Short Message Service

Manon was a late addition. Not in loving memory of some ancestor I never got to meet nor as backdoor option for a name fancy enough to be given, but not fancy enough to be proclaimed at every piano recital and graduation from that point on - but just so that the rest could no longer be shortened to a nazi officer rank. And because it worked well with Sabine. And because Sabine had to stay. Sabine had to stay because Sabine was the result of 7 straight months of bargaining. It had survived 2 theological shifts on my father's part, causing biblical name's to be out, then in, then out of the question again (4 years later Rebecca Naomi would take them all of 2 minutes); a 3 month of truce during which I was called Elin Sunna (an equally meaningfull referece to my dad's Norwegian intern at the time), and some 20 rounds of dubble blind list writing from a library babyname book that was due to be returned several weeks ago, until one name popped up twice. 

I regularly tell them they should have stayed with Elin. Elin would have been spontaneous. Elin would have made friend easy just for the sound of her name and Elin would certainly not have spend most of her highschool career roaming forests or cuddling up on the couch with a book.
They're still very fond of their choice. Ms. SM, who is not a nazi officer, just a simple SMS.

currently enrolled in a writing course so I'll be posting little snippits of that here

On Advent and Gratitweets

I'm grateful for enough food, even though I'm still hungry all the time.

I'm grateful for a soft bed, even though I spend all my days tired despite of it.

I'm grateful I was born into and amazing family. I really miss them all. 

On December 18th (a rather random date due to the sponteneity of the idea), my favorite actress suggested on Twitter we'd all tweet her one thing we are grateful for, every day until December 31st. I figured that would be a nice end of year tradition. Giving thanks under all circumstances and all that. We're halfway through now, and I'm running out of ideas. Running out of ideas as in today I was grateful for tea. Turns out I suck at being grateful at the moment. I've spend most of the past four weeks in bed and I'm no longer very succesful at the whole pious suffering thing. I'm glass half empty. Or to be quite hounest, I can only make out about half an inch of fluids in there. I sat up in bed yesterday evening deciding that's pathetic and tried real hard to come up with the numerous blessings I have in my life. I then spent 30 minutes watching all of them being followed by a whiny 'even though...' of some sorts. 

Bathroom talk

or: the shocking moment when I first realised how close I came to never existing

My gran never lifted her feet properly. She said she did, but she had way more than her share of broken wrists to prove her wrong to the rest of the world. She'd trip over the temporal boardwalk in front of our house, or the last step of the staircase, or her slippers. Or just air. And so one day, when I'd gotten old enough for chores duty and she had her newest cast on, I drove my bike over to their place and let my gran introduce me to one of the wonderous details of her household: bed making.

When you reach your seventies, you have a specific way you like to have things done around the house. I should know; I'm 25, but had my share of experience with other people making my bed for me. The blanket should go all the way into the sheets (no loose ends up at my chin, that feels like the bed hasn't been made in weeks) and the busy print side goes down, only showing when I open the bed. 


My grandparents had their own routine: sleeping bags.

The last two weeks of life

Maybe it was bound to happen at some point. Maybe I'm just the kind of person that feels obliged to not let others down and doesn't like to show it when she can't handle things. The kind of person that was't used to, or even very familiar with, not being able to handle something. Maybe this is how I was gonna learn. That I was born with a mind that needs empty evenings on a more regular basis than midnight meetings. That even though I could be a good organiser, maybe a good chair woman even - the other half of me needs her quiet.

Just too bad I had to meet with my cooking skills.

Today, 5 years ago, my life changed. I woke up with an odd feeling stomach. I emptied myself from uphigh and below, and most of what came out was water. I texted my best friend to check if I had made her sick too with last night's dinner. She said no, but had thought I'd been a little liberal brushing hair out of my mouth with fingers that had just been cutting chicken. I had thought the same.

Writers blog

As a kid, I had pretty simple wishes. I was the smart one and therefore usually ended somewhere at the top of whatever quiz adults organized to get us more interesting in what they were trying to teach. And so I had first choice in the prizes department. Much to the joy of my friends, I imagine. If the girl scout leaders had arranged a full table of dolls and bears and cups and survival kits, I chose the compass. It was small and round and they probably got it for free buying beer cos it has a Heineken label at the bottom of it. I know this cos it is still on my desk. They thought I was being modest and tried to talk me into taking the bidon. I had been pretty relieved the 3 kids before me had overlooked the prime subject on the table and desperately held onto it while shaking my head, unable to understand why they'd think a waterbottle would be more interesting than a needle that always points north.


In school, the stakes were even higher. In school, my teacher would usually throw in a few notebooks.

Roots

I first thought my grandparents just didn’t like to talk much about the war. I know heaps of details from the moment they met – how they lived next door to each other; grandma being a tomboy with one brother 6 years older than her and one 6 years younger was very excited about the 11 children that moved in next door. Especially as 8 of them where boys . How she used to play outside with uncle Henkie, who was her age and liked to roam the streets of Amsterdam as much as she did. She never laid eyes on my grandpa. He was three years older than her and way too serious a dude in her opinion. Plus she wanted to marry a tall guy with blond hair and blue eyes that loved sailing. And my grandpa couldn’t swim. He did notice her. Even asked her parents for her hand, but they politely told him to come back when she was eighteen. And so he did. By that time ‘serieus’ had turned ‘intriguing’, much as his dark hair and eyes. After that there’s a lot of stories featuring a shared balcony and a poorly constructed dividing wall. 

Had I mentioned the view yet?

ow yeah, that's right. I did.