Saturday, December 4, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving!
Thanksgiving is my dad's favorite holiday because it is a time to spend with the people you love and to reflect on everything in your life you have to be thankful for. I think it is easy to take for granted things in your life which you are accustomed to, but I don't want that to be me. I find upon taking a step back, the feeling that my life is charmed. I certainly have much to be thankful for.
When I first decided to study in Norway the thought of leaving all my friends back home was daunting. I am fortunate enough to have the most hilarious, kind, trustworthy, wonderful friends that are a constant source of happiness. I really don't know what I would do without them. The only way I was even able to leave was because I know that our bonds are so strong that no matter where I am in the world, how long it has been since we have talked (hopefully not very long), I will always have them. Those are real friends.
Now that I am here, I often am baffled at the idea that if I would have continued my life back in the states, all the amazing people I have met in Norway would go on living their lives and I would have gone on living mine without ever knowing each other. What a shame that would have been. I have only been here three months and I feel confident in saying that I am forming friendships that will last.
And of course, I am lucky enough to have the most supportive, generous, self sacrificing, and caring family I could ever ask for. They taught me what love is and made me who I am today. My parents often tell me that everything I have achieved thus far has been my own doing, but I beg to differ. Everything has been made possible by their support and encouragement over the years. They taught me that happiness is not found in the number of extra zeros in your paycheck but rather in finding passion in life through things/people you love. It is with this mentality that I try to live my life and thus every adventure I experience and every joy along the way, they are a part of.
I'm sorry for the overly sentimental post, but I think it is important to tell people how much you appreciate them. I do not think you should need a specific day to do it, but Thanksgiving provides the opportunity and is a good reminder. So, I am thankful for my friends and family because you are what makes my life a charmed one.
When I first decided to study in Norway the thought of leaving all my friends back home was daunting. I am fortunate enough to have the most hilarious, kind, trustworthy, wonderful friends that are a constant source of happiness. I really don't know what I would do without them. The only way I was even able to leave was because I know that our bonds are so strong that no matter where I am in the world, how long it has been since we have talked (hopefully not very long), I will always have them. Those are real friends.
Now that I am here, I often am baffled at the idea that if I would have continued my life back in the states, all the amazing people I have met in Norway would go on living their lives and I would have gone on living mine without ever knowing each other. What a shame that would have been. I have only been here three months and I feel confident in saying that I am forming friendships that will last.
And of course, I am lucky enough to have the most supportive, generous, self sacrificing, and caring family I could ever ask for. They taught me what love is and made me who I am today. My parents often tell me that everything I have achieved thus far has been my own doing, but I beg to differ. Everything has been made possible by their support and encouragement over the years. They taught me that happiness is not found in the number of extra zeros in your paycheck but rather in finding passion in life through things/people you love. It is with this mentality that I try to live my life and thus every adventure I experience and every joy along the way, they are a part of.
I'm sorry for the overly sentimental post, but I think it is important to tell people how much you appreciate them. I do not think you should need a specific day to do it, but Thanksgiving provides the opportunity and is a good reminder. So, I am thankful for my friends and family because you are what makes my life a charmed one.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
I Come From the Land of the Ice and Snow....
It's about time I write something on here...but the truth is my life has been consumed with schoolwork and hasn't been particularly interesting. I'll see what I can do.
One new thing is the snow. I fully anticipated ice and snow when I planned on moving to Norway but I neglected to fully comprehend just how slippery and icy it would be. Now, on a good day I'm less than graceful so you give me ice and what my California ass thought would be proper footware and you pretty much have a walking disaster. No that is too kind, I no longer walk....I waddle. I'm slipping and sliding every which way and what kills me is seeing how well adapted the Norwegians are. They seem to just glide as they go from place to place while I am bambi on ice. I felt satisfied when after getting off the train I slipped and almost fell but then heard the person after me do the same. I thought to myself..."great, I'm not the only one." Then I heard them speak English and realized that it must be a foreigner thing. I bet no Norwegians have webbed feet. They wouldn't survive without the extra stability of toes. Survival of the fittest. What amazes me is that not only is the ground that clearly looks icy slippery, but also the ground that looks completely normal. It so deceptive because you think you are home free and you hit it and just start sliding. This happened to me on a hill and I feared I would never make it up. I have come to learn one trick with this. If it is sparkly, it is slippery as well. Beware the dreaded sparkly pavement because it is no ordinary pavement...it is a foreigner death trap.
On the bright side, I have discovered the joy of crunchy snow. In an attempt to avoid imminent doom, I started walking on the crunchy snow on the sides of paths. It was here where I discovered the joy of crunching snow with your feet. I really can't explain it, but there is something so satisfying about hearing and feeling the crunch of snow under your feet. It's a form of stress release I'm sure. I'm convinced its the equivalent to how a cat feels when it scratches a scratching post. Utter relief from any pent up tension. So much to Maria's dismay, I tromp around like "like a little kid" in the snow. This seems to be a good solution to the ice problem but there are hidden dangers involved with this as well. For instance, stomping around on the side of the path while talking to Maria caused me to smack my face into a tree branch that was hanging over the side of the path. She laughed pretty hard, but it's ok because the same thing happened to her the next day. Karma. Anyways, I can chalk this up into two lessons: 1) crunchy snow is great 2) beware of trees.
One new thing is the snow. I fully anticipated ice and snow when I planned on moving to Norway but I neglected to fully comprehend just how slippery and icy it would be. Now, on a good day I'm less than graceful so you give me ice and what my California ass thought would be proper footware and you pretty much have a walking disaster. No that is too kind, I no longer walk....I waddle. I'm slipping and sliding every which way and what kills me is seeing how well adapted the Norwegians are. They seem to just glide as they go from place to place while I am bambi on ice. I felt satisfied when after getting off the train I slipped and almost fell but then heard the person after me do the same. I thought to myself..."great, I'm not the only one." Then I heard them speak English and realized that it must be a foreigner thing. I bet no Norwegians have webbed feet. They wouldn't survive without the extra stability of toes. Survival of the fittest. What amazes me is that not only is the ground that clearly looks icy slippery, but also the ground that looks completely normal. It so deceptive because you think you are home free and you hit it and just start sliding. This happened to me on a hill and I feared I would never make it up. I have come to learn one trick with this. If it is sparkly, it is slippery as well. Beware the dreaded sparkly pavement because it is no ordinary pavement...it is a foreigner death trap.
On the bright side, I have discovered the joy of crunchy snow. In an attempt to avoid imminent doom, I started walking on the crunchy snow on the sides of paths. It was here where I discovered the joy of crunching snow with your feet. I really can't explain it, but there is something so satisfying about hearing and feeling the crunch of snow under your feet. It's a form of stress release I'm sure. I'm convinced its the equivalent to how a cat feels when it scratches a scratching post. Utter relief from any pent up tension. So much to Maria's dismay, I tromp around like "like a little kid" in the snow. This seems to be a good solution to the ice problem but there are hidden dangers involved with this as well. For instance, stomping around on the side of the path while talking to Maria caused me to smack my face into a tree branch that was hanging over the side of the path. She laughed pretty hard, but it's ok because the same thing happened to her the next day. Karma. Anyways, I can chalk this up into two lessons: 1) crunchy snow is great 2) beware of trees.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
You Look Beautiful, But Back Up Off of my Grill
It's been a week since I wrote a proper update and in that measly little time frame I have managed to start two movements soon to take Norway by storm. That takes skill...or pushiness, but I prefer the former.
Movement #1: Fo' Shizzel
Ok, I never said they were necessarily good movements. This story starts at our ecology and evolutionary biologists weekly happy hour on Friday. Yes, college students back home, feel free to weep with jealousy. Anyways, I was sitting with a few friends looking down at my beer and I hear one of the Norwegian friends refer to another as "homie." It was so out of nowhere that I just about died laughing. This paved the way for a conversation with my research group at a farewell dinner for one of our members. They explained to me that they at times don't understand American slang. I had to think about it a bit but we do use a ton of slang without even being aware of it. Somewhere along the line I started giving them examples of phrases like "homie" that are really not cool anymore like "fo' shizzel" and we started using them jokingly. I promised them I would make a list of slang, which I did (with the help of a skype session with Jiro) and categorized in "Commonly Used," "Ghetto" and "Ancient" phrase sections, so they would be completely up to date. This list was complete with all of our favorites including cupcaking, grenades and buttafaces. For some reason, despite my efforts, the ghetto phrases seem to have stuck better, particularly fo' shizzel. So now when I talk to Maria on line she will throw in a fo' shizzel or my group members will drop it in conversations. It is still a joke at this point, but I think it is only a matter of time before it morphs into just normal conversation. Pretty soon greetings in Norway will consist of "What up beezy?" "Dude, there are landmines everywhere today, feel me?" "Fo' shizzel, man." So if you hear back home how Norway has gone hood, you will know who to blame.
Movement 2: You Look Beautiful Tonight
So Maria and I have taken to complimenting each other quite a bit. Why you ask? Because Norwegians don't compliment each other, particularly men to women. We are both used to casual compliments here and there from people that aren't hitting on us. In Norway, if I guy compliments a woman, apparently it comes off that they are hitting on them. This is good to know because Maria and I were starting to feel like chopped liver. Anyways, after a couple glasses of wine at dinner in our biology conference, we started jokingly bagging on Norwegian men. Maria said they don't compliment women and that we should go to Sweden because she thinks it is much better there. Ouch. This got everyone at the table's attention (seeing how they were all Norwegian) and Maria conveniently slipped away to leave me defending our theory. Surprisingly, they agreed with me and admitted that it is weird that they don't feel comfortable complimenting someone. My favorite though, was when one confused Norwegian then looked at me and said, "well what would I compliment?" Dramatically, I dropped my jaw and everyone started laughing as he scrambled to explain that is not what he meant (which I knew). I explained to them, for instance, you can tell someone "You look beautiful tonight." So then of course all the men told the women this. I think it will take some time before they learn how to properly place the compliments, but babysteps. This also stuck a bit and the next morning despite feeling like death from far too little sleep Maria and I were told we looked nice. It was really amusing though when someone not aware of the new movement was complimented, and immediately got stiff and looked down awkwardly and my friend had to quickly explain he wasn't hitting on her. She was clearly in shock and didn't know what to do with the compliment. Thus, I think there will probably be an adjustment period, but they will come around. After all, a well placed, sincere compliment can make someone's day. In my eyes, this movement makes up for fo' shizzel, though I'll admit it's debatable.
So, it appears I am not the only one affected by my new life in Norway, but I'm leaving little bits of my influence with Norwegians as well. I wish that I was responsible for more valuable or significant movements than archaic words like fo' shizzel, but I've only been here a few months. Imagine what I can get myself into in 2+ years.
Movement #1: Fo' Shizzel
Ok, I never said they were necessarily good movements. This story starts at our ecology and evolutionary biologists weekly happy hour on Friday. Yes, college students back home, feel free to weep with jealousy. Anyways, I was sitting with a few friends looking down at my beer and I hear one of the Norwegian friends refer to another as "homie." It was so out of nowhere that I just about died laughing. This paved the way for a conversation with my research group at a farewell dinner for one of our members. They explained to me that they at times don't understand American slang. I had to think about it a bit but we do use a ton of slang without even being aware of it. Somewhere along the line I started giving them examples of phrases like "homie" that are really not cool anymore like "fo' shizzel" and we started using them jokingly. I promised them I would make a list of slang, which I did (with the help of a skype session with Jiro) and categorized in "Commonly Used," "Ghetto" and "Ancient" phrase sections, so they would be completely up to date. This list was complete with all of our favorites including cupcaking, grenades and buttafaces. For some reason, despite my efforts, the ghetto phrases seem to have stuck better, particularly fo' shizzel. So now when I talk to Maria on line she will throw in a fo' shizzel or my group members will drop it in conversations. It is still a joke at this point, but I think it is only a matter of time before it morphs into just normal conversation. Pretty soon greetings in Norway will consist of "What up beezy?" "Dude, there are landmines everywhere today, feel me?" "Fo' shizzel, man." So if you hear back home how Norway has gone hood, you will know who to blame.
Movement 2: You Look Beautiful Tonight
So Maria and I have taken to complimenting each other quite a bit. Why you ask? Because Norwegians don't compliment each other, particularly men to women. We are both used to casual compliments here and there from people that aren't hitting on us. In Norway, if I guy compliments a woman, apparently it comes off that they are hitting on them. This is good to know because Maria and I were starting to feel like chopped liver. Anyways, after a couple glasses of wine at dinner in our biology conference, we started jokingly bagging on Norwegian men. Maria said they don't compliment women and that we should go to Sweden because she thinks it is much better there. Ouch. This got everyone at the table's attention (seeing how they were all Norwegian) and Maria conveniently slipped away to leave me defending our theory. Surprisingly, they agreed with me and admitted that it is weird that they don't feel comfortable complimenting someone. My favorite though, was when one confused Norwegian then looked at me and said, "well what would I compliment?" Dramatically, I dropped my jaw and everyone started laughing as he scrambled to explain that is not what he meant (which I knew). I explained to them, for instance, you can tell someone "You look beautiful tonight." So then of course all the men told the women this. I think it will take some time before they learn how to properly place the compliments, but babysteps. This also stuck a bit and the next morning despite feeling like death from far too little sleep Maria and I were told we looked nice. It was really amusing though when someone not aware of the new movement was complimented, and immediately got stiff and looked down awkwardly and my friend had to quickly explain he wasn't hitting on her. She was clearly in shock and didn't know what to do with the compliment. Thus, I think there will probably be an adjustment period, but they will come around. After all, a well placed, sincere compliment can make someone's day. In my eyes, this movement makes up for fo' shizzel, though I'll admit it's debatable.
So, it appears I am not the only one affected by my new life in Norway, but I'm leaving little bits of my influence with Norwegians as well. I wish that I was responsible for more valuable or significant movements than archaic words like fo' shizzel, but I've only been here a few months. Imagine what I can get myself into in 2+ years.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I'm a Mutant
I am well aware that the minute I post this blog I will regret it. This post will inevitably set me up for a boulder-storm of mockery, but sometimes one must sacrifice them self for the sake of an amusing blog. You're welcome.
I have to start with some background first. One of the newest developments with me has been a newfound friendship in the form of a Norwegian weightlifter living in my hall by the name of Yngve. In his words, "I didn't really have a choice on being your friend" which was true. I pretty much decided we should be friends and pestered him enough until he caved. Anyways, being a weightlifter, him and his gigantic friends eat massive quantities of meat every night and this is where my story begins.
So for those of you that know me well, you know that I have a particularly...healthy appetite. As Yngve and I have begun trading off making dinner here and there, he has come to discover to quite frankly his utter shock, how much I eat. This is of course the source of numerous jokes about how no one could afford to take me out to dinner and blah blah blah. It made me flashback to the time when Jiro made rice for me and I ate it all only to discover when I complained about being really full that Jiro had cooked 3 cups of rice so that he could have some for lunch the next day. Oh he looooved that.
Anyways, last night I decided to go American and cook a double decker burger and some fries for myself. Yngve joined but didn't think two patties was enough so he made four and claimed, "If I can't finish it, I will just give it to you." Hardy har. Well, I had no problem with my burger (which ended up much larger than I anticipated) and looked over to see him struggling. He started breathing heavily and broke a sweat before he was even done with his burger. Amused, I smirked at him as I nonchalantly popped fries into my mouth and said, "what, can't you finish?" Sensing the threat to his masculinity, he managed the burger and one of the extra patties before he laid back and moaned in agony. Then he told me he feared eating meals with me would put him in danger of becoming "American fat." By that time, I had moved onto my chocolate dessert, and told him mockingly, "one more..." That was when he did something I didn't expect. He sat up and this look of genuine concern washed over his face as he reached for his plate and moved it away from me defensively. With real fear in his eyes he looked at me and said, "You can't have it. I want it for lunch tomorrow." I just about died laughing. The thought that this big weightlifter felt the need to guard his food from me like a mother protecting its young was priceless.
After the laughter subsided, I began to think. Is the day a weightlifter has to worry about me eating him out of house and home, the day I should ask myself: Is something wrong with me? I mean, where does it go? I'm like a black hole in female form. I'm certainly up shit's creek if my metabolism were to ever give out on me. Actually, nah I'm too stubborn to get fat..but still. Well, luckily I'm good for now, but I've decided that the only explanation is that I must be a mutant of some sort. It's probably some sort of evolutionary advantage that if it got fixed in a population would result in skinny vaccuum feeding descendants. Now there's a thought. You're welcome, mankind. For now though, I think I can conclude with two things. 1) My mutant ass officially eats more than a grown male, Norwegian weightlifter and 2) Regardless, I would take being a mutant over "American fat" any day.
I have to start with some background first. One of the newest developments with me has been a newfound friendship in the form of a Norwegian weightlifter living in my hall by the name of Yngve. In his words, "I didn't really have a choice on being your friend" which was true. I pretty much decided we should be friends and pestered him enough until he caved. Anyways, being a weightlifter, him and his gigantic friends eat massive quantities of meat every night and this is where my story begins.
So for those of you that know me well, you know that I have a particularly...healthy appetite. As Yngve and I have begun trading off making dinner here and there, he has come to discover to quite frankly his utter shock, how much I eat. This is of course the source of numerous jokes about how no one could afford to take me out to dinner and blah blah blah. It made me flashback to the time when Jiro made rice for me and I ate it all only to discover when I complained about being really full that Jiro had cooked 3 cups of rice so that he could have some for lunch the next day. Oh he looooved that.
Anyways, last night I decided to go American and cook a double decker burger and some fries for myself. Yngve joined but didn't think two patties was enough so he made four and claimed, "If I can't finish it, I will just give it to you." Hardy har. Well, I had no problem with my burger (which ended up much larger than I anticipated) and looked over to see him struggling. He started breathing heavily and broke a sweat before he was even done with his burger. Amused, I smirked at him as I nonchalantly popped fries into my mouth and said, "what, can't you finish?" Sensing the threat to his masculinity, he managed the burger and one of the extra patties before he laid back and moaned in agony. Then he told me he feared eating meals with me would put him in danger of becoming "American fat." By that time, I had moved onto my chocolate dessert, and told him mockingly, "one more..." That was when he did something I didn't expect. He sat up and this look of genuine concern washed over his face as he reached for his plate and moved it away from me defensively. With real fear in his eyes he looked at me and said, "You can't have it. I want it for lunch tomorrow." I just about died laughing. The thought that this big weightlifter felt the need to guard his food from me like a mother protecting its young was priceless.
After the laughter subsided, I began to think. Is the day a weightlifter has to worry about me eating him out of house and home, the day I should ask myself: Is something wrong with me? I mean, where does it go? I'm like a black hole in female form. I'm certainly up shit's creek if my metabolism were to ever give out on me. Actually, nah I'm too stubborn to get fat..but still. Well, luckily I'm good for now, but I've decided that the only explanation is that I must be a mutant of some sort. It's probably some sort of evolutionary advantage that if it got fixed in a population would result in skinny vaccuum feeding descendants. Now there's a thought. You're welcome, mankind. For now though, I think I can conclude with two things. 1) My mutant ass officially eats more than a grown male, Norwegian weightlifter and 2) Regardless, I would take being a mutant over "American fat" any day.
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