her mind is tiffany twisted

Today I walked into Carl and Edvin's home for English tutoring. I was met by a very hyper Carl and his equally hyper grandfather who sang at me something along the lines of, "Sheevon, we've been waiting. I'm so happy I got to be here today."

Carl was doing a funky little dance while holding an iPhone playing "Hotel California."

"What are you doing?" I asked, laughing.

"Guess what song this is?!" Carl exclaimed.

"Hotel California."

Both Carl and his grandfather were ecstatic over this reply. Apparently they had specially chosen the song because I had come to Sweden from California. It was really adorable. I was glad they had chosen The Eagles' California song over Katy Perry's.

**

A church friend of mine recently online posted her need for a dog sitter. Christophe, who does not know her, replied to the ad and she figured out that he was my brother. With a bit of information I supplied her, she replied to him with this email:

With some of the details you gave me, I was able to do a bit of research and I do have a few additional questions...I talked with someone who seems to be well acquainted with you and he mentioned that you are really into Animal Collective and Vampire Weekend? I don't know much about those bands, but the names make me a bit nervous? Also, the Robert Plant poster? My dog really prefers a quiet environment and is very low energy, so I am not sure if this is a good fit? What do you think?

He got a bit spooked. Sho 1, Christophe 0.

**

I occasionally think about horrible ways to break up with someone. Mostly these ideas are from the experiences of various friends and acquaintances. But noone plans a breakup, right? They just happen. Wrong. I recently had a conversation with a friend who told me she had not only planned her breakup, she had planned it with her boyfriend. As in they negotiated a date ahead of time.

OK, fine. My odd friends aside, I've started compiling a list of ways to "win" your breakup. This means breaking up with them in a horrible "Got you last!" way.

How to Win Your Breakup: 3 Ways to Dump Someone

1) Associations. A few weeks before the breakup, start creating strong memories with their favorites: Start making their favorite foods for dates, start wearing their favorite scents, start playing their favorite band, etc. When you eventually break up, make it a messy one and these favorites will be ruined for them: they won't be able to smell lavender without hearing your screaming voice, or eat pork without seeing your angry face, or listen to Coldplay without wanting to throw something.

2) Pick a good date. Birthdays, Valentine's Day, the day before Prom, the day after they get into a motorcycle accident: these all work. Personal suggestion: April Fool's Day. Because then the actual breakup lasts for at least two days in their head.

3) Don't Actually Break Up. Just get really half hearted about everything and avoid confrontation like the plague. You could actually make this last for years.

(Right, so the last one doesn't really fit in the list, but I had run out and it was donated by someone who said it worked for him.)

**

OK, so just to let you all know that I'm really a good person – I don't actually suggest any of the options on the previous list. Think of it as a social commentary. Also, I've seen all of these happen in the personal lives of my friends/family members. So you could think of it as an extremely vague piece of history.

flipping your fins, you don't get too far

What's the name of the restaurant?

His text reply was prompt.

Vapiano. By Zara.

Zara. A reasonably priced Spanish clothing store that reminded me of shopping at a branch in Oman. Shopping. Ammadeus.

Hey, where's Zara?

Her reply was to be expected.

Are you going SHOPPING without me?

No. Chris and I are meeting some babysitting parents for lunch. The restaurant is near Zara.

Oh. It's in Kungsgatan.

I hopped off the metro at Sergels Torg, the city center, and started walking in the direction a bus driver had pointed at when I asked for Kungsgatan.

There it was; Zara. I kept walking. And walking and walking. After I had thoroughly covered the area around Zara, I called Christophe.

Fun Conversation 1:

"Hey, I'm near Zara but I can't find the restaurant."

"Where are you?"

"Um. In a flower and fruit market. There's a giant PUB sign."

"What?"

"I took a right after Zara's."

"Why would you take a right after Zara's? He said 'Go right past Zara'"

"I tried that and it didn't work, so I figured maybe I should turn right."

"Okay, go to the Maxburgare." (Maxburgare = Sweden's version of fastfood.)

"I don't see one."

"Do you see a McDonalds?"

"Yes."

"There's a Maxburgare across from the McDonalds. Do you see it?"

I was far away, but I thought I saw the telltale red markings of a Maxburgare.

"Yeah."

"Okay go there and I'll meet you."

**

Naturally, we soon discovered that we were at a Mcdonalds in two different parts of Stockholm, near two different Zaras. Neither of us could see Vapiano, our restaurant destination. I hopped a bus to Kungsgarten (where he was) and called him for Fun Conversation 2.

He picked up with, "I was wrong. I just spoke to the guy we're meeting and it is in Sergels Torg, not Kungsgarten."

"Great. Well I'm in Kungsgarten now."

"Okay, I'm here too. What do you see?"

"Umm...an H&M?" (This is like saying you're near a tree in Ireland...or a Starbucks in LA.)

We discovered that we were both near NK, Sweden's version of Saks Fifth Avenue; a giant, classy clothing/everything store. We decided to meet under the big NK sign a la Sleepless in Seattle. This led to Fun Conversation 3.

"Hey. I'm under the NK sign."

"I'm under the NK sign."

"Uh, no you aren't. I can't see you. I'm under the sign. It's a huge NK."

"I know. I'm under the huge NK sign."

"Like right under?"

"Well, I'm a bit to the right."

"What right?"

"Like, looking out from NK's viewpoint, I'm to the right."

"Okay, stay there. I'll come."

Naturally, we finally figured out that there are two huge NK signs, about 30 feet apart – the very distance, it turns out, that removes the other from sight.

**

We arrive 40 minutes late after discovering a 3rd Zara within the same two mile radius. Apparently Zara is a big hit here? This was the type of comment we used as we profusely apologized to the man, woman, and four toddlers who were waiting for us.

We then continued on to Fun Conversation 4.

CH, the father we were eating with, asked Christophe what he was doing in Stockholm. Christophe told him about his tutoring/babysitting/housesitting jobs. I decided to pitch in.

"And he's writing screenplays!" This was true, and I thought it made him sound pretty cool, like a struggling writer.

"Oh really? What kind of screenplays?" CH asked.

Christophe smiled, "Oh, you know..."

"Horrific ones," I chimed in. I meant to say "Horror ones"– Christophe has written a very dark, disturbing story about a serial killer which I thought was really well done. Possibly not great conversation fodder for a first meeting with a babysitting client. Other, better topics, might have been his comedies

Oops.

**

Classic Monty Python:

Maybe this time

Another Will in Morroco excerpt:

Right now, I am lesson planning for Spring camp. One of the activities will be to have the kids write a letter to Obama. I think It has a chance of getting answered since it will be from Morocco and Obama is probably real chuffed that his healthcare package bunged through.

Yup, I bet he is pretty chuffed.

Throw in a few Harry Potter pick up lines:

"I know I'm not wearing an invisibility cloak, but do you mind if I check out your restricted section?"

"My name isn't Luna, but I sure know how to Lovegood."

Add a touch of Basil:

"Don't touch me, I don't know where you've been!"
"Why do they call you 'sister'? Is it a term of endearment?"

And you end up with:
The birth of Lola. Don't click on the previous link unless you're prepared for a very detailed description of natural childbirth. It's possibly inappropriate for younger readers (I read it yesterday, and am only left with the feeling.) I find her writing to be very honest and touching.

This only serves to confirm my suspicion

A conversation in which (thankfully) I was not an active member. I've condensed it for your appreciation:

Brian: Miss Garcia, why do they ask you stupid questions when you're getting a green card?
Miss Garcia (laughing): Like questions about the United States and the Constitution?
Katie: What's the Constilution? (yes, "lution.")
Brian: No, like if I'm a terrorist or stole things and stuff. It's stupid.
Miss Garcia: Okay, imagine you owned a country. Would you want to let in a bunch of terrorists and thieves.
Brian: Oh...

I know what you're thinking: Siobhan, you've only ever quoted five students from your work. Is it actually a center with 30 kids? The truth is, I'm not sure how many kids there are. BUT, only about seven of them tend to be consistently loud and ridiculous. That's not hard to believe, right? (Believe me, I'm thankful.)

And I also was able to Skype with two of my sisters. Lex, the youngest, informed me that Amadeus, who was not there, actually enjoys reading my blog. Our conversation went something like this:

Lex: Yeah, Emma really likes your blog.
Llams: Really?
Lex: Yeah. I said, "I thought you didn't like Siobhan," and she said "Yeah, but she's funny."

So yes, charming. Hello to you too, Emma Catherine. The question of course, is would I rather be loved or found amusing. Difficult call. Here's a Dilbert to think about instead.




(click)



I have been corresponding with my older brother in Morocco (from yesterday's video), and his latest email cracked me up so much that I'm reposting a chunk instead of attempting to rephrase. By doing this, I have completely one-upped my parents, who tend to forward all of our emails to EVERYONE in our family/friend circle. Hellooo public.

"I am also using my pressure cooker for the first time. I am really scared. I have heard lots of stories about people getting their heads blown off. I am making vegetable soup. I am living dangerous. Another dangerous thing is all the gas that we use. I have two large green high pressure gas tanks under my sink. I got the large ones, because apparently the little ones have no safety valves and like the pressure cookers, tend to explode and destroy small neighborhoods etc...

Another hazard worthy of mention is that my Carbon Monoxide detector keeps going off after I take a shower. I have gas heated water and we were warned about how sometimes the gas comes through the shower hose with the water. I open doors and windows when I take showers now, but the damn alarm keeps going off.

I can't decide whether it is broken or not. It talks in a robot voice. "Evacuate kitchen!" "Carbon monoxide level at Nine. Hundred. PPM" And then beeps really shrilly. I don't like being ordered around by a plastic object. Sometimes I just turn it off. I guess that I should investigate, but my experience with plumbers here has been frustrating. Also if I've been hanging out in nine billion parts per million carbon monoxide filled air, shouldn't I die? But no, the only thing giving me a headache is the alarm. Not quite the "silent death" we were so direly warned about. "

Funny, eh?

and send it soaring

Thought this was pretty funny. (Okay, so I mostly just read the title.) I now feel compelled to mention a few new airplane stories/facts:

– A small plane recently took out a jogger which I found pretty disturbing. The line in the article "the plane – which could be built from a kit–" was also bothersome.

–Someone told me that you are 8 times more likely to die in a small jet than in a motorcycle accident. I just want a parachute, but they're pretty expensive.

I bumped into the beautiful Beth Cissel last night. She is one of my Chimesies who I love and adore. Check out her fantastic photography. Beth used to author the Chimes Gossip Blog which she used to refer to all the time "Oh, this is going into the Chimes Gossip Blog" and I always assumed was a joke until I finally saw it. Go figure.

And now, for your viewing enjoyment, a video that never gets old to me. Meet William, my brother who is currently saving the world in Morocco.







Also, I went on a hike with a pie:

A moment with Chris

My world, she is crumbling. Since coming to Austin for the 2009/2010 holiday season I have been stripped of the primary tenets of my sacred routine. I am left adrift and undefined. Long the pioneer of romantic entanglement among my siblings, hacking through young love with a careless machete, I have suddenly been surpassed by not one but two siblings. Dear William has found himself a bright young thing in Morocco (which is, as they say, for lovers) who shares his sense of adventure and altruism. She is, he says, "The best thing since the White Album". Words of such magnitude are rarely heard from anyone not currently governing a country. Hannah as well drinks from the sweet nectar of twitterpation, though her venue of amour is that most treacherous gorge of college sweetheartship; a cruel mistress that beckons the stragglers of the pack- the weak, slow, hopelessly romantic, and those not yet properly scarred by high school affairs. I must add at this point that I myself fell prey to this brightly-plumaged beast my Freshman year, courting a native lass for nearly a full three years of university studentship. How my heart collapses like a horse who's run over a landmine to hear this. Dear, sweet, simple Hannah. Did I not teach you well enough the perils of this world?

Mind you, the lad seems like an upstanding sort- about par for the course in this generation; friendly (if somewhat aloof), well-raised, without sharp edge or acerbic tone; and either a truly good sport in terms of meeting a girl's family or just very, very desperate to get Hannah time. Either way, I commend his indefatigable efforts. To young Squire Karl I say this: Hannah comes encumbered, more than most, with a singularly trying family. Prepare for weirdness on a grand and savage scale; the likes of which are probably enough to turn your pretty little eyes to coal, curl your shampooed little hair, and give it some company on, say, your chest. Namely, son, strap in. We Stewarts are like a rare gem: half of the value is in the blood sweat and dear-mother-they're-crazy-what-have-I-gotten-into-she-said-they-were-weird-but-I-thought-she-was-utilizing-hyperbole tears spent in obtaining said gem, in this case, Hannah. What? You think of her as an object, some treasure to be won? Shame on you. Go beg mercy of whatever gods ye call your own.

I find myself unable to write my usual material here. Too happy. Too content, sober, fulfilled, well-adjusted, and overall healthy. I have had to move all of my screenwriting efforts to my one (thank goodness I had one) comedic project. I simply can't access my darker chambers without a cold, hellishly lonely room, a slew of academic and social woes, and a few warm drops to put a shiver back in my face and circles 'neath the old eyes. Without these things I am artistically inert. Comedy is not my forte, and I have been forced (though happily!) to outsource my shallow well of humor to dear sister Siobhan, who will henceforth be assisting me with "Illuminati!: The Musical", a co-written screenplay that will plunge the unmined depths of humor to be found in...Freemasonry. As well as, of course, journalism.

Alas, I am called to clean the house. More to come.