Rules of Engagement

Possums, what are the rules of engagement when you go out together in public? I am not talking to the shops to buy milk-I am talking about an official outing with people around maybe even common acquaintances. What is the policy? Fake it until you make it? And does that give the non-committal status of the union suddenly some clout? Does that give me cozy, warm feelings and wet dreams of IKEA visits- like okay now we're like out here so might as well go all the way and do IKEA. Heck, why not have a baby while we're waiting in line at the check-out counter... or should this be an alarm that says, "Run and do not look back". It's like when I asked a friend's opinion if he thought it was okay that I parked my Jaguar where I had parked it and he said, "Depends on what the sign says." It's very metaphoric that last comment isn't it? It all depends on what the sign says.That's right, Possums, what does the sign say? Is his sign saying, "Hey park your car here,unlimited parking, no fees, no tickets. All you want 24 hours check in and check out." Or is he saying,"You can park your car during these days only and between this time but make sure you leave when you're supposed to. If you don't leave like you're supposed to or rather when you're parking time has expired, then you will get a parking ticket and you know what, it's going to cost. Big time"
What about me? What is my sign saying? Is it saying, "I want to park my car here unlimited times, no conditions and have exclusive parking rights to just my car and one else's car"? Or am I saying,"Sure, I'm fine with parking my car here and moving it on cleaning days and parking for limited amount of time because I really do not want to pay for the parking fee because I don't believe the risk would be worth it anyway."? Or am I saying, " Hey I don't care where I park, how I park and when I park. I'm just going to park my car however I am going to park and when I'm ready to leave, I will leave but not before I've parked. Take it or leave it"? Do you understand the pickle I'm in? What the parking sign says also defines the PDA situation ( Public displays of affection) which I should add when the parking signs are not clear, best to keep PDA to an absolute minimum-almost zero, Possums. A bit of boob brushing with quick and swift crotch and ass handling to absolute discretion if you must exchange some lusty assurances but tension and refraining is truly the aphrodisiac. And not everyone is into PDA. It all depends on the context. There is nothing as sexless as when your date is all over you like a rash and just won't stop pissing on you like you're a tree and he has to mark his turf like a dog. I know men who do that kind of tree pissing PDA. (Women also have this tendency as well- the type of women who have left it too late to cultivate a personality in life.) Usually men who have an insecure penis tend to do the tree pissing thing. Observe next time when out in public, you will see men doing tree pissing PDA, Possums. But back to the rules of engagement-to park or not to park is the question and does a public outing change the status to " No Free parking rule"? ELLER?

I don't date. I just do marriage and divorce.

Possums, I awoke in the middle of the night and had a road to Damascus type awakening-it occurred to me that I have never dated in my life but have just gone straight to the alter and then to court. In others words, I do not really know what it feels like to date and be as open as a public toilet. But I'm a fast learner as you may note from previous entries, (Royally Rogered) my junk got nicely paddled and my husbands did not have a hand in the matter (Pardon the pun).
But what are the rules of engagement if the terms are no longer marriage and divorce? I am lost and sailing a rudderless ship. How many eligibles should be allowed to see all those stretch marks from child births (and not his off spring by the way) if they are not going to sign a deal memo before hand? A new jargon I picked up at starta eget. It means a serious intention to commit in cash, shoes or bling.
What don't I say? How emotionally inept should I be with another adult who is roughly the same age as his shoe size? (We are talking European size, Possums) Do I keep it straight, simple and honest- last time that happened on a date, he got up and left. Can I ask that he go down on me on the second date? Would that be pushing expectations? Could that be misunderstood as "needy". Like I have the time to be sexually reserved, Possums... what good has that done for women of our ranking? And does a date necessary end in or start with the sex? That's a tricky one isn't it...What about the romance? What the hell happened to that art form? And please don't give me sentimental - that's just needy and so last night. What happened to keeping it eyeball straight and saying like it is - "I dig you.I want you in bed before we can say pass the soya sauce." Providing of course, the sentiment is mutual. It has failed me a few times... but hey, it's like the game pin the donkey- you'll pin his ass eventually. Eller hur?

Speed dating- the truth defines us

I was led to a speed dating event the other night and I believe that as we are getting on in our years, one can't really afford to be coy about certain needs, wants and specifications. Playing hard to get belonged to the teenage years which in Swedish terms means well into the late thirties until one gets pregnant and then we are "mamma ledig".
Which brings me to my dilemma about how honest should I be about myself in a three minute speed date session? The voice of my Yoga teacher came upon me,"cut to the chase".
So it is my turn and I find myself sitting opposite an attractive man, maybe late thirties - far too young for me, Possums, so already I have as they say in dramatic terms - a "conflict".
He sits, smells like fly spray, looks like my first husband when he was married to his first wife. I seem to attract patterns from some time vortex that never seems to leave me alone. (Is that what my therapist means by "projecting?") He starts off saying with a "So, have you done this before?" Lame, Possums. You have three minutes on the clock and you want to make a lasting impression. It's an audition, Possums, there is no call back. Time is now. You don't start with "So, have you done this before?", unless you are Dirty Harry and have a gun to my head. Now that's sexy.
So I decide to myself just make it easy for him, cut to the chase and tell it like it is and so I say this, "Look, this is the deal- first, I don't want children - doesn't matter if we fall in love and live happy ever after and you think that "love" will melt my heart and hormones and I will change my mind. I won't. Trust me. Second, I work all the time at arbetesförmedling at Starta Eget meetings and will not make any compromises when it comes to my potential career and business opportunities. I believe I will make it some day and will not be derailed from my dreams of eventually getting off AKASSA and thirdly, I don't do anal sex.
He got up and left before you could say pass the tomato sauce and before the three minutes were up, Possums.
I was quite remarkable to get all that very important information about myself under three minutes when you think about. It is an art form.
Lets face it, Possums, the man who should decide to stay after an intro like that, is a keeper, eller hur?

Royally Rogered.

I woke up this morning with a very sore bottom. I noticed even a slight raise in the flesh where the indentation of the leather belt smacked my bottom. Possums,I had been tied, belted and royally rogered. It was rather pleasant to say the least. So how on earth did a good housewife get herself in this position? (Excuse the pun)

Well it was instigated really by a pair of shoes, Chinese food, nasty emails to a third party and next thing I knew I was taken from behind, tied up and belted before I could say, "Pass the soya sauce". As the entrepreneur that I am, a new line of business opportunity was taking shape in my mind as I experienced the anatomical limitations one has when dealing with straps, hooks, buckles and gravity and what to wear to next unemployment "starta eget" meeting. Could I get away with a horse's holster over my business shirt- would they notice at arbetesförmedling? Computer says, "yes". I was multi-tasking, Possums. The affliction was inspiring as I was getting my bottom paddled.
Could I have found a niche business and have spanking accessories Tupperware parties? Highly possible, seeing that Christmas is around the corner and the unemployment levels have risen to a whopping 8 percent, Social Democrats have to regroup after Mona's exit and the Swedish King is having dinner at home tonight, or is he? It's all about seizing opportunities and knowing when the moment is ripe.

But I digress... back to being royally rogered. I can recommend the following; Bow Pose (look it up if you are not familiar) arms and wrists strapped to ankles- straps need to be either thick rubber bands that stretch or he has to be strong in his chest to be able to pull you up by the straps from behind as he enters you.
Alternatively, a belt strapped around your waist, leather of course, pulled tight like a corset. Your arms pulled back and your wrists tied with his so that you should feel your skin scratching against the leather strap. You can also do this sitting on a chair, you on top and him underneath. Your wrists tied to his wrist- you both have yoga pull and push of your union where he can pull you up with the straps or you can push back. Your legs straddled across his torso, preferably ankles buckled to something solid. Suggest buying hooks and strap mounts when visiting IKEA next and bolt under table, might also want to consider bolting down table legs while you are at it.
The kids or neighbors do not have to know everything. Discretion, mystery and denial is the back bone of long lasting family and marriage life. If the styrelsen leave a post-it note in the elevator complaining about the noise just tell them the truth, you were getting beaten up. They'll never mention it again as the truth is just too confronting, eller hur?

Possums for Peace and faking orgasms are back in fashion

It's been a while Possums... I have quite a bit to tell. First of all Pavlova business went south. Debts up to my tits because of it but you can't keep a good woman down. What do the Japanese say, "Get up or I will kill you". Something along those lines...I have taken up Bikram Yoga and can truly recommend this to anyone who is looking for another way of being tortured under immense heat under the training of gorgeous yoga instructors- equal eye candy from both gender but as the heat eventually consumes you, you don't care who is high on the erotic capital points as you are stripped down to basic elements- water, air and time- Time to end the 90 minute session so you can die in a puddle of your own sweat in a corner. Why do it? Because after the session you feel like you have entered a state of nirvana bliss and that feeling keeps you going back in for more. There are also fast returns on the torture investment- drop pounds, become fitter, sleep better and sex life is given a new bolt of jolt. Any ages, any shape and any style. Try it. Bikram Yoga.

Ahh, faking orgasms you say... what about that... lets just put it this way- When you have been on a date with a man who considers himself a bit of ladies man with the younger generation of females usually those who wouldn't know an orgasm if it poked them in the eye, and then here is me being the mature age one with a body that has been made supple through yoga and who has demands and expectations in the bedroom department. Possums, I am too old to play "I don't mind. You go ahead and come before me,I can wait next time" There is no next time if he is over 40 something-lets get real. That's another calendar event; shaving, waxing- it's too bloody expensive. Well the sweetest and greatest power to a woman when in bed with a hyped up egotistical lover is fake an orgasm to teach him a lesson and then go home and enjoy your vibrator which is twice the man he is and knows how to hit the g-spot...more than once.
Remember the scene in Harry met Sally? Need I say more. Eller hur?

I will try and endeavor to write often, regularly and meanly.

Review of the year- the people and events that defined my year

Lets see... Obama, Mrs O,( noticed more people of colour in the streets and actually having important jobs since they moved into the White House) the fling in Barcelona with Big, Micheal Jacksson left us all stunned when the curtain fell for him, getting loaded off a Ryanair flight after telling the ground control madam to shove it up her cock-pit when I refused to pay for my beauty box as extra luggage arguing it was a legit handbag, getting a job working in a real Swedish institution with a clock in card, fika breaks and learning that screwing with the hands that feed you is highly over rated in the literal sense. But never mind about that... the year has been a challenging one. Recession has made the demand for pavlovas scarce and Hagen Das ice cream surpassing all expecations making the sin stocks-sex, alcohol, chocolate and ice cream souring to healthy profit. I personally could do with less Hagen Daz and more sex with chocolate, but never mind about that.

Finished reading the book The Secret and the principles of the laws of attraction. I picture myself perched on the edge of rocks with my fishing line in the ocean...no bite yet...but cats whom I dislike lick and rub themselves against me, I mean what part of "no" do they not understand? Laws of attraction work when you don't want it to. I suppose that's the power of the secret, it works randomly.

The year has gone as quick as you can say pass the ketchup. 2010 sees some new challenges ahead; back to the unemployment office and having a fika with my handläggare and then off to visit my social secretary about finally getting that apartment in Södermalm after the dentist appointment paid by someone's taxes at försäkringskassan.

Might take a long trip somewhere and go on crash diet on the plane, take off the Christmas pounds that are going to pile up.
And for all you monkeys who have facebook... have a merry Christmas and enjoy your private information spread out in the public domain of the internet. You are all sooooo blåst, eller hur?

Just call me Mrs Boss now.

Kenneth Nguyen, a writer from Melbourne Age wrote a piece that went something like this, ”Please, Baz, tone down the kitsch and turf the Kidman”

When I read comments by Mr Nguyen and the general cold reviews on Australia the film, I realise how much in common Swedes and Australians really are; That both cultures are isolated – Australia at the arse end of the world and an island,and Sweden at the top north- with bloody freezing temperature most of the year which affects the people’s general out look on life, eller hur?
Both bag their locally produced films when directors dare to show something that is perhaps less kitchen sink realism and dare I say it,when us simple folk from the suburbs would pay a ticket to watch instead of downloading it or gathering in trendy arty cinemas the size of bathrooms,while having a chat over a double espresso.

You see, when you’ve been away from home a while one always looks back with perhaps a slight touch of romanticism-the sentimentality of homeland. The imaginary home and our country is what it is in my mind and the emotion it evokes,negative or positive. I have realised with time that things I would once dread no longer existed upon my return,(like John Howard)it is not that these fears in people,places things did not ever exist,as they did ( Pauline Hansson) and they were(are)real,it is that I have changed. I have outgrown my fear, my perspective has changed with time and distance. So when you are entrenched in dual landscapes as I am,one has the privilege of freedom and an odd obligation which I am not ashamed to stay stems from love for both landscape and culture to bring and see the best of both worlds in a universal context which the best stories over time tell and touch us. (Australia, Wizard of Oz, The Immigrants, just three examples)

I will dare to say that elements of the Swedish cultural institutions are totally unaware of the gifted individuals amongst them who are of what they would certainly count as the kitsch variety and have being promptly cut off so as not to be given any room in fear that we may have Bergman/ Lurhman mutation, which would be opposed to Swede’s unique phrase called, lagom, which means mediocre and that is a compliment on this side of town. Eller Hur?

And we have no major box office international sassy, sexy female actors since Garbo, Harriet Andersson, Bibi Andersson, Ingrid Bergman as they’ve been taught in film school to tone it down and be smart good girls who are directed by a generation of male directors who in turn have been raised by mothers who’ve castrated them metaphorically speaking,from the neck down-A backlash of social-liberalism, possums. (Which is probably why right now the sexiest man alive is a sweating, bloody cheaky bull drover, Aussie and not a Swede.)

So we don’t get sassy because that would be too frightening for the Swedish film school trained directors to handle- but one man did give women her mojo, good or bad- he got canned for it too and his name was Ingmar Bergman and women have never been as complex, sexy, strong, weak, loving, hating, neurotic bitches since. ( Mrs Boss, Monica (Summer with Monica) Scarlett, Baby Jane...me, citing some examples of what I mean)

I had the extraordinary and rare pleasure of sitting in a packed cinema in one of the western suburbs of Stockholm because all the inner city cinemas were sold out for the Christmas opening of Australia.(And they wouldn't let me in with my fish'n chips in my bag)
My point on Mr Nguyen article about toning down the kitsch and turfing the Kidman is this ; If you can get Swedes to come out on sub freezing levels on Christmas day, make them pay twenty-one dollars for a ticket and then expect them to sit for two and a half hours to watch a film about a drover, Mrs Boss and their creamy in the Aussie outback singing Somewhere over the Rainbow, then mate, Baz Lurhman IS the Wizard of Oz.
Eller Hur?

For the love of Wombats...

I'm taking a sabbatical from the usual business and have found myself in the spider web of the hotel and restuarant maze.
You could say that I've been promoted into a job. Mr Eriksson felt it was time to cut a wage and start paying back for the pavlovas that got us into a wee debt. No biggy, just some guys came and took the TV set, some tools and my made in China tea set.You can see them in a window display downtown next to some HI-FI gear, bit of a mish mash display and someone should really see to the lighting...why those people who took the TV and the China tea set would want to display it is beyond my understanding. Any hur...you know what they say, pav's will tear us apart.

My dear friend Anna broke her leg the other day falling out of bed, what a lush. We spent the day and night stalking the medical staff and aghast that we were pushed in with the rest of the Geros, not exactly Grey's Anatomy but more like the movie, Cocoon, the armagedeon. (Geriatrics, in case Mr Eriksson reads this).
After much deliberation over drugs of choice that Anna and I preferred for pain killers, X-ray opinions and information from doctors and interns who have no relationship to the human condition but know everything about orthepedics, Anna finally got an operation...36 hours later.

The frumpy occupational therapist came by and took a seat for a chat with Anna who had just woken from her Pedro Almadova like coma from Talk to Her after the operation.
" Hej, Anna, hur mår du?"
Anna grovels out something like, " for fucks sake...where's the pain relief..."
I jump up at once demanding some service for my friend. I get blank looks and a fart from one of the geros in the corner. That's service for you.
Mean while, Anna is propped up on the pillows trying to look coherent but really looks like a fucked up cocatoo ( Aussie bird, family of parrot), Poor possum...
The frumpy therapist offers anything to make Anna comfortable and has a chat about preparing to return home...
" Är det någonting du behöver?"
"Can you get me a wheel chair?"
"Inte möjligt, tvärrrrr.Men du får en rucksack att bära grejer i..."
"No... I need a wheel chair to be mobile in...I can't have crutches..."
My friend is pleading weakly after still having the anethestic weaning off slowly.

Frumpy lady gets up to go, taking her clip board with her and wishing Anna all the best with her broken leg and crutches, her single motherhood, bills to pay, part time job she can't do because she needs a wheel chair, plus the laundry, the dishes, the idea of how to have a decent wash with a plaster on your foot,doing the food shopping and being stranded from public transport for six weeks.
"Trevlig sommar och bara ring om du behöver någonting" She said and waddled off into the sunset.


Eller fucking hur?

Living in Sweden is character building #9

The hoover, pill and the washing machine.

The above items have changed women’s lives and not the feminist political party and it’s slogans, says this year’s Nobel Prize winner for Literature, Doris Lessing. She’s right. Take notes, Gudrun.
Science and technology have given us girls freedom. Thank God for the silicon push-ups and the extra junk-in-the-trunk-knickers and viagra, eller hur?

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building #8

That contentious literary prize.

What about Jane Austen for the Nobel bloody literature prize, eh? Why didn’t she ever get anything in the end? Even if it would mean posthumously but that would have been in tune with her whole literary life when you think about it. She became popular way after she was six feet under and only really took off after Bridget Jones nicking the whole Pride and Prejudice plot. But seriously, why not Jane? She’s more read than any of the previous and I am going to say it, the current line up of ”We-have-never-heard-of-them-before-writers”

They are going to announce the literary prize winner this week and I reckon the one they choose probably has not one book available in the book store. The Swedish Academy and their cronies have got some Korean and a Syrian poet on the list. Anyone recognise the names? I am postively sure they are certainly deserving in their own right but what about the ones that have come before? Those that have changed our world by simply writing about it, quietly yet powerfully present in our history as great story tellers and unbeatable, extraordinary will and determinatation fuelled by passions and ideals that have given us the pleasure of being a part of a literary, personal and human experience. I am talking about these writers; (take notes Horace) Jane Austen, Joyce Carol Oats, Sidney Sheldon, Stig Larsson, Ian Banks, J.K Rowling, Philip Roth, Margaret Atwood, Hillary Clinton, Bill Clinton, Ben Okri, David Chase ceator of Sopranos and the list goes on. You will agree just like the current Nobel list mine is just as eclectic but I could bet my pavlovas that your mother has read one of these writers. And cried.

I do have to say that after living with the luke warm summers for quite some time, I feel rather the same about the prestigious Nobel awards. I mean seriously, who watches it on TV anyway? I fear that it is losing it’s merits with the rest of us- I am refering to the rest of the reading race, Horace, and not a committee of literary nazis. But I shouldn’t really speak on behalf of the rest of us. In fact the last word should really be left with the founder of the Nobel Prize, Alfred Nobel, the bloke who invented the world’s first weapon of mass destruction, dynamite. He said that the cronies on the committee should give the prize to idealists.“I would like to help dreamers, as they find it hard to get on in life."
Well since he put it like that, might as well give it to me! Eller hur?

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building # 7

How much is that banana in the window?

Mr Eriksson felt it was time that I learnt something about art and took it upon himself to take my Saturday to take me on a gallery round. I would rather recycle rubbish quite frankly. But I saw this as an opportunity to get him to take me shopping on the way to the galleries. By that time he would be too stuffed to gallery anywhere and we’d be home in time for cocktails.


I said I wanted to check out the new look PUB after seeing the window display. We ventured up to the top floor and I was in seventh heaven but before my fingers could even stroke the fancy gear, Mr Eriksson yanked me away and shoved me in front of a glass cabinet that kept a picture of a banana. What’s the big deal with the banana, I ask? It’s an Andy Warhol original he tells me. Enter Velvet Underground and Andy Warhol 101. Mr Eriksson was salivating as he trapped me into art school class lesson. What about the those jeans over there? I pointed into the distance towards a stack of hazy blue.

To my utter surprise and some what disappointed that my plan failed, we were in an art gallery in a shopping mall. Who would have thought? Art everywhere for Tom, Dick and Jane. The gallery is Operating Place at the PUB department store.

How much is the banana in the window I ask the lady in the gallery. Not for sale, she tells me but then she shows me the other stuff; a possum made of wax made me homesick, a large phalic wooden cone that could be a good hat stand or if the artist made minature battery operated versions that could fit into a handbag…just think how much he could sell. There were some kooky art graphics and paintings that I have to say were cheaper than a pair of jeans and dare I say better designed. I am not what one would call ”knows my art” but I do know good investments when I see one and insisted that Mr Eriksson buy the Kiss My Arse fluffy stool. The lips are really blowing kisses on your bottom when you sit down. I thought I would save it for when I become the boss lady. Everyone should get one of these.

There were some other folk that asked about the Andy Warhol bloke and the Velvets. Apparently they were a part of some movement that obviously made the banana graphic and a can of Campbell’s soup quite famous. The Velvet Underground exhibition is temporary and on it’s way to Tokyo. I wouldn't miss it a rare and most of all free entry into an art exhibition. All that arty farty stuff aside, what turned out to be my plan to go shopping and avoid the art gallery scene ended up being a nice fusion of both fashion and art in the Operating place.
If only marriage could be as compatible like PUB and the Operating Place, very sexy eller hur?

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building #6

The Business Trip.

My darling Mr Eriksson had to manage on his own for a while as the world outside ( Finland) beckoned my presence at a rather serious kiss-arse-begging-for-money conference. I was decked out in my latest tummy tuck-in knickers recently purchased to keep what is all migrating south an illusion that some things are still perky and north if you know what I mean. Thank God for good knickers and decent bras. They can make or break a deal and that is what I call equal opportunities in the workforce, so go figure little Miss Sweden!

I sat down to a set lunch together with the other conference delegates who came from all over the world, Denmark, Norway, Iceland and Stockholm. I was pleased to be seated next to an individual who also came from Stockholm. As we exchanged our introductions of who we were and our respective functions, he asked if I arrived in Sweden as a refugee. I always seem to have this effect on these highly educated, politically, socially aware and extensively world travelled Swedes. We foreigners are all refugees it seems. I just couln't help myself so I said yes, as a matter of fact I did come to Sweden as a refugee and here I am sitting in this conference in Finland selling tupperware, what an amazing life story! It took him a couple of seconds to realise that I was been sarcastic. He didn’t speak to me again through out the lunch.

About being sarcastic and rude, it was sad to read that Sweden’s number one blogger, Alex Schulman has decided to retire from his game but it was just a matter of time. Mr Eriksson always says to me that a monster that is allowed to be given a lot of room ends up taking far too much space. I get it now. He was referring to Mr Schulman.
After much pondering and reading about the issues surrounding his ”literary death”, I come to one conclusion which is my own analysis and that is the Swedes just do not know how to take the piss out of each other without being nasty about it. It’s an art and the Swedes do not have this in their humour cupboard. The Finns however do. In a strange but definite form of self deprecating humour, the Finns do it better and I would say far superior than their Scandic neighbour. Us southern hemisphere folk also master this art rather well, where we can take the piss out of each other without being a dick about it- take notes, Mr Schulman. There is an art form in how to take the piss out of someone or something without character assasinating the subject, again I hope you are writing this down, Mr Schulman. The Swedish psyche seem to be navally earnest and deadly funny but not much to laugh home about.

Speaking about home, on my return I went into the city and just had to stop at the new windows at the PUB department store. I always associated the place with mothballs and old farmer’s wives for some strange reason, but after seeing the windows one certainly gets the idea that PUB has gotten a bit of puffing up. The only damper to the windows is why on earth the KICKS window haven’t got a window display to join with the others? It looks very odd if you ask me. Maybe someone should tell them.
My favourite window has to be the zombie doctor and the naked patient on the operating table. The doctor is a male mannequin and the patient is a female mannequin. It’s all politically incorrect role models! Get it? Ha! ha! I heard that there was a big deal about it being a bit too sexy in a female degrading way. If only people would chase real flesh and bone problems where the penis is more dominant in real life everyday working issues for the vagina. Eller hur?

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building #5

Self Made Part 2

I always say to Mr Eriksson when I want something, ”No is not an answer” It is in fact one of my many mottos in this life. I returned to the unemployment office of the arts and culture section carrying my business concept in a cake box, a pavlova. Party Pavlovas was the name of my new Starta Eget. I am going to bake and deliver pavlovas to order. Who needs Swedish to do that?

I smiled politely at the lady behind the computer-says-no desk and took my nummerlapp and went back to the waiting lounge. She has to give me points for persistence, surely? I believe in being service minded- a concept these Swedes still haven’t caught on yet. The only way to know how good your product is is by testing the market. So always thinking ahaead, I whipped out some paper plates and plastic forks and began serving up the pav to the unemployed folk in the waiting lounge. A huge hit, they loved my pav. The lady behind computer-says-no-desk walked towards me with two security guards by her side. That’s nice they’ve come to join in. I offer them each some pavlova. ”Don’t be shy, tuck in!”
”Jag är lactose intolerant” she said, stepping away from the pav as if I had offered her a plate of Moose bajs.

Then to my horror,the two security heavies chucked out my pav in the bin! Nazis! I was not allowed to test my product on the premise of market research at the arbeteslösförmedling. Well they certainly don’t encourage entrepreneurial initiatives around here, do they? Communists!
The heavies escorted me out of the premises. They waited until the elevator doors closed on me to make sure I had really faded to black.

It dawned on me going down the lift that I don’t need some silly Starta Eget packet to start a business. The Starta Eget is for the Swedes! It’s for them who have no idea about good business sense. Retail hours are from 10 to 6pm, go figure. China, India and the bottle shop would go bankrupt if they kept those hours. There’s no home delivery from ICA offered unless you are living in a service house. When I wanted my groceries delivered I said I ’m living in a house and I want service. What’s hard to get? Forget about getting rich from a small business idea as this would mean that it’s successful and really was a small business idea from the start and not some club of coffee and cake meetings for people who haven’t been in the workforce for over 12 months.

When Mr Eriksson came home he was pleased to hear that it went well at the unemployment office and that my Starta Eget had started. I told him I put up a notice at the local ICA and printed off flyers which I stuck in the neighbor’s post slots in the apartment building. Party Pavlovas to order! I make a mental note to make sure I do this first thing in the morning. It’s only a lie if I didn’t do it. I just haven’t done it yet.
Eller hur?

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building #4 Self Made part 1

Self Made- Part 1

Mr Eriksson said that I have to start doing something with myself. Oh dear, I told him I returned the vibrator he bought me as all toys Made in China were being recalled.
”I mean you have to try and get a job, Fru Eriksson."

I walked into the unemployment office for those registered as workers in the arts and culture sector, unaware that I had a fresh pile of dog shit under my shoes. I was half way towards the the middle of the room when others noticed the shit stained footprints led directly to me. So I do what I do best; deny it, keep my chin up and repeat several times in my head ”I am having a bad day not a bad life.”
After speaking to the lady behind the ”computer says no” desk, I am told that according to the records my work and education details are still not up to the Swedish standards. And plus there is a remark about my harassing a previous handläggare. The lady says this sort of carry on is unacceptable in Sweden.”Vi gör inte sånt här”
What about this thing called AKASSA, I ask her. She tells me that I have to be first registered as actively unemployed at the arbetslösformedling in order to get the dole. I tell her that I have been actively unemployed for 8 years! Surely I’m elligible? She looks at me and gives me the ” computer says no” look. Not sexy, if you know what I mean.

I look up and see the faces of the unemployed. I recognise one of the actors from a film poster- something about nothing and somebody dies type film.Very Swedish. Next to him is another actor that I recognise from the tabloids who had a dead body fall out of his closet. He said the corpse wasn’t his and he had no idea how it got there and then there’s a bunch of artists who couldn’t draw themselves out of a paper bag. At least the actor with the corpse must have had some talent to get himself of that mess. You have to admire the tenacity of survivors. I am suddenly inspired. You can’t keep a good utlänning down. I turn back to the lady at the desk and with a second wind in my sail and say enthusisastically, ”What about Starta Eget?

She shakes her head and sprays me with her spit when she tells me my Swedish isn’t good enough. Oh what a shame I say, I’d better go home and cut my wrists, eller hur?

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building #3 The Health Care System Part 2

The Health Care System Part 2:

”Of course, you’re not an alcoholic, you’re just depressed, said the petite doctor with smiling eyes peering at me over her tortoise rimmed spectacles. I was relieved. I tried to tell Mr Eriksson the same thing I told her, rolling my eyes. She wrote me another dose of prozac, ripped the piece of paper from her prescription pad and handed it to me. ” It can’t be easy living here, I should know and I’m from here!” I laughed too hard, taking the prescription from her and grateful that finally some one understood me. Do you have any friends? Yes, I said, in fact they’re waiting to take me for lunch at the Cafe Opera. I got up to leave when the doctor commented on my Mulberry scarf and loved the perfume I was wearing, Alure by Channel, I told her. ”It smells divine!” she said. She looked down at my shoes and couldn’t help herself over the limited edition bottle green ballerina shoes by Bally that I had on. Mr Eriksson bought them for me in London. They don’t stock them anymore, sorry.
I left the vårdcentral with a smile on my face and feeling a strong connection to my doctor, who is my new best friend. Speaking of which, my mates Moet and Merlot are waiting to take me to lunch!

I rush past the A-team sitting on the park bench who didn’t recognise me from the last time when I gave them a bottle of wine. They say the attention span of park benchers last as long as their last bottle. Go figure. They looked pretty rough today that’s for sure. They’re the ones that really need help! Mr Eriksson should come by here and see the folk who have real problems with the grog and stop threatening and accusing me willy-nilly. He mustn’t be happy about something. It is a fact that when people project on others it is usually something they themselves are lacking. I make a note to be more attentive to Mr Eriksson and his needs.

I stop myself when I realise that I have left my wallet at home. I rush back to my apartment. I live in one of those apartments in the inner city where one needs a card key and code to get through the main door. I have of course left my card key in my wallet. But luckily an elderly lady who lives in the apartment directly under us, is waiting inside the lobby for her hemjänst ride. I knock on the glass door for her to open. ” Could you please open, I left my card key at home”. I point to the release button inside to let me in. She just stares at me blankly as if she’s never seen me before. I bang on the glass, yelling at her. Maybe she can’t hear me. ” Can you open the door, please!”. She hobbles forward and speaks loudly, ” Tyvärr, Jag känner inte dig” ”Yes, you do! I live on the fifth floor!” I yell back. She shakes her head, ”Nej, jag kan inte, tyvärr” she says from behind the door. ” Jag förstår inte vad du säger”
I stare at her through the glass, stumped for a good long second and then I say in my special Swedish, ” Jag är städare. Jag jobbar för Herr Erikssson.”
”Då så”! She pressed the release button and opened the door. ”Värför sag du inte det tidigare?”.
”Eller hur?”

Fru Eriksson

Living in Sweden is character building #2- The health care system part 1

The Health Care System- Part 1

Mr Eriksson was not happy this morning. He gave me the three D’s alternative- death, divorce or doctor. Apparently he is upset with my chardonay-a-day habit and is convinced I will die from an alcohol induced accident or eventual liver decay. Such melodrama for a Swede. Rather unusual. I told him that I didn’t find it a problem and maybe he should really ask himself why this is difficult for him. After all, my alcohol consumption is purely medicinal as it is bloody cold inside the home, ( 17 degrees) and about 10 degress outside. Not sexy, if you know what I mean.
Anway he was adamant that I go to the local vårdcentral and seek some sort of medicial help for my condition otherwise he was going to leave me. He said. ”Mrs Eriksson, I’ve had enough” I popped my last prozac pill, making a mental note to myself I need to get more and told him we should talk about this rationally. Aren’t you over reacting? He sited what he considered crimes which showed a lack of judgement that could only be explained by a woman under the influence. I asked him to please give me specifics;

Apparently it was noted that I ”borrowed” our neighbor’s rusty children’s pram and took it to the local bottle shop, System Bolaget and stocked up on some decent grog. What's wrong with that? I pushed the rattly and rusty pram home with some Aussie and one or two South African wines . Problem? The South African's can trade now. (I gave one bottle to the guys on the park bench- one thing Sweden has taught me and that is to share with those who are less fortunate than myself. They thought it was Christmas. Isn't this being a Socialist?)

I don’t see anything wrong with that I told Mr Eriksson, that’s just being practical taking the grog in the pram and not having to carry them in bursting plastic bags! And besides, I argued further, that’s for the dinner party on week 39! Mr Eriksson said that WE were invited to the hosts house for dinner. THEY were not coming to us. I had bought booze for what he considered a Christmas party for journalists. Well, it’s all a matter of perspective, I said. Our hosts won’t need to buy any booze if we bring our own! That’s being economical! You're always telling me I spend too much.
And then he brought up the incident when I didn’t come home until 6am the next morning after telling him I had gone out to buy some bread the previous evening. Well, it’s not easy in a new country, one has to get acquainted with the coordinates of getting back home. I was geniunely lost. Mr Eriksson found this answer quite lame and gave his last warning before leaving out the door. Oh dear, that will teach me to take the neighbours pram without asking!

living in Sweden is character building #1

My husband doesn’t get my jokes. My friend Patrick said it’s because I don’t say ”Jag skojar bara” at the end of the jokes. This is true and in fact one of the many ”codes” one learns to unlock with time if you are lucky when co-habiting with the Swedes. I only learnt the later a few days ago. There is still hope for slow coachers like myself. There is a fridge magnet that was given to me long time ago that has a picture of a Dala horse with the inscription, ”Living with a Swede is character building”. I am certainly blessed to have met such fortune twice. I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is true. Sweden has been good to me but like the heading says, it’s character building and the seasonal adjustments are not only about the weather, although I do recommend to newcomers to make friends in the summer as that is when the Swedes are most inclined to be more chatty than usual and one establishes a point of contact that you can refer to come the autumn/winter dip. You know what I mean…it gets very lonely if you don’t plan ahead.

A friend of Mr Eriksson’s rang and invited us to dinner, she said that we were welcome to come over…on week 39. Week 39! I exclaimed, We might be dead, divorced or deported, I said. What about now, today? Next week? Any day that I can say tomorrow, or the day of the week I can remember by it’s name like Monday to Friday. What is ”week 39” ? I can’t even plan the next day! I have buckled under pressure and week 39 it is. Only African ant species and Swedes plan in weeks ahead of time.

Anyway, as autumn has already arrived without any warning, I am already dreading the temperature dispute I have with Mr Eriksson who does not accept that the home we cohabit together is below humane heating levels for a southern hemisphere creature like myself. He cannot comprehend that the legal 17 degrees thermostat is what is a long and endless winter where I come from and might as well count that as a return of the ice age. They say that there is no such thing as cold weather only inadequate clothing. I will remember this when I put on another layer of those rag sockor and wish I lived in the large green house Rent-a-plant recently purhased to keep the hibiscus and lillies warm for winter.

My mother rang recently after months of not hearing from her or her from me. She still cannot comprehend what I am doing here. I cannot either. She has told her relatives on the other side that I work for the Swedish telecommunications company. The family expect mobiles for Christmas and believe that I am selfish for not sending them. I keep correcting her to say that I am married to an Eriksson not working at one. The line went all fuzzy and she didn’t hear the last bit. She asked me what day it was in Sweden, I said it was Wednesday. She said, ”that’s funny, it’s Wednesday here too!”

I am have difficulty with defining myself and my purpose when there are days that feel I am trudging through mud to simply reach the basic A to B tasks. There are moments where I think someone knows something that I don’t know around here and no one is going to tell me. Should it be this hard???? Why does IT feel so hard? Is there a code to the easy route and the ones like me, have to go the hard route and I will always be on the hard route because no is going to offer to suggest, ” Why don’t you try it this way?” Or ”Why don’t you come over here and I can help you the easier way?” When Mr Eriksson and I registered at the unemployment office for those who work in the culture section, Mr Eriksson got accepted immediately in the register. I had to go through a high school and University equivalent exam to prove that I was what I was and had some actual proof to prove it. ”I’m here aren’t I ?” I also had to report to a ”handläggare” to help me find my ”work”. Mr Eriksson didn’t have to report in once. In the end I was quite frustrated I told my handläggare, ” du är helt ute i skogen och du kan drar åt helvete”.

Fru Eriksson