So this is what the silent blog community is like Sunday nights. Or, at any rate, it is Sunday afternoon for most of you while it is Sunday night for me.

I am sitting in my darkened study, some candles lit, and Matchbox 20's "You Won't Be Mine" pumping through my MD player into my brain. The song has quite an impact on me. Always has, some pretty major events have happened while or just after listening to this song. I am drinking some rather decent South African red wine called "Chill Out", which I confess I bought not only for the name, but because it was the last bottle of its kind on the shelf. Whenever it is the last bottle, I buy it. Laugh if you must (and I would), but if a bottle is left behind I always buy it. I feel like it may be lonely or sad, since it is not fulfilling its wine destiny. It invariably comes home with me.

I was watching TV just a little while ago, and they brought up an interesting point. Something that made me wonder, on my madcap relationship searching weekend, about how we behave and act. Maybe it's because I have a BA in anthropology. Maybe it's because I am alone. Or maybe it's because I have nothing better to do, and have been thinking.

I have been thinking bout soul mates.

Is it possible there is such a thing? Is it only a figment of Harlequin romances and girl talk? Or do men believe that there are soul mates, too?

The whole idea intigued me so much that I thought I would do some checking. I checked on Google (somehow it has become the Bible of the web) and there are 257,000 hits under "soul mate". It also suggested the term "twin flame", which makes me want to gag. Most of the hits are matchmaking services to help you find your soul mate.

Yeah. Whatever. Since I am such a lackluster dipshit that I needed a dating service to match me with a 55 year-old Ukrainian.

It seems like most women have a pre-conceived notion that there is "One" for them. "The One", in fact. And if they can't have "The One", they will shrivel up and die, to be permanently removed from the dating shelf and maintained in a jar of formaldehyde and labeled "The Freakish Spinster" in future Circus acts.

I used to be one of those women.

See, it takes meeting a Great Guy to set the opinion that a soul mate can actually exist. A Great Guy (and I mean that in caps) who wakes you up (since, like Sleeping Beauty, we lie dormant until someone comes along to kiss us and wake us up, obviously. Thank you, Brothers Grimm, for fucking that up for us pretty conventiently.) and shows you life. This is, of course, interchangeable with A Great Woman for those who bat for the other team. But once you meet the Great Guy, the whole world changes.

I had my Great Guy. He was indeed the highlight of life. He taught me more about myself and about orgasms than any man before him (he perfected this fabulous, earth-shaking "sit on my face" routine that taught me what REAL orgasms were!). He woke me up. He taught me how to breathe. He broke my heart.

And every man after, for a while, were held up to the standard that Great Guy held and they were measured. They were found wanting, and so I used them as play toys. I grew to figure that there was only one Great Guy per woman.

I had had mine.
He was gone.
I was toast.

Until, bobbing along in my everyday life, I met another Great Guy. And this guy...whew...he made the first Great Guy pale in comparison in terms of deep, intrinsic value. And it was then that I decided that perhaps we don't have one soul mate. Perhaps we have a number of people that come into our lives and change it forever. They leave their mark upon us and as long as we live we cannot erase the memory and the magic that they left behind. Why does there have to be one? Should we assume that life is some kind of race, and at the finish line waits "The One" with a dozen roses and bottle of Gatorade? Should we start out with our lives being that defeatist, or can we assume that perhaps the glass isn't half empty, that being so cynical should be reserved for women on "The View", and that if we take a chance and fall in love, maybe this is one of "our handful" that we should be with? Don't we have enough in our lives designed to kick us down (job promotions, swimsuit season, and the Victoria's Secret catalog), we don't need the additional stress of finding "The One"?

Perhaps I am talking shit. I am half a bottle down on red wine, anyway. I just wanted to say that I have thought a lot about , soul mates, and what it means for us. And I don't think there is such a thing as one person for each of us. I think there may be one that leads the pack of others, perhaps by a long shot (and I do mean this for me, since Great Guy number 2 will forever own a large portion of my soul), and although we have an immense cast of characters that parades through our lives, maybe it is just a few that seperate themselves from the white noise of our lives.

And whatever you do, when you find one, never let them go. Come hell or high water, when you find one of the "Great Ones" in your life, hold on tight and never let them go. On one side of the river, you have salvation. On the other side lies regret.

Seems a pretty easy choice, to me.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:47 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1057 words, total size 6 kb.

Last night, I managed to accomplish the following:

- Watched half of a season on DVD that I had been meaning to complete.

- Got into a rapid fire mobile phone text/sms exchange with my Dear Mate that pissed me off, depressed me terribly and made me give up on fixing dinner (yes, it was going to be homemade macaroni and cheese).

- Managed to finish off a bottle of really nice Spanish red wine.

- Felt a bit peckish, so on exploration of the kitchen cupboard I found a large package of chocolate covered macadamia nuts. I ate one. Then I threw the rest of the box away. I did this so that I would not eat the rest of it in a haze of chocolate and wine boredom and drunkenness. That, and they make you fat. Even though the skinny gorgeous Hawaiian cow on the cover doing the hula looked like the fat worry should not be an option.

- Wrote a long post.

- Managed (only just) to avoid playing the one Patsy Cline CD and singing, weeping, curled in a fetal position under the desk "Crazy" while taking a swig from the bottle now and again.

- Did not light candles. Figured drunkenness and fire were not a good mix.

- Trimmed my minge. It's now in a very cute box shape.

That's about all, I think. Now am going to have my standard four cups of coffee and work off this headache.

- H.

Oh, and for the record, my current tally is 3.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:10 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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And no, my darlings, I don't mean that sexually.

And I haven't even hit the wine. Yet.

I've got a good, old-fashioned, soul-searching question for you. Now, before you jump to an answer, roll it around in your head. Absorb it, think about it, and answer it more honestly than you ever have before, even if you are only admitting it in your mind, even for the first time.

Have you ever been cheated on?

'Cause chances are, you have.

The last time I saw, statistics had it at about 75% of married men, and 65% of married women confess to having an affair at some point in their married lives ("married lives". I love that expression. As though we have many different stages of life, much like a butterfly. I wonder which point of our life is actually supposed to be the one where we sprout wings and fly away). And those are just the ones that own up to it.

A search on Google for "adultery" turned up over 514,000 matches. When I checked it for "cheating" and "statistics" I got masses of hits of companies that will help you catch a cheating spouse. All I have to say is: if you suspect your spouse is cheating and go so far as to hire a firm, then you probably already know the answer to your question.

So I bring it back again. Have you ever been cheated on?

It's ok. We're all anonymous here. If you have been, go ahead and say. 'Cause I am here to fling the door wide open and say-yes. I have been cheated on. I have also done my share of fucking around. I am no angel, and never pretended to be. However, I can say that the few times I have mis-behaved, I felt terrible. Absolutely terrible. And only one of those can I look back on and honestly say it was worth it.

Of course, you may think, I WOULD say that.

I remember the first time I found out I was being cheated on. It was about 6 years ago. I went to my boyfriend's house, having worked late that night and just in dire need of a hug and some comfort. He wasn't home, so I let myself in, took my shoes off, and settled on his couch. He was out with his good friend, a woman that I personally couldn't stand although understood that they were close. She was also his ex-girlfriend, and hated my guts.

You can probably see the chain of events here. Sadly, I was too stupid (or too young? Too naive? Too trusting? Aren't they all the same adjectives?) at the time to see it for myself. Hindsight...that pain in the ass little fuck.

I saw a letter sitting on his desk, addressed to her. I don't know what came into me, I couldn't stop myself, and forgive me, but...I opened it. I slid my finger underneath the sealed and crackly glue,the entire triangle length of it. I slid out the note, and saw immediately the firm and familiar penmanship, part of a hundred love letters I had from him. I read the letter. I don't really see the need to relive it all here since I have enough sado-masochism in my life, but suffice to say, it told me more than I needed to know.

I drove home, and even though it was quite a long drive between our homes, I don't remember a thing about it. I got into my apartment and lay down on my bed, still fully dressed in business suit and heels, and just cried. My heart beat so fast, I thought I was having a heart attack. I couldn't stop shaking. The room was spinning wildly around me, and all I could feel was that horrible letter clutched in my hand. The lights were off and although the room was dark I was hyper-aware of the location of all the furniture in the bedroom. I got up and found the only pharmaceutical relief that was available in the bathroom-Ny-Quil. Hey, man-beggars can't be choosers. So I took a swig and settled into the bedroom, waiting for that lovely Ny-Quil haze to set in and take me away (I had no Calgon, either).

We didn't last long after that.

In what is now a lifetime ago (and I don't mean that in any Shirley McLaine kind of way), with another partner, I cheated with his knowledge. His consent. We thought we were grown-ups and could handle it, that an open relationship really is possible. And maybe it is-we had one and it largely worked (with other arrangements, that are perhaps a bit too sexy for this post).

But sometimes, when you love someone so much that you can't even picture life without them, maybe you should be spared the thought of your loved one face down in someone else's crotch eliciting groans of utter delight from that other person. I went and had a sexual fling with a man with my partner's knowledge, and it broke him to bits. We both handled it badly, and it became a wedge that always lay beneath the surface, ready to be hurled at one another when things got rough. It became the Bible of our misery, filled with the Ten Commandments of Betrayal. We were totally, brutally honest with each other throughout the whole of my one-off (and I am forever grateful for that honesty) but maybe there is no recovery for hearing the physical equivalent of "Gee honey, you are a great ride but I feel like test-driving this other model".

I had thought it was something exciting that he and I could share. That I had an affair, a casual fling. Instead, it became a mountain of hurt. And maybe I didn't understand that then, maybe not enough. Maybe I should have said, "You know, my Gorgeous Darling, all I ever want is you. Let's forget about this other guy, I understand that this is too stressful. There is simply no way he could ever please me the way you do, anyway. Let's go to bed and make love to each other, and fantasize about what could have happened."

I should have said it, because I meant it.

But my partner was partially pushing me to do this, too. A test. And I wanted to do it, I admit. So I never said those words, and I will regret it forever. Because, I am feeling again what it felt like on my bed in my apartment 6 years ago, that horrible, dizzying, heart-attack nightmare. And I would give anything to take away this feeling.

The anthropological war wages about the ability of man to be monogamous (which is the idea for another post, another day). And you know, I can understand the deep biological need to get it on with the attractive members of the opposite sex, a gamble for the perpetuation of the species, a wager on natural selection.

But all bets are off when you fall in love.

I need a drink now.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:24 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1196 words, total size 6 kb.

Well, it's just me here. In the house. Alone.

Awesome.

So far today I have:

- Performed a sexual act with my Partner Unit. Don't worry, it was legal. Then packed him off to China.

- Taken one of the Evil Bitches to the vet. 1000 Swedish crowns (or about $80 USD later), and she will be ok.

- Mopped the entire house.

- Bonded with Swedish crunchy-vanilla-yogurt nature by taking a long walk around the lake. Passed a couple of 2000 year old Viking funeral mounds. Made me feel weird and very, very young.

- Done every single piece of dirty laundry in the house. Had to be done. After all, I cooked and served up the Laundry Fairies earlier this week.

Since I have been such a very, very good girl, I have my evening ahead of me. This is how I have it scoped out:

- I have turned off the silent feature on my mobile phone. John Cusack could finally be calling for his booty call, after all. I feel I am up to enlightenment.

- Will shortly go and turn on the DVD. Think it is time to start the next season of "Sex and the City." While doing this, I plan on shaping my minge. My beaver. My muff. Whatever ingenious term you want to call it. I have been undecided on a shape for a while, but I will shamelessly steal Layne's perky Lauren's idea, and my bit of turf will be shaped into a box.

- The bottle of red wine I have is relaxing on the counter, ready to open its arms and welcome me into the fold of dizzy tannins and gorgeous hangovers. We are old friends. We will greet each other as such, and bask in the beautiful glow of each other's amber company. I am saving the chablis for tomorrow (and no worries, I will definitely be drinking it for us both, Melodrama!)

- Candles will be lit in the early evening, once the sun has sit. I am a chick, after all.

- Debated having a Wrestling and Pudding Party. You know, where I fill the living room with 6 inches of pudding and let my guests have good, sticky, fun. But then I figured I wouldn't know who to invite. And I would have to clean up the mess. And I like my IKEA couches the way they are, pudding-free. And I don't know where to buy pudding in Sweden anyway. So fuck it, no Wrestling and Pudding Party.

- And since I am only just now alone, it is time for orgasm number 1. I am debating if I should post a final tally or not on Monday morning. But I am craving some, and so will log out now....

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:46 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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This weekend, I will be home alone. Partner Unit is off on a business trip to China. The house, as of Saturday evening, will be mine and mine alone!

What does this mean?

- Two words: chick movies. Lots of them. I see Colin Firth, I see Victorian period dramas, I see English accents.

- All the homemade macaroni and cheese that I can eat. Gotta' keep my strength up, after all. Next boxing class is on Tuesday!

- I will be sleeping, stark naked, in the middle of the bed with all the windows open.

- Chardonnay, to be altered occasionally with beaujolais, to be inter-changed from time to time with chablis.

- Will be online to blog and check mails. Since Partner Unit is away, and Partner Unit has no idea that I have a blog (I can see the horror of THAT situation if he did know. Especially since some discussions about sex life will be coming up in the future) I do not usually blog on weekends. Now I will.

- Trying to work on my book. But since I will be inbibing freely, that will likely mean I get all slobbery and begin to feel morose and sad over something totally unrelated to my book. So then I will get distracted, unable to write, will drink more, then will wind up curled in fetal position under the desk, only to be lured out by scene in a film of Matthew McConnaughey shirtless, or another variant there of.

- Masturbating. Or erupting vesuvius. Or interfering with myself. Whatever ideal term you want to put on it. And I will be doing it a lot.

- Figuring out how I want to handle things. I have a pretty big fucking snuffleupagus of a situation coming up next week, and I have to figure out how to keep my head on straight for it.

Ah, to have the weekend all planned out. Lovely!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:17 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 337 words, total size 2 kb.

Our weekly bout of goodness from Cheddar:

1) You've got the Magic Button of Death. Every time you press the button the person you want to kill will die. One other random person will also die. Do you use the button? Who do you whack?

Magic Button of Death? Does Mr. Rogers know that we are playing with such toys?

I think I have seen this question in the Book of Qeustions. Actually, I have three mortal enemies. But even though I call them mortal enemies, I would not be the one who decides to erase them. Despite my yearning to play god, and my inability to see anything outside of my feminiely wiles at certain times of the month (we're talking pre-pygym hamsters, here).

I may hate my mortal enemies with a passion, but others love them, I know. I imagine a lot of people will answer "Bin Laden" on this one, but I won't. Mostly because I think the best punishment in the world for him is to be tried and convicted in a US court, then put into general population in a maximum security prison, where he will be made into an enormous man named Bubba's bitch. But I know that will never happen.

2) You've won a million dollars with the conditions that you can only use it to purchase things for yourself and anything you haven't spent in a month is forfeit. What do you buy?

A house on the waterside. I can use up my million dollars on that. Oh, and a Land Rover Defender 90.

3) You've won a million free and clear. What do you do with it?

Isn't it the same thing as the one above? I find it hard to process thoughts past the "you have won a million dollars". Anyway, I would pay off my mother's house, my house, the cars, my Partner Unit's family's home, and then go on a trip around the world. I think that's about it. A million dollars does not go so far anymore!

4) What song or band do you listen to when you want to reminisce or visit a moment in your past? What's the moment?

Lifehouse's "Hanging By A Moment" makes me think of a very special someone. So does, ironically, Celine Dion's "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" (and before any of you start taking the piss because I had the gaul to mention a Dion song, there is a story behind it! Sit down and relax!) And if I ever want to be happy, I launch into Toad the Wet Sprocket's "All I Want". It never fails. Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve" sums it up when I think about another someone from my past. But I try to avoid that one, since no one needs "killl yourself music" on the average day.

5) Or, is there a song that defines a period in your life?

"Full of Grace" by Sarah McLachlan pretty much sums up my life most of the time. Christ, how depressing. I need a drink now and it isn't even 8 am.

6) Can you know what someone is like just based on how they look or act without meeting them?

In theory you can, but then again, I have been wrong on a number of times of people that I thought would be decent and turned out to be horrible. And vice versa. Some people that started out as mortal enemies switched and have become important to me. And the other way around. If there is one thing I know, it's that a person often appears to be a certain way in the presence of others. You will never know what a person is really like until you get them alone.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:58 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 637 words, total size 3 kb.

I have stayed home today, since I have got quite a headache and more than a few things on my mind. And I have been thinking about love, as one does, when one is an insomniac and feeling nostalgic. Cheddar asked recently what love is, and the funny thing is, I don't think love is just one thing. I don't even think it it is possible to put "love" into one category. But here are some examples of the categories I have:

Familial love - I love my family, for example. They drive me fucking crazy sometimes, but at the end of the day they are always the people that are going to be in my life. I love it when my mom sends me Twizzlers and socks. I love it when my stepfather sends me web advice. And I love my dad simply because now, more than ever, he is trying to be a dad for the first time in my life. I'm not bitter about that-sometimes people just need a little bit of time before they can come to terms with their feelings.

Security Blanket Love - I do love my Partner Unit. He is stable and secure and wild about me. No, I don't get wall-ripping orgasms, and no, I am not sure if he is the one I will always be with. But in spite of me being such a Fruit Loop, he takes gentle care of my nutball feelings.

Salt of the Earth Love - I love my Best Friend and my Dear Mate. Both of them are men, and if I am honest with myself I admit that I am a bit in love with one of them. They know so much about me and provide me with a stable dock that I have to tie myself to, from time to time, when the surf gets a bit too rough.

Sprog Love - I don't have kids, but I recognize, in others, that they are one hell of a powerful force. Like Isabel times ten. And for some people, Sprog Love has veto power over all of the other kinds of love in life.

Flammable Love - Wild, crazy, haunting, catch the world on fire love. Where there just isn't enough fucking time in the world for all the things you need to say and all the ways you need to touch. I have had this kind of love twice, and I know I am extremely lucky, that it's a gift. Sometimes people never even meet someone that catches them so completely that they can never be the same again. They spend their life looking, or settling, or avoiding. But I have had it twice. People who say this kind of love can never last are wrong- I will never let either of these men go in my heart. Never.

Omnipresent Love - what happens when Flammable Love evolves into something bigger-the ability to know that there is one other person out in the world that has you in the center of their thoughts and feelings, even when their attention on you is not so obvious. You still catch fire when you are together, but the smoldering times when you are apart are no less poignant. It's passion with a twist.

I think the first time we fall in love in life, the first time that we can inexplicably and completely fall with every ounce that we know how to give, we at once tear ourselves apart and build ourselves back up again. We create a whole new building out of something that is built on someone else's blueprints and foundation. It's almost like we forgot how to breathe while waiting for them to show up.

If the love doesn't succeed, well...there really is no recovery, only an intermittent sense of betrayal, a lost feeling that keeps us wandering around in life from then on, a little more hardened, a little more sad at each sunset, and a little more wary of the next lover who tries to sweep us off our feet. But that lover invariably comes. And with their arrival, we must decide-can that whirlwind feeling be lost, or can we hold on to it? Can we find ourselves spinning in the midst of falling snowflakes, or should we always complain that it's too cold?

I can't look behind me anymore and mourn what is lost or what could have been. I know that the mistakes I've made in life are my own, and truthfully, I wouldn't change a thing. The lessons I learned from my past lovers have shaped me into who I am today. The clay is hard but willing, and slowly I see signs of something unique on the potter's wheel. The form is scarred and cracked, but oddly resilient. The sculpture is singular in so many ways, and I have given it a name.

I call it “Me".

-H.

PS-forgive all the metaphors.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 04:03 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 835 words, total size 4 kb.

So boys, feel free to avert your eyes to the previous posts.

I bought "The Insight Guide to New York City", since Partner Unit and I are going there together over Christmas. I have been to NYC a few times but he has never been, so I bought the book in case I was missing something that could be of interest. And because I am pretty thorough (read: anal retentive) when it comes to travelling, I read the Traveller's Information Section. You know, where they tell you what the currency is (thank God, I wasn't sure if my home country still used dollars) and the voltage (like anyone actually understands what they are talking about there. Why can't they just show a picture of the pegs on the adaptor and leave me alone)?

And it was there that I got pissed off.

It was clear that this guide was published in the UK, since they kept using the words "quaint" and "charming". Neither are words I would generally associate with New Yorkers, but ok, I can fly with that. But it was when they talked about issues for women travellers that I got angry.

The book said that the U.S., unlike Europe, had an extremely limited supply of female sanitary products, and the average uptight European would best be advised to bring their own (OK, I added the uptight adjective, but you get my drift.)

WHAT? WHAT THE? HUH?

Excuse me. I'd like to introduce myself. I am an American living in Europe. I can tell you, without any hesitation or moment of delay, that in the U.S. you can walk into a grocery store and bask in the blissful rays of tampons. Light sparkles and reflects off of hundreds of shrink-wrapped goodies, all a gift from the Period Santa. Hundreds of options of tampons alone, all in a variety of fresh scents, and in a rainbow of fruit flavors (oops, sorry. Got my General Mills longing mixed up with the feminine product longing).

What you get in Europe is two options. You can have the earth-nature-yogurt-sucking-crunchy-goodness-asbestos feeling tampon which rips off the flesh as you insert or extract it, or you can buy a pygmy hamster conveniently sized for the modern Viking woman. These are your choices. Unlike the U.S., where I can opt for Super Maxi Ultra Lite with a smoky cherry finish.

Don't fuck with me, Insight Guide, about tampons. You have no idea how grouchy you can get after four days of pygmy hamsters.

-H.

PS-my apologies to The Insight Guides family. I meant the "Lonely Planet Guide to New York City". It's Lonely Planet that should be abused, not Insight Guide.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:59 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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It is impossible for me to read two books at once. It just isn't done. I can't sleep with one book and then fuck around on the side and betray it with another.

I read all the time. When I used to take the train to and from work, I read each way. A handbag's worth was measured by the ability for me to fit my wallet, kleenex, mobile phone, lipstick, and a book in it. Now that I drive, I read less but still just as much.

I also read very, very fast. And unfortunately I tend to remember most of what I mean, which means that after 25 years of being able to read (I started when I was 4), my brain is very full. Of the type of nonsense that will save me in "Jeopardy" but is pretty worthless if you are talking day-to-day survival. I'll read anything and everything-any genre, in general. Except sci-fi. I am just not kosher enough to keep up with the lingo.

In case anyone is interested, thought I would update regularly on what I read. It is currently "Fragrant Harbour" by John Lanchester.

And the other thing is, I always finish a book once I have started it. Always. There are only five exceptions. They are thus:

- "Moby Dick", by Herman Mellville. My nemesis book. I had to read it in High School, but couldn't get through it. I couldn't get through the Cliff Notes or film either, so I gave up. Whatever. A man's struggle against nature, himself, obsession. Book yourself with a therapy appointment and get over it.

- "Drowning Ruth" by Christina Schwartz. It was an Oprah book, but that was not why I tried to read it. I thought it was so ghastly and the characters so limpid that I was hoping they all fell through the ice.

- "Röde Orm", or "The Long Ships" in English. Partner Unit requested I read it. It's a Swedish classic about the Vikings. All I could get out of it was that they were a bunch of drunkards with the IQ of a rock. It was the only book I took with me on a business trip to Bangkok. God knows I tried to get through that one, and wound up buying a Stephen King book at the airport (was all they had in English).

- a book about the British SAS, whose name I cannot recall now. I just couldn't keep up with all the covert names for things. Must be a British thing.

- "Neuromancer", by William Gibson. I know it's a classic, and it was my first foray into sci-fi. It is also my last foray. It was just too tedious for me. Go ahead and jack in, Case. I could give a shit. And does the author know that "The Matrix" stole most of his plot, or does he not care?

Books. My passion. But unlike my lovers:

- They only happen one at a time.
- I always finish them.
- And get some satisfaction.

Mitty-ism.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 12:20 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 523 words, total size 3 kb.

I tried something for the first time since I moved to Sweden (I had done it in the U.S.).

I went to a boxing class.

The class started at 6 pm, so I stayed at work, and then ambled over to the company gym, where the class was being held. I was nervous and apprehensive, not least because I had forgotten a padlock for the gym locker and I am extremely paranoid abot being robbed (since I was, in May this year). I was also nervous as I didn't know how this class worked, didn't know anyone there, and felt my usual self-inhibited feeling that I get in new situations.

I followed everyone else's lead, and took the same equipment they did-a set of blocking pads, a set of gloves, two enormous rubber bands, and a mat. I saw a few people I know turn up, and I waved to them. It became rapidly clear that this was a partner event, and I was partner-less.

But I was determined to stick it out. I had had a no-good, very bad, rotten day. I was stressed, exhausted, hungry (as I had not eaten for 24 hours), and angry. I needed this.

I was introduced to a woman who was also partnerless.

"Hi, I'm Caisa." she said.
"I'm H." I replied.
She was my height, a bit heavier, with thick blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She blew a strand of hair out of her face.
"How was your day today?" she asked.
"What?" I replied, confused.
"Your day. How was it today?"
"Oh. Right. Honestly, it was pretty fucked up."
She nods grimly. "Me too. I had a bad day yesterday too. I am feeling very angry and would like to beat the shit out of you. In return, you can beat me up."
I look her square in the eye and can tell she is not fucking with me. "Sounds good, Caisa. You're on."

The instructor comes out, and I realize immediately he is an American. I am instantly relieved, for some stupid reason. He addresses us all, unaplogetically, in English. I feel enormously pleased.

We start running. And stretching. And running some more. And then it is time.

I strap on the gloves first, and Caisa takes the block pads. In time to the music and with a set pattern by the Instructor, I start swinging. I connect my gloves to her pads in a rapid fire tempo and with utter strength and anger.

And it feels so fucking great. I am literally beating the pads. In my mind, I see the things that have really been getting to me. Company X wants redundancies? WHAM! into the pad. My Dear Mate wants to move away? WHACK! right into the shield Caisa holds. Those fucks in Company X want to tell rumors about me and drag me down? SLAM! My family giving me grief? CRASH! My partner unit doesn't give me orgasms-EVER? THUMP!

I just hit harder and harder. Punches, uppercuts, hooks. I am pissed. Sweat is pouring down my back, down between my breasts, making a rivulet between my thighs. I feel awesome.

We switch, and Caisa has indeed had a rough day. She beats the hell out of the pads...and I find myself beginning to scream encouragement to her, and she hits harder.

We switch again, and she starts the screams.

It all begins to sound like sex.

"Harder! More! Come on! You're almost there! Come on! Harder! Hit me! Do it! COME ON COME ON COME ON!!!"

As I hit I begin to scream and moan with exhaustion and anger. I find I am so angry that I continue to visualize the things in my life getting me down. Sweat is pouring freely. My thighs are pounding. The other boxers in the class, men and women, are also screaming and grunting.

Afterwards, exhausted, we lay down to stretch. Caisa looks at me.

"That was fucking great." she replies, red-faced, sweaty, and looking rather post-orgasmic with her messy bed hair and breathlessness.

I couldn't agree more. And had a round of self-relations in my car before driving home.

Fighting. Sex. Both of them irresistable.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:16 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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has been added, thanks to Bravenet. It is located to the right, under my links. If you visit my site occasionally, regularly, or have just popped in, please do sign it.

I could use the encouragement...!

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:07 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I had a rough day yesterday, and finally the opportunity to work a bit later in the office. I usually have to go home and take care of the dog, since lately Partner Unit has been very stressed out at work and has too much to do. And since the weather is nice and crisp and not -25, I don't have too much of a problem going home and taking care of the Evil One.

But yesterday was a bit hard on me for a number of reasons, some of which I will go into in my next post. So when I finally got home, I was feeling pretty drag-ass and worn out.

Which, of course meant my Partner Unit and I were going to have a bust-up.

I get in and he is settled on the couch watching football (aka soccer). This is a bit unusual, since thankfully he is not a sports nut, however it was the Swedish finals and his favorite team was playing. I struggle out of my work clothes and into some boxers, and head downstairs to make myself a bowl of soup (since no dinner had been made. I was going to make lasagne, but came home too late).

I wearily check my mail-a letter from the Swedish immigration board, saying it will take about 5 months to process my application. Which, if I lose my job, will be about perfect timing. Depressing. I then trundle into the living room.

"Honey," he starts, and I know this is not going to be good. It is never good when he starts with the word "honey". It usually means I am about to be lectured for something.

"One of the cats peed on the rug downstairs. The runner by the washing machine."

I feel instantly angry. We had just swtiched cat litter types, and one of the Evil Bitches was making it perfectly clear she didn't like this new brand by not using the cat box. And since the grocery store was already closed, there was no remedying this by buying the usual brand tonight.

I sigh. "OK. Did you clean it up?"
"No. But I did open the window downstairs so it wouldn't smell like cat piss."
I look at him to see if he is joking.
He is not.

"Are you joking?" I ask, in case my eyes deceive me.
"No." replied. Ah, so no eye exam needed in my future.
"You left a rug with cat piss on it downstairs?" I am not sure if I believe this.
"Well, I put it next to the washing machine."
"Ah. Next to it. So it will clean itself by de facto geographical location? Since the rug and washing machine are buddies the rug will pick up a fresh-clean scent?"
"I opened the window." he replied defensively.
I nod. And I am annoyed. "Did it occur to you to put said nasty rug in the washing machine and clean it?"
"No."
"Can you go do that now?"
He shrugs. "Sure."

He goes and completes said extremely complicated household task. But I am the reigning PMS Bitch and I cannot let this one drop.

"How did you think the rug would get cleaned, dear? The Laundry Fairies? The ones that magically clean all of your clothes every week and replace them in your drawer?" I ask.
"It's possible. Those little fuckers are quick."
"Indeed. And they are about to go on strike."
"What?" he asks.
"I do ALL of the housework, dear. All of it."
"I vacuum!" he replied defensively.

Just then a dust bunny rolls by and actually sprouts legs before our very eyes and takes off in an offensive scamper on the dog, who looks terrified by this new turn in the chain of events.

"Right. When you last vacuumed was Alaska a part of the Union yet?"
He looks confused. I forgot that American humor generally lost on him.
"Look, just contribute, all right? I do all of the fucking housework, and the Laundry Fairies are sick of it." I snap.
"I do all of the yard work." he says smugly.
"Wrong. I mow the lawn and tend the flowers. You cut the firewood."
"I have cut all the firewood!"
"That's right, Grizzly Adams, but no one asked you to."

With that, I go downstairs and mop the entire cellar. Then I take a crazy sleeping tablet and go to bed. This is not my day.

And for dinner tonight, we have are having lasagne stuffed with Laundry Fairies. I am foregoing my usual vegetarianism in protest.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:38 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 774 words, total size 4 kb.

I swore this space was not for politics, but I am pissed off now.

It appears that the world of blog is just one big high school, replete with cliques.

On the one hand, you have the Bleeding Hearts, which I myself was called yesterday. These blogs include A Small Victory, Ilyka Damen nearly got it, and myself (on Jim's lovely blog). I am surprised our boy Bunsen didn't get it for his rather subdued report on September 12. In fact, rarely have I found a sentiment I agree with more: let's all go about our own way of forgetting. Michele created Voices, a lovely memorial and her way of grieving. Others have maintained a day of silence. Still others would have us believe that all Muslims should be condemned simply because they view us differently. And that's where I part company, ya'll, thanks very much.

On the other hand, you have the rabid right-wing defending anything remotely right. Like Rachel Lucas. Michele's antagonist, John Hawkins. And that's fine, I support their right to have an opinion, fight for it, and defend it. I think they are interesting blogs and interesting reads, although I do not necessarily agree with them.

Here's a bit of political low-down: I support the death penalty, in fact I don't think we use it enough (and would like to include not only capital murderers but child molestors in the ranks or executees, too). Not a popular position in Europe, trust me. I believe in the woman's right to abortion. I think that religion should be kept out of schools. I also support the Three Strikes law.

I lived in Texas most of my adult life. As such, I owned a gun. That's right. I owned a 20-gauge shotgun, a sleek, smoky, sexy beauty that I kept under my bed in case someone broke in. I lived in a rough neighborhood of Dallas, and I was prepared to defend myself. It was my right to own a gun. I was fulfilling that right. The sound of a round being chambered was such a lovely, chilling sound.

The truth is, I never once shot that gun.

But one thing broke through to me and put me off guns for good-Columbine. After the massacre, I could not bear guns anymore. I was all for gun control, and stricter measures to ensure that children's hands could never get near guns. I gave my gun away. The NRA would have me believe that it's everyone's right to own a gun, based on a law that was put into the books back when we were battling Red Coats. They even have a fucking NRA Youth organization! That's right, let's get 'em young, boys!

The trucks in Texas often sport stickers that said "You can have my gun when you pry it out of my cold, dead hands."

Sounds like a challenge to me.

I have never in my life been considered a Bleeding Heart. I don't know whether to cheer or be distraught. According to some of the comments on Michele's site, I am a Bleeding Heart if I want to feed starving children FROM MY OWN FUCKING COUNTRY. Yup. Then bleed my heart does.

But if being a Bleeding Heart means that I am unlike those that would promote genocide and a regiment of hate, then I will go bleeding heart anyday.

Let's get one fact clear, here: I am an American, and I respect the values and individuality of our country. I am always going to feel horror and disgust at what happened on September 11, and it will always give me reason to pause and mourn.

But it does not translate into hate for me, and it will not. I find it even more repugnant to hate an entire population of people simply for the acts of a radical few. As an American, I will NEVER find it ok to take after a whole race because a handful of the race have become fucked-up fanatical zealots and would send the world into a pissing contest.

Those of you who have posted comments (on other sites, including Jim's) or mailed me to the effect that you would want to bomb the shit out of anything remotely resembling an Arab? Well, acquaint yourselves with some others in your caliber: Milosevic. Mussolini. And I am not even going to go into the big names. That's right. Because, in reality, you are advocating genocide just as fervently as those guys. And just because America was attacked and provoked doesn't make it any more right.

So those of you that would base your anger on elimination, instead of justice, I have only one last thing to say to you:

>

Are you really so ready to practice what you preach?

Bring on the hate mail.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:38 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 813 words, total size 5 kb.

About fucking time...chicks get their acts ahead of the class, get it here.

They can tax my coffee over my caffeine craving, nerve-shaking dead body.

And now, not only will Big Brother be watching you, he will know what size you're wearing too.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:47 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 54 words, total size 1 kb.

Seeing as how I am supposed to be preparing a PowerPoint presentation this morning, I obviously decided to take my thesaurus and look up "Masturbation".

As one does, when one is supposed to be preparing a presentation.

Anyway, said periodical lists it as: "to manipulate the genitals for self-gratification".

Ouch. Sounds like whoever wrote that was doing it wrong. Let's just think about that for a minute, shall we? Couldn't there be a better term for this?

I looked online and found a site that not only takes some time to explain frappling, but also lists a number of colorful idioms in which to engage in, delightful colloquialisms that can be worked in everyday conversation.

At the coffee machine in the office:

"Morning John."
"Morning Bob."
"How was your weekend?"
"Oh, not too bad. We took the kids to a softball game on Saturday, and yesterday I spent some time dusting the duvet."
"Ah, great."

Now, Bob would know that John was not talking about cleaning linens, but rather about spanking his monkey, erupting Vesuvius, or any other number of synonyms.

Now, the problem is, this web-site lists a number of exciting terms that are terribly cute. But only three of them are for women. That's right, three. And I don't know about you, my friend, but if it has the term "fist" in it, it isn't my idea of a good self-relations session.

What is a terribly good one is "hula-hooping". Interesting, if perhaps a bit old-fashioned. And again, sounds like someone is doing it wrong.

Engaging sixth gear is really man's territory anyway. Or at least it used to be. I had tried to seek an end many times as an adult, without success. The first time I attempted to take care of myself via other methods, I used water works. That's right, I lay down in the tub and idled up under the faucet. This is supposed to be the number one way that women achieve the golden dream on their own.

The only thing that happened to me is I got water-logged.

I discovered the path to enlightenment when I was 22. My then-boyfriend had a mini-massager, which he used on his back. One day, I decided to stay home from work. I saw the massager. I took a chance. I had a wonderful, side-splitting, rollicking good time, a better time than I had had with most of my previous partners.

And I haven't looked back since.

Now I have a vast array of play toys, none of which my partner unit knows about. A Rabbit. A brilliant toy called a Maestro. No less than two mini-massagers (one is carried around in my briefcase. Weird, but true.) A vibrating toy that can be used with or sans a partner.

My collection keeps on growing, and as it does, I challenge the male community to unite and discover fabulous euphemisms to help allay one idea-that while you guys are at work, we are on the bed with a purple sparkly vibrator poised between our modestly moist legs, ready to scream our heads off.

Cheers, Darlings.

-H.

PS-for a laugh: take the Spark's sex test here

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:04 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 538 words, total size 3 kb.

Or at least, that is what I was asked this weekend by a friend. Why do I blog? Why do I write all of this personal stuff on the web? Let it all hang out?

Well, there are a number of reasons, really.

Mostly, since I am anonymous out here. Only three people in my "real life" know that this blog exists. And I trust the three of them to not further mention this to anyone. It creates a bit of a debacle sometimes, since occasionally there are things I want to write about that I will get called out about with said people, but in general I find this space refreshing.

I have read a number of criticisms that blogs are only self-indulgent, voyeuristic diatribes.

Well, yeah. That's the point. They're not for everybody. They come in all shapes and sizes. Mostly, it just masks a group of people that all have something in common-we just have something to say.

I don't talk about my problems. Ever, really. It has long been a criticism of friends and family that when I have a problem, I just stuff it down inside. But this is my space in the world to speak my mind. To let out my opinion. And for those of you that read it, the voyeurs into my head, well you occupy a position that I only recently gave up- a voyeur myself, into my own mind.

Read, comment, ignore...do whatever you take from this spot. That's my goal.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:12 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 262 words, total size 1 kb.

...to my Egg and Bacon.

You have no idea how much I miss you and wish you were here.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:06 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 30 words, total size 1 kb.

We were engaged in a pretty hostile battle here in Sweden.

Swedish politics are a funny thing. There are a number of political parties, and after the last election, they formed "majority groups", which would allow minority parties to have as equal a say as the ones in power. So the leading majority group is a combination of the following three parties: the social democrats (aka socialists), the left-wing party (which were previously called the Communist party but changed name as they were for a "softer" touch) and the Miljo party (aka the Tree-Huggers). Stranger bed-fellows I have never seen.

Now, it may not make much of a difference to most people, but we were voting on whether or not to take the Euro. Sweden is only one of three countries in the EU-this includes Denmark and England-to not use the Euro. Since we voted no, we will not be re-voting on this issue for another ten years. It looks like England and Sweden will be the holdouts, as the happy-go-lucky Danes will fold and take the Euro.

What does it mean? Well, if we took the Euro, it would have meant:

- a control on inflation (allegedly)
- no longer having to exchange currency every time we leave the damn border
- a likely more stable influence on Swedish businesses
- and this is a big one-an incredibly large hike on the cost of alcohol. This may not seem like a big deal, but alcohol is already fucked-up expensive in Sweden. It is outrageously taxed by the government, and can only be purchased from government run shops called Systembolagets, which have the inconvenient opening hours of Monday - Friday from 0900 to 1600, and some are open a few hours on Saturdays.

When you live in a country that, in the winter, has about 4 hours of daylight time and a warm, balmy temperature of -15, the very last thing you want is for someone to raise the cost of your liquor.

Trust me.

After all, I didn't START drinking until I moved here.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:06 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 356 words, total size 2 kb.

Fall is here, and with all of the subtlety it usually commands.

The air is crisp, in the morning the windows are steamy, and the smell of cider is ripe in our yard, as our nine apple trees yield the last of the year's fruit.

Fall always makes me think of pumpkins, striped mittens, hot cider, ghosts, and suede. It is a thousand riots of color, a million scents to pluck from the air, and the reminder that life has to move on, the seasons have to change, even if it leads to the winter of my discontent.

Fall is a reminder that I do not know who I am, where I am going, or sometimes the point of where I have been. That I don't belong anywhere. Fall reminds me think that every comfort I take in life is just a myth. A cold beer on the summer steps, surrounded by geraniums. The phone call of a friend to ease my mind. The feel of grass prickling the bottom of my feet. The sun making red spots burn behind my eyelids. The smell of lilacs. The feel of air on my bare arms.

It is all so temporary and inconvenient. The transience of the seasons only serves to show me just how ambiguous my life really is. The most painful lesson that I have learned in life is that sometimes it doesn't matter how far you run. Your problems just come with you, and sit just under your skin, scratching you, aching to get out. So I will wait out Fall here, and see what is in store for me. All areas of my life, generally speaking, are a bit of a mess. And I feel like something big is around the corner, which is going to force change in my life, whether good or bad.

I sometimes think that Fall is the best season of the year. It is the one that makes me quiet. The one that makes me think. The one that makes me yearn and the one that makes me feel like it is time to flee, to run away from this life, to start a new one, for surely I am no where near where I need to be.

Sorry this is a bit dark, but I am not feeling very cheerful today.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:04 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 400 words, total size 2 kb.

There is a tiny internal conf room on the wing of the building I work in, available for only those who sit around here. They have (finally!) hooked up a conference phone in there, an old desk phone, the type with a list of programmable numbers and a piece of paper next to the programmable buttons that you can write down whose number has been programmed.

I had a meeting in there, and got bored. Me being bored is never a good sign. I get destructive. So in the meeting, I wrote on the piece of paper of the programmed numbers, and entered phone numbers for them. I have added:

- God (if you dial it, you get a bowling alley in town)
- God's mobile (gets you our department administrative assistant)
- The CEO's phone number (gets you Company X's operator, since his number is not listed)
- Tony Blair (found a phone number for a guy named Tony Blair in London, and put his phone number in there)
- My colleague (his number). I felt he needed an ego boost.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:54 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 193 words, total size 1 kb.