So my bags are packed....
I'm ready to go....
I'm standing here, outside your door...
I hate to wake you up, to say goodbye....

That's right, at 1840 tonight I am leaving on a jet plane, headed for Southern Turkey for 7 days. So this spot will be quiet. Very quiet. Unless I find I am so mind-numbingly bored that I need to amble into an internet cafe to do some writing. But I think I will not be logging on until next Monday, seeing as my partner unit:

A) will be very upset against this since it means his company is not entertaining enough
B) doesn't even know that I have a blog
C) will NOT be pleased with my previous mastubatory messages about Colin Firth

What do I plan to do in Turkey? I have it (mostly) figured out:

- Exploring the city in which we will be staying, hopefully in a decent hotel and not a fleapit, but since this is a charter deal, we will be met at the airport by someone that will either love us or hate us, and will thus decide our hotel fate in a snap second (images of me bowing in front of a harried and exhausted representative screaming "I am not worthy!" come to mind). I plan to be as charming as possible. I have been told I can be quite charming. But if the hotel-assigner is a female, then we are screwed. My partner unit is good at many things but is not known for his charm.

- Ruins and archaeological sites

- Reading, reading, reading. I have 5 books lined up for the next 7 days. And am nervous I will run out of things to read. I am a nerd.

- Swimming, snorkeling, and diving on the beach at every possible other second we are not exploring. I hope to return with a deep dark savage tan. But since I am a white girl and only turn red, peel, and then white again, the gorgeous "olive-kissed" glow will not be obtained by my skin (note: yes, I know that the sun causes skin cancer. Believe me, I know. But the way I see it is: we're all going to go sometime. Here in Sweden they are constantly terrorizing us with new statistics on disease and death. They found that foods fried in a teflon pan can increase cancer. Now, I am no expert, but I think the key word of concern there is not "teflon" but "fried". And the Swedish authorities also removed these packaged muffins from the market here-apparently, in tests with rats, if the rats ate 10 or more muffins a day over an extended period of time, they had an increased risk of getting cancer. The Swedish authorities were worried about kids developing cancer if they eat as many of these muffins a day as the rats did. I tend to think they are missing the bigger picture here-if a parent is feeding a kid ten or more of these muffins a day over a period of years, I think an increased risk of cancer is the least of the worries.)

- Tempting to take a boat over to Cyprus. But apparently the Turkish authorities are not keen on seeing Cyprus stamps in passports. On reflection of the circus I went through at the Turkish embassy a few days ago, I am not keen on being stranded somewhere, desperately trying to communicate with people to find out where I can wash my hair and find a place to charge my cell phone.

- Also tempted to visit Syria, but think it will send my mother into conniptions, so I will pass that one by, too.

- Parasailing. I am big on anything that involves hurtling myself at great heights. It's a bit of an impulse thing for me. I generally don't go out on hotel balconies, since I get an itch to hoist my leg over the side and take my chances. I am forever analyzing cliffs, balconies, etc., by saying "If I jumped this, could I survive?" My partner thinks I am a lunatic and doesn't let me near ledges. I had my first parachuting experience last year, and found it an addiction-it was absolutely exhiliarating to be strapped to the front of a fucking nutcase Australian and launch myself out of a rattling Russian airplane at about 15,000 feet. I don't think it's the adrenaline. I blame Walter Mitty.

See you soon!
-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:05 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Have just spent the evening at my mother-in-law's, to drop off our dog before our vacation next week. I love the woman, she is incredibly sweet and lovely, but it never fails, I always get "The Baby Hint". As in when-will-you-have-one? My response: as soon as I can put money in a vending machine and vend one. This is not a popular response.

There is not a whole lot I want from life, really. I don't think that we are allowed to make demands on life, but if I were to have them, they would be (note: I would ask for peace, happiness, and goodwill to all men, but I just don't think that mankind is designed that way. I would also ask for a fabulous face and an enormous bank accout, but think that tempting karma is just plain mean):

- The ability to drive as fast and as recklessly as I want. I am actually a very good driver-I have not had an accident in 7 years. But I do tend to drive very fast (my significant other and I have had many ferocious battles about my driving, including one massive blow-up on some back road in Ireland. We have reconciled in the following way: He will not get in a car if I am driving. Ever). In fact, I can now honestly state that my car can take a curve in the road at an admirable 80 kmph before it threatens to topple. I don't like people driving in front of me that don't do the speed limit, at least. If you are in front of me and not driving the speed limit then we are going to have A Problem. I am A Problem. Your driving is giving me a Further Problem. You know the person that gets right up on your ass if you don't get out of the way? That person is me. I have no idea why I am such an angry driver. I blame society. Or spending my early, formative driving years in rush hour traffic on Texas interstates. That will do it.

- To be a size 6 and able to eat like a horse. All the time. Hey, waiter-can we get more cheese on this?

- To never be plagued by mosquitoes or ticks again. Ever.

- A man so in love with me that the lyrics to 'Ain't No Sunshine' apply anytime I am not within his immediate vicinity. Because they will most likely be applying to me, when he is not within reach. For your enjoyment, the lyrics are:

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
Is not warm when she's away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long
Anytime she goes away

Wonder this time where she's gone
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
Anytime she goes away

And I know, I know...

Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone
But ain't no sunshine when she's gone

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
Only darkness everyday
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
Anytime she goes away (x4)

Now I have depressed myself, so will console myself with a bit of running, some wine gums, and hopefully a mindless comedy on tv. I could use a laugh today.

Good luck to all those on the blogathon!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 03:31 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Yesterday I had to go to the Turkish Embassy here in Stockholm, since I am visiting Turkey next week and the authorities find it hilarious and essential for Americans (i.e. persona non grata) to obtain a visa in order to actually leave the airport in Turkey.

I went there Wednesday morning, and had quite an adventure.

Now, the embassies are all in a beaultiful part of Stockholm that is very old, extremely stately, and terribly posh. The houses are, more often than not, former turn of the century manors. Oh, to be a diplomat. Fabulous houses and the ability to park anywhere you damn well choose without getting your car towed (is it only me, or does anyone else think of the fat South African guy in 'Lethal Weapon 2' screaming "Diplomatic Immunity!" and holding up his badge whenever they think of diplomats?)

Anyway, I manage to find a parking spot between the Turkish Embassy and the American Embassy. The American Embassy here in Sweden is a massive, horrible, concrete block. It's the kind of thing you would expect in Mother Russia thirty years ago. There is some pretty unfriendly looking razor wire strung upon every visible surface, concrete blocks around the whole perimeter, and armed Marines walking around looking like 12-year-olds on a caffeine kick. In other words, a pretty scary place with "Made for TV Movie" written all over it. Weirdly enough, the Finnish Embassy is equally as formidable and taunting, and Finland is just over the puddle. Maybe the 4 million Finns that there are in this world are so sick of taking Sweden's shit (historically speaking) that they build a massive structure just to thumb their nose. You may think I am kidding, but the Swedes are still pissed of at Denmark for an event that happened about 800 years ago or so, when the Danish king invited all the Swedish nobles to a three-day party and then wound up executing them all. A betrayed woman with PMS has nothing on a grudge match like the Scandinavians, man. Just GET OVER IT already, people!).

Anyway, I show up at the embassy promptly at 8:00, and ring the doorbell. A few times. Only to discover to my horror that I am not actually at the Turkish Embassy, but actually at the Ambassador's Residence. I figure this is going to count against me. I traipse down the road and find the Embassy, and ring the doorbell at the huge wrought iron gates. Again. And again. Finally, the gate clicks open, and I walk in through the courtyard and up to the building. The door opens to present a man looking uncannily like the guy in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom". You know, the weird creepy guy who brainwashes the child king. In a film that never should have been made, and only gets recalled in memory as the film in which the future Mrs. Spielberg is running around and screaming a lot. Anyway, Temple of Doom guy tells me in a pretty hostile voice to come back tomorrow between two and four pm. I enquire as to the cost of said visa, and this sends him over the edge. I have affronted him somehow. He yells at me repeatedly and agitatedly to wait on the other side of the gate and he will let me know. I feel a bit affronted-I am dressed in a sundress and ponytail, and I think Holly Hobbie is more threatening looking that I am, but there you have it. I head to the gate, only to find I am locked in the courtyard. The Indiana Jones guy is going to be apoplectic when he finds this out. I debate shimmying over the fence, but realize I am within eyesight of the patrolling U.S. Marines, and they may feel the need for target practice ("Wabbit season! Duck season! Wabbit season!"). I squish myself as tightly as possible against the fence, and hope they will forgive me. Maybe I should stick one leg through the gate to illustrate my willingness to comply to them. Points, and all that.

So yesterday I bunk off work just after lunch and head to the embassy again. I park in the same place and head to the embassy. I ring the bell, and it is apparent the embassy workers are coming back to work now from lunch. A man at the gate (this time FAR friendlier) approaches me, and asks what I need. I tell him I need a visa. And-this is where it gets interesting-he then asks me if I am an Iraqi citizen.

Huh. If only I had a nickel for everytime I had been asked that! I have been confused as being from any variety of places, and have heard it all. But I have never before been asked if I was from Iraq.

I am instructed to wait in another courtyard with a whole queue of people. They lock us in the courtyard, which seriously freaks me out. I AM LOCKED IN A TINY HIDDEN COURTYARD UNDER THE HOT SUN AT THE TURKISH EMBASSY! I start to panic. I picture them sliding us a bowl of rice, which we all fight over to share. Me carving the number of days I have been locked in the courtyard, while I waste away. My tearful mother on tv begging their senator to help work for my release (note: I am not freaking out becuase I am at the Turkish Embassy, but because I have the tendency to slide into the melodramatic. In case you hadn't noticed).

It goes one step weirder-other than a Swedish civil rights/immigration attorney, I am the only Westerner there for quite a while. And not just a Westerner-I am the only non-Iraqi citizen there. That's right. Little old me, and about 8 Iraqi men. I kept my American passport in my bag and my mouth shut. Being locked in a small courtyard with people whom my country has the audacity to show dead fellow countrymen of theirs to the world is not my idea of a good afternoon (I have to admit, in perhaps one of the few sojourns into politics that I will get into on this blog, that I really don't feel it was necessary or appropriate to show Saddam's sons' bodies on TV. My partner unit said it was done only to convince the world theatre that they truly are dead. Whatever. I could have just taken their word for it that the sons were dead, Oliver Stone I am not. Even worse, the first images of it popped up over here right as I was digging into my fabulous spinach vaji curry. For the first time in my life, I lost my appetite for my curry last night.)

I finally get it all done, however the Turkish Embassy makes me go get even more money out of an ATM, for now what must be the most expensive visa that I have ever purchased. The good news is, the people at the Embassy that afternoon were very, very nice. Now I get to try to hold my own in Turkey next week. I am very much looking forward to it, and think it will be lovely (albeit very hot).

When I told my father I was going to Turkey next week, he told me to be careful, to remember "The Midnight Express." I thought he must be referring to some kind of train. He told me no, this was a movie, which I then figured it was some Will Smith action comedy. He revealed (rather patiently, to his benefit) that this film is about men being thrown into a Turkish prison. So I should be careful. Another friend advised me to be careful, a la Midnight Express. Perhaps I am the only person who has never seen this movie.

But come on-does it really matter what country you are in if you are thrown into prison? Aren't they all equally as horrible (except for in the US, where you can sue if your Twinkies are not served at room temperature, of course)? Fill in the blank here: "It was horrible! I am scarred for life! I was thrown into a ______________ prison, and I was completely innocent of the charges! How was I supposed to know that ____________ is illegal!" Doesn't sound good no matter what country and activity you put into the blanks. Unless you use the words "English" and "getting my rocks off to Colin Firth". That would be worth it, then.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:27 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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So I logged onto the BBC the other day, and found an interesting article about jealousy and cheating. It actually surprised me-yes, I had already heard all that Man Spreading Seed theory in university and about every edition of "Cosmo" that has ever been printed. It gets a bit old to always assume that there is a subliminal biologic issue going on-yes, perhaps the man does want to ensure that the child is definitely his, but isn't the issue more like he doesn't want to share his toy with anyone else?

But what was news to me was that this specifc research showed that Swedish men and women are more concerned about sex than any other nation, and that Swedish women are more concerned than any other nationality that their partners are having affairs.

That amazed me. A lot. Mostly because on reflection of the majority of Swedish partnerships* I know of, the man IS or HAS BEEN screwing around.

So what are they worried about?

The article also said that Japanese women are the least worried about their partners screwing around. But this contradicts an artcle that the BBC published two weeks prior to that listing all the new technologies that Japanese women are using to catch their partner cheating (read about it here). Now, maybe I am an intolerant bitch, but if my partner ever decided to use high-tech ways to catch me cheating, I think that the issue of me stepping out on him wouldn't be an issue for too much longer.

Everyone assumes that Sweden is so open sexually, that it's all partner-swapping, free love, and voluptuous women playing in the Trevi. I can honestly say that this is not the case. Yes, it's true, there is a whole lot of skinny-dipping going on the summer, but there is no further resemblance to anything remotely flash (other than the headline of the newspaper on the first day of my first visit to Stockholm. My Swedish was not great, but it was pretty easy to understand-it was something like "Two out of five Swedish women love anal sex". I don't think I bent over to pick anything up during my entire stay). Oh, and everyone takes saunas together. Naked. I drew the line at that one when it looked like it was on option with my co-workers. They assured me that "it was too hot to be checking each other out". I in turn assured them that while they may not be checking me out (or the other girl, since we were 7 men and 2 women and I must say, I am much cuter than her), I would be eternally scarred by seeing these guys' penises hanging out, miniscule in the sauna. The thought of it still makes me want to go into therapy.

Are Swedish women jealous, then? Actually, I can agree with that one. Almost every Swedish woman I know is possessed by a strange Jekyll-Hyde behavior when it comes to their men. An example-I was once on a sailboat with my spousal unit, his best friend J, and his best friends' girlfriend, B. We were sitting around, getting drunk, and eating a huge meal, when B told me that she just absolutely hates all of J's ex-girlfriends. In fact, she hates any woman that even looks at him. She hates them so much that she could just kill them. She said this with serious passion in her eyes. My eyes looked to the stove to see if any rabbits were boiling there. J looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Even though I was never one of J's exes, I sobered up quickly, believe me, and have made sure to never talk to him in a one-on-one conversation since then, and if we do talk, to locate the nearest fire exits in case I need a speedy retreat.

But is the jealous trait unique to Swedish women? I don't think so. I know lots of women of all different nationalities that get violently jealous, and get that way quite easily. Doesn't mean that they have to be Swedish to do so. In fact, I would put it to the men in the lab coats if it is not the fact that women of a specific nation get the most jelaous, but women in general are more jealous than men (other than Brazil, apparently. Where the men are of the extremely jealous, Roxanne-screaming, dual-fighting nature. Now there is something I can get behind. Give me a jealous man and I can give you multiple-orgasms any day.)

So what is the bottom line? Well, if you're not a man with one of the 5 million Swedish women in the world, I guess you can take a huge sigh of relief that your woman isn't going to make Glenn Close look like a Tiny Toon. But you're not really off the hook, mate. If you want to live a suspicion-free life from a woman, my suggestion is to go gay.

-H.

* In Sweden, getting married is not the norm. Most couples live together for many years, often for their whole lives, without being married, so I use the term 'partnership'. They even have a word for this in Swedish-"sambo" (as in the politically incorrect story "Little Black Sambo"). A friend asked me the other day what "sambo" meant in Swedish, and I said it means "why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free." I hope the guy knows I was not being literal.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:54 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 933 words, total size 5 kb.

I would have gone running this morning (it was time, seeing as I go every other morning) but I have PMS and I think my breasts are filled with rocks.

And now, the latest and greatest test from our good friend, Cheddar X (thanks for the lovely welcome, C!).

1. What are you afraid of?

I guess we are not talking about your basic, run-of-the-mill neurosis, which is good since I could fill up a weeks' worth of posts on that (but to mention a few, some of my minor fears include getting fat, having something caught in my teeth that no one has told me about, and Robert Urich). If we are talking about deep down, serious fears, then I have three:

A) Getting old. I am talking in the 90's, with papery skin, fake teeth, people tolerating me since they feel they must, body parts hanging down and the overall scent of talcum powder and government cheese.

B) Clowns (and this does include those in the mime family). I hate those bastards. I want every clown to be roped up and kept in the state of Nevada, to be allowed no air conditioning unless they take that grease paint off. I hate clowns so much that I have actually left stores and restaurants when they were around. If I hear calliope music, I have to take extra care that my bladder does not release in fear. I think I owe my severe clown phobia to the clown-doll scene in "Poltergeist." You know the one-weird creepy clown-doll tries to strangle the kid under the bed (and the parents should be strung up for buying weird creepy clown-doll in the first place and forever scarring their kids). You have some time coming up for you in purgatory, Stevie.

C) Ticks. I have a deep-seated revulsion of them. I once jumped out of a moving car when I saw a tick crawling on me. I have no tolerance for something that has zero benefit to the world, from an evolutionary point of view (note: this zero tolerance for useless creatures does include some of my ex-boyfriends). If I find one on me, with its head BURIED UNDER MY SKIN I have to work hard and keep smiling to keep the gag reflex down (thank you for that tip, C.S.I). Yes, I do need therapy.

2. What was you worst fear that you overcame?

Well, I'm still growing older, aren't I?

3. What's the meanest thing you've ever done?

I have never consciously done anything mean, I don't think. I don't have it in me. But I have done lots of brainless, horrible things simply because I did not think. When I was a kid I used to terrorize my little sister, but then again she could hold her own-she once pelted steak knives at me during a fight. The Walton family we were not. That being said, if anyone attacks my sister then they will have me to deal with. I am the only one allowed to verbally bitch slap her.

4. What is your favorite taste?

Champagne. Hands down. So what if I sound posh or like a girlie-girl. I love the bubbly stuff and I am not afraid to admit it. I think every day is a good day for champagne. Cured cancer? Bring out the bubbly! Got a promotion? Let's celebrate! Found some change under the couch cushions? Pop that champagne cork out!

5. If you could relocate your life to anywhere in the world, where would it be and why?

I have already relocated my life a few times. I like to think of it as using up my karmic bank. I am always trying to figure out where I am supposed to be. I am still not sure where that is, but of late I am wondering if it is not here. I feel enormously comfortable in England (despite me being American and enduring lots of quips about being a "colonist" or a "Yank". Sour grapes, anyone?), and I also adore Australia. I think I liked Oz simply because you cannot get any further away from everything if you tried. That, and since you are 12 hours away, you honestly felt like no one is "watching you". Misbehaving is very easy there. I do recommend it for anyone who is a Smug Married.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:36 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 738 words, total size 4 kb.

A small comedy of errors ensued at our house last night.

My significant other returned from a five-day boys-only sailing trip around the Swedish archipelago. In other words, a five-day booze fest shared with 5 other men. I only spoke to him about 90 seconds each day since the cell phone coverage is crap out there, and since I am not really a phone person (I dread picking up the phone and making calls. More often than not, I let calls go to my voice mail. The irony that I work in telecom giant and hate talking on the phone is not lost on me.) I was treated to the Drunk Call-you know, when someone of the opposite sex rings you at about midnight, waking you up from a perfectly good dream, to tell you how much they love and need you and that none of the other girls/guys there are anywhere near as cute as you, and all this done with a serious slur to the voice? And they spend a lot of time conversing with their drunk mates on the side (which always winds me up) and then trying to get said mates on the phone to talk to you, to help illustrate just how earnest the originator of the call is in their alcohol-fumed persistent dedications?

Yeah, I got one of those.

So he returns, his clothes smelling like whiskey, peanuts and salt water, and takes a shower. He then wants to show me how much he missed me. Yup. I got called upon to perform.

He drags me upstairs and pushes us both on the bed...whereupon the bed breaks. With a crash. The mattress is tipped crazily off the side of the bed, and it is pretty clear that the metal slats along the side of the rails have given up their will to live and will only allow us to have the mattress on the floor, cum college days. I am laughing my head off, and we stand up. I look at his face, and he looks a bit puzzled. He looks at me.

"What have you been doing while I was away?" he asks in a confused voice.

Hmm, curious-he is wondering what shennanigans I have been up to in his absence, which is not at all what is on my mind. I was thinking about if perhaps a crash diet is not in the cards for me. No one likes to feel like they broke a bed. That has serious Weight Watchers implications. I start to envisage a demolition team needing to come break down the walls in order to get me out, since I am too fat to get through the doorways, as I am (in my mind) swollen to the size of Veruca when she turns into a blueberry in "Willy Wonka and the Choclate Factory". Minus the blue skin of course.

"Nothing! I have no idea why the bed broke!" I reply. And I really am telling the truth. I may not be well-known for my full-on veracity skills at home, but I seriously have no idea why the bed broke. That is Man Work to figure that one out, I believe. If it is going to require heavy lifting, cordless screwdrivers, and the like, it is Man Work. Hey man, I'm a convenient feminist. I just have limits (Like burning my bras. Why would I want to do that? I love my lingerie. Seems so counter-productive.)

"Are you sure you don't know why the bed broke?" he asks again.

"Of course I am sure. Oh, unless it was when I had sex with the entire local football team on Friday."

"Very funny."

"Or Sunday, when we had the league championships in midget bowling, which took place in this room. Boy, was that one crazy afternoon, man!"

"Ha-ha."

"No dear, nothing happened." Unless you count numerous rounds of self-relations to the image of Colin Firth, but I didn't think I got that wild during them. Pretty freaky to go into horizontal aerobics if you're just there to please yourself. I then pulled out the ultimate defense: "It's just an IKEA bed, that's all. They break."

And that one made sense to him. Bed got fixed (using strange S-shaped IKEA definition of a wrench/spanner and some wooden pegs, no need for Man Work after all), action was had, and I am only mildly under suspicion still.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:35 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 746 words, total size 4 kb.

So I found this lovely website called Cheddar X, in which there are questions posted weekly by our dairy friend. I thought I would give it a go on two of them:

1. What are your top three favorite smells?

A full Indian curry dinner, complete with naan bread-the smell of garlic, coriander, and naan make me want to weep with joy. I also love the smell of lilacs and fresh cut grass in the summer time and I enjoy the scent of rubbing alcohol (which may be a factor in my periodic slides into hypochondria). Strange, but true.

2. What scents on men/women do you find most attractive? And what scents to you absolutely despise?

I love it when you go up to a guy in a bar or a pub and start chatting, and he has beer/cigarette breath. Seriously, that's a big turn on. And the male line of face lotions from The Body Shop get me hotter than hell, so those are a plus. I hate it when, sometimes at work, I have to walk up to a guy and ask him something, only to notice that he has that I-Just-Threw-My-Tie-and-Shirt-On, I-Did-Not-Bathe-Today smell. That bitter funk smell, pure rankness. That puts me right off.

A friend and I had an sms dialog yesterday (aka text messaging). He asked what I had been doing all weekend, since I have been off work since last Wednesday with some vacation time, and home alone. I replied that I have been doing this and that. After our dialog, I sat down and tried to think about what I have actually achieved with my time. Ostensibly, my time alone has been to write on my novel a bit. Unfortunately, due to the heat and me being otherwise engaged with numerous activities, I have not gotten far. A summary of my activities:

- Watched all four of the "Lethal Weapon films", since I couldn't find anything else on TV.
- Watched "Pride and Prejudice", with that fabulous dish Colin Firth.
- Sunbathed. A lot.
- Finished off three bottles of chardonnay (but not in one sitting. At least I am still several steps away from being an inductee into AA).
- Had some "self-relations", to quote our friend Frank McCourt. OK, not some. A lot.
- Watered the garden. I did not do this often enough, but then again I find it mind-numbingly dull, so who can blame me?
- Drank, in total, 22 cups of coffee.

Maybe I am better off going back to work.

-H

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:26 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 434 words, total size 2 kb.

First, a template change. That orange was whipping me.

My mate and I decided on a new game recently. In it, we award each other points on the basis of theoretical sexual rendezvous. Sort of like the Top 5 list in "Friends". Basically, we decided to award points on the following, should one or the other of us get the chance to sleep with them:

**-1 point if we are able to shag a famous actor/actress, sports star, or minor royalty (this brought about debate. We decided Prince Charles is minor royalty. That, and absolutely unlikely to have sex with me. I said I suspected he would be more likely to have sex with my mate than with me, and he replied that I am being uncharitable. Be that as it may, I suspect Charlie is a bit of a perv.)

**2 points if we bed the heads of state or major royalty. For example, if I were to do Dub-ya then I get two points, according to my mate. And he is sure I would do George. However, I am absolutely adamant that I am more likely to have sex with a beach umbrella than entertain George into my dining hall-and I feel the beach umbrella would have more charisma than George, anyway. (note: before you blitz me with mails about my lack of patriotism, be advised I am only talking about George's sex appeal. Something which he does not need as head of state. I hope, anyway). Now my mate is super-keen on the idea of doing Queen Elizabeth. Not that it would be a fulfilling sexual experience, but just to be able to say "I have had sex with the Queen of England." As he says, "That's one hell of an impressive notch in the bedpost."

We agreed the Queen is a big deal, and he can even have 3 points for her. Top caliber.

You get minus points if you have sex with any of the women from Destiny's Child (this was my determination, since I hate their music so much). And minus points for Bill Clinton. After all, he has been done. All this, and I am a Democrat, too.

Of course, this is all well and good, but will it ever be put into play? Not sure, but I remain hopeful (after all, my dream of getting knobbed by John Cusack will grant me one whole point!) But it has let me venture into more Mitty-ism. I think my number one option (after Mr. Cusack, that is), is Tony Blair. He's a two-pointer, after all.

That's right. I would have sex with Tony Blair. Skewer me at your will, but there is something ridiculously screwable about him. He seems like the kind of guy that can go for a proper spanking. I even have it pictured.

We are at a posh dinner event. Her Majesty is in attendance (and possibly even being hit on by my mate. I am nothing if not generous). I am wearing a lovely black evening gown. Tony Baby is in a tux and tails.

He sidlesup close to me, a gin and tonic in hand. "Hello Gorgeous." he whispers to me.
I see much gray in his hair up close, and it endears him to me. "Hi Tony." Why should I call him Prime Minister? After all, he dispensed with the formalities and went straight for the adjectives as nouns.
"I must tell you, I've been watching you from across a crowded room, and I can't take my eyes off you." he says softly.
"Tony my love, you have GOT to stop reading tragic Russian novels. Lines like that never work."
He looks flummoxed, and then gathers himself up again, taking a sip of his gin and tonic. He smells like Pimms. "OK, then what would work with you?" He looks deep into my eyes. "Don't you understand? I simply must have you. I saw you from across the room, with the elegant neck, the startling eyes, and the child-bearing hips."
"Are you analyzing me for my reproductability?" I reply. This turns me on slightly. How primal, trying to scatter seeds in all fertile grounds.
"Well, I notice these things." he says uncomfortably. "Please, forgive my lack of formality, but I need you. I must have you."
I nod. "How long has it been since you have had sex, Tones?"
"Seven weeks and two days. And even then I only had perfunctory sex with the Missus. I feel the need to test-drive a new model, if you know what I mean."
I nod and take his hand, leading him out of the room. We head upstairs, and an armed guard gives us a glance as he settles outside the bedroom door. I like to think he is envious of Tony.
Tony takes his coat off and attempts to flatten his ears against his head. He lays me back on the bed and looks into my eyes. He reaches into a pocket and takes out a pair of furry pink handcuffs. "Shall I begin, or shall you?" he whispers.
Oh. So it's like that, is it? I can see that if I am at all going to get an orgasm out of this, I shall have to "help myself."
"And I am not sure if we will need these darling, but I brought these, too." he says, and produces a stalk of celery, a mini-massager, and a feather duster.
That's fine. At least he's a 2 pointer.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:58 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Sweden is an odd place.

Now, it's true that the majority of the population is blond. You can pretty easily find me in a crowd, as I'm tall with black hair. But the women do not, despite the urgent attempts from American beer companies, run around in furry bikinis. There are not a lot of parties with orgies and free sex happening (actually, Sweden is a bit conservative. OK, it's true there is much toplessness and even full nudity on the beach, but the Swedes got the "open sex" stereotype based on a movie made by Ingmar Bergman in the 50's, in which he portrayed on screen for the first time, a naked woman.) Families are very important to Swedes, and they get 18 months (for both parents) parental leave when they have kids. And they bail out of work at 1600 promptly, since day care closes at 1700 (hence the term "day care", I suppose).

Swedish guys are not good at coming on to women. In fact, they don't. They are extremely reserved at approaching a woman, and even more reserved about asking her out. The only time they loosen up is when they're drunk. So when he's slurring his words and falling down, he thinks you're cute. Vomits on your shoes, and he wants to go steady. Cries and relays some tragic event in his childhood, and you're as good as engaged.

Swedish language is even stranger.

There are a lot of words that make me laugh. "In fart", in Swedish, means the entrance ramp. But just the thought of that one makes me want to squeeze my bottom cheeks together. "Ut fart", at least, makes sense-exit ramp. You pretty regularly see a sign with an arrow that simply says "Gods". No, it's not a ploy by the Hare Krishna, "gods" in Swedish means goods, or merchandise. It's where the trucks need to drop off deliveries.

Now the one that always gets people is "marriage." In Swedish, the word for marriage is "gift" (pronounced yift). This is extremely remarkable, in that it doesn't mean present, like it does in the English language. It means marriage. It is also the Swedish word for poison.

Speaks volumes, really.

And the one I am always getting confused are "sugen" and "sugna", pronounced just as they are spelled. You say one of them, and it means you have a craving for something (I usually use it in connection with sour wine gums or curry). You say the other one, and it means you have just performed multiple blow jobs. Yes, I have fucked this one up in front of my in-laws, and yes, they did forgive my ignorance.

I am ok at Swedish, I think. I make lots of mistakes, but at least I am putting the effort out there. The one thing I do hate is that as soon as I open my trap it is obvious I am not Swedish. Inevitably, people stop and tell me how I speak is "sooooooo cute!" Then they make me repeat certain words over and over again. Patronize me at your peril, dude.

I now have to take my dog to the vet for his rabies vaccinations. But scheduling his appointment is a little bit of misery that I wanted to share.

I called the vet and (in my garbled Swedish) and said I needed to book a time.

"OK, how about Friday at 10?) says the nurse.
"Perfect."
"The animal's name?"
"Ed."
Silence. This usually happens. "Ed?"
"Ed."
"OK....what type of animal is this?"
Now, bear in mind, this conversation is in Swedish.
"He's a dog." (in Swedish, "hund")
"A hen?" (inSwedish, "hön", pronounced like hund but without the d.)
"A dog."
"A hen?"
"A dog!" God, did I need to start barking on the phone?
"We don't accept chickens here."
"That's good, since I haven't got one."
"Do you mean a hund?"
"Yes! That's what I've been saying! A hund!"
"Ah, I see. I just didn't understand because of your accent. It's so cute!"

People!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:27 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Walter Mitty and I would have been great mates.

Perhaps I am showing how much of a loser I am, but I watched the movie and read the book (by James Thurber) many years ago. Walter Mitty is basically a nice guy who pops into his imagination to escape his everyday life. He imagines himself as a fighter pilot, a millionaire, a brilliant surgeon, etc. And through it all, he is the hero of it all. The guy everyone wants to be. The one who makes a difference.

I am not sure if everyone has these fantasies, or if they are reserved for those of us who typify the definition of "sad individuals". But since this is my blog space and no one knows who I am anyway, I will confess-I, too, am a Mitty-ite. I too have fantasies about which I am The One to be Envied. A few examples:

- I have managed to sell my novel and it has become a bestseller. I appear on the Oprah Winfrey show (since she has rescinded her previous decree to no longer have bestsellers in her book club, an exception she makes for me alone since my book changed her life). I will be looking serious and yet energetic beneath the studio lights. Women in the audience tearfully tell me that my book made their life worth living. Oprah turns to me and says, fervently, that the metaphors I use as seasons being representative for the growth of an individual made her plant a garden. This is about where the fantasy breaks down-my response is usually something like. "Er...I didn't use metaphors. Um...what?"

- I am on an airplane that has been damaged by a lightening bolt. The captian and co-pilot has mysetieriously fallen ill (I don't dwell on that part, since it makes the fantasy break down), and I take control of the aircraft. I mean, since my father is an airline pilot (in real life, this is not a Mitty thing) I have obviously learned how to pilot a 747 by osmosis. I take the controls, and the tower talks me down, all the while the passengers are braced in crash position while I have pumped Peter Gabriel's "Don't Give Up" through the plane (God, am I macabre or what?). We land with some bumps and trouble, and I am the last one off the plane, greeted by a press conference in which I, dressed fashionably in all black and my hair perfectly straight and shining, tearfully say that none of this could have happened without "Those dedicated men in the flight tower". Said dedicated men rush forward and we all hug amidst tears and flash photographs. (Yes, I know, this one is a bit cornball, but it's entertaining anyway).

- The last one I often use is that I am in a conference room at work, when guerilla-terrorists break in and say we are all taken hostage. Now, why a terrorist would find it at all interesting to abduct a group of people responsible for telecommunications infrastructure is beyond me, but again let's not get bogged down by the details. I manage to disarm one of the terrorists since I notice his AK-47 is on safety (again, since I am from Texas, I will have learned gun knowledge by osmosis) and I kung fu the other guys' asses. My male colleagues are so happy and shaken by my daring (for I am the only woman there, and in general, that's not too far off the truth-I would guess the male:female ratio is about 7:1 in the company). I coolly brush my hair out of my face and tell them I am MI6, walking off into the sunset and breaking a few hearts in the process.

OK, now you surely think I am a loser. The truth is, I only use this material if I am in a meeting that is whipping me with boredom, dealing with in-laws, or trying to drift off to sleep sans-sleeping pill. I think, if we were all honest, we all are Mitty-ites. Maybe I'm just among the first to admit it.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:59 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 700 words, total size 4 kb.

All of my friends are men.

Well, not all of them, I do have one female friend here in Sweden and a posse of three female friends from university, with whom I swap mails a few times a year.

But in general, all of my friends are male.

This makes me sound very posh, but the truth is, my total friendship circle is very small in number, I find having a large number of friends to be difficult at best, and a maintenance nightmare at worst. I just don't really get women-they tend to not forgive arguments, to be catty, and to be competitive. My male friends and I get in arguments that we both forget about pretty quickly, we can advise each other on everything from what color shirts to buy to the best sex positions, and they accept me as a token chick. And we have not once, any of us, crossed the line from friendship to lover (well, ok, it did happen once. But just the one guy!)

I am a chick, that's for sure. I can be a real girlie-girl. I love champagne, for example. I drive a small, very-girl car (but that's due to history-my first car ever was a 1979 Buick. Pick the largest car you have ever seen, and multiply it by 10. Yup, that's right. My first car was a fucking BOAT!) I like to wear strappy shoes and short skirts. Waxing is essential. I do not leave the house without wearing lipstick.

But in many ways, I am a bit of a guy. I like to drink beer (not with the champagne, of course). I love to have sex and don't feel the need to explore my feelings afterwards, it's ok with me if we both go to sleep, thank you very much. My fingernails are cut short and I have never filed them once in my entire life. On any given weekend, I am in a movie theatre at least once, usually taking down a packet of sour wine gums and an enormous diet coke. I change the tires on both cars by myself. And I am very soon fulfilling my dream and taking up kung fu. Yes, that's right. I am angry, hot-tempered, and soon I will be able to fight my way out of any situation (although I understand the point of martial arts is to avoid fighting. The truth is, I am taking it up since I think I need to discipline my anger a bit).

All of my friends are older, too. Significantly, in most cases. I find it easier to talk to people who have learned a bit about life, and whose sentence on the average day does not begin with "Man, I was so WASTED last night!" (note: it is ok to say that every once in a while. I myself have uttered such a sentence, usually with one hand blocking the sunlight from my eyes.)

So what is my point? Well, I wonder why it is that I can't get along with women, or people my own age. I'm sure my therapist would espouse something allong the lines of me having an Electra complex (in fact, she did indeed preach such prose) and maybe it's because I have always only been surrounded by women. Maybe I associate women with entagled emotions and trauma. And why are they older? Well, to go along with the therapist, maybe it's because I never experienced a real childhood, got to know my inner teenager...blah, blah, blah.

Or maybe I just have older male friends because I feel comfortable around them, and that's who I like. I'd like to point to my man Freud to back me up on this one-sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:37 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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After my failed unvieristy sojourn into medicine, I wound up "finding" anthropology. It became my major, and I whizzed through those classes with little struggle at all. I studied biological anthropology as my main focus of interest (you know, "the monkeys"). Cultural anthropology was, I felt, too touchy-feely. Since it is all about observation and preservation of other cultures, I couldn't see myself being tolerant enough to study it. I mean, if I were in a foreign country, studying another culture, it would be difficult for me to accept or not intervene if they were, for instance, hurting a child or a woman. Not like I am a flag-waving member of a superpower nation or anything, I wouldn't be introducing hair driers and cappucino or anything, but things like female circumcision...nope, wouldn't handle that well at all.

In college I even took a course on Egyptology. At one point, I was able to name all of the rulers in all of the dynasties, including the length of their reign. Fucking useless info, in other words.

I also studied archeology for a long time, and took part in a dig on a former Native American site. I was so bad at it, imagine me trying to have the patience digging a one meter by one meter square, scraping the bottom and then sifting all the dirt, in the 102 degree Texas sun in July. After that summer, I switched and worked in a lab processing the Native American artifacts that the other poor suckers had to dig up. I found the whole ordeal very, very dull. I have never felt the need to return to archeology since.

But another side branch of anthropology, linguistics, really captured my imagination. I absolutely loved those courses about language and the acquisition of language. Yes I know-I'm a complete loser. But it was utterly fascinating to me (and still is.) I also studied a lot of language in college-French and English were my minors (well, that's the French language and English composition anyway), and I took four years of Russian. I used to be able to speak both French and Russian, but I have found that Swedish has come in and pushed all the other languages out of my brain. Last year I was in Paris for business, and I trotted out my rusty French, only to find that I was talking gibberish, mashing together sentences of bastardized French and Swedish.

Now I work in telecom with, as my friend calls it, a "thoroughly inappropriate education." I am not sure if I ever told him that I was working on my Master's Degree before I moved to Sweden, and I was working in telecom then. My degree was going to be in, of all things, the history of ideas. The degree was a hodgepodge of English, philosophy, psychology, and anthropology. I just don't see why I have to get a degree in accounting or achitecture if it doesn't interest me, simply to get "a good job". I have what could be defined as "a good job". My thoroughly inappropriate education aside, I have found that if you work very hard (80 hours a week, anyone?) and want it enough then you can have any "good job", despite your background.

I would love to go back to school. Absolutely love it. I don't romanticize my college times, they were very hard and difficult times. I never lived in the dorm, I never joined a sorority. I worked two or three jobs and lived in shit appartments in order to get through. I remember one place I lived in with two roommates-it was so bad, you had to reach around the corner and turn the lights on in the room, wait five minutes, and then you could walk in-all this in order to let the cockroaches find a place to hide before you entered.

I would love to go back to school to study more things. It's ironic that you go to university when you are so young-it should be the norm to go when we are older, more mature, have seen the world and actually know what we want to be when we grow up.

I have no regrets over my studies. Even all the time I spent memorizing those stupid Egyptian dynasties. At least I can free up the memory space for that in the dusty corners of my brain, and try to fill it with interesting life stuff. Like the best places to kiss a man. What are the decent red wines. How to drive to my favorite coffee shop while avoiding as many red lights as possible.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:46 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Another day in the office. This place is even emptier than ever now, I think there are maybe 20 people here in the whole building (we number over 800 in the building I work in). I definitely see working from home this afternoon.

The weekend passed by effectively and nonchalantly. This morning I wanted to get up and go running, however it was much too difficult to shake off the cloak of the sleeping tablet from last night. That, and I think I have been overdoing the running a bit-my legs feel as though I have metal rods soddered in them. I spent masses of time in the garden yesterday, but after accidentally kneeling on some stinging nettles, I got pissed off and wasn't much in the mood to be outside in the garden. So I settled myself on the balcony with a bottle of wine and a book, and tried to get over myself there.

I saw "Ripley's Game" this weekend, which is unusual since I have never seen the first one, "The Talented Mr. Ripley" which, according to some friends of mine, is a film that makes you want to confess things. So obviously I am not going to watch it with my spouse. Christ, imagine the mess that would occur if I opened up that can of worms! He's going on a five-day sailing trip with the boys this weekend, and so I will rent it when I have the house to myself. I wonder if it will make me want to confess things. Seeing as how I grew up Catholic, confession is second nature to me. However, I have become a card-carrying member of Catholics Anonymous since adulthood, so hopefully my need to feel guilty and take punishment for all things will be ending soon. About damn time. I could really do with not feeling guilty about everything from the Love Canal tragedy to drinking the last of the orange juice this morning.

I really love being alone at home. Me and the dog. It's nice to have every inch of space to yourself, the whole bed to myself, and best of all, I get to keep all of the windows open (my S.O. hates having a breeze in the room). I can drink chardonnay or some English ale and have egg salad sandwiches every night if I want to (and if history has anything to do with it, I probably will be.)

It's occured to me that throughout this blog, there isn't really anything to give you much to identify me as, in your minds eye. So how about this:

I am 29, and a female.
I am about 5 foot 9 inches, and although I have absolutely no desire to post my weight here, I fall under the "slender" category (or so I'm told).
I have long, very dark hair and hazel eyes.
I was born and raised in the U.S., and now live in Stockholm, Sweden, due to work situations. That, and I got hitched up to a Swede, so I plan on being away from the U.S. for a while.
I'm a vegetarian, and my favorite food is artichoke, followed by a sumptuous curry called sag aloo.

That oughta' do it. Now you're armed with about as much info as all of my other friends. I think only one other person in the world knows more about me (and he knows who he is).

For those of you with strange reading interests, I can't recommend Mary Roach's "Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers" highly enough. It's perhaps one of the most interesting and one of the most well-written books I have ever read.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:23 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Yesterday afternoon was lovely. Sitting outside, the hot sun baking down on the basking Stockholmers. Swedish summers can either be incredible or horrible. You either get day after day of chilly, rainy, hate-my-life weather or day after day of uber-blue skies that are the endless settings for fun-friendly beer commercials.

I went to a picnic with my co-workers and their families, complete with numerous young children. I took my partner and my dog. Family enough for me. It was weird and comfortable to be around so many sprogs. Running around, complaining, tackling their parents for hugs, being at once enchanted and horrified by my dog. Confess I started longing for a sproglet of my own, but then remembered how crap I am at handling life, so perhaps it's best that I refrain from producing more Dr. Phil fodder (does anyone else out there think he's an arrogant, egotistical, entirely unsympathetic bastard, or is it only me? If he were my therapist, I would've killed myself ages ago. Not as though he would have cared.)

It was so nice to just lay back on the blanket, sunglasses firmly in place, and let the sun push me down onto the ground, holding my shoulders down and forcing me to be massaged by its warmth. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was for heat. I don't usually go for laying down in the sun, since I am not good at holding still for very long. Same reason why I don't like fishing. I can't stand to be confined to one spot or in one position for any period of time. I am not a fun person to sit next to on an airplane, that's for sure-not unless you like a squirming mass sitting next to you, constantly trying to fold her colt-like legs in an itty-bitty sitting space. It's ok for Julia Roberts to have such long legs, she can handle them gracefully, but the rest of us are forced to mimic praying mantis scoping for better leaf space.

Laying there, my eyes closed and my imagination wandering, I had lovely images of quaffing some chardonnay, sitting there with my head on a man's lap, and being able to look up and see him looking down, blue eyes agog and hints of naughty blanket action on the menu. Then reality set in, and I remembered that this is not the case. Not only do I have a bit of a no-go relationship with my partner (sometimes I have to remind myself of the situation I have gotten myself into), but you can't pull any action with people around.

One of my friends told me it's his experience that people, when exposed to the outdoors, get quite frisky. Sexually, of course. I think this is likely the case. I'm not sure if it turns me on or not, suspect further experiments will need to be carried out before I can confirm his hypothesis.

Also got into a long debate with my closest friend (a debate which is still ongoing). It has set my ulcer off, has been going off since about ten last night. Pretty pathetic, I know. I am 29 and I have an ulcer. I'm a fucking walking stereotype sometimes, I swear. Medication has been taken, however it has likely been set off again by the four cups of coffee and the handful of sour wine gums I have ingested.

Ah, screw it. The office is abandoned, the sun is out, and I am seriously not pleased with my life. I think I'll bunk off work soon, go running, and then lay outside in the yard with my dog. Think I've started a trend here.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:07 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 624 words, total size 3 kb.

The sun is shining, it's warm, we have a picnic planned all afternoon, so I decided...screw it...I'm working from home this morning. Now I know that this sounds flimsy at best, but the truth is that I do actually work at home when I say I will be working from home. I start to feel guilty that the corporate Gods will somehow JUST KNOW that I am not working, so I dial in on the network, diligently read all my mails and fire off replies/answers, and then check it a number of times throughout the day.

Anal retentive.

All this while going through my standard four cups of coffee. Doing the washing. Scrubbing the floors. You know, the domestic stuff that needs to be punctuated periodically by signs of life. Or at least by signs of steadfast compulsive cleaning, not sure which is more important.

I went out last night, had a pint (yum!) with a friend and then saw "Phone Booth". Quite an uncomfortable film, makes you feel like you should clear the air of any transgressions that you have committed, lest a man with a gun put his sights on you and make you confess.

It makes me think of a recurring dream I have had since I was a child. I am in a restaurant or some other crowded sitting, wearing a white button-down top and jeans. My hair is longer than it is now, and I am a little bit older. I am running away from someone with a shotgun, and he shoots me in the back as I run away. I can almost feel what it is like to feel that-like a brick being thrown at my back, only very hot, and then a feeling of something being lodged that I can't remove. It knocks me to the ground, I crawl a ways, then give up. Sometimes I wonder if this dream foretells my death. Or if I have simply been exposed to too much media. Or perhaps there is some third, wispy Freudian option along the lines of "my father should have hugged me more", who knows.

I have a number of recurring dreams, actually. And almost always similarly themed (other than the above gore-fest one). I wonder if it's just the brains' ways of doing a little tidying up too.

- H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:30 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Something unusual happened to me Saturday night, in Wales.

I was walking back to my hotel from a very fun time dancing at a nightclub, when I looked across the street and saw a couple arguing. The girl was short and very slight, her boyfriend larger, taller, and with a pierced eyebrow. They were having a bit of a row, and it was clear that the girl wanted none of it. She kept trying to walk away, but he wouldn't let her get around him. She persisted, and it was thus that I found my attention riveted on what was happening. She kept trying to get past him, and then he grabbed her wrist and held her arm.

It was then that I snapped.

I was suddenly across the street, screaming at him. He looked thoroughly confused for about 30 seconds, and then he started in on insults on my American accent (or so I was told. I confess that I don't remember a thing of what was happening). Bystanders across the street started watching, and my friend I had been dancing with was grabbing my arms trying to restrain me. The guy's girlfriend was trying still to get away. He blocked her path again, and that was it for me. I got my arms loose from my friend and shoved the guy firmly in the chest. I remember screaming at him that a man should never, EVER put his hands on a woman in anger. That it is NEVER ok to touch a woman during a fight. My friend was trying to restrain my arms and tell the guy his behavior was not ok. The girlfriend was trying to keep him off me. The guy was screaming that he is simply trying to keep her from walking away. It was then that she bailed, while he and I continued yelling at each other.

Soon enough he walked on, still yelling insults over his shoulder. I was doing likewise. I had to turn the corner and put my head between my legs, I was shaking and so furious. I could have gotten more physical, I confess I WANTED to get more physical. My friend tried to calm me down and get me to take it easy, and I realized I had broken the strap of my favorite pair of black strappy sandals in the scuffle.

I tried to explain to my friend that no-it wasn't my business. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten involved. But when he touched her in anger, that was it for me. She was tiny, and he was not. No woman should ever have to be afraid that they are going to be struck, restrained, or pushed when they are fighting with the man in their life.

I am sure that they met up later and made up. He probably laughed about the crazy, interfering American. He probably also said that he never meant to hurt her, that she just "drove him to it." She probably forgave him. And they will probably be ok for a while, or at least until the next scuffle. I only wanted to step in and let her know, in some way, that what he was doing was not ok. It was not acceptable. And that it starts with obstructing the path and grabbing of wrists, but gets much worse than that.

I only wish that someone had once given me that message, earlier in my life when I could still have done something about it.

- H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:13 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Twenty-four hours ago, I was driving along the Welsh countryside, stopping occasionally to look at calm stretches of chilly ocean landscape, other times to lay in luxuriously thick grassy fields and squint up at the sun.

Now, I'm in a perfectly deserted office environment in Stockholm, deserted since people are off on their holidays already and a bright, sunny day outside. Boring as hell. What a life.

I had a really nice time in Wales. I always enjoy trips to the UK, since when I am there, I feel like I'm in a "middle ground" between the US and Europe. I can breathe deeply and calmly, and understand the conversations around me (well, ok, some of the accents are a bit tricky, but I get the gist of it all). In the grocery stores I always know what everything is and how to use it. I could deal with the practical bits, like bureaucratic nightmare issues. It's ironic that I enjoy being there so much-once upon a time, I was a real flag-waving anti-English person. This, because an ex of mine was English and being there simply reminded me too much of him.

I would move there, if I could, for a number of reasons: 1) I am comfortable there, 2) I feel like I would enjoy being there, 3) I feel much more at ease, since I know the language, 4) it seems like it would be easier to make friends there. It would be tough to move there for other reasons: 1) it would feel a bit like I was "following" D, 2) my spouse has made it clear that moving to the UK not an option, in fact moving away from our house in Stockholm not an option, and 3) it would definitely mean that some envelopes would be pushed, relationship-wise.

Maybe some decisions will be made for me, anyway, in the future. But I am definitely feeling stressed by them.

- H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:07 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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OK, all ready to go, to head out for my mini-break in Wales. Bag packed (probably with too much and/or inapproppriate layered clothing), passport and tickets at the ready. The weather here in Stockholm has been miserable and rainy all this week anyway, so I am looking forward to a change. Of rainy and dark weather in Wales. It seems to follow me everywhere.

A few last minute things to get straightened out. I need a haircut this morning, so that has to be done. I have quite long, very dark hair. My whole life I have had extremely long hair, then when I was sixteen I started dying it red. Since I am extremely pale with hazel eyes, it suited me. About five years ago, I chopped it all off a la Gewnyth Paltrow in "Sliding Doors". The same haircut, in fact. And I really loved having such a short do, however it made me realize one thing-short-haired people are brave. They have to be, there's no hair to hide behind. I then went back to my original color a year and a half ago (and I must confess I love having dark, dramatic hair). From time to time, the thought hits me to go back to that super-short cut I had five years back, but then I think about it and realize-I'm a long-haired person. It's just who I am.

Besides, nothing is worse than the "growing out" stage of hair.

I have been getting more in tune with who it is I am supposed to look like. Sometimes I look in the mirror and am startled by what I see-is that how others see me? With my rabid exercise rountine-affected figure, long hair, pale skin? I also recently got my navel pierced, perhaps that means I will finally get the gumption to show off my stomach (and in case you were wondering, yes-it did hurt. A lot.)

So I have been getting more familiar and comfortable with my exoskeleton. Still working on he insides, but then Rome wasn't built in a day.

Or so Ive heard.

See you Tuesday.

- H.

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Still July 3-

I just remembered-tomorrow is Independence Day. Happy birthday to my home country. Ironic that I will still be in the UK tomorrow, then.

I remember 4th of July parties when I was a kid. The whole block would get together, shut the streets down, and bring out tables of food. It was easy then-since we were in the military, we all moved around a lot, and everyone banded together for the holidays. Some people would be in your life for fours years, others finished their tours early and moved on. But it never mattered on those holidays. Independence Day, in particular. Maybe being in the military made it so much more of a patriotic event.

The adults would nurse beers, wine, and wine coolers. The kids (myself included) would be running around in bathing suits, taking turns wrecking each others sprinklers and Slip 'N Slides (and always ripping the skin off our arms at the end of those damn things, with the metal staple that held it in the ground. And it always took forever to adjust the hose to make sure it coated the whole surface of the banana yellow slide, but when it was aligned...ah...heaven). We had red Kool-Aid juice mustaches and sticky fingers from the popsicles that we would have eaten too many of. Most of us would drop the tip off the popsicle, and then sat on the curb in front of it, watching the ants swarm to the sticky purple saccharine goodness.

The barbecue grills were all alight, and once the dusk (and mosquitoes) came, then we would all trek together to watch the fireworks over the stadium, with the kids playing with Sparklers under close adult supervision, trying to see how many words we could write in the sky before the light went out of them. And at the end, in the dark, we would fall asleep on the grass or be carried into our beds, our stomachs full of food, with the adults talking on into the evening.

There are some moments in my life that I would give anything to bottle up and uncork when the going gets rough. The 4th of July parties are some of them.

- H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:53 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Said PC is back at my desk, although less than happy. For some reason, it looks as though the display of all the open programs are enormous-considering I am not a large icon kind of gal, this is enormously frustrating.

That, and although I thought I was dedicated in my pursuit of backing up all my files in several locations so that I would not lose them, I forgot to back up all of my Internet locations, so they are all gone...

It has been an interesting day. Am still in bits about D moving-some moments the rage and pain I feel are so great that I have to just put my head down until it passes-my therapist this morning went over it all with me. Yes, that's right. I am in the league of the masses, and I see a therapist. Guess it seems like the only logical step in my life. I wonder what the next bourgeois step I can take will be. Perhaps botox or a face lift, but since I am still in the under-30 bracket, I don't see that is necessary for a while.

So my therapist made me feel better about a lot. She helped me see that I am not losing a friend...I am just losing a local friend. Whatever, it still looks pathetic in print, but at least it helped raise the mood bar a bit. And anything to help keep me away from the hot oven rack is a plus.

I leave tomorrow for along weekend in Wales, so this space will be quiet for a bit. I am going to just relax, unwind, and see if I can find the bits of my soul that seem to have scattered to the winds. Maybe they will even return. I worry that I will like it there too much-there is no chance to move right now, no way forward unless I do some busting of some molds.

Then again, I was never one for dealing with unhappy situations well.

-H

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:55 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I log in at work today and get an ugly message. You know the kind-your PC lights up and says, basically, "I hate you. This is a warning that I hate you. I am about to take a long, extended vacation from working for you anymore. The PCs all around me have much more advanced operating systems. They have cute kitten icons open for help, and that annoying paper clip that asks you if you want help writing a letter has been replaced by other, more interesting albeit still annoying icons. I am still whirring away on Windows 98, and I am not going to take this shit anymore. I hate you. Consider yourself warned."

So I have called the Help Desk, backed everything up to the gills, and am anxiously waiting for the techno boy to come and upgrade my PC to Win 2000. I am extremely nervous-I have a very deep and intimate relationship with my PC. I am not excited at the prospect of a 12 year old coming to upgrade my PC and losing all my files, all my settings, all my comfort zones. That, and I have some things in my PC that are very dear and important to me. So I have backed them up on the network, in my PC, and on floppy disk.

I get the feeling that should a war ever come, I will be the one who has stockpiled the most stuff in order to be safe. I'll have the largest mounds of tinned food and water, which I won't touch, since I'll feel the need to save them. Yes, I am incredibly paranoid.

My PC is something that I hold incredibly sacred. It is, for me, the electronic version of a diary (which I also maintain, in paper version). My PC is the dumping ground for all my thoughts, fears, work, stresses, and labors. I tightly control it's boundaries, I have everything set up the way I want it. I do not let anyone into it-in fact, a friend recently told me he had been on my PC and deleted a few files he didn't think I should have, and I swear to God I thought I was going to lose my mind-my personal, private space had been violated. It was almost like he climbed into my brain, pulled out a few sections of the lobe, saying "This is not what you need." and walked off with them.

Yup, it's official. I'm a control freak.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:56 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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