If We Ran the World

I would like to begin a new section of the blog entitled “If We Ran the World.” Given the perpetual circus going on in the American political system, Jiro and I have concluded that the only option will be for us to take matters into our own hands. As Jiro says, “If you want an efficient government, hire an Asian,” clearly he is the man for the job.

Jiro

Since the odds of me being assassinated as vice president are much slimmer, I concur.

Today’s focus is on what we should do with the people that will not agree with us or that we just don’t like. Our conversation went something like this:

Jiro: I caught up on the Daily Show and things are such a mess here
Me: When we are in power we should have a place to send all the really bad criminals, terrorists, Wallstreet executives and political prisoners (which we will have, namely any members of the Bush administration or Congress).
Jiro: You mean like Australia for the Brits?
Me: Exactly
Jiro: Let’s give them a territory like Puerto Rico
Me: No, I might vacation there, let’s send them to Guam.
Jiro: Ok, so we will send all of these people that we don’t like over there, and it will be survival of the fittest, which we will film, and put on tv and the money we make from advertisements can go to education and healthcare.
Cassie: Yes, except it can be more like Hunger Games and we can stage periodical fires and have them all competing for a single water source.
Jiro: Yeah, but we can be nice and send them packages on holidays.
Me: Sure and we can thrown down some weapons from time to time and see what happens.

We also propose that any prisoner will be forced to relinquish all possessions and the money will be distributed to social services. We may consider rehabilitation and integration back into society when the country can handle it.

Furthermore, Jiro suggests “we treat corporate accounting tricks like witchcraft and burn them at the stake.” I think it best as well.

Ok, that’s all for now.

UPDATE: Tore has expressed his wish to be Secretary of State when we are in power so that he can make announcements like “We just upgraded to Defcon 3” and drive a tank. If these aren’t good reasons, I don’t know what are. Position granted.

Ich Freue Mich Sie Weidersehen!

All my life, I’ve had a lot of guy friends. They’re easy friends to have because they’re laid back , they say what they mean and there’s no drama. Not to mention I’m a bit of a tomboy myself. The fallback is that if they decide to bro out, I’m perpetually outnumbered. This is what happened in Berlin.
Marc had been going on and on about this great movie we all had to see. I was less than thrilled when all the boys decided, yes indeed we should watch “Hobo with a Shotgun.” We can thank the Canadians for this gem. After seeing a fake Quentin Tarantino trailer, they took it upon themselves to make the accompanying movie. I grumbled a little bit in dismay but didn’t put up much of a fight because I have to admit I was a tad curious, and as I mentioned I was tragically outnumbered. To reassure me, Marc said, “No, no it’s artistic.” HA.
I knew I was in trouble when about 10 min into the movie I couldn’t figure out if I had nodded off without knowing because all the sudden the scene switched to a random guy being hung in a manhole while another man put a barbed wire necklace attached to a car around this neck and the drove off with his head for no apparent reason. I looked at Marc and asked what in on earth was even happening and he just told me to keep watching. I thought maybe it would get better but with lines like, “How many people have you killed?” “I dunno, what, do I look like a mathmetician?” I learned it would only get much, much worse.
Once the movie was over I told them that was the worst movie I’ve ever seen. And I’ve watched Gigli. But they liked it and I was left rolling my eyes as they discussed, “I think it was really creative when she killed that guy with her broken bone.” A few minutes later I went to the bathroom and when I came out they had started a new movie. “Oh no, what did you put on? You didn’t even ask me!?” I said when I came back and I was told, “Human Traffic”. I argued and Marc once again reassured me, “no, no this one is more of a quality film, it actually has a trailer.” I sighed, sat back in the sofa and thought to myself…Oh hell.

Aside from the theatrical abominations I endured, I really enjoyed my trip to Berlin and I think it is a cool city. We got to see a lot of the historical sights, just wander around, and drinking beer throughout the day was considered perfectly expectable. I can’t say I was a big fan of the traditional Berlin currywurst, but it was nice to be able to try new food and drink cheap beer.
When I was walking to the bus station on that last day, I thought to myself that there is another reason I really like Berlin but I couldn’t put my finger on it. As I stopped to take a picture of this

Marc said to me, “I like Berlin because it’s fucked.” While I wouldn’t phrase it the same way, that was when it donned on me, I like Berlin because it has character. As someone that grew up in a town where people commonly have “Keep Santa Cruz Weird” bumper stickers, I learned early on that normal is boring. So, Berlin with all it’s different types of quirky people, huge murals and amusing street graffiti reminded me in a way of home. I realized that is one thing I really miss in Norway. Back home there’s the surf bums walking around barefoot, the hippies sitting downtown smoking weed and playing bongo drums, the goth/punk whatevers sitting in front of the used record store trying to look hard, the Mexicans playing mariachi music at the flea market, the crazies on the bus yelling at imaginary people. While I love Norway, in contrast it seems too tame and cookie-cutter. I’m not saying they need a hobo with a shotgun or anything, but maybe atleast some hippies to lighten things up. I’ll call my cousins. :p

Ps. I love and miss you, Asa, Jarrett and Kyler.

Beklager!

Bah, ok! I have been exceedingly bad at keeping this up...but I leave for Berlin for three days tomorrow and I PROMISE I will write one (even if it about sauerkraut) before the weekend is over.

Ps. Updating my blog was a lot easier before my internet decided to change to Dutch.

Swimmers Only

Well, it seems that California and Oslo have switched climates and I am certainly not complaining. It would be a shame if the rain persists and I come back from the Arctic tanner than my Californian friends (cough, Jiro)…..

Anyways, as it was 80F, yes 80, today I took to the lake to lay down in the sun and read. All was pleasant, the birds were chirping, the leaves were rustling gently in the summer breeze, when a big, fat 60+ man walks by and parks his towel about 4 feet from mine. Now, for those of you that are unfamiliar…the grassy areas around lake Sognsvann are large. So, this is equivalent to a stranger taking a seat next to you on an empty bus. I decide it’s too nice of a day for me to worry about it and I go back to my reading. It’s when an unbelievably large ant bites me in the armpit that I sit up and see the same man has shed all his clothes except for a tiny, red speedo, which is being engulfed by layers of fat. Now, I have strong opinions about this.

In the US, the only men that wear speedos are competing in swim teams or water polo games and in these cases, no one is complaining. The only time we see older men without cut bodies in speedos is when European tourists grace our beaches. We roll our eyes, and in the case of my mom and I we discuss how you should have to pass a test before you are allowed to wear one in public. After all, I would never wear a thong swim bottom unless I am sure my butt is Sports Illustrated worthy. Now, I hope there is no Norwegian friend of mine sniffling and staring at his beloved speedo, but I doubt it and if so, someone needs to tell you that there are just some things that people shouldn’t be forced to see.

In my case, as I look over at the heavy intruder, I can’t help but think how unlucky I am. First of all, Norwegians in general are a fit people, I think a bit genetically gifted. Furthermore, Norwegians are generally (again) reserved people but in this instance I have the once in a blue moon fat person that is extroverted enough to rock a speedo 4 feet from my face. I try to continue reading, but the reflective rays from his belly are blinding me so I look up to see him watching me. He continues staring at me and I decided it is time to go but as I walk away I must admit that I was little bit relieved. While Norway may have the best quality of living in the world, a great healthcare and education system, cushy jails and an overall happy public, they still have fat creeps just like the US. I smiled to myself as I left.

Danish Surfing

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOfPyLxhYCY

Baby Got Back

Don’t thank me for the blog today. Thank the genius that ran and hid in a train tunnel when asked for his ticket at a traffic control downtown, ultimately leaving me waiting one hour for the train in the first cold morning in weeks. The silver lining: as my mind weighed the risks of taking a bus and hoping the train doesn’t come right as I leave the station, it also drifted to ideas for a new blog….

As many of you know, my days sitting around in Spain, eating fried restaurant food every night have taken a toll on me. I think Spain is the only season of Survivor where the contestants actually gained weight. In Badajoz, if food isn’t fried or drenched in 2 inches of oil, it’s not served. So naturally, My, Maria and my waistlines suffered. While we were able to joke around and sing “I don’t think you are ready for this jelly” wherever we went, I thought to myself this is alarming for a number of reasons. First, before you roll your eyes, I know I’m thin. But this weight-gain marks the age at which it appears my black hole metabolism has finally thrown in the towel. I don’t blame it, and we’ve had some good years, but I can’t help but worry to myself, “How big can I get?” Well, despite how much I know Jiro would love the fat jokes, I don’t intend to wait and see. Second, my clothes don’t fit. I don’t particularly mind a few extra lbs, and my mom thinks I have the face of a cherub now (thanks mother cherubs are fat) but the biggest problem is that Norway is about as expensive as Donald Trump is annoying. So I can’t buy anything new. Not to mention the fact that simply buying one size up is a slippery slope. As the current situation entails me having to scope out my jeans to determine which ones are looking most forgiving and then hop around, eventually making slithering motions to squeeze into them, I am aware that something has to give. Since my wallet isn’t expanding like my ass there is only one other option because let’s face it, no matter how small you are, muffin-tops look good on no one.

So, I now know what death feels like. Never ask a competitive weightlifter to write a workout plan for you, and if you are dumb enough, do not be too stubborn to quit. On the bright side, I keep missing Maria on campus, but I sure enough get to see her everyday at the gym fighting the fight as well.

With how worn down I am on a daily basis, it is no surprise I keep losing at ping-pong. Surely, that’s my problem. My department on campus as an X-mas gift received a ping-pong table which has provided hours of entertainment. Recently, a tournament has started and as I feared it appears everyone is about as competitive as me (or more). So, of course, we have been practicing for the last couple weeks. I started out doing well and winning some (particularly satisfying) games against my phd student supervisor Jo. But then something changed. While I spend the end of my day at the gym, he has been spending his nights hunched over his computer looking at tips on youtube. Now he has been using me as a punching bag building up his confidence for the tournament and turns out will be my first match. Suck! He is so cocky now that he even made a one-way bet where “if somehow you beat me, you can have something with a value up to 300nok.” Barf. He should be careful because everyone loves an underdog story and I’m holding him to the bet. I’m just hoping he wears his murse to the game and then I like my odds. Anyways, what will I buy with my 300nok you ask? Booze…or new pants.

Ps. A special thanks to my editor Marc.

And Cows

I have a love-hate relationship with cows. I love that they provide me with milk for my cereal, but on the other hand, I don’t trust them. This is problematic because they are everywhere on the farm I am working and give us girls a hard time when we want to lay down in the sun as we must first shoo them away. This is intimidating because these cows have big horns. I am fairly certain our moo-cows back home don’t have horns. Anyways, the other day I walked toward them and they backed off. I then unraveled our blanket in the air to put it on the ground and they all moved. “Oh crap” I immediately thought to myself, Matador Cassie might as well beg them to charge, but I dodged the bullet that time. Of course, then once we are lying there, I am never fully relaxed. I always have this sneaking suspicion they are plotting something. “They’re surrounding us!” I told My and to my surprise she was not alarmed. I look around and stare at the closest one in the eyes and tell My “death by cow is not a way I want to go.” As I continue to tell her how I would hope my parents would have enough sense to lie and not put ‘death by cow” on my obituary if I succumb to a stampede, I continue staring at it. I tell the cow in my head, “I know you’re up to something” and it continues to stare at me, then lifts its tail and plops a big one right close to our blanket which is soon swarming with flies. Touche moo-cow, touché.