nirinia: (Default)
Kristine and I plotted a day of 'fab two', giggles, coffee and shopping, for Thursday. We failed the shopping – I've lost my purse, she didn't buy anything –, giggled too little, but we coerced Anette into cutting her hair. All part of a day's work for the fab two. Though, come to think of it, we giggled more than enough into our wine.

'Man, my heels are killing me,' Kristine said, somewhere between Zara and Paléet.
'I know. I think there are blisters,' I said.
'Coffee?'
'I don't think I really want coffee. Do we want coffee?'
'No, but we need sugar. Or we will collapse.'
'Right.'
'Muffins. Then bench, and loo. Or looing, then benching?'
'Man, loo first. Or we can't enjoy the muffins properly. You have to concentrate.'

We collapsed anyway, but made it to Grønland to wait for Are, after muffins. He cooked us a delicious tandoori for dinner; Kristine cut a potato, I conducted commentary. Sometime half-way through the boxed red wine, I gazed into the dredges of my dinner and predicted that I would get laryngitis. Thirty minutes later, my voice cracked, things went downhill from there. But the rest of the evening was fun. Are went out to collect Siri, so we were charged with fixing the stereo. There was a wayward cable, but it shouldn't be all that difficult. We crawled around, I theorised about what should be plugged where, Kristine experimented. It took Vibeke's iPod to get us music, we just couldn't make it work.

I'm ignoring Ozzie. (Nicknamed Ozzie after Osbourne Cox in Burn After Reading for no particular reason, other than being an Aussie whose name I forgot. He needed a name.) Are and Kristine approve of the plan. He kept calling, texting and being sickeningly sweet. Where's the fun in men who call three times a day?

The night's mission was to meet the buddy group at the student organised Octoberfest. That failed miserably, we only found Siri. At two we were thrown out of our stupor by the fire alarm, everyone was ushered out to shiver in lines. Teaching Anette to flirt is going well: she snared a lovely-looking man all on her own. Kristine and I exchanged drunk-subtle grins, high fives and gesticulated in joy. Anette and I ended the night on her sofa, and fell asleep in an attempt to watch Donnie Darko. I rolled out of bed at 8, fumbled around her flat and got up to campus in time for class.

Clothes and make-up from last night, hair less than pristine, no voice and no energy. I have class, clearly. The rest of the week? Spent furious about lack of purse, reading King Lear and finishing Great Expectations in a day. Now I'm making an effort to plan New York properly. Two philologists in New York calls for a plan.

Take Me Out

Oct. 3rd, 2010 09:01 pm
nirinia: (Default)
Hi, new friends. Welcome to the mess that is my LJ, I think I'll just conduct business as usual. Ask if there's anything you want to know.

What have I done lately? Largely been drunk. Dined at Restaurant Victor with my parents on Thursday. The food was incredible: French, less safely Michelin star oriented than Stiansen. We went with five courses, to get to the theatre in time. To see a play none of us really wanted to see it, a depressing Strindberg thing. It seemed like an interesting adaptation when we bought the tickets, it just wasn't very tempting when you had to sit through it. I had the best mussel dish of my life: a cappuccino with white chocolate. My toes curled, I moaned into the cup, and tried to make the waiter give me the recipe. I don't think he found my attempts very impressive. Can't think why, I'd only had too much wine, we were not laughing maniacally at everything.

We inhaled, coffee, port and desert, and made it to the doors at two minutes past. No amount of hammering and cursing could persuade them to open for us, so we took a cab back home. Home, drunk and in bed by 8 must be some sort of record. Friday I ran around in a sleep-deprived haze (going to be drunk means no sleep, apparently), trying to finish the essays without actually writing anything. Lunched with Anette to moan about the miserable state of our academic careers. More drinking that evening, to celebrate Siri's birthday. We walked across town in our heels and ended up at Revolver.

Finally, last night Line threw a birthday party. All I do is going to birthday parties, it seems. It was ridiculously fun, totally chaotic. Kristine and I ate raw garlic at some point, I have no idea why. But we did. Drunken logic is infallible.
nirinia: (cunning plan!)
Serenaded in Spanish, by a hairdresser with a firm grasp on my hand and longing gaze. (I think he wanted to prove that Spanish is more romantic than Italian, which is no good. They lack Rome, for one.) The same man went on to kiss my neck, very thoroughly; to assure me that if I let him have the run of my hair he would make me Eve. Alluring, I'm sure.

Yesterday we celebrated Yalien's 70th birthday. I got drunk with Dani, my cousin Arnhild's boyfriend's sister, from London. We bonded over shoes, London, parties and more shoes. And had far too much wine. Relatives I'm supposed to recognize were everywhere. I think I ended up entertaining the cousins approximately my age with the story about how I threw up on Nightwish's guitarist. They must've been very impressed, don't you think?

Now I'm rushing off to meet Anette for breakfast, then I have to get home in time for lunch with Katrine. Tomorrow the "buddy week" begins, and I suspect it will all end in one gigantic blur of alcohol and laughter. I'm still spinning. Will recuperate eventually, but the cunning plan still stands: if things get awkward, get them all drunk.
nirinia: (cunning plan!)
Serenaded in Spanish, by a hairdresser with a firm grasp on my hand and longing gaze. (I think he wanted to prove that Spanish is more romantic than Italian, which is no good. They lack Rome, for one.) The same man went on to kiss my neck, very thoroughly; to assure me that if I let him have the run of my hair he would make me Eve. Alluring, I'm sure.

Yesterday we celebrated Yalien's 70th birthday. I got drunk with Dani, my cousin Arnhild's boyfriend's sister, from London. We bonded over shoes, London, parties and more shoes. And had far too much wine. Relatives I'm supposed to recognize were everywhere. I think I ended up entertaining the cousins approximately my age with the story about how I threw up on Nightwish's guitarist. They must've been very impressed, don't you think?

Now I'm rushing off to meet Anette for breakfast, then I have to get home in time for lunch with Katrine. Tomorrow the "buddy week" begins, and I suspect it will all end in one gigantic blur of alcohol and laughter. I'm still spinning. Will recuperate eventually, but the cunning plan still stands: if things get awkward, get them all drunk.
nirinia: (Default)
Uncle Shurik made me vow upon all things holy, and balalaika music and "Гори, гори, моя звезда" (this is written from memory – I can pronounce it, but have no idea of the spelling) – "Shine, shine, my star", one of the only usable Russian phrases I know, save waxing lyrical about birches – that I will learn enough Russian to declaim Pushkin. Annemor got drunk and tried to make a speech, the dog barked for attention in the background, and no one noticed until she sat dumped back down into her chair. It was dinner to celebrate my aunt's birthday.

We have shouted conversations in layers across the table; someone is always making a toast or a speech but not bothering to clamour for attention; there is always too much wine and food, so we duel each other about who has to take what off the host's hands. I wonder what it was like when they were all together, the old mad crowd.

In keeping with tonight's Russian theme, I'm closing the laptop and starting Nabokov's The Eye; Russian emigrée main character. Nabokov wrote a foreword to the English edition, where he laments the lack of nuance in English compared to his beloved Russian. You'd think I was sick of it, after several forewords, notes and a book about it (Speak, Memory) I am determined to find some Russian children's books, preferably fairy tales and piece them together. Crappy vocabulary be damned! And I've been promised a recording from the Bolshoi theatre of 'the most heartbreaking Russian you'll ever hear'.
nirinia: (Default)
Uncle Shurik made me vow upon all things holy, and balalaika music and "Гори, гори, моя звезда" (this is written from memory – I can pronounce it, but have no idea of the spelling) – "Shine, shine, my star", one of the only usable Russian phrases I know, save waxing lyrical about birches – that I will learn enough Russian to declaim Pushkin. Annemor got drunk and tried to make a speech, the dog barked for attention in the background, and no one noticed until she sat dumped back down into her chair. It was dinner to celebrate my aunt's birthday.

We have shouted conversations in layers across the table; someone is always making a toast or a speech but not bothering to clamour for attention; there is always too much wine and food, so we duel each other about who has to take what off the host's hands. I wonder what it was like when they were all together, the old mad crowd.

In keeping with tonight's Russian theme, I'm closing the laptop and starting Nabokov's The Eye; Russian emigrée main character. Nabokov wrote a foreword to the English edition, where he laments the lack of nuance in English compared to his beloved Russian. You'd think I was sick of it, after several forewords, notes and a book about it (Speak, Memory) I am determined to find some Russian children's books, preferably fairy tales and piece them together. Crappy vocabulary be damned! And I've been promised a recording from the Bolshoi theatre of 'the most heartbreaking Russian you'll ever hear'.
nirinia: (Default)
Since I last updated, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of literary theory (I've been dreaming about the arbitrary nature of language) and drinking too much.

Fridays are usually a total drag: up at dawn to get to uni in time. Where we suffer through Post.col. class (the teacher: thirties otherwise unspecified, woman, bad stutter – fascinating, it is rare –, tall with midriff baring tops, no teaching experience), have a rushed lunch, squeeze into the lift with lecturers we hate and smile sweetly at, pile into a stuffy room on the 8th floor. Two hours 'basic literary analysis 101', I practice sleeping with open eyes. But this Friday we left halfway through the last class, to check out the market stalls at Grünerløkka. Shoe Lounge, my favourite shoe store, promised discounts, and they usually sell dangly crystal earrings at ridiculous prizes. But no such luck, I think we were early. Ingebjørg and I stayed on downtown to ruin our diets, and Anette headed home to prepare her birthday bash.

I had an outfit crisis, looked horrid in everything, and went for a LBD with enough cleavage to keep everyone's eyes glued there. If in doubt: more cleavage. Met Kristine on the bus, timed to arrive fashionably late. But we were the first to arrive. A new experience for me, I'm never early, rarely on time. I wore the YSL's (caged silver platform sandals) for the first time. We drank too much, ate too much, and Kristine stole Bailey's: 'a goood dash, a gooood dash, woops, it's empty. Shut up, everyone. It wasn't me.' Very stealthily done. Then I made friends with Rebecca's Husky, people left saying they had work in the morning, Maren, Maren's cousin, Anette and I made a short detour downtown to dance. We were deserted by Maren + guest, and decided to call it a night. I proceeded to eat something nasty from 7/11, and make friends with some random guy on the buss. He wanted my number, he got a fake story about an art student called Natalie and a number I pieced together. His idea of a pick-up line was that he had a five-year-old.

Kristine and I are very good together. We joke that we're like an old married couple, and on Friday our act was out of this world. I somehow got tricked into giving a spontaneous speech, and since I was wearing killer heels and had had too much to drink, I got Kristine to stand up with me for support. We clung to each other, I spoke about literature, birthdays and we quoted a passage from The Secret History in tandem, announced as an example of the way our lives ought to be. And what we're missing out on by not going to Oxford. It was all very poetic, Kristine reports she walked through half of Oslo in the cheap heels I dumped on her. Which is quite a feat, considering the heels slide backwards every time you put weight on them.
nirinia: (Default)
Since I last updated, I've been reading unhealthy amounts of literary theory (I've been dreaming about the arbitrary nature of language) and drinking too much.

Fridays are usually a total drag: up at dawn to get to uni in time. Where we suffer through Post.col. class (the teacher: thirties otherwise unspecified, woman, bad stutter – fascinating, it is rare –, tall with midriff baring tops, no teaching experience), have a rushed lunch, squeeze into the lift with lecturers we hate and smile sweetly at, pile into a stuffy room on the 8th floor. Two hours 'basic literary analysis 101', I practice sleeping with open eyes. But this Friday we left halfway through the last class, to check out the market stalls at Grünerløkka. Shoe Lounge, my favourite shoe store, promised discounts, and they usually sell dangly crystal earrings at ridiculous prizes. But no such luck, I think we were early. Ingebjørg and I stayed on downtown to ruin our diets, and Anette headed home to prepare her birthday bash.

I had an outfit crisis, looked horrid in everything, and went for a LBD with enough cleavage to keep everyone's eyes glued there. If in doubt: more cleavage. Met Kristine on the bus, timed to arrive fashionably late. But we were the first to arrive. A new experience for me, I'm never early, rarely on time. I wore the YSL's (caged silver platform sandals) for the first time. We drank too much, ate too much, and Kristine stole Bailey's: 'a goood dash, a gooood dash, woops, it's empty. Shut up, everyone. It wasn't me.' Very stealthily done. Then I made friends with Rebecca's Husky, people left saying they had work in the morning, Maren, Maren's cousin, Anette and I made a short detour downtown to dance. We were deserted by Maren + guest, and decided to call it a night. I proceeded to eat something nasty from 7/11, and make friends with some random guy on the buss. He wanted my number, he got a fake story about an art student called Natalie and a number I pieced together. His idea of a pick-up line was that he had a five-year-old.

Kristine and I are very good together. We joke that we're like an old married couple, and on Friday our act was out of this world. I somehow got tricked into giving a spontaneous speech, and since I was wearing killer heels and had had too much to drink, I got Kristine to stand up with me for support. We clung to each other, I spoke about literature, birthdays and we quoted a passage from The Secret History in tandem, announced as an example of the way our lives ought to be. And what we're missing out on by not going to Oxford. It was all very poetic, Kristine reports she walked through half of Oslo in the cheap heels I dumped on her. Which is quite a feat, considering the heels slide backwards every time you put weight on them.
nirinia: (Default)
Auster's The Brooklyn Follies is very vry, and a delight. A man who is depressed about not dying any more, moves to Brooklyn to do nothing. How much more Auster does anything get? Nathan Glass is no longer dying, and finds unexpected raison d'être in companionship with two equally depressed men. I, predictably, loved it. There is something about depressed, middle-aged men and novels I cannot resist.

On a more serious note, this felt very much like Auster light. It is depressing in its own sense, but not as depressing as he can be. It even ends cheerfully!

Exams (or finals to Americans) are hitting home, again, as usual. Everyone else panicking eventually gets to me and I'm already sick of hunching over theory (most notably Said, Spivak, Bhabha, Foucault). In a futile attempt to cheer up I threw on a dress, had champagne, and tottered around in the YSL's. It did not work out. But Saturday was fun. Anette and I had a pre-party ('vors', I really ought to introduce the idea of 'vors' once and for all, and just refer back) here, and attended a house-warming party fashionably late. We plotted how to grab titled, beautiful British men over red wine. Someone compared me to Susan in the Disney version of Narnia, a second person picked up on it, people agreed. Riiight. I blame the wine and the make-up. Another party full of students, which mean you introduce yourself to people by 'Alexandra, English language and literature, more or less. You?'
nirinia: (Default)
Auster's The Brooklyn Follies is very vry, and a delight. A man who is depressed about not dying any more, moves to Brooklyn to do nothing. How much more Auster does anything get? Nathan Glass is no longer dying, and finds unexpected raison d'être in companionship with two equally depressed men. I, predictably, loved it. There is something about depressed, middle-aged men and novels I cannot resist.

On a more serious note, this felt very much like Auster light. It is depressing in its own sense, but not as depressing as he can be. It even ends cheerfully!

Exams (or finals to Americans) are hitting home, again, as usual. Everyone else panicking eventually gets to me and I'm already sick of hunching over theory (most notably Said, Spivak, Bhabha, Foucault). In a futile attempt to cheer up I threw on a dress, had champagne, and tottered around in the YSL's. It did not work out. But Saturday was fun. Anette and I had a pre-party ('vors', I really ought to introduce the idea of 'vors' once and for all, and just refer back) here, and attended a house-warming party fashionably late. We plotted how to grab titled, beautiful British men over red wine. Someone compared me to Susan in the Disney version of Narnia, a second person picked up on it, people agreed. Riiight. I blame the wine and the make-up. Another party full of students, which mean you introduce yourself to people by 'Alexandra, English language and literature, more or less. You?'
nirinia: (Default)
Christmas passed in a haze of wine, food, laughter and aquavit (a kind of Scandinavian liquor, with approximately 40%, traditionally chased by a swig of beer). We cooked for two days on end, I wrapped a mountain of presents – my own, my brothers and the ones Dad bought on his own –, we ate too much. But it was lovely. A few days before the 24th, the sky fell down and as it was -20, we got snow. The past three weeks we have been living and walking the dog monster in a Christmas card: snow-laden trees, smoking chimneys, branches covered in layers upon layers of frost.

New Years Eve was, er, bizarre. We partied with Kristine's ex, who is ridiculous in his own way. I had a magnum bottle of decent red wine, and Dad sponsored a delicious champagne. You will have guessed where this is going, we did get very drunk. Fell around in the snow, danced in it. But you will not have guessed that the 'really fit men' we were promised were 15. One of them managed to sit a metre away from me on the couch, trying to pick up his courage to ask, 'May I sit a bit closer to you?' Had he not been underaged in all possible ways, it could have been sweet.

Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you about the outfit. I found a twenties/flapper inspired dress a while ago. Delicately covered in silver and cool-gold sequins. Brother and I dubbed it 'Chainmail +3, +2 Charisma'. A strand of sequins unravelled, I repaired with surgical accuracy with Kristine's invaluable assistance. Following a nasch with the kiddies, I promptly crashed on a couch at 7:30. Woke up to see people leave, Kristine do aerial cartwheels and throw a duvet my way. At the very least, I maintained my decency that night.


Fast-forward:

At the moment I am so pissed off with university spoiling my plans for the semester, that I think I am going to clean. I will blast Panzer AG too loudly, and I will fucking clean. Panzer always helps when I can't go totally mental because people happen to be around. Industrial helps in general, particularly the screamy, German kind. --> That is what I get for reverting to drafts. I did not clean, but took the dog out and screamed along to Panzer in the snow. And the semester no longer looks horrid. Post-colonialism with a wretched lecturer, translation, an introductory theory course, and a mash-up of realism, modernism, post-modernism and theory.
nirinia: (Default)
Christmas passed in a haze of wine, food, laughter and aquavit (a kind of Scandinavian liquor, with approximately 40%, traditionally chased by a swig of beer). We cooked for two days on end, I wrapped a mountain of presents – my own, my brothers and the ones Dad bought on his own –, we ate too much. But it was lovely. A few days before the 24th, the sky fell down and as it was -20, we got snow. The past three weeks we have been living and walking the dog monster in a Christmas card: snow-laden trees, smoking chimneys, branches covered in layers upon layers of frost.

New Years Eve was, er, bizarre. We partied with Kristine's ex, who is ridiculous in his own way. I had a magnum bottle of decent red wine, and Dad sponsored a delicious champagne. You will have guessed where this is going, we did get very drunk. Fell around in the snow, danced in it. But you will not have guessed that the 'really fit men' we were promised were 15. One of them managed to sit a metre away from me on the couch, trying to pick up his courage to ask, 'May I sit a bit closer to you?' Had he not been underaged in all possible ways, it could have been sweet.

Ah, yes, I forgot to tell you about the outfit. I found a twenties/flapper inspired dress a while ago. Delicately covered in silver and cool-gold sequins. Brother and I dubbed it 'Chainmail +3, +2 Charisma'. A strand of sequins unravelled, I repaired with surgical accuracy with Kristine's invaluable assistance. Following a nasch with the kiddies, I promptly crashed on a couch at 7:30. Woke up to see people leave, Kristine do aerial cartwheels and throw a duvet my way. At the very least, I maintained my decency that night.


Fast-forward:

At the moment I am so pissed off with university spoiling my plans for the semester, that I think I am going to clean. I will blast Panzer AG too loudly, and I will fucking clean. Panzer always helps when I can't go totally mental because people happen to be around. Industrial helps in general, particularly the screamy, German kind. --> That is what I get for reverting to drafts. I did not clean, but took the dog out and screamed along to Panzer in the snow. And the semester no longer looks horrid. Post-colonialism with a wretched lecturer, translation, an introductory theory course, and a mash-up of realism, modernism, post-modernism and theory.

October 2012

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