Things my grandma taught me, lesson #1.

Dear Marc, I know you spent a lot of time with your grandma, growing up. Yesterday I went to see my own granny. She's 90 and tried to cheer me up as I told her I'm doing my best to get my driving back on track.

I don't really like driving, I'm scared. But thinking I will soon love it, I have to go on.

I only have two problems with driving

1. The speed. I like walking pace.

2. Other cars.

My granny listened to my bitching and then gave me her sound advice:

"Always wear a beautiful, big hat when you drive a car. I always did and it worked wonders. The other, mostly male drivers, let me drive first".

What did your grandma teach you?

Love from below the brim
-e

Summer conversations

Vacation conversation 1.

Me: Mom, did you actually shave your legs? They look so smooth!
Mom: No, I didn’t.
Me: But how come they’re so smooth then?
Mom: It comes from natural wear and tear. Plus the quality wasn’t all that great to begin with.
Me: The quality? The quality of you or of the leg hair?
Mom: Both.

Vacation conversation 2.

Mom: I’m old, tired and ugly. Do you still like me?
Dad: Of course. And on the bright side, you’re not fat.
Mom: That’s right. But you are!
Dad: I know, I’m old, fat, tired and ugly.
Mom: I like you like that.


Vacation conversation 3.

Me: What are you reading, honey?
A: The Odyssey
Me: Is it good?
A: Sure it is. Wherever he goes, Odysseus is massaged with oils by beautiful maidens. Then he wins battles and brags and talks about things that delight his manly heart. Every now and then, they all do drugs and eat Egyptian lotus flowers.
Me: Sorry for interrupting.

Notes from the countryside

Dear Marc, how are you? Are you on vacation? On your way to vacation? I’m a little bit more than half-way through.

We’re in the country side. Everyone loves it. The air is fresh, the water a fountain of youth, the wild strawberries ripe and life is a happy little cabaret, old chum. I’m the only one who’s having trouble adjusting. The country side, how are you supposed to cope?

I look at the birds, the grass, the trees. Ok. They’re nice. After five minutes I’m done. Let’s go back home. But noooo, it’s finally vacation time. Everyone else wants to stay around for weeks. Just relax they say.

But I can’t. I turn into vacation poison - a small, overheated red and sweaty bored person oozing discontent and lack of joy.















I tried. I picked blueberries. Buckets of wonderful, tasty blueberries, juicy and beautiful berries. I prepared a pie. Life is so great in the countryside. It took hours. In an effort to show my motherly love, I was just about to let Vanja sprinkle white chocolate over the pie before it hit the oven.

But just as the time came for sprinkling, Joel tipped the pie over and joyously watched the contents of the pie spread all over the somewhat dirty kitchen floor.

I tell you, I contemplated scooping it all up and baking it as it was.

But once, I was invited to a dinner where our lovely hostess dropped our joint dinner, a lasagna, on an old rug, cheese topping facing down. She cussed and then pulled a surprise on her hungry dinner guests. She simply turned rug and lasagna around, scraped the rug against the edge of the casserole and served us the adventurous dish.


















She had just cleaned the apartment, and I'm sure the rug was dirtfree. It was fine. We all survived. We just kept wondering if it might not had tasted better had we not known that the dinner had kissed the floor.

I did not want to let my friends wonder about stuff like that. I rinsed the berries from dirt and crust and started over again. As one of my friends said, ”these are exclusive berries, handpicked twice!”.

Such is life in the countryside. Blueberry pie often equals a catastrophe. It’s time to get back to the real world, which also makes me cry. But for other reasons.

Love

-e

I heart Katvig

Dear Marc, I hear Sofia is expecting. How lovely! You might be wondering what to bring for the upcoming showers. Don't be predictable. Don't give the little one only Little Marc items. Go Danish and delight both parent and child with Katvig wear. It's colorfun and comfortable. And as you can see, you and the rest of us oldies can wear Katvig too!













Love
-e

Almost back

Dear Marc, you must be missing your daily letters. You'll get new ones, starting the day after tomorrow. That would be Sunday.

love
-e

See you later

Dear Marc, it's July and I'm closing up. I'm going to the Finnish archipelago to marinate in salt seas, feast on rye and cheese and pick wild strawberries in the forest. I'll try to make it to Ivana Helsinki's Helsinki store, too.

If you, or anyone else would like to know when anything new gets posted here on LTMJ, simply mail me at emi@lovegun.net to get a mail. Write "I want more" in the subject line.

Hasta la vista, baby.
-e

ps. Standing in line before me today at the grocery store, was a small lady, perhaps 90 years old. She was a little crooked and kind of fragile, she looked somewhat like a small bird. She bought the usual - a roll of toilet paper, crackers, bananas, coffee, milk...and...a big slab of ostrich filet, which alone cost 14 dollars (even after the marked 30% discount).

It seemed almost kinky. Almost cannibalistic of her to buy another bird, in order to eat it. At the same time, I salute her. Who's to tell her now, at this age, what she should eat or not? Old people should only eat ostrich filet, and rinse it down with champagne. Old people rock. They lived the roaring 20's. When I'm 90, I'll treat you to some ostrich too. You'll be older, so try to stay healthy.

The stuff I buy on eBay

Dear Marc, I don't know how you handle stress. In my case it's easy. I turn to eBay.
For a moment's relief, for a nice little breather, I browse and shop.
Then I forget all about it until it drops down in my mailbox.

The other day I received this little fellow.
He has a measuring tape in his head, coming out of his mouth.

How practical. Perhaps in the future, designers like yourself will also come
equipped with this nifty feature.

Biological engineering, now I see where it may take us!

Love
-e

It seems I kind of grow on you

Dear Marc, did you really get fat? I read in an interview that you thought you'd gotten a little chubby. But to me, you look the same as always. A nice man of medium height and normal build.

I understand the abundance of slim models around you might make you feel bigger than you would have if you lived like the people you went to kindergarten with. 10-1 they're all bigger sized than you now.

I'm not fat or skinny. I'm average, but I have something strange. I leave a fattening impression.

I meet people I haven't seen in a month or two, and they go "Emi, have you lost some weight"? And I haven't. I've looked the same and have worn the same size (and unfortunately the very same clothes) for the past 7 years.

My theory is: I meet the people and we look at each other and then for some reason, unknown to mankind, my impression starts to rise like dough in their minds the moment we part.

Why? How should I dress to avoid this? Or should I embrace it? Perhaps this is my one unique feature. How pathetic. Some people would surely be happy to receive those "did you lose weight" comments, but the situation only makes me embarrassed.

love
-e, the same as before. Always.

Better kitchen linens, bro?

Dear Marc, you're probably not interested in vintage tablecloths. Hell, I didn't know I was. But then I stumbled over Vintage Tablecloths Lovers Club and there's no turning back. Now must go to bed, am exhausted after watching the insane Nürnberg game, where Portugal and Holland beat each other and left the viewers beaten, gasping for air.

Must dream about vintage tablecloths instead.

Ps. You may not follow the world cup either.

Merry Midsummer's to you

Dear Marc, I'm happy for you. I had a dream that you were back with Preston, and indeed you are! Congratulations. You look amazing. Congratulations again. Love (and proximity to handsome porn stars) becomes you.

Meanwhile, in Swedenland, we celebrated Midsummer's eve. A day when we dance around a giant pole cross, with a crossing pole penetrating two delicate rings of flowers. It's a pagan fertility rite, and there's nothing subtle about it.

Let me tell you the day in pictures. The kids spent their days in trees.
I found a new, yet old, baby sitter for Joel.



















We ate traditional Swedish party food. Potatoes, pickled herring, hard boiled eggs, crisp bread. It makes you wonder what the traditionalists ate for their everyday meals. It's tasty but harsh. On an average day, what did they eat? Cardboard?
















I served pie.
















It was much appreciated. Plate licking good.














For dinner, the grill was out, because the food was supposed to be smokin'.

















Apparently, this also went down well.















I thought I had more pics. But this was it.

Love, and once again, congratulations.
-e

Ok, so here it is 2.

Dear Marc, I think this outfit speaks for itself. As it says in the magazines "It takes you from day to evening in a fashionable way". It also takes you through the seasons. I rarely get out of this multifunctional getup.

A few days ago I committed a different sin. I bought Milk. A magazine dedicated to children's fashion. The horror. But I've found few better looking magazines lately.

Still. A magazine dedicated to children's fashion.
I'm guilty as charged.

I did, however, put the US Weekly with Janet back on the shelf, making sure I was not one of the many people who made that issue their bestselling issue ever.

It was easy though. In Sweden, US Weekly rings up at a hefty $11.42. I'm interested in how Janet did it, but not $11.42 interested. Especially not when Perez puts it up for free.

Loving spoonfuls
-e

OK, so here it is

Dear Marc, you may skip this one. It's directed towards potential employees at Lovegun.
This is what you'll get to wear. For summer, we implore that you wear a light but proper attire. For winter, dress comfortably in black, soft jersey.

Think of yourself as a modern day Hildy from His girl Friday. Keep a pen behind your ear, a dictionary in your hand and by all means, a packed lunch in your briefcase. Be ready for anything. Please take better care of your hair than the person pictured above.

Shoes should be kept neat and tidy. They may, however, be exchanged for clogs. At any time.
Cause we like people to know when a Lovegun representative is arriving to save the day.

Clonk, clonk, clonk, the sound of effective help should be your personal jingle.

Tomorrow, the spring and fall uniform.

love
-e

Nice to meet you, educated monkey!

Dear Marc, A just returned from Berlin and brought me Consul, the educated monkey!
As A so correctly put it, I'm not that great at swift calculations. But now that I have a monkey friend to help me, I'll be a math wiz.

I love my man. He knows what I need.
Let me know if you need to borrow Consul.

-e

New office

Dear Marc, given your line of work, it may be hard for you to work outdoors. But feel free to stop by my new open air office to send an e-mail or have a cup of coffee. My co-workers are sleepy and don't have much to offer as far as conversation goes. But they're cute.

As you can see, we also have room for short people.

love
-e

ps. Later today, I'll show you the new office uniform. Black jersey in Danish design.

Is there a looks requirement?

Dear Marc, is there a certain standard of looks for your staff? I've never seen such a beautiful bunch of people.

Do you hire them like that or do they kind of rub off on each other?
More than just stylish and cute, they look like they're fun too.

Oh, how suck-uppish is this post. but it's all true. I want to buy everything they're wearing. Cause the only common denominator between all those pretty individuals seems to be their tie to the MJ brand. I'm such an easy target.

From rags to riches, from hags to bitches, you got this end consumer nicely wrapped up. All I want for Christmas, for my birthday, instead of a paycheck is this: polka dots, cardigans and perfect shoes.

It's that foxy librarian look I'm after. Perhaps if I worked for you, it'd rub off on me too.
Somehow, I can't link to the EVENTS section of www.marcjacobs.com. So you just have to find out for yourself. But you probably already know what they all look like.

love
-e

That's a good head on your shoulders

Dear Marc, I have a fine daughter. She inherited my fine hair. We don't have much hair. We have to make do with what we have. See the latest trick in creating volume? Balloons!









































Today she drew me a picture. And she told me, just in case, that it was
"One of those princesses that don't have any necks."

Would that make it harder or easier to swallow? No dirty jokes, please, we're talking princesses! Neck impaired!

love
-e

Politically speaking

Dear Marc, I have something important to say to you, because Daryl Hannah rocks.
In other news: God choses to speak through Stephen Baldwin.
Oh well, I was already an agnostic.

love
-e

ps. Credit where credit's due! Thank you Marc Facobs!

Random love letter to the Finnish people

Dear Finns, let's not talk about Marc Jacobs today. He's obviously not around. Let's talk about you instead. I see some of you are here. I salute you. I love you. In my heart, there's a table for two. Two (small) Finnish people.

I admire your beauty, your sense of style, your excess and love for tango and smoked fish.
I envy your proximity to Russia and the fact that the current line of Ivana Helsinki was created by one of your own. Your language doesn't make any sense, it sounds like Korean, spelled with a million syllables.

I need one of your log cabins. I need your salty seas, legendary beer and great cheese.

Can I be one of you?

-e, ready to let go of my current citizenship

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

Dear Marc, this blog has taken a whole new direction. And it's forced me into the role and clothes of a female detective.

Here's a recap:

There I was, writing you, and then YOU suddenly wrote back. Now, if I was my mom, I would have had a heart attack. But I don't trust anyone or anything on the internet.
Anyone can say they're you. It's a Keyser Sözian turn of events that I surely had not expected.

I called Marc Facobs' bluff. But I still don't know who it is. If this was one of my favorite novels, Daddy Long Legs, then Marc Facobs would turn out to be my own husband. But he's too busy watching the world cup to be spending time fooling me.

All I know about Marc Facobs is:

* S/He knows details about your life, like you have a Peyton portrait of Sofia Coppola in your office. But this fact and others like it are common knowledge to any contemporary magazine reader.

* S/He is a good photoshopper.

* S/He uses the word "Cheers!". Isn't that a cheesy, Australian habit? Is that you, Nicole?

The suspense is driving me up the wall. The most satisfying solution would be that the real Marc Jacobs is the fake Marc Jacobs. But I doubt the real MJ would take the time to add my head to pictures of himself when he should be designing sneakers, bags and dress up like a Heinz bottle.

Anyone with a clue to the true identity of the impostor, help me out. But don't reveal too much, since I love the game. All I need now are small, handy facts, like shoe size, drink preference and religious affiliation. Not necessarily in that order.

Then, eventually, I will kindly say to the real fake Marc Jacobs: LHIOB!

Yours, and the other Marc's, very own
-e

I didn't say someyhing stupid did I?

Dear Marc, I can't remember us meeting in Cannes, but Marc Facobs snapped this pic so it must have happened. I hope I didn't say anything inappropriate.
But I probably did.

yours etc,
-emi

It's that day of the year

Dear Marc, I don't know how you feel about 4th of July, but I'm sure you're not embarrassed by it. We just celebrated our national day here. We were all embarrassed. Since Norway broke up with us back in 1905, we don't know what to do about our national day. We don't want to come off as too nationalistic so instead of celebrating our glorious past and superiority as a people like most countries do, we salute the Swedish flag.

Our national day goes by the name of "The day of the Swedish flag".

Vanja didn't understand why she got the day off from school, but she embraced the concept from scratch. "You go, Swedish flag".

Watching budding friendships like that, I feel I don't have to worry that she'll miss out on the material joys of life.

You have any outfits in yellow and blue for 4 year olds laying around? Actually, do you have anything in any color of any size just laying around? I'll be happy to take it.

Today, I'm wearing clogs, jeans and a t-shirt with a seal on it. Perhaps this is as close to a Swedish national costume as I'll ever get.

What do you wear for 4th of July?


Ps. I once had seal pizza. Pizza with seal meat on it. Don't put that on your must-not-miss list.

File under bag lady

Dear Marc, you're a famous bag gentleman, and rightly so. Your bags are more attractive than most people I know, including one that stares back at me each morning in the bathroom. I'm a bag lady myself. I have bags. Two, to be exact, placed under my eyes.

Other than that, I kind of grab things and stuff them in plastic bags before I leave the house. I'm a freelancing copywriter, and I'm kind of small. I carry the plastic bags and my heavy laptop with me everywhere I go, pressing my bagfree shoulder up to my ear to talk on the phone. This S-shaped posture is common in the freelance crowd. But pretty it's not, and I'm afraid it may become a permanent body pattern.

A walking S, weighed down by the burden of plastic bags. That is not how I intended my professional look to look. Russel & Hazel read my mind and created the oh so pretty Audrey line.

























Finally! I thought, thinking of how neatly all my presentations, invoices and briefs would fit into the slick and highly professional five file tote.

But then I wondered where I would put my emergency banana for those blood sugar dips. Where does the iPod go? And the all too big, but immensely soft and comfortable headphones? Where should I put my modem, my hair brush and my extra sweater for the capricious Swedish weather? Is there a file slot for my sun glasses, my pens, my computer cord or the digital camera I must carry around (in case I find a great doll house, sawed in two)?

















Not to mention the novel I'm currently reading, the packet of tea or the box of chocolates I'm addicted to.

The expandable five file tote solves many problems but not all. I now understand why people drive cars. They don't need them for transportation. The cars are actually just very big bags.

I think you should invent a bag with built-in minimizer. A scientific miracle, the minimizer shrinks everything in a woman's bag to the size of jelly beans. How practical!

Until you do, I'll walk around with my plastic bags, severely s-shaped, but ready for anything.

Slouchy greetings
-e

Who are you?

Dear Marc, I don't know if you're reading this. I don't know if you've read any of the now more than 150 letters I've written you. It's ok. You may read and comment one day, but no rush.

I've got other people going through your mail. I just wonder who they are. Who are you people and why are you reading this Swedish blog about nothing?

Curious greetings
-e

Holy Trinity

Dear Marc, have you noticed how some celebrities change looks and slowly morph into others?

I'm interested in how Jennifer Aniston is slowly turning into Debra Messing.

Meanwhile, Avril Lavigne is morphing into Aniston.It's only fair someone should look like her.

Working out with Jordan, again

Dear Marc, I'm sweating as I type.

Don't worry, it's not about you or fashion or anything of the kind. I'm sweating because I'm the worst bookkeeper in the world. I'm writing invoices for various articles I've written, and I can't find the receipt detailing my expenses for that DVD-training piece I wrote. As of now, I've paid more than $100 to work out with Jordan in my own basement.

I've found all kinds of other receipts. I just browsed the receipt covering our shots before going to India, protecting us from all kinds of disagreeable souvenirs.




















I also came across that valuable receipt showcasing my incredible find of two pairs of Marc Jacobs boots, 70% off.



















See? That piece of paper still makes me happy.
But working out with Jordan? No. There is no visible sign I ever paid to do that.

On the upside, the hunt for the receipt has made me sweat more profusely than the entire workout did to begin with.

Always something. What did you lose today?
I'm losing my mind.

love
-e

Stuffed with joy, sweat and tears

Dear Marc, one of the things of having kids is knowing when to protect them from reality. You know, like the Santa bit. Going skiing, we were introduced to a man-sized arctic fox called Mickelina.

Vanja believed her to be the real shit, though we adults saw through the dress. We could tell that the stumbling walk was a result of Mickelina suffering from blindness, cause the eye holes in the suit were made too small. She had to walk assisted by an assistant. We understood that the poor, most likely underpaid, person inside the fur dress must be sweating like crazy.

The kids saw only magic. A talking, friendly, arctic fox coming to visit! How nice! How unusual!

Then the other day, Vanja told me "I saw Mickelina had a zipper in the back".
I thought to myself, "Ok, here it is, the moment of truth. There's no Santa, no stork and perhaps no heaven either". I caught my breath and looked at Vanja, and I was just about to launch into my "well you see, sweetie..." when she looked at me and said "it was so cold out, she must have been wearing extra fur".

And the moment of truth sneaked out the back door.

Legs of a goddess!

Dear Marc, do you ever dream of being someone else? In that case, who would you be?
I dream of being an American woman in possession of perfect legs. I would enter the Cinderellesque competition by Gillette and I would be the winner of VIP tickets to see Mariah Carey.

I'm the possessor of a pair of somewhat old Swedish pins that bruise easily. But imagine having winning legs. Legs that are pampered and insured for $ 1 billion.

Or imagine being that voice. I know you're partial to Lil' Kim, but can you resist Mariah singing with Dirt McGirt/ODB? Such a Fantasy come true. Can you stand still while she belts out "All I want for Christmas?" I list that one as one of the best recordings ever made. It's up there with laughing Elvis, Billie Holiday and "Thanks for the Memory" with Mildred Bailey, lyrics by Leo Robin and Ralph Rainger.

Thanks for the memory
Of candlelight and wine, castles on the Rhine
The Parthenon and moments on the Hudson River Line
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of rainy afternoons, swingy Harlem tunes
And motor trips and burning lips and burning toast and prunes
How lovely it was!

Many's the time that we feasted
And many's the time that we fasted
Oh, well, it was swell while it lasted
We did have fun and no harm done

And thanks for the memory
Of sunburns at the shore, nights in Singapore
You might have been a headache but you never were a bore
So thank you so much.

Thanks for the memory
Of sentimental verse, nothing in my purse
And chuckles when the preacher said "For better or for worse"
How lovely it was

Thanks for the memory
Of lingerie with lace, Pilsner by the case
And how I jumped the day you trumped my one-and-only ace
How lovely it was!

We said goodbye with a highball
Then I got as high as a steeple
But we were intelligent people
No tears, no fuss, Hooray! For us

So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, darling how are you?
And how are all the little dreams that never did come true?
Aw'flly glad I met you, cheerio, and toodle-oo
And thank you so much

----
The little dreams that never did come true. For me, it's the legs.What's it for you?
Love
-e

Love, Italian style

Dear Marc, we're just back from Milan.

I know you probably say that a few times every year, but I seldom do. I relish the words "Yes, we just flew in from Milan". It's so Jackie Collins. I can't seem to get enough of it. Milan was hot, stylish and everything tasted so much better than anywhere else. I don't know how they do it.

We didn't know what to wear, so we ended up with me in eBay, Anders in suit and Vanja in one of those Indian dresses that capture the soul of tree-climbing princesses everywhere.


The ceremony itself was a breezy affair, that kept everyone in good spirits and on their best behavior. Just look for yourself, do you feel like these people are slow? NO! They have lots of stuff to experience. Let life roll.














The music was my favorite - loud and enthusiastic. OOMPA OOOMPA.
Da da da dadadadadadada.
Nah. It doesn't work. You had to be there.
















The bride looked every bit as divine as she is.
















The groom didn't look bad either. And he sounded wonderful.















What can I say? It was a blast. It was everything a wedding should be.
Then the next day, we saw a little bit of Milan.



















We went to 1o Corso Como to look and laugh at their $2000 blouses and then went to Peck to witness the serious business of food. I have never seen so many delicacies at once.












I felt like a poor peasant peeking in through the windows to the Russian tsar and tsaritsa before the revolution. I felt envy, hunger and fascination, mixed with a little bit of lustful disgust at the plenitude of food, offered to the rich in who's also in possession of a healthy appetite. Anything a food obsessed mind could imagine was there, looking more delicious than the human eye could possibly process. We inhaled the aroma of heavenly coffee and headed for the streets again.

So we didn't buy any food, but I bought my brother a gift that got us into trouble at the airport.
"Madam, you have two knives in here" is not what any one wants that x-ray guy to tell you. Blushing and giggling, I had to run back to the check-in again, to save the flight from a potential picnic bag attack.

now must sleep.
tomorrow, help me!

I need to look like a superfriendly mom when I bring Vanja to check out her new pre-school, then professional in tomorrow's meetings and then stylish and modern as I go out to dinner with clients in the evening.

What outfit should I wear that would bring me from granola to Grand Marnier and cola? What a disgusting drink! But you understand what I mean, no? Help me. I need help. You're the one, Marc, bring it on.

love
-e

Things I never thought I'd dream of, part 1

Dear Marc, how about a bench for the garden? That was never on my wish list growing up.
Let me know if you stumble over a better bench.

love
-e

Italians do it better

Dear Marc, we're off to a wedding in Milan. Will be back on Tuesday. Take care.
Love
-e