This is where I apologize profusely for the lack of updates recently, to which you think: “huh, I really hadn’t noticed”; to which I say: “seriously?!”; to which you reply: “yeah, SERIOUSLY”; and I start to wonder if the world does not revolve around me after all.
I thought you’d might like to know that I moved. Twice. And started a new job. And got a hair cut. And bought a new car. Two cars, to be exact. Not necessarily in that order.
Moving is stressful and exhausting under normal circumstances. When you add two small kids, it’s worse. When you discover you can’t move into your new apartment because the guy living there refuses to move out, it’s panic-inducing. I’m sure there’s a sad story behind why he still wouldn’t leave months after he’d been kicked out, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I just care about the fact that we were homeless for over two weeks. Thankfully we have good friends who helped us find a place to stay temporarily, not even knowing when we would be able to leave. Unfortunately, that place was not meant for a family of four. And all their boxes.
Yes, that space between all our clothes and the dining table is the area our kids had to play on. We finally got to move in right after the Norwegian National holiday on May 17th, what we here in Norway like to call May 17th.
I can’t even begin to tell you how wonderful it is to wake up to this every morning instead of wondering which box labeled kitchen has my coffee cups.
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I saw a beautiful Asian woman on the street yesterday morning on my walk to the office, and as we passed each other my gaze fell to her feet. She was wearing open toe strappy sandals in the rain. Her nails were painted. I looked up and found her smiling at me from underneath her umbrella.
For reasons I’m sure aren’t nearly good enough, I recently bought a monthly bus pass for the first time since I was a teenager. This morning as I used my new card I reveled in how it made me feel like I owned the world – like I could go wherever I wanted. Then I remembered I was confined to the city limits and predetermined bus routes, but for those few seconds I was free.
We spent the weekend packing our lives into boxes for our move to an apartment across town. I found five empty notebooks amongst my things, and I’m sure I’ll find more once I start unpacking. I wonder if I’ll ever find words to put in them.
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I’m good at a lot of things, and telling people what not to do is what I do best. Naturally I practice this skill as often as I can, which I’m sure only contributes to my charming and magnetic personality. And today, dear reader, I bring this aspect of my awesomeness to you. Enjoy.
I’m not very fashion forward. This may be a little hard to believe as I tend to dress to stand out, but the truth is I don’t adapt to new styles easily. I’ve just recently bought my very first high-waisted pair of jeans, for instance. I’m still not sold on those though; as I feel they shorten my legs, widen my hips and elongate my butt – but that’s beside the point. It takes me a while to embrace something new (or re-new, seeing as styles tend to reappear every few decades), but I tend to give in eventually. However, there are a few trends I will never, ever understand or surrender to. Allow me to demonstrate:
Harem pants. They’re all the rage these days, apparently. But as much as I want to like them (they do seem comfy after all), I just can’t. I mean, look at them:
Even the model looks terrible, and that truly is an accomplishment in itself.
Adult onesies. Say it with me: “Adult onesies”. It just sounds wrong. And it is. I’m not saying you should dress up in your Sunday best while vegging around at home picking lint from between your toes, but please don’t do it while looking like a giant baby. Anything that could make this gorgeous young woman look fat and ugly is a big no-no in my opinion:
The slightly more fashionable version doesn’t quite float my boat either:
Underwear as outerwear. There’s a reason why it’s called underwear, people. If you’re smart enough to read, you should be smart enough to know better than to dress like this:
I know it’s not fair to condemn a trend simply because Taylor Momsen has embraced it somewhat exclusively, but these runway looks aren’t that much better, honestly:
This concludes today’s public service announcement. You’re welcome. Now, go put on some real pants.
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I don’t even know how to begin writing this post, so I’ll just jump right in:
This weekend was… very, very strange. And simultaneously awesome. It all started when the infamous SuperMorten (if you don’t know who that is you should probably read my blog more often) called me up last week and told me I had to get in on a thing the following weekend. The thing involved a free haircut, so naturally I jumped right in. I am a sucker for free stuff, after all.
What I didn’t know at the time was that the thing in question also involved me wearing a swimsuit while walking around on a catwalk at a club in town on Friday night, but what can you do. All right, all right, quit twisting my arm; I’ll show you a photo already!
Yes, those are balloons on my head.
The show also featured a set by Norwegian rap duo Erik og Kriss, who we got to jump around on stage with:
My Saturday was spent at a convention for hairdressers, where I got pampered, dressed up and possibly the best hair cut ever:
Do you like it? Me too!
I know you couldn’t possibly be interested in seeing the video of the aforementioned show, but here it is anyway:
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Today, my little boy is five years old. When did that happen? I certainly had no part in it. It’s such a cliche, but I swear he was born just yesterday. Super speedy growth aside, that guy makes me proud every day. His empathy and kindness is beyond anything I’ve ever taught him. He is fundamentally positive, excites easily, has excellent sense of humor and is smarter than me by far. Watching him grow up is an adventure.
Of course we had to do something special for the little guy’s birthday, but I wasn’t up for having 20 kids and the noise that inevitably follows inhabit my living room for an entire afternoon. Not to mention the massive clean-up afterward. So we did what any parents in their right minds would: we brought the kid and his entire kindergarten class, including the staff, to a nearby play center that does birthdays. The birthday boy and his friends enjoyed a fun few hours making noise and playing up a good sweat, and we avoided taking any kind of responsibility for them. Or the food. And let’s not forget cleaning up. In a word: ingenious.
The only fault in my brilliant plan was my lapse of judgment as I decided to make muffins for the party the night before. And decorate all 50 of them. Did I mention I don’t bake? Like, ever? It’s just one of the many traditionally housewifey activities I take no part in. Which is why my little self-improvement experiment caused me to miss my precious bedtime by several hours. They did look nice, though:
They were surprisingly tasty, too. I might do this again sometime, you know, if I happen to lose my mind.
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Despite my almost crippling aversion to physical activity I went to my gym this evening. I was not looking forward to spending an hour looking at sweaty people with bad fashion sense, but I actually found myself thinking more than once that I should do this again – soon. The reason for my sudden attitude change isn’t, as one might assume, that working out just feels so good or that I can’t wait to feel the ache tomorrow.
I think I may actually have fallen in love with my instructor. Firstly; she’s so very pretty. And cute. And of course, seriously fit. In fact, I can admit right here and now that I couldn’t stop staring at her ass for the first 15 minutes of the class. And the following 45. But she’s also incredibly energetic and inspiring, to the point where I actually feel OK with moving around, just because she told me to. She’ll jump around for no good reason, get in your face and scream at you – and for some reason I’ll do whatever she says. In fact, I can’t seem to say no to that woman. I may or may not have dry heaved in the bathroom for several minutes after the class.
There’s a good chance I’ll wake up tomorrow and curse the day she was born, but right now I think I may have found The One.
Photo: Googled.
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