Sustained Criticism

LJ has fallen by the wayside the past few weeks, I'm sorry. I've tried to write this post at least four times. We're celebrating Mother's birthday today, which means I've had enough wine and fireplace gazing to be sleepy and feel like posting. So I'm throwing together all the drafts I have laying around, into one giant catch-up post.

Carina invited a bunch of us along to the Lord of the Rings marathon at Colosseum. From 24:00 Friday, the three movies back to back, with half an hour's break in-between. The book was one of my first true loves of literature. I read if the first time the summer before I turned ten, and I remember being spectacularly spoiled by my uncle:

'How far in are you?' he asked.
'They're going through Moria now.'
'Have they met the Balrog yet?'
'What's a Balrog?'

I think I skipped most of the songs at my uncle and parent's behest. And I rediscovered them this summer. Re-reading books is not really something I do, it steals time from other books. Though I've rehashed some novels for university, and Disgrace on my own. Before I read Tolkien I sped through the Goosebumps series, Nancy Drew, loved and knew Narnia by heart, had no more Roald Dahl to read, and was spectacularly sick of anything 'young adult'. I re-read it this summer, and found that ten-year cycles is ideal: you forget enough to enjoy it. This time I even appreciated the appendices.

The marathon was exhausting and fun. 10 hours in a cinema chair makes for creative sitting: there were legs and arms everywhere, even on the stairs. We were armed with three breakfasts, fruit salad, chocolate, and coffee. People clapped randomly: whenever Aragorn appeared, when someone delivered an internet-famous one liner ('they're taking the hobbits to Isengard!'), we quoted 'Sagan om de Bannlysta' (a ridiculous Swedish voice-over of the films), when Boromir died, and we giggled through most of The Battle of Helm's Deep.

We cooked like mad for the annual birthday party (we celebrated 40 years between us this year). I've discovered that I love it, and am not bad at following good directions. Equip me with a good cookbook and I can create food. Two days' cooking culminated in a smorgasbord of nine dishes, not including desserts. I was so full of food I didn't know what to do with myself. It was all I could do not to topple in my ridiculous shoes (I wore the Ysl cage sandals). Though it may be the wine's fault.

And then actual birthday. Lovely day: Anette meeting me with two chai lattes in her hands – our favourite, from the tiny hole in the wall near her flat. Kristine met us, Anette left us. Kristine brought me a small cardboard box with a white bow. It contained a 'coffeeteapot' necklace. A small brass tea-/coffee pot with a pearl in the middle. I love it! (I'll take a picture of it with something better than Photo Booth later.)

It's now wintry enough that it smelt of frost when we left for the marathon on Friday. We tried to pin it down, rather than just call it 'frost'. It is a combination of snow, the sheets of ice on the asphalt, there is an aim of rotten leaves. We couldn't pinpoint it more than that, it just smells of frost. The always-scientific Kristine thinks it is the minerals in the water that smells. Double-distilled water has no noticeable smell, so she might well be right. But it does kill the mystique, doesn't it?

Father called from an Apple Store in Montreal, wondering if he ought to buy an iPad. I hadn't slept for a day, and just yelled that 'if you want one, just buy the damn thing!' So now we're thinking of ways he can use it. I secretly root for him not finding a use for it, so I can steal it. Bye, boring commute! You may pretend to be surprised that I've fallen head over heels for another Apple product.

My hideous cold, Totally Spies, a stack of newspapers and I wish you all a pleasant Sunday. I'll be back when the cold's done with my head.

This entry is brought to you by Reduced Alex, with exams and a party coming up. Will get back to pretending to be interesting in a few days.

I've spent 7 hours in the kitchen today, cooking. Which is remarkable for me: I very rarely cook, besides helping my mother out. Today it was a joint effort. An entrée, main course, cakes and various desserts, all for 15 people. From the recipes of a Norwegian haute cuisine persona. If this this is not good I will take an oath never to return to the site of cooking ever again.

Was the antithesis of chic yesterday: a jacket that is a cross between a duvet and a parka, no make-up, stringy wet hair and a backpack. I take a lot of space when I'm 'me', and it entails looking composed. Someone in some tv series spoke of women who 'wore heels at 10 am', I do. And I'm used to catching mens' eyes, not being overlooked as a plain girl in a huge jacket. Good to know that I can blend in, a kind of city camo.

There was never a recounting of our beautifully drunken Halloween, was there? Better late than never. I feel like reliving it to drown my Russian sorrows. Kristine and I spent 8 miserable hours not sleeping on the bus to Trondheim, to visit Katrine. We were cheap and decided to take the bus, at 11 pm so we would arrive fresh-faced and happy the next morning: no important classes lost, and optimal time spent drunk with Katrine. No sleep was had, whatsoever. And do you think Katrine had steaming cups of coffee waiting for us? We had to go buy instant coffee. The horror! Though Trondheim did have something called 'Sweet Chili Coffee', a cappuccino sweetened with some sort of chili syrup, divine for approximately five sips.

We spent Halloween in the company of a very drunk, lovely boy named Ali. He dressed up in bad drag: a sequined dress thing that reached to approximately the top of his thighs, the kind of stay-up stockings that plummet down when you move outside your door and really bad red lips. We had to teach him how to walk, talk and be girly. I had a sort of out of body, meta experience with my own femininity: by the end of the evening we had him sitting beautifully, and me getting comfortably wide-legged. Ali turned out to be better at flirting than the rest of us combined: he stole hugs from all the men in sight. I don't quite see how he got through the evening without taking a few punches to the head.

And I cannot stop listening to 'Sexy Bitch', no clue why. I don't particularly like it.

I'm actually looking forward to going back to uni, though the Russian grammar ('Grammatika', written in those mind-boggling cyrillic letters) looks hellish. If I don't think better on it I'll make a head start on the American Civilization book later today, and read at least the first few chapters. It almost looks inviting. And it was edited this year, an incredible treat when you're used to outdated books and double-checking everything.

First autumn cold has arrived, and taken over. And people wonder why it is my favourite season. Would be interesting to keep count of how many times I get a cold this year.

This, my loves, is why I love postmodernism so very, very much. Artist + twitter + sunburn + other people's random twitpics = peniscon. Random, fantastic and an absolute delight. I asked a guy I follow on twitter what he thought of the film adaption of Coetzee's Disgrace, a few minutes later I get a DM asking for my email. Ten minutes later, I have a long mail of his thoughts to wallow in. Just, yum. When I'm back at campus, I will indulge myself and scourge the shelves for anything on postmodern theory.

When I'd chirped my customary "Are you looking for anything in particular?" at a customer, she turned around, smiled broadly and told me how pleased she was to see me. I have no idea who in the world the woman is. She's not a teacher, I've kept decent track of those (for fear of the catching me unawares). So who is she? I have no idea. She was convinced I could do anything I wanted to, she assured me, after asking what I was doing during the week – automatically assuming that I'm not just working. Where does this boundless faith in my abilities come from?

We had my grandparents over for dinner: it was loud, we had too much wine and food, always good fun.

I officially want longer hair. Shoulder-length, I think. My hair-dresser will have a fit when I tell her, hah! She never gets over how much hair there is on my head, and even gave up blow-drying it straight with a loud "Fuck this!". Also definitely going to Montpellier this summer, and lobbying for a new trip to Hong Kong.

The snow is still tumbling down, I have hot chocolate and am about to skim through The Great Gatsby again. There is something refreshing about winter, and late autumn.