Saturday, August 21, 2004

There were MIMEs

All I can say is that there were mimes.
I finally went to buy TP and as I got to the grocery store, there were mimes blocking the entrance. I was so terrified, I had to forgo any thoughts of a diet and by a huge bag of liquorice to calm myself down.
The scariest moment I ever had while living in NYC wasn't the two guys shooting up in the lobby of my building or rats in the wall of my apartment, it was the time I saw the truck of the San Francisco Mime Troupe parked across the street from the place of my employment.
The thought of a truckload of mimes driving through the US, creating silent mayhem, pretending to hit invisible walls-
enough to send me to the bottom of a very deep bag of candy.

Very Lazy

Ah sweet laziness. Wasn't going to blog even. Fear I may be addicted. Perhaps there is a support group or 12 step program available?
Briefly entertained thoughts about dieting, but then again there are tortilla chips in the kitchen that I'd have to finish before starting. And last night we were going to call for pizza but the wait was too long - which means that pizza will have to happen either tonight or tomorrow night. And if so, I might as well not start a diet? Right?
Just had four hours of coffee, Internet browsing and fav magazine Vanity Fair. Lovely.
I should leave the house at some point, not only because we are out of TP but because it is the Reykjavik Culture Night. But having more coffee and lounging around seems so much more enticing right now.

Friday, August 20, 2004

The Instantaneous Visit of the Karma Boomerang

I should have known better.
I had to put it out in the universe that I love the quiet ways of The Pet Shop Boys and I couldn't stop there, now could I? Made a toast to party poopers and declared a national Holiday, didn't I? Fabulous.
Well that came back and hit me right in the back of my head at three am this morning when I discovered a party in our living room. Ok, not so much in our living room as in the park across the street, but it sounded like it was in our living room. A well liquored party of Icelanders still celebrating the magnificent & historical football victory over Italy on Wednesday.

For those of you who accidentally might think that I am referring to American football; no. I am referring to the sport known as soccer in the US.
How on earth can you call it American football when feet have so very little to do with it? Feet? Where? Where are the feet? The fact that they use their feet to run away from men with gigantic shoulder pads represents the foot part?
From what I have seen it is mostly men throwing themselves on top of each other. Seriously, it isn't even a ball; it is a slightly rounded zeppelin-shaped object.
In real football you not only use your feet to run away from men & women wearing knee-highs and odd hair styles, but you have to kick the ball in front of you at the same time.
In real football you get penalized for touching the ball with your hands, unlike American football where you hug the ball like it's your grandma.
Wednesday August 18th, on the 218th birthday of Reykjavik, Iceland sent the Italian team home with a 2-0 loss. Those of you familiar with football will know how significant a victory that was. Iceland has many good individual players such as Eidur Smari Gudjohnsen but nonetheless Iceland has never made it to the European Championships, never mind World Championships. Italy always does.
I love the game cause you don't get to see that many good looking guys in shorts that often...wait, I mean I watch it for the love of the game...
The Karma fairy made sure to remind me that I don't always prefer peace and quiet. For example when people throw a party in what may as well be our living room because they are celebrating a triumph in Icelandic football history, I don't mind their un-quiet ways.
However, the sleep deprivation has left me dumber than a door knob. I still can't figure out how to blogroll and link list.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Being Boring

Alright, it had to happen. In the words of the ever phenomenal Pet Shop Boys, today I am Being Boring.
Speaking of The Pet Shop Boys, do you know how much heat I've gotten for standing by them? Yes I do love them. They were gay long before Will & Grace were able to unlock the closet door. Although I myself am not gay, it is often assumed that I am. Perhaps because I think friendships are really important - I would venture to say as important as any relationship.
Being presumed gay is a strange catch 22, as much as I loved my galpals I still wanted the word on the street to be that I was straight - just so that the boys wouldn't pass me over. And yet, I felt denying it too fervently would smack of homophobia. Or, as one dear friend (who was my supposed lover) put it; "I don't care if they think I am gay, but if they think less of me because of it then they are not people I want to know."
Words to live by.

But that is not actually why I love The Pet Shop Boys. I love them because when I am being mind-numbing I know that there are people out there who are successfully so. I love them because they often sound exactly what I want to be; duller than watching paint dry yet reflective with a certain beat that makes you bop your head.
I was in my teens when they became popular. My dad was horrified by my taste, or lack thereof. He had purposefully played nothing but The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and Jimi Hendrix to hone my musical ear. And what did the thankless child do? She listened to floating, fleeting electronically enhanced club music. The horror.
But I just couldn't help it. I preferred their quiet ways. I stood by them through the 90's when everyone else sneered at 80's music. I defended my right to like them through disputes and derision.

Being slow, boring and non-aggressive is undervalued by many. We who love silence are often viewed as being the party poopers of life.
Today, I raise my decaf coffee to Being Boring, let August 19 be known as Intense Boredom Day and let us whisper "Hooray" in unison.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

Helmet Head

I wear a bicycle helmet. Proudly.

I am the owner of a blue, hideously ugly, bicycle helmet. It was the last one available without neon-colored stripes in all of Reykjavik. Luckily, I happen to look good in just about any headwear. My husband, bless him, does not. Put my helmet on him and he transforms into the village idiot. Over the years I have bought him every variation of hat I could find and every time he tried one on he looked like his IQ plunged into single digits. Sometimes, for amusement and general jollity, he will wear my helmet around the apartment.
Another hideously ugly detail about the helmet was the price. It cost around 3000 Icelandic Krona which is about $40. Two weeks after I bought mine, I was in Sweden where they seemed to be selling for around $20. Also they were nicer looking. I tell myself that they were of lesser quality.

Ok, so I don’t wear my helmet proudly. But I wear it with a healthy amount of self-knowledge. You see, I am Traffically Challenged. I have biked into parked cars. I have walked at a leisurely pace into pillars, doors and Michael Stipe of R.E.M. And I have managed some formidable forward falls down stairs and on flat pavements.
I don’t know that I am clumsy, nor do I have any balance issues – ask anyone who has practiced yoga with me; I can hold Tree Pose (a fancy-schmansy way of saying standing on one foot) like, forever. But when I start moving it is as if the motion of my body puts my brain into super spin. I start thinking, writing, planning, directing and ruling the world. Yes, I am the crazy lady who talks to herself as she walks down the street. Unfortunately, this explosive brain function does not extend to noticing the surrounding traffic. Quite the contrary, the faster I am going the more introvert my focus is. And that is just not a practical combo.
In Reykjavik the minority of bike riders past the age of 21 months wear helmets. We are a precious few, known by our furtive glances and practical shoes. But then again there aren't that many who use bikes for transportation altogether; Iceland has the highest rate of car ownership per capita bar the US.
I am not one of that capita. I have never owned a car. In my youth I did obtain a license to drive, but in my hands you might as well give me a license to kill. Mostly I have lived in places where cars were redundant, but the longer I live in Iceland the more I feel that having a car would be practical. Take for example the city of Reykjavik; it has fantastically bad public transport and none of the bicycle paths that are common in the rest of the Nordic countries. Yet there is some concern that the younger Icelandic generations are getting overweight. Really? Ya think? Perhaps if there was half a chance of getting around without the use of a car people would actually walk or bike? And if people actually used their bikes as transportation, they might catch on to the whole helmet thing too.
Every time I take my little red bike for an unfocused spin I conquer the fear of ridicule and bad hair, because in the words of a Finnish Minister of Health:
"If you don't wear a helmet, you obviously have nothing to protect."

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

You heard it here first folks; I am NOT pregnant.

And I have never been.
But for some reason people feel free to ask me that anyway.
Most recently, last Friday when we attended a super trendy party on a whale watching vessel, a perfectly nice woman asked me when I was due.
Let me clear up some things:
Firstly, we are incredibly non-trendy people and we rarely make it past the video rental place on a Friday night, so the fact that we were at a trendy party was a rare occurence that I was trying hard to enjoy.
Secondly, I was not wearing a princess cut dress (the kind the stops right below the boobs and flows freely from there, creating a larger waist area which makes any woman with larger than A-cup sized breasts look knocked up).

As I was trapped on a boat outside Reykjavik I could not run home and hide under the bed which, frankly, was what I wanted to do. I don't have terrible body image issues but that made me feel obese. At 165 cm (5'5") and 60 kg (132 lbs) I am fairly normal I would think, no? But truthfully, if I gain the smallest amount of weight, like 2kg (ca 4 lbs) and commit the horror of seeming happy at the same time, people start asking me if I am pregnant.
See, last Friday was not the first time somebody did that. Before our wedding some three years ago, I was happy and had gained a little weight. Suddenly, "Ask Elin if she is pregnant" was the new parlor game. At work and among the family. Finally, during Christmas dinner, when about three people chimed in and insisted that I was pregnant, I put my foot, and fork, down.
"No! The blushing bride is just a fatty lard ass, ok! Now shut up and pass the gravy!" Later that week, in tears, I asked The Grouch* to buy me a corset. Amazingly, she conquered the weirdness of girdle-shopping for another woman and bought me Something Blue.

My only problem with this is that it makes me feel fat. Other women might have additional predicaments, though. For example, if someone has problems concieving, has had a miscarriage or had to go through an abortion.
The issue of pregnancy is a private and intimate one. It is not always good news as much as we would all like to welcome every new human. Also the very decision to become a parent is a great and important one. When quizzing about pregnancy one is also enquiring about a great deal of other things.
I would put the "Are you pregnant?" - or as the woman on the boat put it "When are you due?"-questions in the same category as the following:

"When are you gonna leave that boyfriend of yours?"
"How much money do you have in your pension fund?"
"How come your career isn't taking off?"

Not terrible, but something that might be approached with more tact. Or at least with pre-emptive finesse:

"Do you feel like he is The One for you?"
"Are you taking steps to secure your future?"
"Are you happy doing what you do?"

"Do you see yourself having a family?" would be one way of doing it. Or, like my aunt, you could just dream about us having a kid and then call me up and tell me all about how cute our future daughter is.

I could continue the list of incidents when people have asked me if I am preggers. It spans eras and continents. Strangers, friends and family all seem to think that it is ok. Once, a doctor even convinced me that my back pain stemmed from a pregnancy even though it meant that I would have to have been eight months along...two weeks later, after a number of pregancy tests, the same doc sent me to the ER to with acute appendicitis, not noticing the HUGE scar on my stomach indicating that my useless organ had already been removed. She is no longer my doctor.

Well, tell you what. If it ever happens, if we decide to go forth and procreate, unleashing the mix of our genes on the unsuspecting world, I'll let you all know - so there is no need to ask.


Monday, August 16, 2004

...and I thought real estate agents were annoying

Why do people show up early to look at apartments?
Why? Especially when I have not had any breakfast or lunch.
And why are people being rude and assertive about stuff that really really really does not matter?

- So you are in the apartment on the left when coming up the stairs?
- Well, no actually we are in the apartment on the right.
- No, you aren't.
- Wait, what, yes we are.
- No, you are not.

I have a well documented case of not knowing left from right, but this time I really really checked. And why when you are buying an apartment does it matter? Jiminy. Maybe the old biddy took an extensive course in Feng Shui and needs to be on the left side of the building.

Also, in a country where people readily confess their belief in gnomes and fairies, telling people that you have been renting for four years is met with incredulity.
We have spent the last month or so trying to understand the house buying ritual of the locals and are getting ready to make that giant step into adulthood, buying real estate. And this is where the loathing of real estate agents has been nurtured.
For example, they advertise property without knowing that it has been sold.
This leads to crushed dreams. Do they not know how sad a person can get when said person has spent hours furnishing an imaginary apartment only to find out that it was sold two months ago?
And, really, aren't they the ones who should be showing the apartment and argue about left vs. right? Instead of me when I haven't even had any breakfast.

PS. Have new found love for fish jerky. May impair chances of finding decent housing as my breath is now distincly, well, fishy.

the first fridge

And here I go.
Today I start blogging, I figure this will spare my darling husband a lot of grief as I can now rant online instead of at him.
I guess a lot of you will scoff at the lack of finesse and wit. So will I.
But give me a half a chance to get the hang of this, okay?