Chin up

Dear Marc, staying at my parents house, we're enjoying entertainment of the old world kind. As usual, dad is putting eyes on his chin while telling stories. Scary and entertaining at the same time, we call it "the poor man's TV".

Stop by some time and request your favorite re-run on dad TV.
love
-e

Fashion fantasy nr 2.

Dear Marc, some days, I am no longer a Scottish heiress. I am a Finnish logger. I work hard all day, and really enjoy my cold beer at the end of the day, sitting by the water at sunset.

The landscape is very harsh all around me, but the Finnish birds and the light make up for the lack of people and gossip. I don't get bored out here, cause this is fantasy, not reality.

I wear only Ivana Helsinki, cause I'm a patriotic Finn. Perhaps you'd care to stop by some day. I'll treat you to some rye bread, so sturdy we have to use a real saw to slice it. Wash it down with spring water and tell me some awful jokes. Then perhaps you can show me how to tango.



love
-e

Fashion fantasy nr 1.

Dear Marc, as much as I like you, I also love Orla Kiely. I'm a predictable person and find some kind of comfort in this. I want to be a Scottish heiress, walking home from a lecture in my Kiely coat, sheltered from the rain by huge pears.

At home, fresh tea and scones (with raspberry preserves and clotted cream) are waiting by the fire. My kids are somewhere around, playing with scotties. Anders is solving local crimes, stumbling over our long lost family treasures. I look down on the rose garden while writing letters to my friends in Australia. I tell them how we grow prizewinning organic cucumbers in our garden. All proceeds go to Doctors without borders.

On weekends I take the bike to the store to stock up on chocolate and cheese. On the way there, I always run into the handsome country doctor who tells me everything that's going on in the neighbourhood. The scandals!

Must go take the apple pie out of the oven.

Take care love
-Ms McMarple.

Avian blues

Dear Marc, this will be a strange easter. I mean, easter has such a bird focus with feathers and eggs and right now is such a sad time for the airborne creatures.

I read our town newspaper. The headline screams:

"Local police begs: Please stop calling about dead birds".

I can imagine the disillusioned crime fighters. After years of police school shaping them to chase down criminals and stop bank robberies, they have to answer endless calls about ailing or deceased swans in the area.

The avian flu. It's hardest on the birds.
So let's celebrate the winged community just like we should in easter time.

Join me in eggstraordinary decorating.
Buy an eggshaped bird feeder.

























Once we've moved in, I'll stop being so obsessed with house-related issues. This will be a great spring. We're going skiing and I'm planning a trip to New York and DC.

And while I'm in New York, there will be a new exhibition at the Met about my favourite Egyptian ruler, the female pharao Hatshepsut.
















I'm such a lucky, lucky girl.
What do you have lined up for spring? Work for other season's collections?
It must be so strange to be a fashion designer, to always live somewhat in the future.

love
-e

Finally!

Dear Marc, finally I find a beer holster in 100 % leather!
It's about time! I hate having one hand tied up because of the beer holding.
And if this is how I feel, imagine how the deaf must feel!
Now they can drink AND talk with both hands.

Finally indeed.
love
-e, typing with ONE hand til I get my hoslter. Hotlser. Holster.

Seamonsters Eating Apache Helicopters

Jessica Smith is a genius.

Oodles of poodles

Dear Marc, I just needed to share this too expensive wallpaper with you. It's from Secondhand Rose in New York and costs like a million dollar a roll. Which of course is a reasonable price for such a great image of these lovely decadent canines. How much do I love them? Let me count the ways.

Love
-e, currently wearing necktie and beret, smoking cigarettes while nibbling on a Frolic.

Goodbye India

Dear Marc, we're home again. Snow is still thick on the ground here, but other things have changed. Two of my friends have just welcomed a baby boy and we've moved into my parents basement while waiting for our own place to be done.

It took many nice flights to get us back to this silly corner of the world. I tried to sum up our Indian vacation in my head, but a mix of jet lag, red wine and terrific in-flight entertainment (thankyou Virgin Atlantic!) made it difficult to concentrate.

But one thing I kept remembering was the tendancy of many an Indian woman to offer their opinion on myself and my children. Sometimes their frank questions about me were directed to Anders:

"Is that your wife? Do you not control your wife? Why she miss one tooth? Why she have black marks all over her legs?"

He could only respond with the truth - that no, he had no control over me.

I was kind of OK with the remarks about my own lack of perfection, but it irked me when the woman who was doing the metal detection feel up at customs told me "your baby carrier is so dirty, your baby will be sick". She was not convinced by my "it's just sand" response.

We kept Joel happy during the 3 hour delay in Goa by offering him cookies. Indian women all around me told me that "he has baby food in his face". I know. He's 10 months old, still trying to figure out the finer mechanics involved in putting the food where the mouth is.

Here's a picture of art from the international Bombay/Mumbai airport. I have no idea what it is, but it looks kind of Koonsy to me.














Now that you've rested your eyes on all those pretty horses, let's head back to the pool of negativity. The list of comments about Joel was long. To the Indian eye, he was looking "too hot", "too cold", "dirty", "mosquito bitten", "hungry", "tired", etc in absurdum. I'm so happy the Indian people let me keep my baby, since it seemed I was in no way the kind of parent they would have liked me to be.

They would often pinch his cheeks in a very hard way, I'm still surprised he didn't protest more often. Vanja, on the other hand is 4 and shy with strangers. She did not appreciate the pinching and the lifting up on various arms.

Anders came to her rescue, pinching Indian men's cheeks and offering them to sit on his arm. Surprisingly, not one grown man accepted the temtping offer.

India in all, however, was a lovely time, as pictured by Joel, the child so neglected by Indian standards:















Must go wash our dirty laundry. All the Indian clothes are too cold, the Swedish winter clothes have been put away in storage boxes since I thought we would return to a warm Spring weather.

My waiting for the house-look will be an interesting mix of skimpy beach wear and my father's thermal underwear. Got any tips on how to make this work for me?

Love love
-e

The missing link

Dear Marc, know how I always talk about how I can’t wear high heels because my feet are so broad and flat? And know how I always lament this fact, since I love your shoes so much?

Well, guess what, I’ve found a man who might help my feet fit more comfortably into my MJ’s. With the help of patience, time and a few nifty, foot friendly postures, I may be able to recreate my lost arches.

Yes. It is that guy in that picture up above. He is the one.

He was my yoga teacher back in Palolem, which we have now left behind us. I miss him so much. I wish we could bring him with us back home to Sweden, but am afraid he would be too cold, wearing only that tangerine tank top. The beard might protect his neck, though.


This is how we lived, just a quick walk from the beach:













And this is where we had great meals:















The place was so pretty, here’s a view of the library (please notice the local librarian):




















The final picture doesn’t really belong here, but I’ll throw it in anyways, cause I like it so much,.
It may look like his and hers prison cells, but it’s actually a sign for rest rooms. Notice how ladies wear saris and gents are try to hold their pee with the help of slightly bent knees.















Curried- soon to be well heeled- love
-e

It kind of rubs off on you

Dear Marc, have you been to India?

If so, did you grow a mustache? You must have.
India does something to people, and it seems that what it does to men is to create an urge for more hair on the upper lip. 99.9% of all men I see here have mustaches. It’s like going to a country where all women have feathered hair.


As for women, if you stay for more than 2 hours in India, foot jewelry will seem like a must have, just as long skirts, scarves and colorful sandals. I swear it’s so contagious, I found Vanja’s blonde Barbie dolls adorned with blue dots between their eyebrows the other day. I had no idea they were so desperate to fit in.

We’re in Goa now, we took the train here. It was a lovely experience except for the fact that we were stuck with a woman who never quit talking. We all moved out of our compartment to avoid the constant babble, but that didn’t stop her, she found me, asleep with Joel sleeping on my arm behind closed curtains in another compartment. “Excuuuuse meee!”, she said and proceeded to show me yet another cell phone video of her baby.

But the train ride was still great, because the scenery was often breathtaking and the food was so good. And the people behind the food was even better, listen to their slogan:

Rajdhani: Service till eternity.

Isn’t that what we all want? I guess it could be a nod to the slow pace of many Indian train journeys, but I still love the grandiose dedication to the customers. Thankyou Rajdhani!

Almost as good was the motto of the Kerala police force: Polite but firm.
That’s what I want to be too!

Polite but firm greetings from
-e

Ps. Did you ever try an Indian Tourist candy bar? The hollow waffle with a white creamy centre.

I don’t think I’ve ever read such a fitting description.

Here are some pictures for you:























Vanja showing off her yogic flexibility, flowery thoughts, sharp teeth and new anklet. Notice the mustache on the pseudo-Indian guy beside her.




















Keep working, happy, polite, skull!




















Trying to soothe the talking woman’s baby as Vanja looks on and Joel protests.



















The best part of taking the night train is breakfast with a view as the new day is dawning.

Getting centimental

Dear Marc, this letter is special. It is the 100th I write to you. The standing is now100 – 0. Perhaps this should be enough to make me stop writing you, but it’s become a habit I find it hard to kick.

Today’s current affairs include Bush’s visit to India, dragonfly sex and Joel.

We didn’t notice much about the presidential visit. I was most impressed by his arrival. 3 identical airplanes landed in Hyderabad yesterday. Which hosted Mr. Bush? It was like a game of Magical Cups or whatever you call it, that old street game invented to fool tourists off their money.

The Bush visit also reminded me of his old speech about ”smoking terrorists out of their holes”. The Indian heat did the same to us, smoked us out of our inexpensive cabin and blew us in the direction of a more expensive, AC equipped hotel with pool. Mom, if you’re reading this, we’re OK despite the heat. Don’t worry.

We all sleep better here, and this morning I took a swim under the coconut trees, while tropical birds and butterflies flew over my head. I also saw a couple of mating dragonflies, which added interest to my swimming. I admire how the dragonflies add flight to the exhausting act of insect sex. No wonder their lives are so short.

















Then I had breakfast and read an Indian magazine called New Woman. There was an interesting article on female sexuality. It stated that women who don’t orgasm might go insane or explode. Do dragonflies reach climax? Or do they explode? Perhaps a majority of female dragonflies are insane, what do I know?

Then I had coffee and Anders showed up with Joel. Joel is 10 months old now and he’s going through a period of serious mom attachment. Perhaps it’s a combination of us moving out of our house, going to India and cutting him off the milk. It seems likely. He’s most happy if he’s in my arms.

Every morning I go to my yoga class. On returning I see my son happily playing with his dad and sister. But after catching just one glimpse of me, he starts to cry. Anders calls it a classic case of the Stockholm syndrome, since Joel will accept and even like his oppressor until he sees his usual caretaker.

Isn’t it typical that Joel should be hit with the Stockholm syndrome during the 6 weeks we’re out of Stockholm? I wonder if there is a Kerala syndrome. Perhaps there is one, I imagine it would involve an urge to be living on a houseboat. Or goats or elephants like the ones behind our hotel.

































Right now, the poor kidnappee is taking a short kiddie nap, wearing a nappy. I’m not kidding.
Love 100 times

-e

Ps. Oh, this was the real reason for writing:
I have Joel in my lap while feeding him porridge and mashed vegetables. He has only 6 teeth, undeveloped motoric skills and poor table manners. As a result, all my clothes are marked with mashed vegetables and porridge.

No woman wants to walk around looking like a dirt tablecloth. So my question today is: Would you consider making a pretty dress our of waxed cloth, Teflon or rain cloth? Thank you!

Sharing a household with superior beings

Dear Marc, aren’t you surprised, when at this age you learn new things about yourself? Isn’t it wonderful that after all these years, there is still undiscovered territory within?
I’ve come to know myself better. Not because of showering in the holy wells here in India. Not because I now do yoga everyday. No, the revelry of the inner me has come to the outer me by way of sound.

”Greeaaahehahh!”. That’s the sound of my primal self. Want to know how your primal self sounds? It’s easy! It’s free! Just let a 4 inch roach run over your bare foot as you go to the bathroom.

I tried to refocus and use all my positive thinking to cope with my unreasonable disgust.
”It’s a superior life form. It hasn’t changed since before the dinosaurs.” I said to myself. ”Pay respect to this other shape of universal life” I continued. It worked somewhat.

But ”Greeaaahehahh!” worked much better. One shrill shriek, intense shiver and then it was over. The roach, in turn, disappeared into I don’t know where, which was a discomforting thought as I lay down to sleep on the floor.

In retrospect, the thing that disturbed me the most was the roach’s nonchalant breech of our mutual agreement never to meet. Like two old grumpy men forced to share an apartment, I thought we would just allow the other one to exist, without really having to face each other.

I would let the roach have his space, because after all, he was there first, both on the planet and in our shared bathroom. But since I both knock and turn on the light to give him time to disappear, I think it would be reasonable for him to do so. Roaches usually have some respect for people, since we often kill them in the most undignified way. Would you like to be smashed to death by a shoe?

My camera just broke down, otherwise I’d let you see a similar roach we just found next to the sink. They are superior beings. We’re just around to drop pieces of cookies for them. They don’t know how to make cookies. But they like them.

Love from India, where everything thrives. -e

The LP effect

Dear Marc, how does it feel when people mimic your designs? How does it feel to have the power to make something that immediately affects other people and the business upswing of say, ballerina slippers?

I’m wondering this as we travel in the company of our Lonely Planet guidebook. I wonder about how much a mentioning in the guide is worth in dollars. 2 years after a first mentioning, a simple cafe can be the most successful restaurant in town. Little fishing villages turn into sprawling resorts.

The other day I was browsing some leaflets on local sightseeing spots. One region was marketing itself with the proud headline ”The land of decent beaches”, due to a Lonely Planet remark about the decent beaches of the area. What’s the next tagline we’ll see traveling? ”A nation of average scuba”? ”A country of mediocre cuisine”?

I’m thinking this might be comforting to think about for you too. Doesn’t it takes some stress off your shoulders? Why aim to be the best, to create the most fantastic collection, when you can walk around selling ”A collection of decent clothes”.

In closing, just sharing some more Indian pics with you.

Love from

-e

Every girl should have a yellow srawberry dress.




















Every girl should have a white and gold shirt and pants set in linen.














And every girl should be so lucky to have the kind of dad Vanja does.

That's the feeling I'm after

Dear Marc, yesterday I went to town to shop. I returned with something for everyone in the family. I felt like I was the mother of the Ingalls family. For me this is a great feeling, since Little House has such a big place in my heart (is this where I should write something about how I love it despite the racism towards the native Americans? Or Norwegians, with Nelly being such a Scandibitch?)

I mean, the feeling of buying 4 dresses for my daughter, one outfit for my son and a shirt for their dad and bringing it all home to our little cabin in the jungle, it was so great.
















But even better was the look on Vanja's face as she tried her first dress on. She just couldn't believe anything could be that pretty. I've told her she'll get a new dress every Tuesday we're here.

Joel is now dressing like an Indian prince, a look he seems very content with.




















And as I look at Vanja in her new dress, I keep thinking "that's the feeling I'm after!" as I browse your looks and others. Perhaps it's a feeling most easily felt at age 4. Perhaps at my own ripe age, I'll have to settle for the contentment of giving that feeling to others. Is that how you feel, Mr Jacobs?

You give us this feeling:



















Thankyou, Mr J!

love
-e

No sun please, we're Swedish

Dear Marc, I know I’m not the palest person in India. The reason I know this is because we got stuck in an elephant parade the other day, and in the human flood that swept by us, I saw an albino man. Him aside, I might well take the price for least pigmented body this side of England. I inherited my pasty white skin tone from dad. We call his legs the family treasure, since they’re two perfect pillars of marble.

I didn’t bring a bikini from home. It was on my long ”I’ll just buy one in India”-list. I didn’t think about the fact that most Indian women go swimming in their sarees. Especially at the place we’re at now, where the beach is considered a holy place, shared by Indian pilgrims and a varied assortment of western New Agers.

There was only one bikini to choose from so I had to buy that very one. It was yellow and there was no way to tell the bottom’s front from back. Ill-fitting may be the word I’m looking for here.

But at least now I had a bikini and could go swimming in the ocean to escape the heat. I tried it on in the night and had a laugh. The same night, I also decided to quit breast feeding for a million little reasons.

In the morning, I looked like a very pale, brunette Pammy Andersson. To tone down my unbelievable sex appeal, I wore glasses to the beach. Indian men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. I know this for a fact since I recently read an agony aunt piece in a local paper about a girl who wanted eye surgery out of fear that glasses would ruin her chances of ever getting married.

The ocean was warm and lovely and bowled me over with salt water waves. I tumbled and fell and enjoyed rolling in the waves until I noticed that the world was all soft around the edges. The Arabian sea had stolen my glasses.

I stumbled up on the beach, with enormous breasts, marble legs and an incredible shrinking yellow bikini. My only solace was that since I was blind, I didn’t have to meet the appalled stares from the Indian pilgrims of the holy beach.

I need to invest in a new bikini and a new pair of glasses. Have any seasonal suggestions from your collection Mr Jacobs?

‘Til you tell me what to wear, you’ll find me swimming in a saree too.

Love
-e

Baby cakes

Dear Marc, here are some greetings from India, where the air is rich with the aromas of cardamom, jasmine, cinnamon, curry and cloves. And poop.

We left two weeks ago, and I love it. Anders loves it too, and Vanja likes it now that we've left Mumbai behind. She went around like a walking insult, holding her nose to keep the scents out. I was embarrassed and feeling protective of her at the same time, a very confusing mix of emotions.

Joel has had the most trouble adjusting to the tropical paradise. He loves the cold.














In India, he prefers to eat sand.















In the afternoons, he likes to exercise for an hour or two by mom wrestling.

















When it gets too hot, we think about the land we left behind. We travel from extreme cold to extreme heat. From extreme wool to extreme silk, we wear only natural fibers.
















Must go, will write more soon.
Extreme love
-e

Cats go out at night

Dear Marc, did you ever consider emptying your apartment, renovating a house and going to India at the same time?

If you do, chances are you will want to take a time out with your friends. You will want to dress up and get drunk. Who knows, perhaps you will be so eager to se your friends and go all out that you will put on those shiny, tight black pants you would never have bought yourself. But then you couldn’t resist them when a friend gave them to you.

You’ll comb your hair and let rhinestone hairpins sparkle against the surface of your tresses, smooth and dark like molasses. You’ll say “tonight’s the night!” and put on that leopard jacket. Then you’ll add a small amount of “Ce soir ou jamais” to your slender figure before you stick your pretty feet in those high heeled ankle boots that look so good. And then you’ll hit the street to meet up with your friends and you’ll be so happy.

And if you’re a girl, people might look on you in this outfit as if you’re a working girl of the kind that works hard for the money. So hard for the money. But that’s current fashion so you don’t care, you just hurry to meet up with your friends but funny thing is that when you get to the restaurant, late, they’re not there.

And you call them up, one after the other, but they don’t answer. So you leave angry messages on their voice mails instead. And then you return home on the subway, sad and upset, until you realize that you wanted to go out so bad, you went out one day too early.

That’s what happened to me the other day. All dressed up and no place to go. So I went home and did the only reasonable thing: I organized the “might come in handy”-drawers. Have never looked so great cleaning before. The cleaning was so dull, I needed all the cheering up I could get.
















Must go to bed, leaving for India tomorrow. Have you ever been there? Tell me the must sees!

Love
-e

Relax, don't do it!

Dear Marc, are you the competitive type? You probably are, or you wouldn't be in the place you're in.

I always said I wasn't competitive. That I didn't have it in me. Winning or losing - it doesn't matter to me - really it doesn't. But lately, laying on the bench at my massage therapist's place, I've come in close contact with my competitive spirit.

As the therapist kneads me and rolls me around with her strong, Finnish hands, I hear a small voice in my head. It's a nervous, wired voice, belonging to a small, intensive man.

In fact, my inner competitive spirit looks and sounds just like Martin Short.

Martin says "Am I relaxing in the right way?" before he changes his tune to "damn, I'm good at relaxing". Then finally, he gets a little manic and shoots off a string of thoughts: "I wonder if other people relax better than I do? Do they relax in a different way? Am I not really the most relaxed person she's put her hands on? !"

So this is my question for the day:
Would you like to meet up some time for a relaxation face-off?
Winner takes all. I'll be limp as a jellyfish, you won't stand a chance.
Cause I'm a super natural at relaxing. Martin tells me so.

love
-e

My point, exactly

Dear Marc, today I was walking around a big department store with A. We even saw a personal shopper and his most recent protege. The person who had money but lacked style looked like he was really in need of help. His upper and lower body had their own individual style and proportions. Skinny, skinny legs clad in too-short, colourful trousers, while the upperbody was dressed in a classic, graphite suit jacket. The neck was so thick, it seemed to belong to a different person altogether.

We tried not to stare, but couldn't help it. Anders summed it up best as he concluded:
"Ah, yet another fashion Frankenstein. Body parts and styles from different people brought together on one body, fighting to stay alive."

I know I shouldn't laugh at the fashion Frankensteins of the world. As we laughed at the man, I myself had 3-4 cold sores, my hair was dyed more than a few shades too dark and I was only wearing promotional clothes given to me by others. My glasses are old and tired and I wasn't wearing any makeup. Besides, there was baby snot and a little mashed banana on my jeans. So I should not really be passing judgment on others. But nobody's perfect.

Must go pack more boxes, we're moving on Friday.
Love
-e

Welcome to the dollhouse

Dear Marc, I just wanted to share this picture with you. It's a window display from an undertaker downtown.

This display has been around for a while, in one of the more expensive parts of Stockholm. I wish I could have been there for the discussions leading up to the interesting arrangement:

"Let's take a dollhouse and cut it in half!"
"Yeah! And let the fat code of laws fall in between!"
"Sure thing, and then we can add a note, discretlely asking "Has there been a change in your family situation?".

Is that how it happened? I don't have a clue. But every time I pass the undertaker, I stop and stare.

now must sleep and dream of chain saws.
love
.e

Time to put that foot down

Dear Marc, did you ever decorate a house together with someone you love (or at least live together with)? It's not easy. With two people involved, it often happens that one decorator takes an underdog position. The generous martyr.

"No, you go ahead pick the colour of the bathroom tiles. I love white, but yes it's such a predictable choice and yes it's like a hospital and yes, lime and orange are great, happy colours to enjoy while taking a shower."

Meanwhile, the other person, the lucky decorator in command, need not always feel so happy about his task, but rather feels burden by the repsonsibility of making a decision that may be criticized for years.

So instead of one person making an active choice, neither gets his or her way. You get classic white tiles with a lime border. Nobody wins. Everyone's grumpy yet stoic.

I'm talking to my friend Karin. She's telling me she's been taking a humble position as she and her husband are decorating (such a silly word, we're not putting up garlands) their new house.

I talk to her on the phone. She says:
"You know E, I've let him make the choices so many times now. I didn't even understand how much this upset me until the other day, when I suddenly cried out "now it's my turn to decide!", with enough strength behind my words to let him understand how important this was to me. "

Turns out she was fighting for her right to pick out the right kind of toilet paper holder.

time to call it a night, I'm taking a yoga class at 7 am tomorrow. I'm the last person in the western world to try yoga. I'm not doing it for health or strength. I'm doing it cause I can't stand the curiosity any longer. Must find out what everyone is talking about.

ps. That's not my friends in that top picture. That couple is staged. No two people get along that great while picking colours for their new joint home.

I heart the Tudor Banana

Dear Marc, don't you just love the internet?
How else would we get to read about the first banana in England?
And how else would we find out that back in the 1500's, people were not always in it for an entire banana. Nothing changes. Sometimes, you just feel like a bite, no more, no less.

Read the whole story. Then tell me about your favourite historic fruit. Or should I make it herb? Technically, the banana is an herb, no? People always correct me on my bananiana.

love
-e

These chairs were made for walking

Dear Marc, can't sleep. Instead, am apparently burning the midnight oil surfing red fibreglass chairs. How puzzling this sentence would have been if shown to someone living in the age of those very chairs. But in our modern era, I'm sure you understand what I'm talking about.

This is what I've come across:



















Aren't they lovely? Such character! They look like they might take off before the night is over.
If I could only afford them, I'd keep them in our new garden, tied to the wall so I'd be sure to find them in the same place I left them.

Are you burning the midnight oil too? Is it a sustainable resource?

Love
-e

Release the deer

Dear Marc, this is a long letter. Brace yourself. Here we go. I know that you know that in moments of weakness, I turn to Fletch for support. But Fletch is not the only Chevy Chase vehicle that has made a profound impact on my life. Funny Farm may have an even stronger place in my heart. It’s not a better movie. But it’s ok, and the girl from "If tomorrow comes" plays Chevy’s wife so you know the entertainment will be enjoyed by all.

I’ve been thinking about this movie a lot lately. After we bought our house, I’ve been struck by heavy bratnophobia – a well founded fear of spoiled kids with greasy yet clean hair, pastel shirts and ironed jeans.

They grow up to be like Zack in the documentary "Wedding Crashers".













In order to fight the snobs, I’m trying to get all my friends to move out to the wealthy suburb with me. Since so much is at stake, we try to provide the right atmosphere as soon as we get a friend to leave the city to come see our new surroundings.

This weekend was no exception. On Sunday, our friends came out to play with their kids. The suburb seemed to have heard my prayers. The sky was blue, the snow a pristine, glittering white, the children were happy and healthy people were putting on their cross country skis right by their houses before heading for the woods.

There was just one problem. It was all just a little too perfect. The whole suburb scene seemed staged.

All I could think was ”release the deer”.

I don’t know if you’ve seen Funny Farm, so I’ll keep writing as if you haven’t. Chevy and the girl from "If tomorrow comes" have bought their dream house, which in reality turns out to be a real nightmare. To get rid of it, they make everything picture perfect, including trapping and releasing a deer at the right, picturesque moment.

In the movie, this works. The deer seals the deal. In my life, not so. People get suspicious when everything’s too dandy. Better if there’s just a tiny crack in the facade. Like a bitter punk rocker, a crazy neighbor or a sewage leak in the neighborhood. But no such luck this Sunday. So now we’ll have to spend the rest of our lives out there, without the pleasant company of our previous friends.

So the next time you’re thinking of impressing someone, don’t release a deer or two. Keep it on a leash in your living room. Perfect is too weird. Even worse, it’s the perfect breeding ground for brats.

I’ll put out traps set with champagne and caviar. Good night
-your E

Love in a cold climate

Dear Marc, feel the love. It's like icing on the cake.

A world of saunas

Dear Marc, did you know there are sauna rafts in Sweden? You can rent your own floating sauna and tuff around the beautiful archipelago of Stockholm. Load up with beer and barbecue and enjoy the starry sky above. What could be better?

Now that we're on the topic of saunas, let me show you a few pictures from the fascinating world of sauna ads. Many homes here have their own saunas. We like to sweat, naked, in the company of others. The sauna-selling market is big and profitable. But everything has its price. For the sauna sellers it is this tricky question: How do you picture naked, sweaty people without offending anyone?

The result is interesting. Take the picture above. Two naked men, engaged in conversation, wrapped in mist. They're almost there. A mirage of sauna pleasures.

Here's another one:




















This one is tasteful, don't you think? The sauna lover is decent in terry cloth, leaning against wood, perhaps about to be gazing out at the lovely Nordic summer night. But why is she holding a brush of leaves? I'm telling you the truth now: it's there so she can spank herself. Ask any Scandinavian. Beating yourself up with leaves is tradition. Birchleaves are preferrable as they make for the best spanking. I don't know if this is a flagellant remnant of ancient times. Perhaps they bear witness of a time when you had to pay in Christian pain for the pagan pleasure of a great sauna.
What do I know?

Here's what that looks like, from a different sauna retailer:














Must go. Tomorrow perhaps we can discuss the wonderful world of home spas? Lots of pictures of jolly, middleaged people with drinks all around them.

Love
-e