bathroom to the other, a spell of impatience and simple but thorough confusion. One day I'll build up the nerve to approach my grandparents, take a deep breath, and ask 'why on earth would you pay money for that demented horizontal urinal?'.

Right now the fotbal game is on: Germany vs. Agrentina. I've really become involved in the game, and I'm becoming quite a fotbal junkie. I watched the Mexico-Brazil game the other day, and it was absolutely amazing. I'm going to go watch it, I'll write some more when I return.

Hello, Dearest readers! I suppose it is somewhat arrogant of me to assume that I still have readers left, considering my horrendously long absence and lack of recent, laudable material, but if my suspicion holds true then that means that no one is here to call my bluff. So I shall ramble happily on.

I have been in Norway for two weeks come this Thursday (23.6.05) and I am enjoying the experience thus far. One thing that I have encountered, however, is a copious, almost painful amount of free time, in which I haven`t the luxuries of modern America to remedy. It`s not as if I`ve fallen into an Amish village, don`t get me wrong;they have more english speaking television programming here than I do back home. Their small home is equipped with most niceties when it comes to technology (minus the most boredom-alleviating one, the holy intarweb), but I don`t have acquaintances and work to keep me busy.

I have thus taken up sketching and, though it`s taken me a while to pull out the lap top and start typing away, I think I`ll return to writing regularly. As I said, they haven`t hooked up their dial-up (shudder) quite yet, but when they do I`ll start to post regularly once again. My sketching is actually somewhat impressive. I can draw a really, really nice little sketch given, you know, 5 and a half hours.

I adore it here. Things are simple. Granted, that might just be because my grandparents are retired and they live in a very small town, but I enjoy the slow pace regardless. Most of the time. There are moments when I miss home, and I miss people. I miss people who speak English.

My grandparents are absolutely darling. I can`t believe that I`m related to such hospitable people, I find it somewhat shocking at times, really. They are kind enough to display patience while I stumble through Norwegian, and use their limited but incredibly clear English to help me out when necessary. Everybody here speaks English, but I haven`t had a conversation, a real, we-speak-the-same-language-fluently-and-well conversation with the exception of phone calls (pricey ones, might I add. I plan to limit my spending so that I can leave a couple hundred dollars with my grandparents for the phone bill.)

Things are going well, and it looks as if I'll be posting often, because I just heard we're getting broadband. I'm off for now, though. Take care, darlings.

Tomorrow at 4:15 PM I fly to Newark. At 8:25 I then fly to Oslo. 9:30 the next morning I fly to Bardufoss.

I stay in Norway for 7 weeks.

And, quite frankly, my dearest reader (that is assuming that I have any left, you poor neglected things) that can mean one of two things: 1) I let the isolation of Northern Norway get to me and write all about pine trees for 2 solid months, or 2) enjoy myself and post a couple of times.

I'm sorry I'm lazy. I'm still alive, though. Just lazy. Come now, I have yet to pack. Of course I haven't been writing. I leave the country in 14 hours and I haven't started packing. And I haven't registered for classes. And I still haven't bought a bathing suit for the summer yet.

Honestly, I'm surprised I haven't accidentally starved to death yet.

I grimace. It's always a crusade, coming into the video store for certain material. First you nervously flit about the store, looking desperately for what you're there for. This continues until you realize that the anxiety of such said mission is really rather debilitating when it comes to your scouting capability, and you retreat up to the counter to ask. It's so peculiar, this endeavor; the behavioral nuances involved are encountered in only a few other situations: all taboo, awkward, and horribly embarrassing . It's just like having to ask the clerk to open the prophylactic case at the grocery store. You shakily approach the poor lad and softly mutter to him, although you know full well you'll end up repeating yourself 3 times and raising your voice to a dampened yell. It's okay though, because in the end you know you're getting laid, and the acne-ridden grocer forces you to yell out your request because his loathing is riddled with envy. With my scenario, however, it's just downright embarrassing.

I approach the counter.

"Hi."

"Hello." The word falls out of his overworked mouth like a half masticated lima bean slides down the face of a particularly lazy infant.

"I, uh, could you tell me, uh, is that the only section..." I hate feeling so counter productive. I clear my throat and frankly bark out the requisition. He starts to roll his eyes, but seems to notice the fact that my heel is tapping on the cheap tile and that my brows are skimming my mean, hard eyes.

"In the back, behind the comedy."

"Thank you."

Once I find the right stretch of space it doesn't take me long to find what I want. During the short period of time I take to debate and decide on the options that appeal to me a couple walks in.

(edited for content)

" Don't even feed me that bullcrap. I know exactly what you've been doing, Ha'erd (The man's name is Howard, but we're in Kentucky. His name is pronounced Ha'erd) Don't you DARE lie to me."

Naturally I let my eyebrows twist up in incredibility and glance towards the door. The woman is in tears with blue mascara smeared all over her face. The man is openly frustrated. She thinks he cheated on her. Clearly they thought they'd make the best of their time and rent a video while they hurled crass insults at one another.

"Dammit, Gina, stop hassling me, you scheemin' little skank. You knows I ain't been foolin' around on ya."

Other than the marriage-ending conversation they're in the middle of, their movements seem somewhat calm. They walk around the store, finding time between accusations to explain to the other why she really didn't want to see "The Hours". She continued to sob. He continued to huff. They both continued on their search for the perfect rental.

They end up in line right behind of me, still screaming. I am grateful for this when the time comes for me to place what I can't believe I'm going to watch on the counter. The clerk doesn't say anything. Between my trash and the couple's shrieking, his confidence in mankind has been whittled down to a small smidgeon about the size of a paperclip.

"You dog, Ha'erd, you filthy DOG! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD DO THAT ON MY BRAN' NEW SOFA!"

I turn around and shoot a completely disgusted look at them.

"Watchu lookin' at?" Ha'erd asks aggressively.

Please, I think. I have so much ammo against you hicks that I wouldn't know what to do with it. I look down at my three rentals and suddenly decide against it. I pick up my Sex and the City and walk out the door.

Come all ye lost
dive into moss
I hope that my sanity covers the cost
to remove the stain of my love,
paper maché,
come all ye reborn
blow off my horn
I'm driving real hard
this is love, this is porn
God would forgive me
but I whip myself scorn.
I want to hear what you have to say about me,
hear if you're going to live without me,
hear what you want
I remember december.
and I want to hear what you have to say about me
hear if you're going to live without me
I want to hear what you want
what the hell do you want?

-Second half of "I remember" by Damien Rice.

In 5 days time I will be in the sky, flying back towards city I so desperately fled 4 months ago. My previous visit returned me happy to be back in my new home, but now I think it's been long enough to actually feel like a visit. I'm excited; I'm excited to see people, to embrace the things I love about Utah and stay just long enough to get sick of the place and go home.

I look forward to the following:


I complain about Salt Lake's climate all the time. All the time. It's simply too dry for me, not to mention completely manic. The winters are beautiful but extreme and bitter, and I get sick of the snow after the cheap thrill of the first snowfall fades after approximately three days of slushing about in it. The summer is dry and hot. Spring is nonexistent. Regardless, It is beautiful. The desert has that barren beauty that shines bluntly on the mountain flower, and resiliently through the sun that blazes towards the horizon. I'd like to think that I appreciate the desert, I simply just don't care to live in it. 2 weeks is plenty long enough to behold all this desiccated charm, appreciate it, and leave it.

Cafe D'bolla. Tasty.

I really am excited to see mum and Rick and everybody else. I miss Elisse, and I'm excited to see all the people I never call. Including the dog. I haven't thought about Roo in a long time, and I'm sure he's in need of a good bath.

I don't have to work for two weeks. Huzzah, huzzah indeed.

The household I currently live in is one of decency and honesty. Beer drinking prevails but stealing music is prohibited and frowned upon. In my lovely dwelling in Salt Lake, however, kazaa is mine. As is any musical morsel that tickles my fancy, from Vivaldi to Funky town. Note: This is not to say pirating is allowed, by any means. It just happens, kind of like stop-sign running happens in Kentucky. I'd like to look upon myself and see a good driver, but when in Rome, one must accept the culture and run the freaking stop signs. California rolling stops are bad. Full on Kentucky runs, however, are to be expected.

I'm going to go ahead and give the dog his own bullet. He deserves as much. Yes, I miss Roo.

I dread the following:


Fighting with my mother. We've been on fabulous terms for the longest time, but that doesn't change the fact that I do try and be a realistic person from time to time.

Bathing the dog. Regardless of what I have planned, I'll see that cute dog and realize that he doesn't deserve to be a walking, barking dust mop. I will desperately try to clean him as he bounces about the tub, give up, and let him emerge dirty as ever. This will happen about 6 times.

Summoning up excuses, apologies, and defenses as I see the people I haven't talked to since I was last in Utah.

My mother is so gracious as to offer the use of Freddy the Ford Taurus so that I might have a car while I'm there. I will most definitely take her up on her hospitality, but I'm not looking forward to the day the transmission falls out of the car, the radiator spontaneously combusts into smelly wisps of green smoke, and the discovery is made that the car has been missing a water pump since 1997.

I will be dealing with the Mormons in mass again. I've found the lack thereof in Cincinnati to be rather refreshing.

Before I land in Utah I will be stopping in Chicago and Denver. That is a whole lot of traveling. 11 hours, to be exact.

All in all, however, I am await my triumphant return with anticipation. I plan to be prepared and fabulous, ready to have an absolutely corking visit. Just think of the misadventures that await me.

Note to self:

Ortho Appt at 1:00 PM on Thursday, May 12.

"You're not a simpleton Jack, you're just sharp enough to see the beauty in simplicity."

Thank you. You came in and gently smiled as you softly offered support. You asked no questions, you just hugged me.

You'll never know what it meant to me.

I finally wrote an intro to my blog. It only took me a year and two months, I'm right on schedule.

I listen. Panic drops, sweeps over me. Nervous. Very nervous, looking frantically, almost fanatically. Side to side. Forcing myself to close my eyes. Breathe. Breathe. How, when so many options are finally open to me, what am I trying to. Stop. Breathe. Be calm, think, try to breathe. But what, surely, there's simply no way one person can be so lucky. Nobody's that stupid. Breathe. I walk side to side, unable to keep still. Panic grasps me still. What exactly is going to. Stop. I need to think, I need to be efficient, I need to stop being so incredibly. What is going to happen? What am I doing? And for what? What do I expect? What on earth am. Stop. Breathe. Close your eyes, bring your hands to your head and cover your face. Every clever dimension I've ever tried to build, every logical, sane bone in my body screams in disappointment, every expectation has been twisted and ripped. My mind scurries about, frantically trying to collect the shards of an answer that doesn't exist as my breath quickens and stops again. My eyes tear open and stare at the blank sky to see what a mess my ideal has become and yet, for once, when I'm in the reality I've risked everything for, I am sincere.

Stop. There are voices around the corner, there are things to do. Pull your hands from your face. Put your hands by your side, one resting on your hip. Stop. Your hands, by your side. Smile, and think, think quickly. What am I doing? Surely there's something believable, there always is. Think. What are you going to say? What are you going to say when the questions come? They always do. There are always questions, and there will always be your intricate web of vagary to answer them.

I throw my head back as I turn around, an aloof grin on my face and my hands swinging at my hips. I stretch, look up at the sky debonairly, and open my mouth to speak.

Elisse has been raging lately about the book French Women Don't get Fat. The book rages that French women never use fat substitutes and don't become corpulent because they dwell on the miraculous experience that food is and therefore indulge on full fatty foods daily.

Well, that's great. But can I tell you why, when I am in desperate need of some hard core comfort food, I can indulge in turkey, mashed potatoes, rice, and a creme sunday in the middle of the night?

Smart Choice microwaveable meals and weight watchers deserts. 8 grams, I tell you, that is all. And it's a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful thing.

Anyways, I fly to Salt Lake May 10th and don't depart until the 24th. I do this because I miss family/friends/doggie. I then leave on June 8th for Norway and I don't return until July 28th.

What a busy bee I am.

I've totally hit a roadblock in my latest entry. It has been in the work for quite some time, but I simply can't seem to bring it together. How frustrating.

Today I saw a woman wearing a pair of transparent lucite pumps that lit up as she walked. They lit up. And she was wearing them in public. As in forcing me to look at them. I informed Ben the bartender that she needed to be drowned in a barrel of Macadamia nuts as soon as humanly possible.

Tomorrow I go to the dentist.

That is all.