Svanesång. Or how I keep moving.

Question of the month: what is the lifespan of a blog?

The blogosphere is getting more crowded by the minute and I've started to wonder, how long will all these blogs last, and why would they end? Are we going to be reading about so and so's thoughts on that guy or this place until she dies?

I'm not sure what the future of all the new and old blogs will be, if blogging is going to be something so '00s in 2020 or if it's here to stay, but in a fit of untrendiness, I'm going to quietly back out now.

Although I've been thinking a lot about what it means for everyone to have a blog, my leaving has nothing to do with bucking trends. Oh, the reasons to stop blogging! They are many. There's the fact that I can't write about work, which is what I spent the bulk of my week thinking about. Then there's the fact that when I get home at night, I don't want to sit at the computer. With only a few hours at home in the evening, every minute spent online feels neglectful of my much more precious off-line life. And for at least a little while, I need to stop mining that life, living it to write about it. Not everything needs to be written down and, contrary to popular behavior, things are in fact meaningful even if you keep them to yourself.

But these are side points, minor irritations that would be gotten over if there weren't a bigger reason to stop.

To go back to my initial question, a blog should end when its story is over. But the next question is: which ending do we pick? A marriage? A death? Or maybe a change of heart? The heroine returns home to her country, chastened by that silly stint abroad.

Well, it's ending with a job. Not because of the writing limitations the job causes, but for what the job means.

Look over to the right, according to my "About me", this blog is about "trying to build a life" in Sweden. It's two years and five months after my arrival. I have a second language; I own an apartment; I have real friends, a still solid relationship, and, finally, a job I like. The life is built and the story is over.

To say that I've built a life is not to imply that it's perfect. My job is over in July (although I'm hoping that will change), my Swedish still has plenty of kinks, and I wake up every other Sunday craving brunch in Brooklyn with my friends. Sweden will never fully cease to be foreign; but the passionate foreignness of life here--the frustration, delight, and novelty of it--isn't around anymore. I might never kick the occasional craving for pancakes with maple syrup, but I don't need to keep telling you about it.

My intention with starting this blog was not to talk about my daily minutia but to talk about my daily minutia in a foreign country. You've forgiven me when it turned out to be more often the former than the latter. But I couldn't forgive myself if Sweden stopped coming through at all and this site became only about tight jeans and earrings.

So I'm stopping before I've gone too far away from the original idea, some might say a few entries too late. But again, you'll forgive me a little reluctance, for not immediately abandoning an old friend just because she got boring.

Of course, my story isn't over. There will probably be the Swedish engagement. Citizenship. A wedding, maybe a Swedish pregnancy. And I want to keep writing, just not like this. I'm tired of the everyday-ness of the blog and want to try writing that's less frenzied, less based on frequency. Or so I say now. Of course, I reserve the right to blog again at some future date.

I will miss this site but I won't go on about it. There are enough things to be nostalgic about and no need to add a website to the list. This was originally a story for my friends and family and they don't need a blog to find me. For those lovely strangers who have come to read about my life, thank you. I know that not all the connections I've made will last once the blog is gone, but more importantly, I know that a few of them have already moved beyond our websites. That is the nicest surprise.

One last thing, some of you might have read me when I was still on Diary-x. Diary-x has since had a meltdown but, luckily, I had already transferred all but the first month and a half of my entries here. Even luckier, my mom, a genius, has every entry from my old journal printed. Some boring day, I will retype the entries of October and November 2003 so that this can be the full record of the first 2 and almost half years in Sweden.


For now,

Goodbye and hej då!

xo,
Amy(lou)

Hoop dreams, realized

It was a very good weekend. I spent Friday night alone. Erik was in Stockholm hanging out with Comet Gain and I was in the mood to do nothing. Since the girls that I most love to do nothing with live a few thousand miles away, I did my nothing solo. Although I would always rather Erik be in the room than not, I still get a silly thrill at the prospect of a weekend night alone. I rented movies that he would have little interest in, I made myself a cozy dinner of grilled cheese and Campbell's tomato soup, and I plopped onto the couch with a bowl of Bavarian pretzels and dip.

On Saturday I woke up early to run errands before rushing to watch Erik, in baggy gear that made him look fourteen, slip all over the ice in a game of very amateur hockey. After a short rest and a dinner on the fly, Erik and I got ready for our night out. And Saturday, with it's bands and dancing and socializing, became the more wonderful opposite to wonderful Friday.

But I'm giving you this litany only so that I can tell you one thing. Saturday night would have been memorable for its music and for reuniting Erik and I with friends from London, some of whom we hadn't seen in four years. Saturday wasn't just memorable, though, it was a milestone. For me it will forever be The Night I First Wore Hoops.

(Nothing says "milestone" and "shameless attempt to minimize blotchiness" like hitting a grayscale button.)

Yes friends, the baby earrings came out last week and, aside from one near fainting spell brought on by excessive digging to find the other end of my left-lobe hole, I am really enjoying my jazzed up ears. If my twelve-year-old self could see me now! (She'd probably demand I wear those heinous beaded things I treasured.)

And then comes the mortgage payment

While sitting on the train, when I’m not shouting at people in my head, or reading, or sleeping, I’m sometimes mulling over an important purchase. That is, the very first thing I will buy with my first paycheck.

The practical side of me thought it was high time I got a new wallet. My very dear wallet with a silk-screened bicycle has died many times over. I’ve patched it and re-Velcroed it and washed it to keep it alive just a wee bit longer but at this point, the hole in its side is so big that even bills fall out. “Buy a new wallet! Or maybe a date book!” said Practical Amy.

The homemaker side of me vied for something else entirely. “We need a small shelf for the bathroom!” Decorator Amy chimed. “A place to store the electric toothbrush and the tea tree oil face wash that we love so much!”

My belly was convinced, after a recent post of Molly’s, that, above all things, I needed a madeleine pan.

A wallet or a date book, a shelf, baking accessories. All nice, all satisfying to me in one way or another. Yet not quite it. It wasn’t until I took my inner voices to the mall that any progress was made. There, in Top Shop, the practical side of me fell, the vixen replaced the homemaker, and the belly was squeezed, not fed. In the dressing room, all voices were quiet except for one and it rose up in a chant of Shit! Hot! Tight! Black! Jeans!

You know how it goes. You wake up feeling ready for the day and you get dressed in what you think is a pretty cute outfit. The outfit holds up okay—until you slide on the perfect pair of shit-hot black jeans. Then you see that you have, in fact, looked frumpy for hours and the only thing you ever want to wear again are these pants. To work, to bed, on your wedding day.

So it was for me on Saturday, but I knew I shouldn’t buy them—not yet. With a sorrow that was not all that sweet, I put back the jeans. I whimpered just a bit as I left the store and then I pulled myself together, having come to a decision. Soon, black jeans, you will be mine. Before the bills are paid, before the food is bought, I will make an irresponsible detour to the mall. I will slap down a few bills and take you home in “I earned you!” triumph.

Dull Tuesday and really still very happy

I have scoured the remnants of the final final sales, and come away with a pair of pointy black boots (a half size too small) that go well with jeans and skirts, for everyday office wear. I have purchased new plastic containers for my lunches. I have gone to the library and stacked up on reading material and downloaded podcasts. But surrounding myself with employment accessories and the general good mood of the first week made me feel more like I was on a field trip to office land than actually working. That changed today.

I suppose you can't really consider yourself a worker until you've had your first bad day. Oh don't worry, it was nothing serious and my co-worker and I laughed through most of the frustrations. It's just that today was a Tuesday in all its bland Tuesday-ness. Full of things that weren't working, a boring lunch of cream cheese and olive sandwhiches (how retro of me), and a tiredness that came, not from the exhileration of new things, but from a regular old bad night's sleep.

The day ended well, though. After hours of procrastinating, I mustered the courage to talk to someone about getting work to me asap, except that I didn't actually say asap. It was more like, "Um, hi, I'm Amy. Just checking to see when that thing will be done. Oh so long? Because I can't really do anything without it but no worries! Thanks!" To reward myself, I had some tea and a mini twix and the last two hours went by in a rush of good feelings.

And then came the train, where I once again encountered what I'm sure will be the bane of my existence for however long I have this job: Mr. Monotone Talk the Whole Bloody Time. In every train car there is one Mr. or Mrs. Monotone Talk. They confuse and frustrate me to no end. Why are these people not embarrassed to be the only talker in an otherwise sleepy, silent carriage? Why, instead of having a conversation, do they insist on talking at their acquaintance? And why must their voices be so dull? It's as if they think that by refraining from animation, they are helping to maintain the calm of the train. For my part, if I am going to be subjected to an hour of one person's voice, I'd like it to have some variety--some excitability that matches the obvious passion for chatter. But we sleepy passengers are never so lucky.

Today's Mr. Monotone Talk had the nerve to say, when his poor friend's/victim's stop came, "Wow, already? That went fast!". Not for some of us, Talky. The girl across from me actually laughed aloud and I rolled my eyes. I think Mr. Monotone saw me and I spent the rest of the ride thinking about how, considering I still don't know everyone who works in my building, it's very possible that he and I work near each other. If so, there might soon be an awkward meeting in the communal kitchen. I really hope not; I find the communal kitchen with the unspoken rules and some hundred people's stinky microwaved lunches awkward enough as it is. I'm such a freshman.

On being employed

I thought I would miss Oprah. I thought I would mourn her.

During the last few months, she's been my one of my dearest companions. On many a quiet day, she was the only person besides Erik who spoke to me. On my least-inspired days, she gave me something to talk about at the dinner table. After a few months of Oprah references I began to get self-conscious, even with Erik. We'd sit over our plates, with glasses of wine, and after Erik finished telling me about his day I'd say, "Is it okay if I tell you about today's Oprah show?" Poor, patient Erik would then act as if he really cared while I told him about cases of identical twins where one twin was transgendered. "Fascinating implications, really," I'd say.

It's not that I watched TV all day when I was unemployed--I didn't. But Oprah gave me a way to structure my day. Get stuff done before 1:40pm and then sit down with a lunch of leftovers and give myself over to Oprah and her cozy wisdom. After the show, back to the job search or cleaning or whatever I was doing until Erik came home.

Oprah figured so much into my daily routine that I found myself planning things around her. "Oh, you want to meet for coffee? Sure! How about at 2:40? That way I can eat lunch at home." (And I won't miss even a minute of O!) Or, God forbid I went into town in the morning and found myself, at 1:30, still a half-hour from being done. What to do? Race home and forget about my errands or chastise myself for even considering such a thing and accept that it was, in fact, okay to miss Oprah? It was a tough call.

When I got my job, I knew I wouldn't miss the "free" days or the ability to stay in my pajamas until 2pm. But I did think I'd miss my Oprah. I thought I'd miss her because I thought she meant something. Of course, Oprah was just a crutch--a constant I'd endowed with meaning in an otherwise uncertain, scary time. And I don't miss her. It wasn't until Thursday that I even thought about my week of missed episodes and then it was only to marvel that "Wow, I couldn't care less."* In that moment, after the first few charged days, I realized that I was happy.

So to everyone who told me I'd miss my unemployed time, you were so very mistaken. I feel no longing, no nostalgia for those days. Right now I am just grateful that when I wake up at 5:40am, I have some place to get to. I have worked enough to know that this first wave of joyfulness and gratitude will fade and that the current spring in my step will in time be replaced by normal walking--even trudging. But I also know that every Friday night will be as satisfying as last night, when I laid my heavy head on my pillow and smiled giddily, knowing that I earned the rest.

*As it happens, my working couldn't have come at a better time. Oprah's new season had it's premier here during my last week of joblessness (we're months behind) and boy does it ever suck. Bon Jovi? Melissa Etheridge? Chris Rock? I don't want feel-good, totally unjuicy interviews with celebrities--give me hermaphrodite quintuplets who are addicted to plastic surgery! And this James Frey business? How disappointing in every respect (bad book from what I've heard; naive first response from Oprah; evil second response from Oprah; and a complete waste of an opportunity to talk about some interesting issues--like why we're obsessed with memoirs and realism.) Shame, Oprah that our relationship had to end on such a sour note.

the day between

Yesterday was a social day. Tomorrow is a work day. So what is today? Today is a Jane Austen day. It's not a Dickens day. Dickens days are cozy and filled with hot-chocolate (or warm sherry). It's not a magazine or a newspaper day. It's not a day for new authors. And, unfortunately, it just isn't the day that I'm going to finally get into Den Amerikanska Flickan.

Today is the day after and the day before. The day after a blogger's slumber party at Liz's, when I'm feeling overstimulated. The day before my job starts, when I'm feeling nervous. My head is so filled with yesterday and today that I don't know where I am. And that is the perfect place for Jane Austen. Jane Austen novels soothe me. Because it's hard to feel lost when you're surrounded by something you love, they ground me too.

I went to my bookshelf and was shocked to see that I hadn't actually brought my Austen novels to Sweden. How can this be? So before I could settle in to my reading chair, Erik drove me to the library in search of Persuasion. Of course, Persuasion was missing so I checked out Mansfield Park. Of course, I had to eat lunch, and then hem a pair of pants for work. Of course, I also had to stop in here and tell you about my plans with Austen instead of just getting to them. I have two hours before I should start cooking dinner. I'd better get to that book, which has turned out to be a parenthesis in my day instead of the main idea.

Now: Mansfield Park, a cup of tea, and an oatmeal cookie.
Tomorrow: overwhelmed.

Things unfinished

For the past few days I've had some unfinished business hanging over my head. I don't start working until next week, so it's not professional stress. No, this unfinished business is firmly planted in the housewife realm.

It's a head of cabbage and two Sudoku puzzles.

Last week I had a craving for vegetable pot stickers and, since the Chinese restaurants around here are resoundingly un-vegetarian, I did the only thing a transplanted veggie dumpling lover could do. I decided to make my own. Enter, the head of cabbage.

Having never cooked with cabbage before, I had no idea how much one head yields. So when Erik asked if he should pick up a whole head of white cabbage (because you can also buy halves), I said, "Yeah, sure, I'll use the rest to make something else." I had no idea how many "something elses" I'd be making to whittle down that light green bowling ball in my fridge.

The night after the dumplings I make a Tunisian cabbage, tomato, and chick pea stew. Then there was bubble and squeak, an English dish of potatoes and cabbage. And then, getting tired of this, I threw large amounts of shredded cabbage into the minestrone soup I made last night. Still, the cabbage that would not end sits happily unwilted in the refrigerator. At this point, a week after the initial pot stickers, and eight cabbage-based meals (including lunches) later, I'm ready to accept that the cabbage has won. There are a many great cabbage recipes left to try, but I just don't care anymore. I'm totally cabbaged out, tired of the flavor, tired of the consistency, but mostly, just tired of thinking about it.

Oh, cabbage. It never feels good to give up before seeing something to the end, but I'm learning to live with it. For example, I'm getting a little better at not finishing books. After two attempts at reading Master and Commander, I'm officially retiring it from my list of things to read. Yes, sometimes you just have to move on and ignore that little devil that says, "just one more try." Especially when the devil is speaking Japanese.

I was late to the trend of Sudoku. I tried it once a few months back but I made the mistake of approaching the puzzle through trial and error--a cardinal sin of Sudoku. It wasn't until Sunday that I picked up my second puzzle. Now that I knew about the whole "you should never have to guess" thing, I thought I would be unstoppable. Erik and I each took a puzzle labeled "hard" to a cafe and tried to solve them over tofu sandwiches and nyponsoppa. Erik gave up after lunch, declaring that there were tricks he didn't know and therefore couldn't solve it. But I devoted the rest of the day and evening to solving my puzzle (minus two hours on the phone with my mom). When Erik left for soccer practice I didn't even look up from my little Sudoku world. To look up is to lose the pattern! Instead I managed a weak, "Have fun!" with my head down. Then, like the Sudoku-robot I had become I said again, "Have fun!" just wanting him to get out the door so that I could concentrate, dammit.

There was a breakthrough at some point--a big one. But then, that dreaded realization that I had messed up somewhere. The mistake was too far gone--I couldn't find the root and everything was in ink (I had cockily abandoned the pencil at the time of the "break through"). In Sudoku survival mode, I hardly flinched. I took out a ruler and drew the board on a piece of paper, starting over from scratch.

And I sat over it for hours. And hours. Until it was time to eat the leftover bubble and squeak. After dinner I looked up techniques online but could hardly decipher them. I took the puzzle to the couch while Erik and I watched The Hound of the Baskervilles, but it was no use. The puzzle would not be solved.

Eventually I went to sleep and was tortured by Sudoku dreams. When I woke up, I knew my relationship with the puzzle I had been working on was over--I wasn't ready for it. Instead I went through the recycling, pulling out old newspapers like a true addict, and set up a stack of "easy" and "medium" puzzles to solve throughout yesterday. I went through five before a curious modern ailment set in: Sudoku neck.

When Erik came home from work, I actually wanted to look up at him but when I did, I discovered that my neck had practically frozen in Sodoku-solving position. Not good. I was in the middle of an easy puzzle but even I could recognize it was time to stop.

For the third time this week, I left something midway through, and feel better for it. The cabbage is still in the fridge and the two half-done puzzles are on the coffee table, all tempting me to give it another go. I will try to resist.