missfrifri

Since Lena the German has gone through some serious flat drama in the past couple of weeks she’s sleeping on our sofa. So, to make things better we’re having a nice girlie night with cheap wine and oven pizza while discussing possible legal options and men. Also I’m waiting for My Man to come home after some sort of “Lads Night.” From his last phone call I thought that he was near Tottenham Court Rd, but apparently he somehow ended up in Waterloo instead and then somehow ended up back in East End. When I asked him how he managed to do this in about 25 minutes his answer was “because I’m a LAD.” I don’t think I need to know any further details.

[Dry voice on answering machine]

“Thank you for calling UCL. Many people are calling right now, but your call is important for us and we will help you as soon as possible. […] Thank you for holding. […] Thank you for calling University College London. Please hang up now. [Click.]”

I think I’ve had enough for today.

I already knew that this was gonna be a rough day when I started, so after running around in the park for 40 mins to get some of the frustration out, a few deep breaths and something as non- fabulous as porridge for breakfast I started stalking everyone that’s trying to make my life miserable.

First out was the student loans company, who’s decided that I won’t get my student loan until 5 weeks from now. Minimum. After having been transferred to a third person, Tord, I relized that there was only one thing left to do. Stroke his man- ego and hope for results.

-          Hello this is Tord. How can I help?

-          So, I’ve been transferred to you by your colleague who said that, apparently, you’re the best person to talk to since you know everything about… everything.

-          (Flattered) Oh really, did he say that? Well…

-          So basically, Tord, would you be able to do this for me in a shorter time than 5 weeks? I understand that you’re a busy man Tord, but this would be so appreciated.

-          I suppose I could pull some threads…

-          Wow, Tord, you’re the man!

-          So… We haven’t received your unconditional offer from UCL yet.

-          Actually, I’ve sent it both in a letter that you should definitely have received by today, and I’ve also sent it in an e- mail. Perhaps you could check if it’s in your inbox?

-          Hm.. Actually, I can’t check my e- mail. I can only do that tomorrow morning.

-          Could you make an exception maybe?

-          No, not really…

-          Tord, you’re the man! You must have some solution to this?

-          Well, until I see whether your unconditional offer is in the e- mail, I could send another letter to you saying that you’ll be ENTITLED to student loans for your tuition fees, but that you just haven’t received them yet.

-          Perfect, Tord! Can you tell me a bit more about what the letter says?

-          No, not really.

-          Can you send it to my e- mail straight away please?

-          No, I can’t send it until tomorrow morning. [Current time 2 pm] It takes time to scan it in you see.

-          Ok Tord, then send it tomorrow morning. Is there anyone else that I can talk to who is in charge of this whole process, and perhaps he or she would be able to shorten it a bit since I start on Monday?

-          Well, actually that’d be me.

-          Oh. But you can’t really do anything to shorten it?

-          No.

Do I need to state the obvious, that I started to stress- eat Marks & Spencer cookies in the meantime and then had to go for a panic- power walk as a consequence? Probably not. Conclusion: Tord is, most definitely NOT, the man.

When all the stuff from my storage was moved into my room, I first sat in the middle of it all, hugging myself, rocking back and forth and moaning. I then called My Man to get sympathy, which I absolutely didn't. He claimed that this is all my own fault, and that I shouldn't buy so much stuff. Since I thought that was absolutely ridiculous, I decided to go for Sushi with Sissel at Russell Square instead. Sissel completely understands. And we decided to make everything better by going shopping with Deborah and Ise the day after. I then made sure that I postponed unpacking even more by meeting Deborah for coffee. And now I'm back to rocking back and forth. In other words, it's been a good day.

Apart from causing a huge- full- glass- of- red- wine- knocked- over- on- white- table- cloth incident (I still cringe when I think about it, it all happened in slowmotion) I had a really good weekend with My Man and The Parents. I knew it'd all be fine when I met his dad...

- Hello, it's really nice to meet y...
- What do you see in him?
- Eh.. excuse me?
- What do you see in him? Were you dropped on your head as a baby or something?

We also had dinner with some of The Friends (nine to be exact), all Italians and all completely out of order, naturally. In other words The Friends were fabulous.

I’m writing this on the to Petersborough, on my way to meeting The Parents, feeling slightly nauseous. After a couple of hours of outfit- panic I ended up with a compromise- outfit consisting of a pencil skirt and a casual shirt, however I still feel like I need to keep something Swedish so secretly wear a lace body underneath. Everyone should be happy. Also, I feel like my red headband should fool most.

See, when meeting The Parents- or really, when meeting The Mother, there are so many things that must be taken into account. So many ways that you can already be screwed even before, during or after the meeting. As a Swede I tend to be at least a little bit screwed beforehand with any mum, since Swedish women aren’t exactly associated with nuns. Apart from things that you may or may not be in control of yourself, there are also tons of other factors that can determine your fate, such as:

-          Is your man the only child?

-          Is your man the only son?

-          Is your man not the only son, but the other son is gay?

-          Is your man a mummy’s boy?

From experience I know that these are all critical factors.

If you as a girlfriend don’t get along with his mum the consequences will be severe. Also this I have experienced first- hand: the classic example is someone who I used to call “voodoo- mum”, who tricked me into eating some sort of Vietnamese potato that works as a laxative and then gave me a bracelet which was extremely likely to be cursed (considering everything that happened after I put it on). From friends’ experiences, I know of mothers who can make any girl cry if she buys the “wrong” chocolate cake for her “beloved son’s birthday” or buys the "wrong" curtains for his flat. Some mothers simply ignore you altogether, hoping to ride through the storm until the son finds a new girlfriend. The complete opposite of this however, is the stalker- mum who’ll call you 24/7 to go shopping underwear for her son. (Yes, it really does happen. It usually stops if you suggest that you buy him a man- thong.)

Wish me luck! =D

Jaja Blair Waldorf, your headband fools no one...

Got a great offer by The Italian (my hairdresser) today. He got a new job and is planning on getting rich and buy his own island, and he said that if I want to be his third wife (he wants to have four, at the same time) I can come live there with him. I politely said no, since I’m still aiming for becoming someone’s first wife. As for my haircut I explained to The Italian that I’m going to meet My Man’s parents and friends in the weekend, and so need something suitable for the occasion. Especially since My Man’s mother has hinted that I must be rather easy since I let My Man sleep in my room when he visited in Sweden, whereupon The Italian laughs.

-          Oh my God Fri, if his mum’s already said you’re easy you’re totally fucked. You don’t have a shot in hell!

-          [Moan in despair.]

-          Yeah, being my third wife on my island doesn’t seem so bad now, eh? The offer still stands if you can’t win over the mum. I expect to hear from you by the latest next week.

Am I totally fucked?

Cocktail night with Deborah, Dagny and Ise can never go wrong. After having looked for another place in complete confusion for about 25 mins we stumbled over Pixi in Covent Garden, a very cosy place with great tapas, a cute bartender and cocktails that were just a little bit too strong. Conversation concerned everything from shoes and handbags, internet and water companies (because they never ever do what they're supposed to do), shape of diamonds for engagement rings and how some people apparently get drunk by soaking a tampon in 60% vodka and sticking it up their anus so that it's immediately taken up by their blood. We also talked about embarrassing stuff that we've done that you'll never know. Unless we at some point become famous and someone from our past sells the story for money. Then at least, as a comfort, you'd know that you're famous. That's always something!

I don't have internet in my flat yet, so I find myself at a Vegan internet café where I absolutely and definitely don't fit in. On the upside, the girl who works here thought my shoes (that are Primark) were from Prada. We just met but she's asking me for hair advice and advice on boyfriend troubles. She also thinks that all men are "assholes." I love her already.

The past weekend has been spent with My Man. All went well when he picked me up at the airport. He said, call me right when you get off the plane. Since I know from experience that I always look like crap when I get off the plane, I called him when I had already got my luggage, and told him that I'd just gone through the passport control, which bought some extra time to brush my hair and save what could be saved with Make Up Store's Concealer and dry shampoo. My Man calls when I'm in the bathroom and asks me where I am. So I say (since the handdryer reveals my location) that I'm just on my way out from the bathroom. 5 mins later I call again and say that I'm still on my way out from the bathroom. Not a good plan.

My Man helped me with important things like food shopping and starting moving some of my clothes out of my storage room. You know he's a keeper when he doesn't judge you for your shoe- boxes. Or at least just judges you a little.

Also managed to give my neighbour a good first impression. When carrying loads of bags I told My Man to open the door for me (since I didn't have a handbag I'd put the keys in my bra). So my neighbour comes out just as My Man fishes up the doorkeys from my right bra cup. Classy.

In short, after the weekend the days here so far have been an orgie of doughnuts (just because mummy eva's not here and I CAN), rosé wine, girls nights, sex and the city episodes and moving- in activities. Also managed to get a bad cold so on Monday I mostly felt extremely sorry for myself and ate cheesecake. Today I've called Sean The Italian for an emergency haircut, and tonight is cocktail night with the girls.

Will tell you more tomorrow ;)

So before I left I made sure I voted in the Swedish elections. (Make sure you vote on the 19th, people!) After a few weeks of careful observations I've come to the conclusion that most of the party leaders suck.


- As it's Sweden, they all end up wanting pretty much the same thing anyway. Cause God forbid that someone would want something different, stick out or not be a complete wozz.

- Most of them have a really bad sense of style. And I know that Swedish people think that when the party leaders look like crap they're more "part of the people" and blablabla. I don't care. I don't want to be represented by a person who looks like he/ she hasn't showered or is incapable of finding clothes that fit properly. It's about my reputation too you know. For example, would YOU like to be associated with this guy? No, didn't think so.


- I'm fascinated by how none of them has some form of degree apart from Fredrik Reinfeldt, Jan Björklund and Maria Wetterstrand. I'm also fascinated by some just having 2- year A- levels (such as Göran Hägglund and Mona Sahlin). (Oh- on Mona's CV it says that she started the Barbie club when she was 20 or something. Does anywone know what that is? Or why it's on her CV?) Not that you HAVE to have a degree to be a politician or to be smart. But I mean seriously. It'd be good if you, you know, knew some things. About something. Like law, politics and/ or economy. It would give people more confidence in you. No?

Don't get me wrong, they're entertaining to watch. I laugh a lot. Especially at Lars Ohly. Because he seems to be living in a different universe. But it's ok, he can stay there as long as I don't have to visit. (See Lars in the picture below.)

If you're wondering why I haven't blogged for the past three days it's because my life still consists of forest and cow poo. And I couldn't find another angle to twist it into to make it seem more interesting. Here's an illustration of my surroundings. I mean, what would you have done?

Ok so I'm starting to get just a liiiiiittle bit bored of the Swedish forest. The thing that definitely made it tip over was that just when I went out for a run, I realized that they'd spread cow poo over all the fields around our house which means that, well, everything smells of poo. Including myself. To top it all off, the poo- truck itself drove past me, losing some poo on its way. Mm. It's time to leave. 6 more days and then back to Ldn! Frifri's had enough.

Was woken up by my cat Molly who seemed to've gone a bit mad and tried to hide under my duvet between my legs, then realized that she's probably about to have her little cat babies. At the same time as I try to calm the pregnant lady down (it's like she was trying to bite and scratch me at the same time as she was putting her pawns on me and saying "don't leave me here all alooooone you bitch" granny calls. Naturally.

As I tell granny that I can't talk because little cat babies are being born she's very graphical about how I should beat them to death as soon as they come out, since we won't be able to take care of more cats anyway. I explain to her that this definitely and absolutely will NOT happen. She then proceeds with explaining even MORE in detail how easy it is until I practically hang up on her, only to realize that Molly has managed to hide somewhere else (praying that it's NOT in my closet and that she wants to give birth on my expensive bras.) In the middle of searching My Man calls from work.

- Frida! I called you like 5 times, I really need that guy's name for work!
- I'm sorry I'm sorry but babies are being born here! She's having babies!
- What?? Who's having babies??
- Molly!
- Hehe. What, you need me to call a cab for you or something? Hang tight!
- Shut up it's not funny!
- Yeah it is!

Finally found Molly in Emma's bed, having cat babies right on her duvets. Mummy Eva will NOT be happy. Molly really does look like a scary pregnant person when she's having them as well, her eyes say things like "you stupid fucker who did this to me! I'm gonna rip you to pieces!" etc etc. I finally managed to move her after heavy protests that sounded like a cat's version of death threats. (As a reply to those I heard myself saying "It's not MY fault that you had sex with the neighbour's cat! You made your own bed missy!" Oh dear... I'm talking to my cat about sex.) One cat baby so far, stay tuned for some more baby action ;)

Spent this morning trying to take sneak pictures on webcam of My Man when he was getting ready for work. Got busted. Was still worth it though. Mmm men in shirts.

Now: brunch with Hot Mama! =D