Gun control - NOW!

About time to get serious about US gun control, not? I mean SERIOUS!
All we can hope is that this terrible tragedy in Newtown 3 weeks before Christmas can result in the gift of cooler heads than the National Rifle Association's taking over.

And while you're at it, Barack my hero, how about a carbon tax to show that Americans are actually aware that we're part of the problem facing the environment & grownup enough to take some responsibility? Won't be easy, but it's about time!

Israel & Palestine

Doesn't it bother Israelis that they are treating the Palestinians exactly the same way they were treated when they roared for their own turf!?

I'm sure it bothers a few people, unfortunately not the ones in power.

I was understanding for a long time - national paranoia & all that. I discovered how long gone that feeling is when I almost put back a perfectly good avocado yesterday because it was from Israel.

THANKS again to the UN for recognizing Palestinian statehood!

Israel - you are now as big a tyrant as all those you claimed were persecuting you. That probably makes you proud.






Generer det mon israelerne, at de nu behandler palæstinenserne lige så slemt som de selv blev behandlet da de brølede op om eget turf?!

Det generer formentlig nogen, men ikke nogen med magt.

Jeg var forstående i lang tid - national paranoia og alt det der. Igår opdagede jeg hvor lang væk den følelse er da jeg var ved at lægge en udmærket avocado på plads igen fordi den var fra Israel.

TAK igen til FN, der anerkender staten Palæstina!

Israel - du er nu lige så stor en tyran som alle dem du hævdede forfulgte dig. Det gør dig sikkert stolt.

SHOP SECOND HAND

I always shop at thrift shops, for almost everything except food, particularly clothes & kitchen stuff. With clothes it’s not only price, but also snobbism. I don’t want to wear what’s hot at the moment & see myself coming & going, especially not now. I mean, the thirty-somethings sporting the same rag are just bound to look a lot better in it than I do, not? I buy a lot of fabric at thrift shops too & sew my own. I have unique getups because of that & they cost almost nothing. Think of all the women who spend thousands & thousands to achieve a unique look. Hee hee. The scrappy old bat’s way ahead of them. Not that anybody notices –beyond my colleagues – but it’s a kick anyway, just to know. I like to sew, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t bother. It gets my head out of the computer. We’ve all got something. Sewing’s mine, as well as making figures, cards, CD & video covers out of cut paper. I save glitzy ads & magazine covers & clip & glue while I watch TV or haven’t got concentration for anything else in the evening. People go all gooey over the cards – much prefer them to the pricey mass produced, so there’s a moral there.

Reuse & recycling are absolutely necessary now. I live in a place where I can walk or bike almost everywhere, so when I’m pawing through a row of dresses in a thrift shop, the rack is illuminated by the gentle glow of my halo. Few people have that possibility, I’m well aware, & somebody else has to buy new stuff & give it away before I can buy it second hand. Even so.

Every time I hear the ‘growth’ mantra & how we have to create a million jobs for the unemployed masses, I want to stab somebody with my sewing scissors or clobber them over the head with my second hand frying pan. I wish we could all work fewer hours & share the jobs, lower our living standards & stop buying the latest unnecessary gadget or designer whatever. My generation probably could & some simple living disciples or many many people who don’t have much money to spend, but the young trendies who feel their job is their identity & the newest gadget their group acceptance insurance would put up a fight. It’s going to be necessary soon anyway, ready or not. I hope I’ll be ready. Hope I won’t just find out how much I shopped without even realizing it. Or if I do, hope I will be able to scale back for the good of the planet. Yes, it’s a cliché by now, but it’s the only one we’ve got.

SHOP I GENBRUG

Jeg køber næsten alt I genbrugs butikker, især tøj og køkkengrej. Angående tøj er det ikke kun prisen, det er også snobbisme. Jeg gider ikke have det sidste skrig og se mig selv alle vegne, især ikke nu.  Tit køber jeg stof og syr helt unikke ting for næsten ingen penge. Tænk på alle de kvinder, der bruger tusindvis af kroner for at opnå et unikt look og så er Scrappy Old Bat langt foran. Hihi. Ikke at nogen lægger mærke til det – udover mine kolleger – men det er et kick blot at tænke på. Jeg syr fordi jeg kan lide det, selvfølgelig. Ellers gad jeg ikke. Det får mit hoved ud af computeren. Vi har alle et eller andet. Jeg klipper og klistrer også – figurer, kort, omslag. Gemmer glittede reklamer og forsider fra blade at lege med. Folk bliver helt glade for kortene – kan meget bedre lide dem end de dyrekøbte, så der er en moral dér.

Genbrug er absolut nødvendig nu. Jeg bor et sted hvor jeg kan gå eller cykle til næsten alt, så når jeg gennemgramser en række kjoler i genbrug, bliver de belyst af den sagte glød fra min glorie. Ikke alle har den mulighed, er jeg godt klar over, og en anden skal købe nyt og give det væk så jeg kan købe det brugt. Alligevel.

Hver gang jeg hører ’vækst’ mantraet og om, at vi skal skabe en million jobs til de arbejdsløse masser, får jeg lyst til at dolke nogen med min sysaks eller slå dem i hovedet med min stegepande fra genbrug. Jeg ønsker vi alle kunne arbejde mindre og dele jobbene, sætte vores levestandard ned og holde op med at købe den sidste unødvendig dingenot eller designer dippedut. Min generation kunne nok gøre det, samt nogle simple living discipler og en masse mennesker, der bare ikke har mange penge, men de unge trendies, der føler at jobbet er deres identitet og det sidste nye deres gruppe forsikring vil stå imod.

Snart bliver det nødvendig – klar eller ej. Jeg håber jeg vil være klar, håber ikke jeg opdager hvor meget jeg shoppede uden at tænke over det – og i så fald håber jeg kan skære ned for planetens skyld. Ja, det er en kliché nu, men den er den eneste vi har.

Hurrah!

YAAAY!!!

Congratulations America! The best man won & my kids & I got to vote for him.
Time for Mitt & Co. to come to heel like good underdogs & help a winner get on with it!
4 more years - hurrah!

Election Day in America & I'm very nervous. Can't believe my fellow Americans would elect a heartless charlatan, but who knows? The very people Romney has no sympathy for - the bottom 25% of the 99% - seem to think he's their man. Terrifying.
Danish morning TV was all about the election too. The man-on-the-street interviewer looked all over Copenhagen to find a Dane who preferred Romney, but in vain.
I wish Danes could vote.



Valgdag i USA og jeg er meget nervøs. Kan ikke tro mine landsmænd ville vælge en hjerteløs charlatan, men hvem ved? Netop de mennesker Romney er mest ligeglad med - de nederste 25% af de 99% - synes at mene, han er deres mand. Rystende.
Dansk morgen TV handlede kun om valget. Manden-på-gaden intervieweren søgte med lys og lygte efter bare én, der ville indrømme at han/hun foretrak Romney. Forgæves.
Bare danskerne kunne stemme.

American elections on Tuesday.
If you can vote - VOTE for BARACK!!!
If not, send him good vibes & all the luck you can muster.

I seriously fear those treacherous Republicans might pull it off, with disastrous results for the whole world.
Mitt the Mental Midget has so far offended every single country & leader he has come into contact with during this campaign. Imagine the damage he could do as president. AArrrgh!

GO BARACK! My kids & I already voted, so there's 5 for Arizona.
Fingers crossed & then some!

The eastern & western view

I have a good Slovakian friend, Daniela. We have very different ways of seeing things. “Things” in this case being what’s considered good & bad behavior. Daniela likes “naughty” people best. That’s the word she uses, often applied to men. What she calls naughty I would usually consider plain egotistical. Throw in greedy if it’s someone bending rules for his gain – but there I guess Daniela would also draw the line. She has a doctor friend who took advantage of his status, to say the least, & griped when that got harder under democratic governments (more or less democratic in our eyes, but more than before). They quarreled & are not such good buds anymore.

Then there’s the movies. Often enough in western films, the individual who takes on the system triumphs in the end, but NEVER in Eastern European films. He/she is always crushed. More realistic than ours mainly, but western individuals win just often enough to keep feeding the film makers. I suppose that explains Daniela’s tendency to see films with tragic social themes & Danish film makers are good at churning those out. I just think they’re dreary & generally feel only a little sympathy with the suffering main character – just wishing he/she would get it together & quit blaming everybody else.

Under 40 years of commie repression, any little act of defiance was also a little light in the darkness. Hence Daniela’s preference for naughty people. She once told me they had a proverb in Slovakia: “If you don’t  steal from the government, you steal from your family.” So there it is – not selfish, rather your civic duty in the face of un-civil tyranny. A sign of strength even. To me – member of a privileged society – it’s a huge sign of weakness & lacking integrity. Causes some heated discussions. Also makes it very interesting to be friends. A privilege.

De østlige og vestlige synspunkter

Jeg har en god slovakisk veninde, Daniela. Vi ser ting meget forskelligt. ”Ting” i dette tilfælde betyder hvad der anses for god og dårlig opførsel. Daniela kan lide “uartige” mennesker. Uartig er ordet, hun bruger. Jeg ville sige slet og ret egoistiske. ...

Så er der biografen. Tit, i vestlige film, individet, der udfordrer systemet, sejrer. ALDRIG i østeuropæiske film. Han/hun bliver altid knust. Nok mere realistisk, men vestlige individer vinder nøjagtig tit nok til at fodre filmskaberne. Det forklarer måske Danielas hang til sociale tragedier såsom sidste års Submarino. Danske filmskabere er god til at forsyne markedet. Jeg synes bare de er trælse og har begrænset sympati med de lidende hovedpersoner – ønsker vedkommende ville tage sig sammen og holde op med at beskylde alle andre.

Under 40 års kommunistiske undertrykkelse var enhver lille oprør også et lille lys i mørket. Derfor foretrækker Daniela uartige mennesker. Hun fortalte mig en gang, at der var et slovakisk ordsprog der lød, “Hvis du ikke stjæler fra regeringen, stjæler du fra din familie.”  Så der var den – ikke selvisk, men egentlig ens borgerpligt i et borgerfjendtligt samfund. Tegn på styrke, såmænd. For mig – borger i et priviligeret samfund – er det tegn på svaghed og manglende troværdighed. Forårsager nogle heftige diskussioner. Også gør det interessant at være venner. Et privilegium.

Serious regret - continued from yesterday

Serious regret is having night thoughts you can’t escape by playing the radio because you’ve let your kids down time & again, often in the throes of love with some dude who proved unworthy. That's what basically killed my mother-in-law, tragically.

Serious regret is also realizing that what you did most was criticize your kids for everything they did that veered from the path you had set.

Alternatively – if you took never-going-to-make-the –same-mistakes-Mom-with-me to the extreme & invented a whole bunch of new ones. But at least that shows originality.

Serious regret can also be blaming Mom & Dad for everything that went wrong & not owning up to what you did until too late. That one’s a real bitch.

Serious regret about self sabotage & all the things you didn’t dare is bad too, because the regret burns a lot of energy – as big a waste as putting toothpaste tubes in a box with plastic around it or wrapping individual throat lozenges in wax paper. (Thought I’d throw in a little ecology there.)

So – can you just get on with it by thinking positive or using cognitive therapy? Is serious regret only for wusses? I’m still working that one out.

And what about acceptng the decline of the body? Not a regret, but a sorrow, or, if you are Mark Twain, a wanton insult. If you see it that way it's going to be tough aging.
Good grief, I'm sounding sanctimonious. Yucchh! Too bad I can't write like Mark Twain.

Decline of the body & serious regret - only one thing to do: fight it all the way, but try to be zen when it's time to surrender.

How to Forgive when you can’t Forget

At a terrific short course in cognitive therapy & social angst yesterday. Cognitive therapy is brilliant, think I, & deceptively simple. Especially that not-so-simple question: What’s the worst that can happen? Usually not as bad as we crack it up to be, is it? But sometimes it is & you have to take that seriously. I will use cognitive therapy on myself – works fine with meditation too. BUT it brought up an old memory I would SO like to forget, about once when I sabotaged what may – or may not – have been a big chance for my youngest. Of course I did it with the best intentions, but that does not make me feel any better afterwards. If he can even remember, I know he’s forgiven me as I would forgive any of my best beloveds. Forgiving myself is the bitch.

Who does what out there?

The cognitive therapy/meditative method works best here – just a conversation with myself remembering my motives, however idiotic they seem now. That “it seemed like a good idea at the time” thing can’t be beat. Neither can it entirely erase the regret.

When I was young, I was never going to end up feeling I’d missed out, like Mom. No no no, dissatisfaction was never going to strike me. That’s what we all thought. The Buddhist maxim that he who expects nothing will never be disappointed is true, but it’s too passive for me, entirely too passive. I will always require after-the-fact cognitive therapy.

When people die unsatisfied, it’s what they didn’t do, didn’t dare, didn’t take the time for that embitters their end, not (usually) the active disasters. None of us wants to end like that, especially my/our Do your own thing & Love means never having to say you’re sorry & similar blather generation. But dissatisfaction is one thing. Serious regret is quite another.

To be continued tomorrow  ….

Hvordan tilgiver når man ikke kan glemme?

Med på et godt fyraftensmøde om kognitiv terapi & social angst i går. Kognitiv terapi er genial, synes jeg, samt enkel – tilsyneladende. Særlig den ikke-så-enkel spørgsmål: Hvad er det værste, der kan ske? For det meste ikke så slemt som vi gør det til, vel? Men nogle gange er det & man er nødt til at tage det alvorligt. Jeg bruger kognitiv terapi på mig selv – virker fint med meditation også. MEN den fiskede op en gammel minde jeg vil SÅ gerne glemme, om den gang jeg saboterede – måske – en stor chance for min yngste. Selvfølgelig med de bedste intentioner, men derfor har jeg det ikke bedre bagefter. Hvis han overhovedet kan huske, har han tilgivet mig som jeg tilgiver alle mine kære. At tilgive mig selv er det svære.

Hvem gør hvad derude?

Kognitiv terapi/meditativ metoden virker bedst her. Blot en samtale med mig selv hvor jeg husker mine motiver, om de nu lyder noget så åndsvage. Det med ”det virkede som en god ide på det tidspunkt” kan ikke sloges. Og heller ikke slette fortrydelsen.

Da jeg var ung, ville jeg aldrig føle, at jeg gik glip af noget, som Mom. Nej nej, utilfredshed ville altid ramme mig. Det troede vi allesammen. Den buddhistiske tanke om, at den der ikke forventer noget bliver aldrig skuffet er sand, men for passiv til mig, alt for passiv. Jeg vil altid have brug for kognitiv terapi bagefter.

Når mennesker dør utilfreds, er det alt det, de ikke lavede, ikke turde, ikke gav sig tid til der forgiver deres endeligt, ikke (for det meste) de aktive katastrofer. Ingen ville ende sådan, især ikke min/vores MIG-universets centrum generation. Men utilfredshed er én ting. Alvorlig fortrydelse er en ganske anden.

Fortsættes i morgen ….

The Curse

The Curse

    Sister Mary Louise’s dusty voice was even more hushed than usual, almost sepulchral. The assembled gaggle of girls leaned forward to hear what the Dean of Women had on her mind this time.

“… and we have heard some of you talking openly and disrespectfully in the rest rooms and even the halls, where the boys might hear. We have heard you calling it the Curse. But there is a more beautiful way to think of your monthly period. You could see it as your womb weeping because it will not become a mother this month.”

     This from an ancient nun whose womb must have blubbered unheard until it gave up around 1950, to a group of high school juniors marinating in hormones. It was too silly, especially because my womb was taking it particularly hard at that very moment. I leaned over to Mary Beth and whispered, “Then mine’s practically hysterical.”

   Giggling spread over several rows. Sister Mary Louise never did find out who said what, but you could tell by her martyred look that she just knew it was disrespectful. In her private moments she probably called us the curse. We called her Sister Mary Elephant – as in: ancient, gray and never forgets a face she’s had in for one of those little private conferences many of us had experienced. The teachers tended to develop crushes on the boys in their charge and girls who hung out too obviously with these chosen ones were reported and called in for interrogation by the dean. My current boyfriend was president of the glee club and worked closely with Sister St. Jude, who led it. I couldn’t even sing. No wonder she was miffed and turned me in. But in those innocent days kissing and holding hands was as far as it went, no matter what our teachers imagined. Okay, a few girls every year made their wombs stop weeping, but most of us had no intention of becoming mothers. This was Catholic high school in the 60s, after all, and we figured we would be headed straight for the bad place if we checked out those interesting bulges in the guys’ trousers too carefully. The curse was just one topic of conversation, like clothes and braces and insurmountable algebra. Most of us had “cursed dresses” for days 1 and 2. Mine was a cotton shirtdress in uterine colors, swirls of purple, burgundy and charcoal so a bleedthrough was almost invisible.

    Already then my mother warned me that I would have the curse at most of the most important moments of my life. My, but that woman knew the score. One thing though, I’ve never had the curse on my wedding night and that is good going, because I’ve had three. Nothing else has been spared, but in one case that turned out to be a good thing. When I worked for a Europe House – an international education center in Denmark – I traveled a lot with groups of students. On 95% of those jaunts I had the curse, but that meant it was just over when I got home to my husband, all revved up for a welcome tumble.

    My favorite cartoon shows a horrible hag – wart on the nose, frazzled hair, broom leaning against the wall – complaining into the telephone, “I can’t tonight, Walter, I’ve got the curse.” Is there a woman on earth who couldn’t identify? I know I speak for 95% of womanhood when I say I could never imagine missing that monthly irritation, but I know of women whose cycles were wildly out of whack, who seldom or never got the curse and missed it. Missed the cleansing, they said. I suspect they missed the feeling of womanliness, the clear red proof of who was meant for motherhood, whether they chose to use it or not. That must be awful. Some menopausal women feel the same, but I suppose they are the ones who fear aging, maybe feel they haven’t accomplished enough in their lives or regretted not having children. I can’t say for sure because I consider menopause the one positive reward of growing older. Okay, it's one more door to a side of life that closes forever. Even so ….

     In the throes of menopause my brain seemed connected to the rest – mainly speech organs and manual dexterity – only periodically, like a server you switch on and off. Only with a server you know, with the brain you get no warning of the sudden vacations from logical thought, problem solving and the ability to lift a spoon or a garbage bag without dropping it on your foot. Most menopausal women have jobs these days, making this part more annoying than the hot flashes and thickening waists. When I moaned about this to women who were even older, they answered as one: Relax, it gets much worse. But my mother-in-law gave me a ray of hope. She assured me there would be a period – lasting weeks, perhaps – in which I could stuff my brains back in through my ears and be rational again before senility set in. And she’s right! Learning new stuff takes longer, but it can be done. I can also tease my brain to remember the whole song or poem when a snatch comes back for no reason. I really work at that. Okay, sometimes I have to admit defeat and Google the line in the third verse that will not resurface, but I have to remember the title to do that, right? It feels like it helps, anyway.

    New research says exercise makes us smarter and keeps us that way – also beyond menopause – so we have to do that too. I like to walk and bike and dance and swim. I take the stairs instead of the elevator – within reason – and dig my garden, but the best cardio is still sex. Use it or lose it, they say, and the best thing about being past menopause is no more plus or minus days, use them or not. For this I will gladly keep the olive oil on hand to grease the gates of paradise should it ever become necessary. Anyway, olive oil never made anybody feel as bloated as a blowfish unless she slugged down a mug full, in contrast to the curse. It is ironic that now we have no kids living at home to dampen the fires of passion with their accidental attention and no minus days, I’m usually perfectly satisfied to celebrate anniversaries and birthdays with a nice dinner, especially one I didn’t cook. The romantic aftermath is very sweet, but it can wait a bit. Back in the 60s Alan Sherman sang: I’m in the mood for love, you’re in the mood for herring. When I’m in the mood for herring, you’re in the mood for love. Now I’m the one who’s in the 60s and there is a certain resonance. You have to have 25+ years together to say – even as your breath quickens – Can I just finish my tea? After 40 years with the curse we all deserve a good cuddle, good friends, good books, a good man or our independence. Ten times better alone than dragging to the end with Mr. Wrong. Old Girl Power is not a curse!

Kort dansk summering af anden halvdel:

Den engelske del startede med en lille historie fra high school, men pointen er, at jeg ser overgangsalderen – menopause – som den ene sande gave skænket af alderdom. Jeg kan ikke forestille mig, at nogen kunne savne den månedlige irritation, men ja, det betyder at døren lukkes ved endnu en side af livet, der aldrig kommer igen.

   I overgangsalderen virkede min hjerne kun delvis forbundet med resten – såsom sprogcentret og koordination – som en server man tænder og slukker. Men med en server ved man hvornår den slukker, med hjernen får man ikke varslet de korte ferier fra logiske tankegang, problemløsning eller evnen til at løfte en ske eller skraldepose uden at tabe den på foden. De fleste kvinder i overgangsalderen i dag har arbejde og det gør denne del mere irriterende end hedeture og forsvindende taljer.  

   Når jeg klagede til ældre kvinder, lød svaret ens: Bare rolig, det bliver værre endnu. Men min svigermor gav mig håb da hun fortalte, at der ville komme en tid – varende måske flere uger – hvor jeg kunne proppe hjernen ind gennem ørerne igen før demens satte ind. Og det er rigtigt! Det tager længere tid at lære noget nyt, men det kan lade sig gøre. Jeg pirker til min hjerne indtil jeg kan huske hele sangen eller digtet fra langt tilbage, når en lille flig popper op. Nogle gange skal jeg til Google for at finde vendingen i tredje vers, men jeg skal huske titlen for at gøre det – ikke? Det virker som om det hjælper.

    Forskning siger også, at motion gør klogt og så skal vi alle motionere. Jeg kan lide at svømme og gå og danse og cykle, men den bedste cardio er stadig sex. Dog kan den vente lidt længere end før. Man skal have 25+ år sammen for at sige – alt imens åndedrættet bliver hurtigere – Må jeg lige drikke min te færdig?

     Efter 40 år med plus og minus dage, vi fortjener alle en god krammer, gode venner, gode bøger, en god mand eller vores uafhængighed. Ti gange hellere alene end sammen med Mr. Wrong til vores dages ende. Old Girl Power styrer!

Fifty shades of throwback

Just read a terrific review of the new printed sensation – I’m sure not going to call it ‘literary sensation’ – in my Danish newspaper, Weekendavisen. It’s written by Leonora Christina Skov & is entitled Fifty Shades of Fucked Up. Dang – that’s exactly what I would have called this blog. Leonora has actually read the thing, which I have not, so I believe her report. She’s one of my favorite reviewers.

By now it’s clear I’m referring to Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James, who claims she’s just writing her midlife crisis fantasies & had originally imagined them going on – & on & on – between Edward Cullen & Bella Swan. Discerning fans of this Twilit couple asked her to knock it off; she was grossing them out. Perhaps, speculates Leonora Christina Skov, that’s why Mr. Grey seems 527 years old rather than the 27 he’s said to be. And then she adds, “I would prefer not to believe that women everywhere dream about being a little inexperienced girl, who is dominated in every area of her life by Father with a Strap.” (my translation)

I’m all for sexual fantasies & good sex scenes too. Yum! They’re even more fun to write than read. Way back in 1991 I wrote a short story about a girl who is almost done by a horny panther before its trainer takes over. The trainer set up the encounter, goaded by the green-eyed monster jealousy, but both he & she realize their feelings for each other at the crucial moment & he is a good guy as well as a good lay. It seems so tame now, but I had to choose between my favorite women’s magazine, ALT for damerne & the soft porn rag Cupido. Both wanted my little fantasy, but I chose the women’s magazine because that version seemed more true to my main character. In both versions this nice guy finishes first. I chose him too – anyway the man he’s modeled after. He’s even better now & I am privileged.

I would seriously hate men to get the idea that spanking & domination are what women really want. I mean, they have enough dumb ideas already, thanks to the conflicting signals we’re so good at sending & so bad at thinking through. The 2 things that make me least proud of my sex are related: 1. the way any man who smells of power, no matter how corrupt, repulsive, primitive or just plain fat can command a whole gaggle of girls queuing up to drop their knickers for him & 2. the seemingly irresistible charm of Bad Boys. I have an English friend who’s an ex-bad boy. He says he & his youthful bad company scored often with upper class girls wanting an adventure before they married their banker fiancé. (Of course, bankers are often more ruthless than motorcycle bullies, but that’s another story.) I had mine in my 20s – sexy second-generation Italian who actually read good books. Whew – got that out of my system. It’s the otherwise sensible women who insist on marrying a bad boy & lame-ducking him for 20 years before they figure it out that I don’t get.

Remember “Chandler” complaining in an early episode of Friends: “When she says, Chandler, you’re such a nice guy, that means ‘I’m going to date a creep on a motorcycle & complain about him to you.’.” Right on. Too bad. Yes, the domestic male ideal from the 70s is just as useless as today’s tough dude, but dang, sisters! Are we ever going to make it past our lust for Mr. Hyde? Do we love hassles & humiliation that much, even though we can earn our own money & are often smarter than those tough dudes by a hefty margin? We talk a lot about equality. When will we let it into the bedroom? As a last note, I will repeat the question asked by a Danish standup comic whose name escapes me: “When did you ever hear a man say, She’s too sweet; I need a half-psychopathic bitch to give me some resistance?” Exactly.

Fifty shades of damned throwback! Grow up & try some mutual lust with a brain behind it, can’t we? Leonora Christina Skov is worth reading – not E.L. James.

Kort dansk opsummering: Har lige læst en rammende anmeldelse af den nye trykte sensation – jeg nægter at kalde den ‘litterære sensation’ – i Weekendavisen. Den er skrevet af Leonora Christina Skov og hedder Fifty Shades of Fucked Up. Pokkers! Den ville ellers være titlen på denne blog! Leonora har ren faktisk læst tingesten, hvilket jeg ikke har, så jeg tror på hendes rapport. Hun er en af mine yndlings anmeldere.

Nu ved alle at jeg refererer til Fifty Shades – Fanget af E.L. James, som hævder at hun blot skriver sin midtlivs krise fantasier og mente at de skulle foregå mellem Edward Cullen og Bella Swan, men fans af denne Twilight par bad hende holde op; de var – i et ord – bvadr. Det får Leonora Christina Skov til at spekulere om, det er derfor Mr. Grey ligner mere en 527-årig end de 27 år han i virkeligheden er. Så tilføjer hun: ”Jeg vil helst ikke tro, at det, alverdens kvinder drømmer om, er at være en lille uerfaren pige, der i alle livets forhold bliver domineret af Far Med Spanskrøret.”

Jeg har det fint med seksuelle fantasier samt med gode sex scener. Mums! De er endnu sjovere at skrive end at læse. Tilbage i 1991 skrev jeg en novelle om en pige, der er lige ved at blive ordnet af en brunstig panter, før dens træner tager over. Træneren er en flink fyr såvel som en god knald og jeg ville have, at den gode fyr skulle vinde, for en gangs skyld. Det virker så tam nu, men den gang ville både ALT for damerne og Cupido trykke min lille fantasi – jeg valgte ALT for damerne. Også manden, der står model til panter-træneren. Jeg er privilegeret – indrømmet.

Jeg ville virkelig hade det hvis mænd begynder at tro, at spanking og domination er det, kvinder virkelig ønsker. Jeg mener, de har allerede tilstrækkelig mange dumme ideer, takket være de modsatrettede signaler vi er så gode til at sende ud og så dårlige til at tænke igennem. De 2 ting der gør mig mindst stolt af mit køn er beslægtet: 1. at enhver mand, der lugter af magt – lige meget hvor korrupt, frastødende, primitiv eller bare fed – har en hel gåseflok af piger klare til at smide trusserne og 2. Bad Boys’ tilsyneladende uimodståelige charme. Som eventyr hen af vejen – ja. Har været der selv. Det er de ellers velfungerende kvinder, der absolut skal gifte sig og slæbe ham med i 20 år før de regner den ud, som jeg ikke grejer. Den bløde mand i 70erne var en lige så stor misforståelse som nutidens seje dude, men hvornår tager vi ligestilling alvorligt, også i sengen? Vi snakker jo om den hele tiden. Som en standup komiker, hvis navn jeg desværre har glemt, udtrykte det: ”Hvornår har du nogensinde hørt en mand sige, Hun er for sød. Jeg skal have en halvpsykopatisk bitch, der kan give mig modstand.?” Netop.

Fifty shades af forbandet falliterklæring! Skip Mr. Grey, voks op og prøv noget gensidig lyst med en hjerne bag, kan vi ikke? Leonora Christina Skov er værd at læse, ikke E.L. James.

Covering up the cracks

Hey style police -
Maybe a designer out there could whip up some trousers that do not allow fat men's cracks to leap out at the unsuspecting viewer when they bend over - seeming to return your startled look. Sometimes they just droop to either side. Must be tiring. The upchuck reactions of many many women would be spared by the added trouser top. But maybe only women would buy them for their men, who wouldn't even notice otherwise. Then all the single crack flashers would remain untouched. Would there be any way to market crack-camoflage trousers that makes them look macho? Or would that be akin to convincing men it's macho to put down the toilet seat?
Would brutal honesty work? Like showing a couple of cute girls being sick as they step out of their house & find the gardener down on all fours with 6 inches of rear cleavage rending the air? What about humor? I once saw a sketch show in the US that "advertised" Crack Spackle in all skin colors. It was pretty funny, but does not seem to have caught on. Okay, I live in Denmark - where it definitely hasn't caught on - but on visits home I can compare ... uh ... notes.
Not trying to be mean to fat guys here - really the opposite. A salesmen came to our house once & gave us a lengthy demonstration of a new vacuum cleaner/hoover. He refused to cut to the chase, tell us price & so forth, but we might have considered it, had he not bent over to rig the thing up. His crack popped up & said ... no it didn't, but it was as aggressive as swearing out loud for no reason. The element of surprise has its limits in one's very own living room.
Designers - pleeeeease. It could be the challenge of your career. Maybe grateful babes would hang all over you. Maybe you would be rewarded for beautifying the environment. Maybe you would even prevent pneumonia caused by icy tail winds - then the chubs would realize they needed your design & sales would go through the roof. It's worth considering, not?

While we're at it: is there some way to get very overweight women to wear a long shirt or dress over their leggings? I know leggings don't squeeze anywhere & that's why they're so popular. I also agree that we should accept ourselves as we are, not least as we age & our bikini figures not only go south, but east & west, rolling all the way. But the mirror has been invented & a little vanity is healthy, keeping us from letting it all hang out, both literally & mentally. Keeping us awake.

It's all about balance - only that goes too. Dang!

An immigrant dilemma

When you’re a native speaker of one of the world’s principal languages, especially English, the 500-pound gorilla, a lot of your passing contacts have to do with that. And it can really be a bother. Danes love to practice their English, which is one thing. A lot have also visited America & can’t imagine I wouldn’t be thrilled to pieces to hear all about it. Then there is the large group who never got anywhere, but seemingly think they have. At least they figure they’re in the know. Stereotypes thrive here – like an old guy who couldn’t believe not all Americans drove Cadillacs. Seriously. Danish is tough to learn. Even little Danish kids speak later than most other kids because of the special tongue twists they have to master. There are 4 vowel sounds not found in English that I couldn’t even hear the first year, let alone pronounce. So now – 35+ years on – I still have an accent everyone can hear after half a sentence. Young people are generally cool about it. They are very good at English, start it in first grade & have so much of it all around that they don’t feel the need to practice on the odd granny who talks funny. Beware 40 & up. Not only do I have to hear their profound musings on my native land, I have to hear it in my native language. Like this ex-sailor who keeps dropping in to the center where I work to have a chat in English – fortunately it’s been a while now. Last time he had just seen ‘The Help’ & wanted to discuss race relations based on that. It seemed he had missed the bit about it taking place in the ‘60s. I suppose that’s about when he was out sailing & docked stateside. Last Friday another man kept going on about how America’s great fun but if you get sick, you’re dead. Let’s hear it for the nuanced view. I talked up Obamacare – the president is my hero – as well as health insurance which would be more widespread if the Republicans could see beyond their own wallets. “I know a joke about Republicans,” said he. “Republicans ARE a joke,” I answered & that finally shut him up. I often feel like a skunk for being so irritated, even though I don’t show it, but I am annoyed by anyone who wastes my time. I know an American artist here who simply refuses to speak English at all, even with me when we’re alone. THAT annoys me too, but doubtless he’s met even more of this sort of thing than I have – so okay, I get it. It is a lot easier now. Obama’s a rock star in Europe – in most of the world, I think, as opposed to Nixon, who was president when I got here, & Bush. The Bush years were like a cosmic echo, but I took it easier. When I first got here & landed in a nest of student Marxists (Don’t get me started. Talking to them was like being trampled by geese.) I felt I had to buy my way into the group by saying something negative about Tricky Dicky. The way Italians must have felt in recent years when they immediately had to assure all present that they did NOT vote for Berlusconi. A lot of Danes say positive things, usually at great length. Maybe that’s how they buy their way to a new exotic acquaintance. Some just switch to English & let it go at that. If they’re good enough I’ll play along. Just.

Of course it’s the natural urge to tell about something that means something to you that’s in play here. I like to talk about America in Denmark & about Denmark in America, but try to be sure the other person feels the same – as in: dialogue, not monologue. Many years ago, when World Learning Inc. was Experiment in International Living, the returning au pairs held reunion meetings often because their Danish friends weren’t interested in hearing about that year, just as American friends aren’t always interested in hearing all about someone’s year as an exchange student. (So why would any odd native speaker be?) Friends are still in the same place, both literally & figuratively, where the one who’s tried something new might almost be a different person. Friends feel insecure & try to erase & rewind. The greatest irony of all was the Fed Ex guy in Tucson. We were sending several boxes of family stuff to Denmark after my father’s death & decided to speak Danish because we needed to get in & out in a hurry. We didn’t want to chat & figured a guy who had to stand alone in his little booth all day would not be in a hurry. But you can’t trust anyone. The minute he heard us he brightened up like a solstice bonfire & chirped, “Taler I dansk!?” Uh oh. He had been an exchange student in DK a few years earlier & blabbediblabblabblah …. Poor guy. We scrammed as soon as we decently could. He had lots more to tell. We’ll never try that again. It’s an immigrant dilemma.

Hi again. Off to a swell start – skipping week 2. Deal is – I’m a working old bat & that summer holiday buzzed right on by, as they have a tendency to do. I did manage to finish several projects & would like to recommend one, especially if you are also beyond 60. Memorize something.

Come again? Memorize something? Like in 10^th grade?  Seriously – one of the best things we can do for our aging brains is to tease our memory to remember. This is easier now, what with Prof. Google to find the last verse of that song you smooched to in high school or the missing word in that clever saying by … oh dang, who was it now? Better check that out too. Yep – do it! Don’t know if it will directly stave off senility, but certainly can’t hurt. If you’re a reader, you would probably enjoy Harold Bloom’s How to Read and Why. He recommends memorizing poetry both as an exercise & a rhythmic delight. Agreed. He starts with little but mighty – Alfred Lord Tennyson’s The Eagle. Even poetry haters can feel a thrill with that one. I’ll end this entry with it.

I went a lot further this summer & memorized all 3 pages, 18 verses, 110 lines of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven – triggered by seeing the borderline silly but very suspenseful film of the same name in April. Bet Poe would love to see himself presented in the decorative – not to mention tall – person of John Cusack. John gets to read 1½ verse to a ladies’ book group near the end. Poe was big with ladies’ book groups. Doubtless the producers felt more than that would put the target audience straight to sleep & they would miss the end. That would be a shame, given that Poe’s life was seemingly just as boring as his stories are not. (That seems to be true of a lot of writers of scary stuff – for example Stephen King & a couple of Swedes I can think of. Their dark sides come out in their fiction.) My husband was game to listen to the whole recital. When I say ‘better half’ I am not joshing. I sent a grateful thought to Sister Ann Elizabeth, who made us memorize a poem every other week back in high school. I have that kind of memory & thought it was fun. Those who didn’t thought it was hell. Standing in front of a classroom & sounding like a dolt week after week – even though you aren’t one – is trauma. I experienced it when asked to figure a math problem out loud & am not harking back to the bad old days where school kids had to learn by rote but understanding what they parroted back was no big deal. Young people now don’t learn to remember anything exactly because it’s all right there on their smart phones, ipads, etc. How will they do as old bats & fogeys? Maybe just fine because other skills take over. I almost said ‘we’ll see’, but the beyond 60s won’t be around, so we won’t see. So – keep remembering anything that surfaces.

A teaser: The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

What an appropriate way to celebrate a ghoulish anniversary. Two days before the one-year anniversary of the horrific massacre of young people on the island of Utøya in Norway, a university student shoots up the midnight premiere of Batman in Aurora, Colorado. Fewer deaths, just as scary.

I would like to congratulate the American National Rifle Association on yet another triumph, but what can I say about Norway? I'm a transplanted American & lived 3 years in Denver, way back when, from 1955 - 58. At the time Denver had the second-highest murder rate in the country, just behind Chicago. I'm sure that's ancient history. My mother loved Denver & Colorado best of all the places we lived; we all loved it. Aurora back then was a lovely out of the way place to go picnicking & skiing.
Now it will be remembered for James Holmes & his insane shooting spree, as Utøya & Norway generally - because what do you ever hear about Norway except it has oil? - are now known for an even worse crazy, Anders Breivik. Holmes shot up a cinema & timed his gun blast with the first boomboom in The Dark Knight Rises. Always plenty of those in a modern superhero movie. Breivik went after young people at a Social Democratic Youth summer camp - young people working in politics, engaged & following their ideals. So once again - down go some of the best & brightest because a psychopath can't get his head around making an honest effort. Anyway, it seemed to be the immigration of Muslims that was his - if you'll pardon the expression - trigger. No idea what Holmes' target was. Something about he was Batman's enemy?

The Norwegian prime minister was barely articulate after the massacre on Utøya, but President Obama knew exactly what to say & do, as always, & clearly it came from the heart. That man is my hero. Before I moved to Europe-Denmark-Svendborg, I paid no attention to what the rest of the world thought of America. What business was it of theirs anyway? My road to Denmark actually began in Ireland, where I took a summer course at the School of Irish Studies in 1971. Even though I had demonstrated against the Vietnam war at the University of Arizona in Tucson, I was angry to see 'America out of Vietnam' grafitti in Dublin, forcryingoutloud. Let the Europeans butt out! Now I wish Americans would realize what a rock star Obama still is over here, & what a very bad joke Mitt Romney & his Republican right are. A cut above Berlusconi, but just barely. Okay, what business is it of Europeans anyway? Well, for starters they are America's best allies & trading partners. Does this count, just a bit? It should! Now I think it really should.

But I didn't intend to go all political. Back in the late 60s & early 70s, when the more left-leaning of us drove around with 'Make love, not war' bumper stickers, the 'greatest generation' - the ones who saw Europe from a trench & the odd 3-day leave - joked that during World War II they did both. Didn't stop there either - that's why there are so many of US. The other side's bumper sticker snarled, 'America - love it or leave it.' I did both. No going back now - but this blog's in English, not Danish, even though it could be. A heart can divide & survive. A hitch overseas is a great way to learn more about your own country. It doesn't mean you will stop loving where you came from.

Guilty guilty guilty

Hi out there. I plan to be around on Tuesdays & Fridays if anybody is interested. I recently turned 66 - making me only one digit off 666, the number of the Beast from the Book of Revelations. That seems appropriate, since my generation - best known as the Postwar Baby Boom & ME generation - had it all & still has, if you count all the leading positions, both political & economic. What we did not have was huge families of future taxpayers to pay for us in our dotage. Neither did we browbeat our daughters to find a suitable stud, hop into bed & start reproducing. Nope - we said/say: You go, girls! 


We didn't think of this as high treason at the time, but now we are the root of financial woe all over the place & known as the Elderly Burden or Pensioner Bomb. Sometimes it feels like the rest of the population hopes we will self-destruct. Never mind that a lot of us still hold down jobs, do useful volunteer work - it's simply expected of us - & are active grandparents. Nothing absolves our guilt.


Sorry, all you younger taxpayers. I'm still working for my living, have produced 4 amazing & creative children with 3 very different men on 2 continents. Still curious about all sorts of things. I agree that responsibility comes with all the privileges we have enjoyed. REALLY - not just trying to sound large - & life is so interesting that I can't wait to see what happens next.

Elders were once respected, then treated as a bit of a joke, but this must be the first time in history we are considered an international threat to society. Otherwise, as always, some old people are wise, some are dingbats, some grow more open & tolerant with age, some more narrow-minded, & some get senile.

Have no idea if I am wise, but I've been around both geographically & on that inner journey the ME generation was always into. And scrappy - yep, guaranteed.