Fast forward, I’m standing still

Its an age-old joke, or juvenile remark rather, "What, are you on your period?" And no girl is ever amused by that. Especially not when you’re twelve and having your preiod is the most embarrasing thing you could possibly imagine. So the response is likely to be aggressive, thus "proving" that you in fact are on your period.

I never understood what people  meant by PMS. I never felt any different that week. But over the last year or two, its been sneaking up on me. I am grumpy. I start crying for no good reason. I become paranoid. I pick up on signals that aren’t being sent. And I send out emails and messages that don’t make sense the next day. It’s getting a bit embarrasing, but I’m not really sure what to do about it.

After finally identifying raging hormones as the cause of my irrationality, I did some research. And this is what Wikipedia had for me;

While most women (about 80 percent) of child-bearing age have some premenstrual symptoms,^[1] women with PMS have symptoms of "sufficient severity to interfere with some aspects of life".

Common symptoms; Abdominal bloating, Abdominal Cramps, Breast tenderness, Itching of the breasts, Stress or anxiety, Depression, Appetite changes and food cravings, Trouble falling asleep (insomnia), Joint or muscle pain, Headache, Fatigue (medical), Acne, Swelling of Breasts, Trouble concentrating, Body temperature increase, Worsening of existing skin disorders, and respiratory (eg, allergies, infection) or eye (eg, visual disturbances, conjunctivitis) problems.

Some miss work every fourth week. Some need "reassurance therapy". And all because of a little change in hormone levels.

Luckily, I am not one of these women. But I do sympathize with those who have been exposed to the Maria Menstrual Mess over the last year. I didnt mean to yell at you, and I probably didnt mean to cry over that thing that didnt happen and I most certainly didnt mean to panick over things you didnt say. Disregard half the messages you receive from me during this period. But not this one.  

To me, some things only happen in the movies. Even simple things. Perhaps some things are just American, and thus can’t happen in Norway. A lot of these things relate to romance ..

A few things repeat themselves. One of them, ice skating.
I went ice skating with my friends today in Bryant Park. In the dark. It was freezing outside but the rink was lit up and music was playing. And I kept thinking I should have been there with a boy. One of us should have been really bad at skating, and we’d be holding hands. And I’d twirl and swirl towards him and we’d kiss. Because that’s how they do it in the movies.

Another one is painting. Painting always leads to sex, that we know. A little splash here, a dash there, and suddenly you find your face covered in paint and the next thing you know you’re making out with a really cute boy. Because that’s how they do it in the movies.  

Oh, and when you’re standing under a lamp post and the first snow flakes fall.

People always claim that spring is the season for romance and falling in love, but I think I prefer the winter. When everyone is covered up and huddle close together, when the mystery remains, when the weather plays tricks on you and the unexpected happens. And .. when its too cold to go outside so days and days can be spent in bed, with coffee and newspapers. I might curse the cold in the mornings, but .. Winter ain’t that bad.

 

 

M.I.A. Sri Lankan goddess. Will be MIA when I grow up. Diplomats like her too. Isn’t that politically incorrect?

Johnossi. Two men, much noise. Me likes.
The Essex Green. Mushroom Head, Elaine and the blind keyboard player didn’t really do it for me.
Shout Out Louds. Hot singer. Hot music. Hot hot heat?

Drunkenness and delirium. Dance dance dance.

Rosa Passos. Five people, some slightly younger than the average crowd, others a lot younger (me!), dressing fancy for the Blue Note. Brazilian jazz and Bossanova. Rosa is a beauty. Rosa smiles like a tipsy grandma, only warmer and with honesty. And she sings like your lover, she moves her hips like your mum when she remembers how much she loves your dad, and then she brings you roses. Five people fall in love and have no qualms about the money spent.  Qualms exist, however, about the mojitos after.

Fires of Rome. He wants to be gay, he wants to be Justin Hawkins, but fails in both attempts.
Thomas Dybdahl. After months of separation, I find myself surrounded by Norwegians again. For good reason. Although the bastard went ahead and got married, and even though he claimed he was from Stavanger and bad-mouthed our actual hometown, I feel nothing but love for him.
Grand National. I am PROUD of my British heritage. I need to say “Up yours, mate!” and “Wanker” more. 

To be continued. 

Every Sunday morning I lie in bed and do absolutely nothing until my back gets stiff and tells me it is time to move. Even though I dream of eggs and bacon and the blackest black coffee, my kitchen is always empty and I leave the house empty.

And then I start walking. Somewhere along the way I get a coffee, and continue walking to whatever sounds my iPod chooses for me. Today I was exceptionally happy with its choices. Last Sunday I walked East and South, today it was West and North. If not along the Hudson River, at least parallell to it, exploring every little corner of Tribeca. And every Sunday I am amazed by the places I find, that I haven’t seen before, even though I’ve been here for months. The boutiques and cafés spring out from nowhere, the choices are endless. When I reach one of the many city parks, randomly placed at a cross roads, Neutral Milk Hotel’s "Oh Comely" is the perfect choice for watching the pigeons fluff their feathers to protect themselves from the cold wind. And then I walk again. Past the boutiques, past the warehouses and then to boutiques again. After a good hour of walking, I turn around and go back.

Even though choices are limitless, for Sunday brunch it is one out of two. Petit Aubelle today. Tin-Tin, eggs and coffee. And I rediscovered Paul Auster, the New York trilogy this time. Chapter two of City of Glass is the perfect second chapter. Poor Peter Stillman.

And now, I’m back where I started. In bed, doing nothing, but this. Waiting to share my solitary Sunday with solitary friends, and a dash of Brazilian jazz.  

I’m sitting in my bed a Saturday night. Flannel pyjama pants and a long sleeved t-shirt. Socks. I have my comforter doubled-over on top of me. Still, my fingers are icicles when I type. And it’s not even winter yet. Maybe my friend was right - I must be the coldest Norwegian in history.

See, Norwegians aren’t supposed to feel cold. That is the one thing foreigners know about the country - that it’s freezing cold up there. I hate to tell them that they’re wrong, but my town never gets as cold as New York can get in the winter. (Can I dispel one more myth? Real viking helmets don’t have horns.) On the other hand, both me and the Chinese fish merchant at Jubilee can vouch for Norwegian fish being the best in the world.

I don’t know why I’m so cold. I don’t think exposure necessarily makes you more tolerant. I’ve seen Indians sweat and complain more in the heat than I do, and I never really questioned that. Or perhaps I just haven’t had cold weather for two years now.

I’m not complaining about the change in season. I like being able to bring out my winter coat and my boots, even if it means foregoing pretty summer dresses and sandals. And even if it means sweating like a pig 30 minutes twice a day on the New York subway. (And at the same time shivering away all day thanks to the AC at work). Oh, and the colds! The coughs and the sneezes and the cracked lips.

But, no, I’m not complaining. The cold weather gives me an excellent excuse to spend Friday and Saturday nights inside, watching movies and drinking wine. The wine warms me on the inside, while I can put my hands under his shirt and warm my icicle fingers on his back. And when he’s gone I put on a giant sweat shirt and sleep the rest of the cold day away, dreaming of Christmas and ginger bread men. On the weekends I am the warmest Norwegian.