5 tiny things to hope for in 2013

1. I hope for many summer days when I have no idea how long I have been sitting on the beach

2. I hope I have enough time to read many (fantasy) books that will set off fireworks in my head

3. I hope for adventures that will take me to see different stars at night

4. I hope that I won’t always remember the significance of my Vigilance tattoo, just sometimes

5. I hope that I am able to share all of the above with my Jimmie Mandrake

P.S. Oh, and I hope that the WISHMASTER does not read my blog, because I can totally see how this could go wrong!

Privacy is a privilege

Today, I read a highly sophisticated & scientific article that was originally published in NeuroLeadership Journal.  You might think you would prefer sitting naked on a cactus. In the Arctic. With a sadistic magpie sitting on your head. But no, this one was a bona fide mind-blower. You know, kind of like a leaf blower for your brain. Good thing, too. There was so much dried up crap in my “attic” that it was time for a Nice Spring Cleaning!

http://www.demilked.com/leaf-blower-portraits-tadao-cern/

The article I’m so gung-ho about was about SOCIAL stress triggers, and about how a seemingly innocent social faux pas on Facebook or in the office cafeteria can elicit a caveman/achmed: “SILENCE! I KILL YOU!”- reaction or  make you run as if your butt hair is on fire.

Here’s the science in a nutshell (a.k.a the SCARF model – note: no knitting involved whatsoever) :

If you threaten a person’s …

STATUS (social standing, competence, self-worth) or

CERTAINTY (how well they are able to predict the future),

AUTONOMY (the degree to which they feel that they can control their own destiny/environment),

RELATEDNESS (their sense of belonging to a social group & how safe they feel in their social environment)

or

FAIRNESS (in a study, people felt happier when they received 50 cents from a total of 1 dollar than when they received 10 dollars from a total or 50 bucks … yeah, chew on that for a while )

… you will paint an instant threat target on your own back (or forehead, if you are lucky).  And folk will not be just mildly irritated either. Clubs or other blunt weapons will most definitely be involved. Or, if you are from Finland, axes are always a popular choice.

Did you know that the prevalent code for ANY social behavour is MINIMIZE THREAT+MAXIMIZE REWARD? So … this means I am like that robot in that movie programmed with a set of rules.

Rule #1: minimize threat and maximize reward

Rule #2: you must not hit other people on the head in the manner of … Bud Spencer?

Rule #3: rule #1 trumps rule #2

TLI also that there is this almond shape thingie in our brains, called the amygdala. A Mygdaladawhat? Apparently a tiny CPU that makes split second choices between a potential threat and a potential reward. And GET THIS, this all happens before the brain even turns off the screensaver. Avoid or approach … hmm … kind of sounds like that crappy show on TV, what IS that .. right .. “Snog, Marry, Avoid” .. Yeah. basically the same thing, ahaha

ANYWAY, this all got me thinking about my own lizard brain reactions. Phew, you can imagine my relief! I don’t need extreme anger management after all! I am normal! HURRAH! It’s just that my inner Xena has teamed up with the Amygdala**! Dynamic duo from the stone age!

MY PERSONAL fury  po(o)ps to the surface (of my pool of calm) when I am forced to interact with people who are up to all kinds of highly dubious crap, which they like to call “THEIR BUSINESS”. “PRIVATE”. “NUN OF MY BEESKNEES”.

It’s like the SCARF model is an evil TO-DO list for these guys and gals.

“Mm-hm, let’s see, must remember to undermind the status of someone today” or

“Uh, almost told the truth there, must be more careful in the future or these people will start feeling cozy around here”.

“Haha, see what I did there, I totally made that guy unsure about his life, universe and everything.”

“Fair? Fair Schmair!”

And PRIVACY, it is like a police badge or something.

“Yeah, I’m about to make a complete fool out of this guy and suck him dry, but WAIT, here’s my badge, IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.”

Yeah, okay, I’m cool with that. Except “NO I’M NOT”

IN MY BOOK, PRIVACY IS A PRIVILEGE, not an excuse for a self-centered existence in which other people are pawns in game of Schmess. And just like other PRIVILEGES, it needs to be appreciated and handled with proper care.

Anyway, you know what they say: “Revenge? Nah, I’m too lazy. I’m just gonna let KARMA fuck them up”: Yeah, KARMA and the rest of the cave people. And, if I am lucky, maybe …  Bud Spencer?

* Thank you Sheldon

* The article: http://www.davidrock.net/files/NLJ_SCARFUS.pdf

* Achmed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfResyFrqlM

* Karma: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0460091/

**definitely going to be my next online alias.

Expectations

Some say the trick is not to have any. They say that what really fucks you up are the thoughts in your head that whisper how things should be. I am truly thankful for my mother’s bedtime stories (even, no, ESPECIALLY the ones that had weird endings because mom sometimes fell asleep and sort of sleeptalked her way through the final twists and turns in the plot). However, these stories resulted in a graphic and zesty imagination, which means the there is a legion of notions in my head whispering, scheming, singing, sketching, and generally holding advanced courses on how things should be. For example:

On my perfect holiday, there should be a full moon, an old pickup, The Guy, a perfect cornfield, a nice flowing hairdo in the style of J.Lo, a blanket on the hood of the old pickup, at least +20ºC, a bottle – no let’s make that two – of red wine, a C-cassette full of bluesy rock, AND zero mosquitoes or other species of vexation.

Whereas in reality, what you would get is an overdose of overtime work to afford a ticket to Arizona … Where you would rent the pickup with your last dollar, sweat your hairdo into a floppy mess, buy the wine but forget to bring ANY water. And once the moon is in place, you would smell like a sailor, look like a serial killer and pass out in the desert to be snacked on by ants.

Am I the only one who has an overdeveloped Reverie Gland?  Here’s some proof from my real life:

The perfect beach holiday: The perfect family getaway for a no-fuss week in the sun, only 100m from the beach, which was … ENTIRELY ENGULFED BY DISGUSTING SWAMPY PLANTS THAT LOOK LIKE PLAGUE WITH CHLOROPHYLL . The actual beach is like a 3km walk away, including a small boat trip. Hi-ho!  The Reverie Gland was not happy.

The perfect Christmas Eve with silently falling angelic, glittery snow …. spent in 39ºC fever AFTER BEING PUBLICLY AND LOUDLY SCOLDED by inane inlaws from Hicktown. The Reverie Gland severely irritated.

At this point I would like all of you who are about to comment something about 1st world problems to turn off their computers and return to their lairs.

What I have realized lately is that the only time when my reverie gland is happily hibernating is when everything is suddenly about somehow, anyhow getting through the day. When I focus on the here and now, there is no bandwidth for daydreaming. I actually read this in a book (The History of Time, borrowed from a dear friend): apparently a human being has NO SENSE OF TIME, when the present moment contains enough stimulation… which is also when a human being is happiest. Something to think about.

I am kind of thankful for the past year, which has thoroughly made me wade through some swampy ground because … I just realized today, after yet another setback in the economics of my existence, that I no longer have that many expectations. I believe that my Reverie Gland has finally withered and moved out to live with one of my perkier Facebook friends. I am happy to have a roof over my head, a sofa that could engulf a small town into its velvety pillowness, edible stuff in the fridge and red wine in stock.

I don’t think about what-ifs or plan some future endeavors. I focus on the Right Here and Right Now. And come to think of it, it is pretty freaking awesome.

Right now,

I don’t have Dreams. I have shimmering seconds of bliss in my ordinary Tuesdays.

Right here,

Happiness is not about Dreams. It is about those tiny shiny moments in the sands of time.

Some say you should not have great expectations. They be right.

Thank you, wrdbnr.com

And Pinterest, http://pinterest.com/pin/23573598021514568/

Recap: 2012

In the spirit of Bridget Jones,

I decided to publish some interesting statistics about the year 2012.

Ah, 2012, “… twas the best of times, and the worst of times”,  as you shall be able to deduce from the highly mathematical facts available below.

# of houses rented for a ridiculous amount of money: 1

# of personal bankruptcies due to houses rented for a ridiculous amount of money: 2

# of live-in-husbands acquired: 1 (Good for me!)

# of divorces finalized: 1

# of stomach flus survived: 3

# of drinking glasses broken: probably around 10 (none intentionally)

# of houses sold for a ridiculously low price: 1

# of books read: an all time low 3

# of trips abroad: an all time low 1 (destination: Sweden, at position 1345 on my list of favorite places to visit)

# of windows washed in the house rented for a ridiculous amount of money: 0! Ha!

# of major renovations and complete business relaunches completed: 1! Yeah! Go Energanzá!

# of thousands of euros somehow misplaced: too embarrassed to reveal

# of Zumba® classes instructed: probably close to 100 (?)

# of mind-blowingly awesome and extremely hard dance choreographies learned from YouTube: 4 (Success!)

# of blogs started: 2

# days of sunbathing and tropical drinks: 0! Disgraceful!

# of song lyrics completely rewritten for personal purposes: 2

# of traffic violations due to excessive speeding: 0

# of Hayabusa rides including excessive speeding: COUNTLESS!

# of Dads who died tragically and left me permanently marked with The Summoning Dark: 1

# of tattoos inked to my skin: 4

# of lazy days: TOO FEW.

# of rock band projects started: 1

# of rock bands effectively killed due to getting caught “in flagrante delicto”  with the guitarist: 1 (oh, I think this was last year, but hey who’s counting)

# of movies watched: HUNDREDS! THOUSANDS!

# of bottles of wine enjoyed with said guitarist: oh, close to 30 (I am rounding this figure a bit)

# of crazies spotted outside our house: 5 to 6 really crazy ones (note: I am only counting the crazies outside the house)

# of cleaning ladies employed: 2

# of cleaning ladies sacked due to personal bankruptcy: 2 (GAAAH!)

# of insane ex-wives one has to deal with: 1 (weeeelll, maybe only 0.25 due to the fact that the said ex-wife comes with the personality of a pencil)

# of calls to 112: 2 (one related to the crazies outside the house, one for calling ambulance for self)

# of Fridays spent in Jack the Rooster: every other week, so, probably 25 (?)

# of new friends: up from last year’s all time low (of 2) to at least 10!

# of visits to the infamous outback country of Finland (Pohjanmaa): 1

And last but not least:

# of marriage proposals: 1 (OMG!)

# of wedding plans in Pinterest or elsewhere: 0 (HAHA!)

Year 2012, the cap is back on. I shall remember you with a bitter-sweet-suprising-slightly soggy taste.

Year 2013, are you going to be a bit more fizzy?

(D)Anger Management

Uh-oh, the evidence in this blog seem to point to one particularly spiky fact: I am in need of some serious anger management. If I am not out to trip some Ogres for kicks, or assembling a small-scale water balloon factory for the benefit of the Wonderfellers (they habitually wear white, so …) , I am brewing the poison that should theoretically eliminate all sources of anger, but will inevitably just evaporate the strange arrangement of elementals that is *me*. This will have to change. Let’s consider some therapy alternatives.

1. Ah! The dreamy holiday to a far-away beach resort with ample supply of hammocks, wifis, and Coronas. Nothing to think about for a fortnight. Sounds like a great plan, before a quick look at the bank account and further encouragement from the tax officials efficiently tear one too many holes into the hammock. I once fell through one, you know. It was a trap set by an small Ogre. It was left outside for an entire winter. IN F*****G FINLAND. And there I was, traipsing towards it with a Pratchett book and most likely a featherlight spritzer. Nobody said anything, but apparently falling on one’s traipsy butt through a hammock is considered entertainment in some circles. Well, okay, admittedly it WAS pretty funny because it involved the word “butt”.

Anyway, if you are the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow and don’t get out much due to the huge pot of gold and all. I can babysit it for you. Ping me anytime. I also hear you make shoes: I LOVE SHOES.

2. Yoga, TaiChi or a similar spiritual exercise designed to expel the bad and inhale the good. Just you and your breathing in a quiet peaceful place, much like an alternate reality, but without reality. Sounds fantastic, yes? The trouble with this plan is OTHER PEOPLE. I did Yoga, but there was an old geezer who looked like he had been salted and dried up for the occasion. And he fell asleep, and his snoring sounded positively Vogonian and echoed in a quite impressive way in the school gym. I also did Tai Chi and it hurt like a sonofabitch. You wouldn’t think so, would you. Apparently I was stretching my nerve tracts instead of my muscles and THIS does not fare well with ANGER management.

3. Running out of ideas here, but … perhaps a professional could help. A professional HAIRDRESSER that is. I know this because my shampoo says: “There’s more to life than hair, but it’s a good place to start”. I SWEAR, life seems a helluvalot more PINK with wavy, swishy hair! Also a PROFESSIONAL masseuse looks like a solid plan. I wish I was in Thailand, though. Those foot massage experts, MY GOD, can they save a day and a half! I have an excessively ugly electrically operated neck massage pillow that looks like a gargantuan (dead) snail. I don’t even care to comment on the “anger management factor”, but I’ll tell you this. If you turn the dial on the dead snail to “9″, the experience is a bit like sitting inside the bass drum of Dave Lombardo. On the other hand, the HEAD massager that looks like an antenna from Juhan af Grann’s website can make anyone reach cloud #9 in 2.5 seconds. The down side is that the effect doesn’t last any longer than the flavor on HubbaBubba.

4. Uh-oh. Forgot to ask my best friend and bible: Pinterest. Let’s see what the Quotes section has to offer in case one turns into a roiling furnace of dislike. Here we go, a little something from J.R. Tolkien (compliments @radiatelikesunshine on Instagram):

Instand feel-gooder poem. Pinterest *never* fails. There was also a cute picture of a squirrel. I am not going to post it here because I just don’t roll like that.

Reviewing my options … wait for it …  it seems that the antenna is back on my head and the anger shall face management for a full 5 minutes! After that, it is back to trying to hide the horns with red hair. After publishing this, I shall free dive into Pinterest and find the deeper meaning of liff (love you, Douglas).

P.S. Here’s a random pick from the Meaning of Liff, which is a book by Mr Adams and lists words you would have needed SO SO many times in the course of your life:

Clunes (pl. n.): People who just won’t go.

Craboon (vb.): To shout boisterously from a cliff.

Clenchwarton (n.): (Archaic) One who assists an exorcist by squeezing whichever part of the possessed the exorcist deems useful.

Don’t feed the Ogres, pls!

I try to be the kind of person who can weather the rain with a bit of a smile (and sometimes with a li’l jiggle).  Yes, I have noticed that when it rains it pours and in these conditions it would be wiser to keep your head down, your mouth shut and your wellies on. But, as usual, I refuse*). Another thing that I have noticed is that the clothes that had those nice and reassuring “WATERPROOF” tags on when you bought them, are really *not* battle proven for Finland. But now I stray. What I meant to say was that I work hard to dig out the best in your average good-for-nothing Tuesday. And I smile a lot. And I also tell featherbrained jokes at inopportune moments. But I do it with the best intentions and always without ulterior motives.

Not all people do. There are always those who give optimism a bad name. They use the word “wonderful” so much that the “w” gets all worn and and the “on” goes off and the “d” has to leave to get a refill and the “ful” is suddenly empty, too. At the end, after too much excitement, all you have left of the “WONDERFUL”, is “ER”. Please stop bedeviling these words, I beg of you. I’m sure people will like you well enough, even without all the “glitter sparkle you’re the best <3 <3″ -commentary.

Because, you see, I am sometimes mistaken for this type of  WONDERFELLER (= the kind of person who will say all kinds of *wonderful* things about you or about life, but does it purely for PR-related reasons and for her daily dose of affirmation). Maybe you know what I mean.

In the last couple of years, I have weathered not only the cruel and unusual climate of Finland, but also vicious attacks by people who think I am way too technicolor happy (and probably too loud and surround sound, too). In truth, I am fighting a hard battle. But I find that the battle gets easier  with some high quality lipgloss, a truckload of coffee, a grin and a twinkle in my eye.

I never see these people coming. That’s my problem, you see. I usually tread lightly (and often with my head above the clouds and headphones on). I try not to offend even the most sawtoothed personalities. And then …  WHAM! … I am completely blindsided  and hit with a flame thrower. I am not made of asbestos, teflon, or ice. In fact, none of these options look like good choices for a personality. So I burn. And it stings.

Why is this? Why do bubbly people get the hate flame thrown at them? (Note: this is a rhetorical and hopeless question)

Actually, the reason why I am writing this bit of testimony at all is because just a week ago, the same happened to a dearly beloved friend of mine, also a bit of a “rainbow meets rock’n'roll” type of a person. Out of nowhere comes this TROLL and WHAM! there’s the insult splattered all over her wall. No reason, no motive, and more importantly NO APOLOGY. Apparently, a positive outlook on life, universe and everything (rather than whingeing about the mud and gravel of everyday life) brings out the Ogres. Oh dear. Maybe it is because they think we are fake, that we are one of the WONDERFELLERS (get it, a bit like Rockefeller, only fluffier, hahah … another featherbrained joke, I know).

We will never know. But I can be at least a bit more vigilant. Maybe try and spot the Ogres in the crowd. Even if they wear baseball caps and dark glasses.

Or … maybe I should just present a more elusive moving target. And buy GORETEX™. But no. No, thank you. I’ll just take my chances with the Ogres, I think. All I ask of you is that if you see one. An Ogre or a Troll, I mean. Don’t feed them. Also, I don’t think it’s a good idea to offer tea and biscuits to the WONDERFELLER either. Looks like they are fully stocked up with all kinds of sweets (they always seem to bake).  Just know that if I smile at you a bit too toothily, or tell a joke that is really not that funny, or if my eye twinkles with a greenish tint … I can’t help it, it’s just my nature, my way to rise above the rain.

*) I especially refuse the wellies. The day someone says I can’t wear my Ironfist heels to work will be the day that this *someone* gets acquainted with the sole designs for my Muerte Punk Princess Platforms. Which are nice, by the way.

Change managehehe … managemuhahaha … ment!

C’mon now, seriously, everyone should know that there is no way to  m a n a g e  change. Right? Change just happens and then you either roll with it or you don’t. And if you don’t, you will find yourself as extinct as a Pig-footed Bandicoot.

Actually, the Pig-footed Bandicoot looks fairly cute, if you don’t count the front paws that look like pig’s hooves that are maybe 3 sizes too small for any serious pig business. It has bigger ears than British royalty and hind feet that are better suited for grooming than for locomotion. The timid look on its furry little face suggests that when things started changing, it decided against it. After all, it is such a messy business, it thought to itself. Just look at those hairless monkeys fiddling with sticks and stones. Trying to get that coconut open. Just plain silly. I like things the way they are. And then one day, there were no more Pig-footed Bandicoots hopping around on their miniature hooves.

Why didn’t the Bandicoot cross the road? Because it did not want to get to the other side.

Photographer: Peter Galaxy (wow, I’d like a last name with such universal appeal!)

Change is the only constant that you can rely on. Not the value of Pi of any such arbitrary poppycock. Change, that’s what you get to play with. “So. Change. Let’s play”, I say, “I will not try to manage you, if you promise not to crash my MacBook or mess with the world’s red wine production”.

All those consultants going round and round talking about change manahahahaha … (still unable to keep a straight face!) … with their triangle drawings and roadmaps and shit, they should just rip off their pinstripes and jump into the wave when the tsunami hits them. That’s my plan, always. Just to let the change come and wash you ashore somewhere. Most often than not, you will find a coconut within the first 24 hours. Or something to melt the ice with. Just look around for a bit, and you’ll be okay.

If you try to run away from the wave (on your tiny hooves … really … scroll up and take a look at those flimsy things!) or redirect the pure force of the tide with some clever sandbag business, you’ll just end up shacking up with moray eels. And those things BITE worse than alien zombies, you know.

Sometimes, after a huge wave of changes, when I wake up on a beach somewhere – with salt water all up in my personal business and my Hustler bikini on backwards – I meet people who pretend it did not happen. “Oh that, yes yes, that was just a bit of drizzle, I better get on with painting the fence”, they say. And I feel sorry for them, because they will gradually become mindless mimes, performing an imaginary dance of death. Forever living in a past that is no more.

As much as I would like to keep the blessed Bandicoot as a pet, it will never become my power animal. I’ll stick with the crow; it always seems to catch something, as you know. No matter which shore we land on, there are always furry critters to eat. And coconuts.

Jorn keeps singing into my ear: “But I won’t lose my faith, I never have, I never will. I won’t give up, I’m gonna find my own way home”. Amen.