they're like the real world meets boy meets world meets days of our lives

My father chose the wrong family for his career. I suppose he only has his genes to blame. Still, a few of us have suggested that he utilize a separate, representational family, for various family-included functions he has to attend. He treated this suggestion as a joke, "Haha how witty we all are," but, like most humour, there is much truth to be found.

Today our family was invited to fika (Sweden's version of afternoon tea. But it's coffee. They're obsessed) with an ambassador and his family. Or, as it turned out, a foreign ambassador, his wife, and their DCM. No children. Except, of course, the four giants in our family.

Eventually the conversations diverged into their natural directions: the men discussed politics and history, the wives discussed the women's clubs in Stockholm, and the four offspring had our own quiet conversations which ranged from biology to adult content to gender roles.

**

Highlights from our fika conversation:

Ammadeus (my 17 year old culinary sister) lectured me on her newfound knowledge of viruses. I'm not going to give anything away because she has promised a guest blog, but it's exciting stuff. In her virus speech, she went through the qualifications of life (reactions to surroundings, transference of energy, etc.), including reproduction.

"You aren't alive! You haven't reproduced!" she exclaimed and laughed hysterically at her own genius.
"Well then you aren't alive," I protested. "You haven't reproduced."
"I have reproduced! I've created many poop babies." Nice. At the ambassador's residence.

Ammadeus staring at me as I looked across at the foreign dignitaries:
"I see your profile! I see your profile."
I quickly turned to her, but it was too late. "I can still imagine it!"

That's the scary thing in life: you have no control over the imagination of others.


Ammadeus: "They just had this conference to define pornography, and they finally came up with 'We can't define it, but we all know what it is.' Hahahhahaha." (she is easily amused)
me: "Like love."
Ammadeus: "Like life."
me: "You've already defined life."

**

I get no kick from champagne

Simply Sweden:

"There is no bad weather, only bad clothing."

So say the people trying to prep me for wintering in Stockholm. The fact that this mantra has already been thrust upon me several times – in August – bodes ill for its veracity. Still, it is clever and probably necessary PR.

According to my pseudo co-worker, Swedish men are currently on the lookout for a woman to settle down with over the winter. They like to have these things fixed before the weather sets in. Breakups happen in Spring.

My American notions reject this mindset: Winters are spent cold(ish) and lonely, and Springtime is lovetime, twitterpation time, Valentine's Day. Spring is a terrible time of year to break up. Don't the Swedes watch Bambi?

I have often dreamed of a far off place

Belonging. That's what everyone is looking for, just ask Disney. Their cartoons are filled with characters searching for a sense of place, somewhere to fit in – a desire to belong. Hercules, perhaps, is the most blatant in this theme, with its title character singing, "I would go most anywhere to feel like I belong." But they all have it: Simba cannot escape his destiny, Arielle is tired of her underwater world, Mulan tries the cross-dressing thing, and Belle yearns for "something more than this provincial life."

It's conflict, it's a plot point, I get it. The story can't start at perfection, because there will nowhere for the character to go; no way to grow. But the plot doesn't need to be centered around a need to belong; there is plenty of potential conflict for characters satisfied with their placement both emotionally and physically. So why is this such a prevalent theme in Disney cartoons? It sells. Why does it sell? Because it connects. It resonates.

The idea of a search for belonging particularly resonates with youth, especially those who have not settled on a career, spouse, or even location. Unwilling to commit, unwilling to settle until they find their ideal position/situation: a Disneylike quest for "where they belong."

Robin Marantz Hening wrote an NYT piece on this trend, and Don Miller also had some words on the subject. Oh, and I have about a million friends going through this phase; it's real, I promise.

Donc, welcome to America of 2010. We have 20 somethings involved in a generational-wide identity avoidance, 30 somethings who are recovering from their 20 somethings phase, 40 somethings who are having their midlife crises, and everyone is convinced that Obama is now Muslim. (Okay so only 18%, but it's been making headlines.)






Back to belonging. I think that we've all been glimpses of perfection, of the world to come, and will never have a true sense of belonging until then.

"Much on earth is concealed from us, but in place of it we have been granted a secret, mysterious sense of our living bond with the other world, with the higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not here but in other worlds. That is why philosophers say it is impossible on earth to conceive the essence of things. God took seeds from other worlds and sowed them on this earth, and raised up his garden; and everything that could sprout sprouted, but it lives and grows only through its sense of being in touch with other mysterious worlds; if this sense is weakened or destroyed in you, that which has grown up in you dies. Then you become indifferent to life, and even come to hate it. So I think."
-- The Brothers Karamazov

BUT, in the meantime, here are some thoughts:

1) Except in extreme circumstances, internal contentment has little to do with external location. (Hercules learned this the hard way.)

2) There is peace to be found in accepting that there will be constant striving; the journey doesn't end until death.

3) It's okay to be uncertain about a lot of things, if you're certain about the right things. (Don't remember where I got that from.)

4) Smile at strangers.


**

My brother has suggested that maybe we've got it all wrong and everyone is simply on a quest for a giant bowl.

My father went through an 'everyone is looking for entertainment' phase.

And of course, the whole "All you need is love" thing has been big with hippies, rockstars, and Evangelicals alike. Too bad people can't seem to agree on a definition: though I suppose it's easier to sell as a panacea when it remains a hazy ideal that everyone has sensed in one way or another.

"Love will save you. Will save our world. I'm not really sure what it is, but I've had a taste of it and I know it's worthwhile." That sort of thing.

"What is love" is the second Google suggestion when you type in "What is." No. 1? "What is my IP." Two most important questions in life? I think so.

**

There is a book on our shelf here titled "How to raise a healthy child in spite of your doctor." My mother has always had a very acute acceptance of the fallibility of doctors.

this clock never seemed so alive

Uncle Joe's broken legs:







Luckiest People on Earth:

she looked right through me

Simply Sweden:
Job interviews are personal here. They ask you your age, what salary you expect, and what your hobbies are. You send in a photo with your CV. You aren't expected to slather your resume with accomplishments – it's considered bragging.

So basically, they want to know you have a nice face, personality, and hidden potential.


**

My ex-roomie Jess is the most talented television reporter in the world. Here's a clip:

i'm in the corner

Nebula (National Geographic Photo).

I remember the first time I saw photos of nebulae, I couldn't believe that something so wonderfully colorful and beautiful was part of our universe. They looked like photoshopped images from an art show. I suppose this was a funny reaction considering the beauty in nature all around me.

Smashing Story: Nine day long traffic jam in Beijing. And people complain in LA...

Simply Sweden: Parking here is expensive. It makes me appreciate the "Free Parking" space in Monopoly which I had always thought of as no big deal. (Okay, house rules sticking $500 and all Chance/Community Chest fines made it a biggish deal.) Free parking is a big deal here though.

A couple Swedish Road Rules:

– Pedestrians always ALWAYS have right of way. The minute a pedestrian looks like he/she is about to step into the Zebra crossing, you must stop. The fines/repercussions are serious.

– Drinking and Driving is hardcore. BAC level is .02. (In the States it's .08). That means, a girl, I probably have to wait a couple hours after a glass of wine before driving. Penalties are severe (depending on BAC levels, suspension of driver's license, imprisonment, etc)

Though apparently being imprisoned in Sweden is a sweet deal. (That's where Saddam Hussein wanted to be interned.)

and i thought "hey, this could be something"

So my Llama has been teaching me some quick photo tricks and I thought I'd share some of the results.




Green Beast!


Leggy




Summer of Skinny Jeans


Supercilious

Like a sprained ankle, I ain't nothin to play with

Simply Sweden:
"In Sweden, H&M is like Starbucks. It's on every corner," Ammadeus explained to me. It's true. They are everywhere, and they're all different. They're very reasonably priced, like in the States.

**

There is a California Whopper at the Burger King here, which I am anxious to try and review for y'all. Until then, another AFN life lesson:

The Sun Also Rises

A friend and I at a beach in Oman

Tomorrow. There is always promise in tomorrow. As Anne Shirley was fond of saying: "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes." No matter what we do, no matter how life-shattering today is, the sun will rise tomorrow.

We are, as individuals, such small players in the grand scheme of things:

"The sun - The sun is in perpetual motion, rising, setting, and rising again, and so constantly repeating its course in all succeeding days, and years, and ages; and the like he observes concerning the winds and rivers, and the design of these similitudes seem to be; to shew the vanity of all worldly things, and that man's mind can never be satisfied with them, because there is nothing in the world but a constant repetition of the same things..."

–Wesley's Notes on Ecc. 1:5

I love the hope that comes from the acceptance of my own insignificance. Putting my trust in something bigger takes all the pressure off my antics. I'm not talking a free pass to irresponsibility. It's just helpful and healthful to have a big picture perspective sometimes.

**

So that's the thought behind my blog title. Also, "The Sun Also Rises" is the name of Ernest Hemingway's first novel. I haven't read it, but plan to this year. It's about expats living in Europe so it's appropriate on that level.

all this beauty crowds my eyes

As an expat brat, I didn't grow up with normal television. I grew up with AFN – Armed Forces Network, which was a compilation of old and new shows (Brady Bunch, I Love Jeannie, Seventh Heaven, etc.) and contained no commercials.

In lieu of commercials, we were given important life lessons. Like practicing good OPSEC (operation security).

Welcome to my world.

if I know you, you're doing that thing you do

Facebook Find: Is for the ladies today. A link showed up on my homepage, a link to a tumblr account called Polaroids of Hot Guys Reading. It's a thing of beauty.

**

My cousin Irene is about three years old, and is currently the only toddler in our extended family. So she's an only child/firstborn x10. Everybody adores her, and names are being changed. She couldn't pronounce Alexandra or Diane. Alexandra became "Akax...andera" and Diane became "Diaga" (long 'a' in the middle). My name she got perfectly.

She called Sadie the dog "Sasie," and her parents officially changed the dog's name because they thought it was so cute. My uncle has also taken to calling my mother "Diaga," but hasn't convinced the rest of us.

Hey, you know this could be something

What would you not like to find under your bed?

A hog
Me (think about that. finding yourself under a bed. weird.)
Peter Pan's shadow
Chris Brown

What would the P.S. to your suicide note say?

Take care of the dog for me
Tell Joe to write my requiem mass
I was the one who broke the vase, not Scotty
Just kidding!
The shirt you wore yesterday was really ugly.

Yes, Empires has taken a morbid turn. Also, at the store today they played TWO of the songs on the "I never want to hear this song again" mix. "I will survive" and "It's raining men." That's right. I thought I had a free pass on that one after 2002.

Howl's Moving Castle is a wonderful, gorgeous movie.

Meg White, you're alright

Cheater Punishment


A Million Little Pieces, James Frey's 2003 memoir about a drug battle, was discovered to be partially faked, and he was scolded on-air by Oprah. Wikipedia calls it a "semi-fictional memoir" which amuses me.

On the other hand, I would very much like to write one of these fake memoirs. (Check out Misha Defonseca's fake memoir – she threw in a sequence where she lived with a pack of wolves.) Take my life, doctor it so that it's a bit more interesting throw in a nemesis, maybe have an old mentor/oracle type character; ultimately produce what America wants: a tragedy with a happy ending.

But I would label it fiction. I might pull one of those "based on true events" things. Or I might let future biographers research my life and try to extract parallels to my work.

So here's the question: why not simply sell these as fiction? Fiction authors often weave real life circumstances into their works. A good story should sell, no matter what the label. Well, not necessarily. I did some half hearted research and discovered that 1) America's (useful) publishing statistics cost a lot of money to get your hands on, and 2) In 2005, the NYT published an opinions article asserting the growing dominance of nonfiction.

And it's true. There's something compelling about reading an amazing story that happens to be real. (Remember my post on In Cold Blood?) I bet the average public want their escape to be plausible; they know they probably won't discover that they are secretly royalty (or a wizard): but maybe they could survive an impossible drug battle, or even live with wolves.

Or maybe it's not about selling books. Maybe nobody ever told these authors that white lies aren't OK – especially widely published white lies.

I really liked Obama's comments in the introduction to Dreams from my Father. He acknowledges the inconsistency of memory, and says that he has done his best to accurately recreate what happened, but retold conversations will not be verbatim:

"Finally, there are the dangers inherent in any autobiographical work: the temptation to color events in ways favorable to the writer, the tendency to overestimate the interest one's experiences hold for others, selective lapses of memory. Such hazards are only magnified when the writer lacks the wisdom of age; the distance that can cure one of certain vanities. I can't say that I've avoided all, or any, of these hazards successfully. Although much of this book is based on contemporaneous journals or the oral histories of my family, the dialogue is necessarily an approximation of what was actually said or relayed to me. For the sake of compression, some of the characters that appear are composites of people I've known, and some events appear out of precise chronology. With the exception of my family and a handful of public figures, the names of most characters have been changed for the sake of their privacy."

Smashing Story: Angel at the Fence: the True Story of a Love that Survived, was the canceled ("true") story of a romance during the Holocaust. Salon did an interesting piece on this story.

**

I have never understood why, from a moral standpoint, single men and women get involved in affairs. If you know the man has a girlfriend/wife, have some respect for the woman and refuse the guy. Same goes for men.

What happened to doing things for the good of society, even at your own expense? Is it that radical to think of the committed partner, even if he/she is faceless to you? In When Harry Met Sally, all the sympathy is on the woman who is seeing a man who won't leave his wife. In He's Just Not that into You, Scarlett Johansson is advised by Drew Barrymore that the married man she is seeing might actually be "the one." Excuse me? It should be considered morally wrong to engage in an affair, even if you aren't the one attached.

Society's attitude needs to shift. Or the attitude the media portrays needs to shift.

Not only are you thinking of the other person in the equation, and refusing to enable the cheater; you are also respecting yourself. Who really wants to be the hidden relationship, the booty call? And even if he/she finally commits, who really wants to end up with a cheater?

I realize that affairs are often unintentional. I get it. Affairs are like a riptide; you're in the ocean, you step into the wrong area, and before you know it you're in over your head. Fine. Don't go to the ocean: don't casually flirt, don't hang out one-on-one, etc.

"Oh but men aren't biologically designed to be with one person!" Without commenting on the truth of that statement: a man who feels that way shouldn't get into long term relationships. Or he should get out of the first one before going on to the next.

I know this wasn't very empathetic. How empathetic are you going to feel when your wife of 10 years walks out on you for a guy with a Lamborghini? Nobody empathizes with the leaver/cheater. Why empathize with the enabler?

**

I miss my cat.

For the first time in history

My family is fond of a game called Empires in which each person is required to come up with an answer in a chosen category.

Bright moments have included:

What would the title of your autobiography be?

Answer: My amazing life will never end. (This was supposed to be "My amazing life in Wonderland, but was miscommunicated to a much better answer)

Break up lines:

I'm sober
We were never together
Two letters: B and O
Your eyes aren't symmetrical and I don't understand your accent
Dog already sawed in half? This should be easy.

Reasons to leave a party:

God told me to.
I'm in labor.
Justin Bieber arrived in his boxers.

Last words:

I thought it smelled like bread.
My name is Edgar.
My fingers were crossed.

Songs you never want to hear again:

Party in the USA
Paparrazi
Feliz Navidad
I will Survive
It's Raining Men
The Macarena

**

The song list, naturally, was accompanied by loud renditions of each song (so not much chance of never hearing them again.)

I thought it was a pretty good list, though. It reminded me of an

Undeleted Text: I was just at a Fourth of July party and they played Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA." America fail.

you know you liven my eyes

SIOBHAN

I realize these came out tiny. Maybe I'll fix one day.

Ideas I should have had which are now making profits while I remain unemployed:

Runpee. An application that warns you when a good time to go to the bathroom while at the cinema. It maps out the boring/slow parts of movies and tells you when to safely go. This app could probably double as a movie rating system.

Fiverr.com is a site which lists things that people will do for you for a dollar. Some of what you can purchase on the site:

– poems
– a picture of your name written on someone's hand
– "Happy Birthday" sung to you a la Gollum
– "I will create custom abundance meditation for you for $5"
– debating politics
– a message written in sand

At a mall in China, there is a women's only room filled with unwanted TV's, furniture, etc. For a small fee (or with some sort of validation), women can go in, put on a helmet, grab a baseball bat, and physically vent their frustrations. It's apparently a big hit for girls with cheating boyfriends, difficulties finding jobs, etc.

you know i read it in a magazine

"Siobhan, guess what your sister subjected me to that is something you would subject me to?" Llama looked vaguely pained.

It's prefaces like these that make me excited about the person talking to me. A friend was spouting out golden prefaces to his thoughts one day, my favorite of which was: "Now this may be an indication of my severe psychoses..." (Or something to that effect.)

Anyways, in Llama's case, Ammadeus (our younger sister) had "made" her model every letter in a yellow shirt and yellow tights. I have placed X as the photo for this blog, but I will be creating an image of my name for your viewing pleasure.

Life Advice:

How to Make People Like You

1) Give them unsolicited advice
2) Mix up the gender of their baby
3) Sniff them
4) Pull an April Fool's prank on April 2
5) Tell them they don't take criticism well
6) Tell them they resemble a celebrity of the opposite sex. Or Sarah Jessica Parker.


None of these have worked for me so far, but I'm thinking it will happen for me one of these days. (And unspoken #6: Make like an absent father and throw money and gifts at them.)

**

Or try liking them first. But Siobhan, if people only like me because I like them, are they liking me for me or for them?

I don't know. Why do you want them to like you in the first place?

**

Simply Sweden: The samples at the grocery store are actually not samples. This happenstance has resulted in my brother and mumsie coming home with a ton of guilt candy that they bought after chowing down on the samples.

**

Hit #2 for "How to Make People Like You" (I figured I'd check out the competition) was this site. It includes advice like "Make a good first impression" (what if it's too late); "Project a 'Really Useful' Attitude" (wow), and my personal favorite: "...learn how to be like them. This requires you to deliberately control your behavior to become sufficiently like the other person to form a connection..."

Yes, these were taken out of context. I gave you the link, go look at the context. But really...really.

"Oh yeah, Romeo. I used to have a scene with him."

Funky Story: Justin Bieber asked the public which country he should tour next and the result was North Korea.

I'm starting a weekly poll on here. You can vote for more than one answer, but you can't vote for the same answer more than once. After being in charge of the Opinions poll at The Chimes Online, I realize that allowing viewers multiple votes can result in inaccurate results. (Alright I suppose you don't need experiential knowledge for that.) Anyways, it's just for fun; I probably won't be selling my results, so I'm not too worried.

**

This week's poll was inspired by the Colombia air crash in which the plane was struck by lightning and split into three.

For my nervous readers, I have decided to share an article entitled "How to survive a 35,000 foot fall." It includes advice on body positioning and targeting – "Trees aren’t bad, though they tend to skewer." Apparently landing on water is a bad idea.

"Like concrete, liquid doesn’t compress. Hitting the ocean is essentially the same as colliding with a sidewalk, Hamilton explains, except that pavement (perhaps unfortunately) won’t “open up and swallow your shattered body.”

Also, there is hope. Remember the 12-year-old girl who survived the Yemeni plane crash?

the girl with kaleidoscope eyes

When you hover over this image on xkcd, the text reads: "You know that I'll always love you. As long as she's with someone else."

This reminded me of Karen Sharp, the host of Love Songs on the Coast, a shmoopy radio station which was all about dedicating songs to the ones you love. Karen Sharp's voice is the most soothing, kind, maternal sound in the world. California adores her. They send their love letters in for her to read. They call her to dedicate songs to their loved ones. Heck, they call her to help deliver their babies. (I seriously heard a lady call and have her play a song for her daughter who was in labor in the hospital, who loved the station.)

The above cartoon reminds me of the one time I heard a dedication go a little wrong on air – the fault of the fellow calling in, not Karen. Karen behaved swimmingly. It went something like this:

youngish guy: "Hi, I'm calling to dedicate a song to my girlfriend Jill."

Karen (utterly empathizing with his great love): "That is so wonderful. Why don't you tell me about her?"

youngish guy: "Well, she's really fun. I'm convinced she's the girl for me...right now...at the moment."

Right now. At the Moment. We died laughing. Karen didn't.

Karen: "That's so sweet."

**

Small Talk Question of the Blog:
Why do people settle? When should people settle?

Guinness Link: Man with the stretchiest skin in the world.

Simply Sweden: I don't know if this is Sweden, or our family simply discovering what can be done all over the world.

But here, we buy lettuce in a pot. That's right, it grows in our kitchen. Take a look:






It made me feel special, like I was hunting for my own dinner. Organic.

i have to close my eyes until the color goes

The above video is terrific.

**

Yesterday, the house phone rang at midnight. I was alone in the front family room, utilizing the wireless that is markedly absent in my own room.

Is it my parents calling from their room? I was skyping with Shawnie, and neither my Skype voice, nor my Shawnie voice are of moderation. No, it wasn't my parents.

"Hello, this is Post One at the Embassy. Is everything OK there?"
"Yes. Why?"
"We received notification that your security alarm has been tripped. Is everything alright?"
"How am I supposed to know?" This was not said with an attitude – I was genuinely worried. It was late, and I had just heard stories about professional robbers in one of the nearby suburbs.

I had also just watched a movie which I should actually not be allowed to watch. In it there was a deathly game of hide and seek in the main girl's house. I was alone in the family room, right next to the hallway with the front door. What was OPSEC protocol for figuring out if there was an intruder?

Post One wasn't terribly helpful. "Well I don't want to wake your parents. Please call back if there are any problems and we'll send the local police over."

This sounded like terrible, awful OPSEC to me. Didn't I get the kind operator who tells me in very calm details what to do and how well I was doing it? I quickly asked him for their phone number which was, naturally, about 15 thousand digits long. I didn't think to ask for the emergency number in Sweden.

A security alarm has been tripped. And now this thought was tripping my brain. I walked in pitch blackness toward my room at the back of the apartment. A light was on in Christophe's room, and I poked my head in, warning him of our plausible imminent danger.

He gave a slight smile. "Oh. That must have been me. I pressed a strange button while looking for a light switch, and was wondering if it was a security alarm."

"Oh."

Yes. There are secret triggers everywhere. I spoke to my mom this morning and she didn't seem surprised.

"I forgot to tell you, there are all these alarm buttons around the house." Surprise!

Apparently my mind thinks it's a horribly good idea to freak out about completely safe situations and ignore actually problematic ones.

I'm just glad I haven't gone around pressing all the alarms – because I have noticed some pretty neat looking buttons.

**

I was once asked if I would push a button if I was alone in a room and told not to push it. I really, honestly don't think I would. Sometimes I'm very good with authority. And, again, I've seen a film in which every time a button is pushed, someone dies.

It might be a matter of time. If I was alone for years, I might eventually go crazy and push it, but I don't know if that counts because it's not really my choice at that point. Or maybe I would pull a John Locke and become obsessed with guarding the button. (Okay, so the situation is reversed. Still.)

**

I can quantify the length of my moral fortitude. It's about 35 minutes. After that I stop caring quite so much.

A few nights ago, there was a bee in my room at 3:00 am. I'm not a fan of mindlessly killing bugs. I don't know where I picked the idea up, and I'm not PETA (please click the link) crazy, I just think it's harsh to kill something because it's tiny, annoying, and there are a bunch of them. (I'm refraining from chihuaha comments right now. You're welcome, Auntie B.)

**

Someone once asked me why tearing the wings off a butterfly was wrong, but squashing a beetle was fine (or something to that effect). Is it all about comparative beauty? And just because we personify our animals doesn't actually mean they have more of a personality than bugs...

I think maybe it's more about natural lifespan. We don't feel bad about killing something whose only purpose is to breed and die in a few days. (Though some spiders live up to 20 years...) So I suppose they don't have time to develop personality.

**

Anyways I decided that instead of killing the bee, I would chase it out the window. 35 minutes later, I gave up and smashed it with a pink flip flop. Even after watching it rub its little face with its little appendages.

So, yes. 35 minutes and you've got me.

Guinness Link: World's Tallest Man.

but before the night is through

Smashing Story: I just discovered the parasailing donkey advertising incident in Russia this July. Sounds like the type of idea I would have. I clearly need to go find friends who are more enabling.

Simply Sweden: The signs here are wonderful. My favorite so far has been the company named "We are the Superlative Conspiracy." I plan on taking a photo and sharing it on here soon.

**

Youtube recommended this video to me. I found it worth sharing. It's called "Sad Panda."




Today's Quote:

Mrs Cadbury: Tell me what you know about yourself.
Anne: Well, it really isn't worth telling, Mrs. Cadbury... but if you let me tell you what I IMAGINE about myself you'd find it a lot more interesting.

Life Lesson: Secondhand sermons make for a simple message. My dad, sitting next to me, would lean over translating: "Jesus can save your...life."

that every day he finds just what he's looking for

I stole this from my Auntie B's facebook. It made me laugh so hard the first time I saw it, and has continued to do so...






**

Also, I found a site that sells novelty Rubik's cubes, including a calendar one that you solve for the date every day!

i bet the rooms just won't shine

Today, after much wrangling – "Oh but then I'll look like you!" – Llama agreed to let me chop her bangs. I then insisted on a photoshoot. The result is a Hilary Duff meets Keira Knightly meets me. Judge for yourself.




Is she not lovely? Or, as Christophe once put it:

"Look it's the creature from the Poltergeist! Oh no it's Hannah, and she's still really, really skinny."










Her haircut came out better than some of my past attempts. (Minus the fact that she says she looks like a nine year old.) Last year I cut the hair of my aunt's Swiss foreign exchange student, and the next time I saw him he had shaved his head.

As the camera was already out, I also snapped some shots of Lexis.



Consider this post my gateway into sticking photography on here. I'm currently saving for a sweet camera, but while I wait I'm using my mom's SLR.

**

I have two interviews this week! I'm hoping that my interviewing skills have miraculously improved since last year. At least my hair is one, fairly natural, color.

I once got a tutoring job because I like Star Wars. Seriously. I beat out a bunch of other applicants, too. Basically the ad said they were looking for tutor in Math for a ten-year-old and mentioned at the end that he loves Star Wars. In my reply, I added a "P.S. I love Star Wars too!" and when I went in to interview, the mom said that after all the other applicants, the boy kept saying "I want to meet the Star Wars girl." Apparently nobody else had brought it up.

Yep. Of course he was really into the new ones (I think his favorite character might have been Darth Maul, which is wrong on every level), and I, as the old person, like the old ones.

Anyways I'm hoping I can pull off some sort of strange but desirable trait again.

and we'll all go together to pick wild mountain thyme

Today was a day of firsts.

I completed the Rubik's cube for the first time. It was a thing of beauty. What was not a thing of beauty were the instructions on some of the sites I went through to find good instructions. The first site tried to hook me and get me to pay for the final steps. The second site went into very detailed mathematical reasoning involving matrices and variables that weren't x or y.

Luckily, I found this guy on Youtube who was nice and visual and nicely supplemented my written instructions. I'm thinking of filming and posting my own Rubik's video on here.

**

I also went busking for the first time. Christophe and I went out and wooed the Swedish population (and their tourists) with Johnny Cash, Pink Floyd, Wheatus, and some folksy Irish numbers including the one in this video:





It's a beautiful song, especially with harmonies.

All in all our experience was a positive one; we made 35 kroner, which is – deceptively – about five dollars. There were some cute moments, including a little boy who begged money off his mom and ran up to us, throwing it into the gaudy red hat we had set up. (On top of Chris's lucky Omani flag.)

**

Funky Word: Kibosh. It means put a stop to, as in "his attitude put the kibosh on our good moods."

Facebook Find: My siblings all thought it would be terribly funny to post something about my using the internet to solve the Rubik's cube today. Anyways, they had several discussions of the spelling of said cube, and came up with three different statuses. Lexis was my favorite:

"siobhan is currently googling how to solve a reubix cube while holding one in her hand." Reubix. Very French – as the comment under it pointed out.

Christophe Guest Blog

This is my younger brother's second guest blog (his first one is here):


To begin with, Hannah is clearly way too full of suppressed stress. Sometimes I worry about her worrying about me. She sleepwalks and sleep does-laundry and sleep cleans and even sleep worries. I know that her bursting heart has a lot of worry over me and...I dunno...global warming perhaps. But I wish it didn't.

Anyhow, all in all, it's better for her sleeping and dreaming mind to be wracked with such concerns than for it to cripple her in waking life, as with some.

Right? Right?

Wouldn't it be odd and entirely surprising if Hannah snapped and offed us all in her sleep? I mean, of all of us to do that, Will, me, Alex...Hannah? Oh that would be rich.

She could carve the letters "OGK" into our bodies and smear it with our blood on the walls as her calling card. You know what that stands for. We all do, but the cops would never figure it out! It's perfect.

Iz late, me'z sleepy. You? You'z sleeping. You iz making all little "Zs" coming fromz your headz now. I go to check and....yepz, you iz doing that. All little Z's is floating above your sleeping head.

Iz cute.

So I just read approximately fourteen pages of your blog. I wanted background so that I could be suitably cheeky while having some modicum of knowledge regarding what your reading audience already thinks about me based on your comments.

I discovered that:

1) You don't write about me much. Thank you. But also me hurt. But also we lived far apart and you only called when you were walking home and had no one to talk to and I only called when drunk so....all in all....understandable

2) Also we both called with questions and trivia bits, this should be remembered for the sake of both of our images.

3) Your blog is perceptive and tells me things that you don't.


Those things and more I learned from your blog. Also that you cultivate much more dynamic and healthy friends than I do. We really are classic drawn-to-good-kids/drawn-to-bad-kids parallel. Well not bad, but the folks I fall in with tend to be philosophically disgruntled, passionate, full of life and death, existential, drunks, tireless workers, lovers of life and people and love, physical wailers and mourners and touchers and tasters.

Alexandra, she's quite the number, eh?

Found a piece of paper on the table today addressed to Peter. Commented on his pleasant smell. Said that she didn't want to have to "wait a week" before his arrival but she "would wait".

So what happens in a week?

My heart aches for Alexandra so much that I fear sometimes that it will break. I love you all and each so deeply and so much, truly, but I tell you, she inspires a particular feeling. Perhaps what Hannah feels for me? I don't know.

I've never felt a drug or pleasure that has come on harder and faster than yesterday when I rode out with mom to the store. The sky was a bluing greying mass whose sharp-edged clouds pooled low over-head at odd angles and dropped thin shadows over the water. Wind crested through, the temperature was ideal. Normally the clouds would bring on dull pain or depression in my mind but that day it hit me with crisp vitality and clear bucolic reality.

It was much realer than my thoughts. It pressed low and wide and broader than my eyes could see. I took it in peripherally while riding and feeling and moving. I could barely speak "It's gorgeous" to mom, but when I did it burst out with sober energy and I jerked up my back straight, thinking of how she would want me to.

do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?

Remember Sweden's Ice Hotel? Well now they've built a tree hotel. So that makes one ice hotel, one treehouse hotel, one ship hotel, and one underwater hotel.

Also, the JetBlue flight attendant story is still cracking me up. If you missed it: here. Basically the flight attendant got into a fight with an extremely rude passenger, walked to the front and announced on the PA that he'd had it, grabbed a couple beers, and opened the emergency slide for an exit.

they say he wandered very far

"Jatt Cool. You look super interesting and artsy."

This was my sister's opinion of my new blog layout. And I said, "Pretentious, moi?" Not really, but that was the punchline of a joke in a Fawlty Towers episode. I couldn't find a clip of the fellow saying it, but this is from the same episode (The Psychiatrist): Mr. Fawlty and Manuel always have wonderful interactions.




**

"We put out on Mondays." This is written on the back of one of Christophe's Current (the college newspaper he worked for) shirts. Nobody in my family had really commented on it, but my grandma saw it this summer and read it aloud. He grinned and told her that was the day the paper came out.

"Double entendre?" she asked. He flashed another smile. Called out by my grandmother. "Oh yeah, I wasn't there when we voted on that. But we have another shirt that says 'We have issues,'" he said distractingly.

"That's more tolerable," she said. I agree.

**

Today's Article: Is a New York Times psych piece. (surprise). I read/skimmed most of it and ended up with an excessive amount of knowledge about the author. Her writing choices/style gave away almost as much information as her story.

I think one of the reasons I enjoyed journalism was that it gave me an excuse to talk to random people and ask them questions about themselves. It created a context where this was normal and reasonable.

Naturally this context didn't always occur with the greatest baggage: people generally don't like reporters (like lawyers, except we aren't well paid) – they have inevitably been misquoted or have discovered the reality about cable news networks.

On the other hand, local news (campus and town) is often not taken seriously enough to be antagonistic towards the reporter, and interviews for these stories often involve subjects who are very excited to be talking about themselves/their cause or event. Sometimes they just seemed to like having someone to talk to.

It was this line, the one I invariably blurred over and over again, which probably indicates that I will never be cut out for hard news or investigative reporting. I always treated interviews like conversations, and my personal conversational style tends to be very friendly: I find most things amusing which means I am constantly giggling and cracking jokes. This personable style makes it very hard for me to write a piece that might cast anyone I interview in a negative light because it would feel like betraying a friend.

It's like Hasting's article which got General McChrystal fired. Hastings has been criticized for being decptively buddy-buddy and printing things which were off-the-record.

If I could figure out a less manipulative approach, I still don't think I would enjoy that sort of reporting. I'd like to think of this as the positive side to my people pleasing tendencies: they are mostly the result of an (occasionally) misguided attempt to treat people with love and respect.

And yes, I am all for investigative reporting and hard news stories which bring evil to light and pursue justice. I just don't personally have that sort of constitution and feel no call to develop it.

**

My youngest sister, Alexis, is currently reading Alice in Wonderland aloud to herself in a British accent. She is the performer of the family, and constantly wears bright eyeshadows, rouged cheeks, and curled hair with blue bows and ribbons. She has taken to curtsying to new acquaintances, instead of shaking hands. When we lived in Egypt, she would walk around pouting that "nobody can discover me here."

Currently she is obsessed with preserving youth/childhood, which naturally means an obsession with Peter Pan. She is on the hunt for a 19th century white nightgown like the one Wendy wore. Last night at 3:00 am, she shot up in bed and whispered "Peter? Peter?" staring out the window. This was immediately after Llama had slept talked. Christophe has been writing existential noir scripts and plans to do a Freemason musical. Willikins is in Morroco, Ammadaus is in Cyprus.

I think these circumstances are God telling me that my grip on reality is perfectly fine and that I am actually very, very normal.

**

Facebook Find: Is a link to an article about Reality LA a church some of my friends attend.

but all that i can see is just a yellow lemon tree

Jet lag blog # 2: Now with more coherency!

I had an English book in 10th grade which boasted in a bright pull out star: "Now with more analogies!" We made fun of it quite a bit.

**

My sister, Llama, sleepwalks/talks more than anyone I know. I share a room with her over holidays and she generally manages to mutter something more than once a night. Due to my special hours right now, I've been awake for several of these occasions, and they are rather entertaining. Apparently she gets very stressed when she's asleep, because she's always frustrated when she talks.

Last night she got up out of bed mumbling something about writing a letter to mom. She walked over to the desk by my bed and started sorting through papers. I told her that she didn't need to and she was supposed to go back to bed. She obeyed - as a sleepwalker she's very compliant.

A couple weeks ago, she woke up in the middle of the night, worried about the piles of laundry on the bed that needed to be put away. She got up and scooped them off the bed, taking them into Ammadeus' room. She walked back to her bedroom to go back to sleep and became very frustrated when she saw that her comforter was gone from her bed. She looked all over the room and couldn't find it. Later she realized that the "piles of laundry" she had removed were actually just her blanket. Tricksy.

These are the types of actions she does in her sleep. When she talks, she switches between English and her own made up language which has rules unto itself - there is a clear consistency nouns and verbs. Conversations are always enjoyable, and I've always wanted to record one - maybe if I'm still jetlagged tomorrow night I will. And hey, maybe I'll post it on here.

**

My good friend Nony used to tell all her secrets in her sleep. Her parents would sit up at night and ask her questions about her life. Kind of like a natural truth serum. How much privacy do kids deserve?

**

Simply Sweden: Yes, I have a million of these sub-headings and don't keep up with them, but I figured I needed to have a special Swedish one for the things I'm learning in Sweden. I was trying to get an alliteration thing going, but it came out strangely, so any ideas would be appreciated.

Today's Simply Sweden is the conundrum faced when seeking employment as a foreigner. Christophe and I are filling out work permit paperwork which requires us to have a Swedish job sponsor - but before we can get a job we need to have a permit. How does that work? I'm not quite sure, but it will.

We are also applying to get a "person number" as they call it. We've been very excited about becoming persons. Thrilled, even.

**

I feel the need to apologize for the current photo header. Yes, it hurts my eyes too. I plan on taking a high res one of somewhere pretty tomorrow. Stay posted.

**

Tonight I met a fellow from the Embassy who used to be on Broadway. Specifically, he was in Cats in the '80s. (He also did a bunch of other theatre, on and off Broadway.) He then decided theatre wasn't his route and considered law school. He wasn't sure how law school worked, so he wrote to Harvard (because it was famous) and asked if an undergrad BA in Music would be appropriate to build a law degree upon.

Harvard wrote back saying that a Music degree would not be a good foundation for a law degree. He then took the LSAT, aced it, and was accepted at Harvard Law among other places. He sent them a rejection with their previous reply photocopied and stapled to it, and wrote that he didn't think a Harvard Law degree would be a good foundation for law.

So he went to Stanford Law School which he loved, but after practicing as a lawyer for 8 years decided it wasn't his thing. So he joined the Foreign Service.

**

What I loved about his life story was that he always followed his dreams. I know it's very Disney of me, but I think it's really great when people believe in themselves and aim high. Clearly this guy had a lot of natural talent (singing, logic, etc.), but he also had a lot of gumption. Even if he had done some small town theatre and unaccredited law school, at least he would have been making his way, pursuing what intrigued him.

**

This will probably sound really ignorant, but I didn't know Pterodactyls still existed. But they do. In Sweden! I always thought they were extinct (like turtles and alligators), but they aren't. I promise.

it's three o'clock in the morning ----- listen to me good

Valkommen to my first jet lag post. It's 3 am here, 9 pm in New York and 6 pm in LA. Jet lag is like a nasty, mutated sleep deprivation for non-insomniacs. It is evidence of the irrationality of the body and its antagonistic relationship with the mind. My body's internal clock is convinced that I am supposed to be active right now, and refuses to listen to sleep commands despite an overwhelming fatigue.

Or basically, I feel crappy and needed a break from Sense and Sensibility, so I decided to write out what's happening, but it ended up a dramatic overuse of literary devices.

Insomniac reminds me of Animaniac, which reminds me of how much I adore Pinky and the Brain.

**

"Fatigue makes cowards of us all." This reminds me of sleep deprivation torture. I actually find it hard to believe that people argue that this isn't torture – they must define torture differently than I do. Whether it is ever justified is a completely different argument.

Apparently the Bush White House blasted music at Gitmo prisoners as a form of torture. Bruce Springsteen, Red Hot Chili Peppers, etc. "For the record, the Obama White House says it no longer uses music as an instrument of torture."

I can think of a few bands to add to that list. Am I a bad person for joking about this? Insensitive? Ignorant? Tiiiiired.

**

You bring your own bags to the grocery stores here, or you pay for ones inside the store. Also, the shopping carts are only released by sticking a coin in them, which is returned when they are taken back to their spot.

Honestly, these are definitely policies which should be enacted in the States. They aren't any added expense (except the initial cost of the shopping bags), and they promote responsibility really effectively while leaving the choice up to the consumer.

**

The exchange rate here is similar to that of Egyptian pounds. Swedish Kroners are also around a 6:1 ratio to the dollar, which means everything looks really, really expensive. Unfortunately, unlike in Egypt, everything actually is really, really expensive. So far.

Maybe this bodes well for our busking ambitions?

like a comet pulled from orbit

As we began our descent, I looked out the window and felt that feeling. That TCK feeling I hadn’t felt in so long: novelty, curiosity, and unhinged excitement at the prospect of living in a new location. That feeling that only truly hits upon first sighting of the new country. A country that, from my aerial view, appeared to be everything ideal connoted with Europe; wide rectangular fields, perfect patches of forest, and something I hadn’t expected: lakes. Small rivulets running through the country, and a giant glassy lake dotted with tiny populated islands.

I turned to my seatmate, a Swede, and asked the name of the lovely water below us.

“I’m not sure,” he fumbled. “But it might be Vanern, that’s the largest lake.” He turned to his wife on his other side, and she seemed to concur.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. I was happy to have met this couple. Before takeoff, we had chatted during an hour delay – Delta had supposedly forgotten to stock our plane with food – a conversation that started with a simple: “You’re American?” asked after my use of English.

Swedes, as I have discovered several times during my first eight hours, are convinced that I am one of them, even after I ask a question in English. It’s only when I answer their Swedish queries with an apologetic shrug and laugh that they accept my Aryan coloring as non-Swedish.

“Your parents are Swedish? … You look Scandanavian,” my seatmate questioned.

I smiled apologetically and mumbled something about Irish. I am hoping my apologetic smile doesn’t become a permanent expression on my face.

My affirmative – yes, I am American – led into a conversation about why I was moving to Sweden, why they had been in New York, and an analysis of the different cultures.

We discussed everything from the weather:
“Sweden winter is comparable to New York; oh you live in California? You cannot compare,” he laughed, “Yes, I think you cannot compare.”

To economics:
“In Sweden, it is like we value the person more,” his wife explained. “In America, it is like if you don’t have the job and money and status you are nothing.” In socialist Sweden, everybody, high status or low, has access to the same life benefits: education, healthcare, transportation.

And “Friendly” American shopkeepers:
“In Sweden people are nice, you know, but it’s like “Hi, I’d like this, okay, bye. In New York, in all the shops, with all the shopkeepers…you know..it’s ‘How are you,’ all this stuff. It’s so fake. It’s like a show. I mean, it’s understandable that they want to do business, but it’s so much. It’s like they’re kissing your ass because they want your money. It’s not like that in Sweden.”

This commentary reminded me of how striking I had initially found the friendliness of American store workers.

**

Naturally, the first outing I made in Sweden was walking to a cinema to watch Inception. I definitely recommend watching it after four hours of turbulent sleep, under the dizzy discombobulation of 15 hours of traveling to a foreign country. Fatigue adds an essential je ne sais quoi to the Inception experience.

**

I have been lost in our apartment at least four times since arrival. Nothing serious. And, unsurprisingly, this has less to do with the size of the apartment than my dubious sense of direction (which apparently does not improve like Inception under the previously described mental state.)

**

Mr. Marx is here. He is the second appendage to visit our family, and spends the majority of his time sitting next to Llama blank faced, purposefully spacing out. I am not exaggerating: he literally told us he often tunes us out because there is so much going on at the same time. Jessie, visitor no. 1, utilized a more effective defense mechanism when visiting: she and Chris simply disappeared for large chunks of time.

From Will’s description of his love interest, our family is developing a tendency to pluck shy introverts from their natural habitation and place them into uncomfortable situations, like our family dinner table.

But all is well. Mr. Marx and I have established a code for when we are kidding with each other (an “s” hand signal), because his sarcasm is so rare and so dead pan that it is virtually unnoticeable aside from Llama’s squeals of laughter and explanation, (“That was a joke! Haha! He actually hates that band!”) and mine is so frequent and silly that misinterpretation would be highly problematic. (“You brought us all shirts from Ohio? Why thank you! haha”) etc.

Of course, Mr. Marx has already weaseled his way into my grandmother’s heart. Appalled at Christophe’s choice to wear ripped pants to the airport, she declared “I bet Karl doesn’t walk around with holey jeans.” This turned out to be accurate. He patches his.


**

Tonight’s undeleted texts were three in a row from my brother. Apparently I had described something as opulent yiddish:

“Sounds like a Law Firm.”
“Or a fancy men’s clothing line.”
“And Christian Bale on the red carpet tonight wearing Opulent Yiddish.”

because you're mine

There is a "logga in" button for my blog here, proving that, as I predicted, Swedish is mostly just English with a funky accent.

I wrote a post yesterday, but have no wireless and can't manage to get my Mac to accept an intravenous connection, so I'll stick it up when the wireless works or I make it a coffee shop.

The men here dress like unwitting hipsters and the women are beyond coordinated.

On the plane over, I saw a Tyra show about people who fall in love with, and marry, objects. I think she had a guest who had married the Eiffel Tower. To be honest, I watched about one minute, so I'm not sure what the deal is or how someone can marry an object (not that the ACLU and Marriage Protection Act people wouldn't have fun battling it out). Maybe if you're crazy it doesn't matter if it's legal.

what once was an emerald city now a crystal town

Rebekah, my (now) ex-housemate had a little book of devotionals which included little quote chunks as part of the lessons. Don't necessarily know if I agreed precisely with all of this, but I liked the idea:

God, we believe, accepts us, accepts all men, unconditionally, warts and all. Laughter is the purest form of our response to God’s acceptance of us. For when I laugh at myself I accept myself and when I laugh at other people in genuine mirth I accept them. Self-acceptance in laughter is the very opposite of self-satisfaction or pride. For in laughter I accept myself not because I’m not some sort of super-person, but precisely because I’m not. There is nothing funny about a super-person. There is everything funny about a man who thinks he is. In laughing at my own claims to importance or regard I receive myself in a sort of loving forgiveness which is an echo of God’s forgiveness of me. In much conventional contrition there is a selfishness and pride which are scarcely hidden. In our desperate self-concern we blame ourselves for not being the super-persons we think we really are. But in laughter we sit light to ourselves. That is why laughter is the purest form of our response to God.

Tensions, H.A. Williams